Of the part of the stick from which he had slipped the bark, the old
man cut away more than half, and across the upper end he made a
smooth, slanting cut. Then he bade grandfather wet the stick again,
and when he had done it, he slipped the bark back to its place, and
put the end of the stick in his mouth and began to blow; and out of
the holes that he had cut, and which he stopped, one after another,
with his fingers, came what grandfather said was the sweetest music he
had ever heard--music like the voice of a bird singing a long way off,
or like that of a tiny bell.
As the old man played, he seemed to forget all about my grandfather;
but by and by he laid down the whistle, and smiled and said, "Come.
Now we will make the tree." And together the old man and the boy
walked down to the brook, and crossed over on some stepping stones, to
a place where the ground was soft and black and wet; and there, while
the boy held the stick straight, the old man pushed it far down into
the mud until it stood firm and true, with the whistle at the upper
end of it. And the old man took off his hat, and bowing to the stick,
seemed to my grandfather to make a speech to it.
"Little brother," he said, "we leave you here, where you will never be
hungry or thirsty.
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