Then at once a tide of pent-up music flowed from the liberated bells. They conscientiously rang out all at once every hour and half-hour they had omitted, and then meekly and steadily resumed their wonted chimes, and continued them ever afterwards, like voices of happy and lowly angels calling men to wake and pray, to "rise and eat," to pray and rest, cheering the workman to his daily labour, and welcoming him from it, chanting to the mother as she lulled her babe, and in the sick-chamber soothing the lonely hours with melodious sound, and waking in the lonely heart sweet echoes of the psalms of praise.
Here the Legend ended. I heard, however, afterwards that the young priest, the Augustinian friar, lived to spread Glad Tidings through the city, but that he was at last burned in the cathedral square for preaching to men what he had said about the church bells. Yet in the flames, it was said, he looked up to the cathedral tower, and sang the words of a psalm of praise the old bells were chiming, till his voice was silenced in death. And ever since, the chimes have taken up his message, and chant to those who will listen, hour by hour.
"'Whether therefore ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.'"
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WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?
"THE SUN!" said the Forest. "In the night I am still and voiceless. A weight of silence lies upon my heart. If you pass through me, the sound of your own footstep echoes fearfully, like the footfall of a ghost. If you speak to break the spell, the silence closes in on your words, like the ocean on a pebble you throw into it. The wind sighs far-off among the branches, as if he were hushing his breath to listen. If a little bird chirps uneasily in its nest, it is silenced before you can find out whence the sound came.
"But the dawn breaks. Before a gray streak can be seen, my trees feel it, and quiver through every old trunk and tiny twig with joy; my birds feel it, and stir dreamily in their nests, as if they were just murmuring to each other, 'How comfortable we are!'
"Then the wind awakes, and tunes my trees for the concert, striking his hand across one and another, until all their varied harmonies are astir; the soft, liquid rustlings of my oaks and beeches make the rich treble to the deep, plaintive tones of my pines. Then my early birds awake one by one, and answer each other in sweet responses, until the Sun rises, and the whole joyous chorus bursts into song to the organ and flute accompaniments of my evergreens and summer leaves. And in the pauses, countless happy insects chirp, and buzz, and whirl with contented murmuring among my ferns and flower-bells. The SUN makes me musical," said the Forest.
WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?