To those I love and those I know,
Till they may close their dreamy eyes
And think of being good and wise.
So now let every one sit still
And listen——”
“No—no—no!” interrupted a roar of voices. “Play the flute!—the flute!”
Daddy Coax laughed, gave his wig a pull, and put the flute to his lips. He drew out a note—long, piercing, and sweet. The children paused to listen. Daddy Coax swayed softly backward and forward; his eyes were half-closed, his wig shoved over his left eyebrow; he tapped with his toe, which went up and down to the tune. It was a pretty, tender melody that seemed to wind in and out. The children were quite silent listening. Something in Kitty’s heart that she had forgotten stirred there—it was memory waking—that of her mother’s voice speaking to her as in a dream. She had forgotten where she was, when she was suddenly roused by a great noise.
The children were surrounding Daddy Coax, pulling his arms, clambering up his back, getting around his legs to pull him down, as they shouted, “Give us the flute!—give us the flute!”
But he held the flute out of their reach, shaking his head and saying:
“No, no, the little dears would break it. It is like a pretty bird; if you break it, you kill it. When it is dead, it will sing no more.”