But he didn't appear to be giving himself any extra worry on account of this thing. On Sunday afternoon he sat huddled together in a big, fluffy, osier-bush, down by the lake, and blew on a reed-pipe. All around him there sat as many finches and bulfinches and starlings as the bush could well hold—who sang songs which he tried to teach himself to play. But the boy was not at home in this art. He blew so false that the feathers raised themselves on the little music-masters and they shrieked and fluttered in their despair. The boy laughed so heartily at their excitement, that he dropped his pipe.
He began once again, and that went just as badly. Then all the little birds wailed: "To-day you play worse than usual, Thumbietot?" You don't take one true note! Where are your thoughts, Thumbietot?"
"They are elsewhere," said the boy—and this was true. He sat there and pondered how long he would be allowed to remain with the wild geese; or if he should be sent home perhaps to-day.
Finally the boy threw down his pipe and
