They both drank, then Kasya gathered some forget-me-nots, and John with his knife made a flute from the willow bark, on which, when he had finished, he began to play the air which the shepherds play in the eventide on the meadows. The soft notes floated away with ineffable tenderness in this secluded spot. Shortly he removed the flute and listened intently as if to catch an echo returning from the aspen trees, and it seemed that the clear stream, the dark aspen trees, and the birds hidden in the canes listened to these notes with him.
All became silent, but shortly, as if in answer—as if a challenge—came the first faint note of the nightingale, followed by a stronger trill. The nightingale wanted to sing—it challenged the flute.
Now he began to sing. All nature was listening to this divine singer. The lilies lifted their heads above the water; the forget-me-nots pressed closer together; the canes ceased to rustle; no bird dared to peep except an unwise and absent-minded cuckoo, who with her silent wing alighted near by on a dry bough, lifted her head, widely opened her beak, and foolishly called aloud:
“Cuckoo! cuckoo!”
Afterward it seemed as if she was ashamed of her outbreak, and she quietly subsided.
Vainly Kasya, who stood on the edge of the stream with the forget-me-nots in her hand, turned to the side from whence came the voice of the cuckoo and queried:
“Cuckoo, blue-gray cuckoo, how long shall I live?”
The cuckoo answered not.
“Cuckoo, shall I be rich?”
The cuckoo was silent.