Twink and Tom were in their beds in no time at all, eager to hear the music the beaver King had promised them.
No sooner had their heads touched the pillows than they heard it. It was like the sleepy murmuring of a thousand voices. There were no words, only a soft whisper that seemed to come from a great distance and yet was close by—was everywhere. Twink closed her eyes, and the wordless music sang of green meadows under a golden sun, of mountain rills that tripped from stone to stone down to beautiful valleys, of great rivers that flowed through the hearts of vast lands—and finally of the sea itself, singing eternally of endless wonders.
Just before Tom dropped off to sleep he said: "Twink, I know what it is. The beaver King said it was the most beautiful music in the world—and it is—"
"I know," said Twink sleepily. "It's the music of running water."
