The boy, left alone, sat under a linden-tree, looking up through the branches. At first Mime’s figure pervaded his brain, and he could not help remembering the horrible little creature. But, after a while, thoughts of his mother crept in—very vague and formless thoughts—for this forest youth had never in his life seen a woman. Leaning back, he gave himself up to the enchantment of the summer-day, dreaming boyish dreams, and listening to the forest voices all around him.
Have you ever sat in a great, green wood and watched the soft flickering shadows from the little leaves overhead dance back and forth on the moss? Have you heard the great surge of music made of a thousand tiny sounds, the hum of little, unseen insects, the ripple of far-away brooks, the faint sigh of the wind in the tall reeds, the rustling of the trees, the melodies that seemed made by the touch of some master-hand on a great harp? That was what Siegfried saw and heard that summer day when he lay under the linden-tree and dreamed day-dreams.
After a while a little bird began to sing in the tree above him, and after listening for a moment, and wondering whether it brought him a message from his mother, he resolved to try to imitate it, remembering that Mime had once said that some people were able to talk with the birds. So he fashioned a flute out of a reed and tried to play upon it the melody that the bird sang. Finally, however, he gave it up in despair, and instead, as he began to feel lonely, he blew a loud blast on his horn—to bring him a friend, he said to himself.
THE DEATH OF THE DRAGON
And what sort of a friend do you think it brought him?
Well, it waked Fafner, the monster worm; and he dragged his huge scaly body to the door of the cave and peered out, and you may fancy like what sort of a friend he looked.
Siegfried burst out into laughter when he saw him.
“At last!” he cried, merrily. “My call has brought me something truly lovely!”
“What is that?” growled Fafner, glaring at him as though he were a small insect of some sort.