“There are not many birds here, Mr. Santa Claus,” said Cis, for they had only seen a few blight-birds flitting about; only the two little robins had come part of the way with her into the valley, then they had twittered their good-bye, and Cis missed her little feathered friends.
“See,” replied Santa Claus, and there amid the feathery manuka was an open space covered with layers of creamy-coloured stone, and in the centre was what looked like a huge bird’s nest,[15] formed of large white stems and branches crossed and recrossed, and pieces of petrified moss between. Each little twig was heavily laden with drops, apparently frozen, some thick as milk, some clear as crystal, while round and overhead the bushes too were white as snow.
“How beautiful!” cried Hal.
“But where is the bird, Mr. Santa Claus?” asked little Cis, “and what a big one it must be to make that nest!”
“Wait a little, and if you do not see the bird you shall hear him sing,” laughed Santa Claus.
The children stood silently waiting. Soon a low rumbling was heard below their feet, followed by hissing and bubbling noises that grew nearer and nearer, then died away, to begin again, louder, nearer than before, and making Cis creep up close to her brother and Santa Claus. Awe-struck, the children watched, and soon from the middle of the nest they saw bubbling waters that came and went in fitful gushes, as though battling against some unseen power below,—then roaring, fighting, boiling, a mighty column shot up high into the air above their heads, and clouds of steam rolled around, hiding for a little while the trees, and even the children, in a misty veil.[16] How beautiful the clear drops of the mighty fountain looked, as the water’s rose and fell, shining like dancing diamonds in the dawning light! Then out from their holes came the gnomes, singing again their merry song.
The Merry Song of the Gnomes.
We feed the fires till the cold streams boil,
We spare no trouble we spare no toil: