Then,
again, he would converse, with his knife and fork or plate, ask them
where they came from, how they were made, and of what material. No
answer coming, he would invent all sorts of answers, making them reply
in his own words.
Lisa was so used to these imaginary conversations that they did not seem
strange to her.
Phil had, too, a passion for music, and would listen intently to the
commonest strains of a hand-organ, and Lisa had given him a little toy
harmonica, from which he would draw long, sweet tones and chords with
much satisfaction.
Old Joe, who blackened boots for some of the lodgers, had heard the
child's attempts at music, and had brought his violin and played for
him. One day, happening to leave it for a while on the window-ledge,
Phil's quick ear had detected a low vibration from the instrument. This
circumstance, and something he had read about a wind harp, had given him
the wish to make one--with what success he was anxious to find out, when
Lisa laid it in the open window for him.
A soft south wind was blowing, and, as Phil spoke, it had stirred the
loose strings of the rude Aeolian harp, and a slight melodious sound had
arisen, which Phil had thought so beautiful. He drew his breath even
more softly, lest he should lose the least tone, and finding that Lisa
was really asleep, propped himself up higher on his pillows, and gazed
out at the starlit heavens.
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