BROOKSIDE WILLOWS 145 



bark comes off smoothly in one piece, while we 

 breathe a sigh of relief. How white the stick is 

 under the bark ! It shines and looks slippery. Now 

 the Boy takes his knife again. He cuts toward 

 the straight jog where the chip was taken out, 

 paring the wood away sloping up to within an inch 

 of the edge of the bark. Now he cuts a thin slice 

 of the wood between the edge of the vertical cut 

 and the end of the mouthpiece. 



The whistle is nearly finished. We have all seen 

 him make them before and know what comes next. 

 Our tongues seek our moist lips sympathetically, for 

 we know the taste of peeled willow. He puts the 

 end of the stick into his mouth and draws it in 

 and out until it is thoroughly wet. Then he lifts 

 the carefully guarded section of bark and slips it 

 back into place, fitting the parts nicely together. 



The willow whistle is finished. There remains 

 but to try it. Will it go ? Does he dare blow into 

 it and risk our jeers if it is dumb? 



With all the fine certainty of the Pied Piper 

 the Boy lifts the humble instrument to his lips. 

 His eyes have a far-off look, his face changes ; 

 while we strain ears and eyes, he takes his own 

 time. The silence is broken by a note, so soft, 

 so tender, yet so weird and unlike other sounds! 

 Our hands quiver, our hearts beat faster. It is as if 

 the spirit of the willow tree had joined with the 

 spirit of childhood in the natural song of earth. 



It goes ! 



