They flew over the garden toward the woods, whose tree-tops were waving in the distance like the swell of a green sea. Johannes looked down below, and saw his father sitting at the open window of the living-room. Simon sat on the window-sill, his forepaws folded, basking in the sunshine. "Can they see me?" he thought; but he did not dare call to them.
Presto was tearing through the garden paths, sniffing about every shrub, behind every wall, and scratching against the door of every hot-house or out-building, trying to find his master.
"Presto! Presto!" cried Johannes. The dog looked up, and began to wag his tail and whimper, plaintively.
"I am coming back, Presto. Watch!" cried Johannes, but he was too far away.
They swept over the woods, and the crows flew croaking out of the high tree-tops where their nests were. It was midsummer, and the odor of the blossoming lindens streamed up from the green woods below them.
In an empty nest at the top of a tall linden tree sat Windekind with the wreath of wind-flowers upon his head. He nodded to Johannes.
"Is that you? That is good," said he. "I sent for you. Now we can stay together a long while—if you would like to."
"Indeed, I would like to," said Johannes.
Then he thanked the kind doves who had brought him thither, and dropped down with Windekind into the woods.
It was cool and shady there. The golden thrush was fluting his strain—nearly always the very same, but yet a little different.