"You are said to be like your father."
"People say so," he replied evasively.
She did not notice the tone of his voice, and so, after a while she returned to the subject. "Could he, too, make songs?"
"No."
"Sing a song to me ... one that you've made yourself."
"I have none," he said; for it was not his custom to confess he had himself composed the songs he sang.
"I'm sure you have; and I'm sure, too, you'll sing one of them when I ask you."
What he had never done for any one else, he now did for her, as he sang the following song,—
"The Tree's early leaf-buds were bursting their brown:
'Shall I take them away?' said the Frost, sweeping down.
'No; leave them alone
Till the blossoms have grown,'
Prayed the tree, while he trembled from rootlet to crown.
"The Tree bore his blossoms, and all the birds sung:
'Shall I take them away?' said the Wind, as he swung.
'No; leave them alone
Till the berries have grown,'
Said the Tree, while his leaflets quivering hung.