"Sing!" shouted Horatio; "sing!"
For a second the words refused to come. Then they flooded forth in the moonlight. Bo could sing, and he had never sung as he did now.
"Oh, our singing, yes our singing, all our friends to us 'tis bringing,
For it sets the woods to ringing, and the forest people know
That we do not mean to harm them in their dancing, nor alarm them—
We are seeking but to charm them with the sounds of long ago."
THE INSTINCT OF THE OLD DAYS HAD CLAIMED THEM.
At the first notes of the boy's clear voice the animals hesitated; then they crept up slowly and gathered about to listen. They did not resume dancing to this new strain. Perhaps they wanted to learn it first. Bo sang on and on. The listening audience never moved. Then Horatio played very softly, and the singer lowered his voice until it became like a far off echo. When Bo sang like this he often closed his eyes. He did so now.
The music sank lower and lower, until it died away in a whisper. The boy ceased singing and opening his eyes gazed about him. Here and there he imagined he heard a slight rustle in the leaves, but the gray panther was gone. The frisking rabbits and the capering wolves had vanished. The red and gray foxes, the awkward bears and the rest of that frolicking throng had melted back into the shadows. So far as he could peer into the dim forest he was alone with his faithful friend.