152 THE JONATHAN PAPERS 



dreamy, reiterant thoughts; it was not music, 

 but the memory of music. If one listened too 

 keenly, it was gone, like a faint star which 

 can be glimpsed only if one looks a little 

 away from it. 



As I had listened that night I began to 

 wonder if it was all my own fancy, and when 

 I met Jonathan I made him stop. 



&quot;Wait a minute,&quot; I begged him, &quot;and lis 

 ten.&quot; 



&quot;I hear it. Come on,&quot; he had said. Supper 

 was in his thoughts. 



&quot;What do you hear?&quot; 



&quot;Just what you do.&quot; 



&quot;What s that?&quot; I had persisted, as we 

 fumbled our way along. 



&quot;Voices I don t know what you d call 

 it the woods. It often sounds like that in a 

 big rain.&quot; 



Jonathan s matter-of-factness had rather 

 pleased me. 



&quot;I thought it might be my imagination. 

 I m glad it was n t,&quot; I said. 



&quot;Perhaps it s both our imaginations,&quot; he 

 suggested. 



&quot;No. We both do lots of imagining, but 



