“It looks so fine,” said Jos regretfully, “and we could never have made so nice a one, but it does not sound nice.”
Vinzi had finished his lunch by that time and took the pipe from Faz.
“I want to try it, too,” he said. With this he began to play a little song, one tone clearly and beautifully following the other. Dumb with amazement the three stood before him and listened spellbound.
“You certainly know how to play, Vinzi; won’t you teach me, too?” asked Jos eagerly as soon as Vinzi had paused.
“Me, too,” cried Faz.
“And me, too,” repeated Russli.
“Give me the pipe,” begged Jos impatiently.
“No, give it to me,” cried Faz, but Russli had already snatched it up and run away with his property for fear that he would be robbed of it by superior strength.
“Leave it to him,” said Vinzi, “I’ll make you each one out of the sticks I have. I can easily get all I want.”
This quieted the brothers, and as they wanted more music they called Russli. Jos especially had been delighted with it. But no calling could bring Russli back. Finally, Vinzi had to hasten after him to explain that he was not to lose his precious gift. The boys sat about in a close group now, for every one of them wanted to be as near to Vinzi as possible to see how it was done. He was made to play on and on, every conceivable tune he had ever known. When finally his memory gave out, he made up pieces out of songs of birds and the sounds of bells he had heard.