In amazement, I stopped my processing round the rock. I never in my life had heard such a sweet even flow of song from the mouth of any living being, and I had once belonged to the son of a famous concert singer and had in her home heard many beautiful voices—why! it was like the lovely upward gush of a fountain—clear, pure and exquisite.
Even a catbird sitting near by in a maple put his head on one side to listen and then turned to a young goldfinch who was about to fly in terror from him and motioned him to remain. Cattie recognised the beauty of the boy's voice, and having no bird of his own kind near wanted to gossip with the goldfinch about it.
As I stood entranced, I noticed that the boy as he sang the whole of this one of our national songs kept looking over his shoulder as if he were afraid someone might interrupt him.
When he dropped on the rock again I went and stood over him.
"Pony-Boy," he said, "I'm not allowed to do that at home. I can only whistle."
Not allowed to sing with a voice like that, and I was just turning this over in my pony mind when my new friend sprang to his feet like a shot, his eyes wild and terrified.
"Pony-Boy—what is that awful sound?"
I rubbed my head against his shoulder. Poor lad! what nerves.
"I know it must be some kind of a bird," he went on, "for the sound came from the lake, but what a yell. You'd think a child was being murdered."