"Oh."
Your eyes were very wide. They were always wide when you wondered; and sometimes when you were not wondering at all, just hearing Aunt Jane play would make you, and then your eyes would grow bigger and bigger as you sat on the hassock by the piano, looking at the maple boughs and hearing the music and being a little boy.
It was a beautiful piece that Aunt Jane was playing that March morning. The sun came and shone on the maple boughs.
"And now the sun is telling the little buds," you said to yourself in time to Aunt Jane's music, but so softly that she did not hear.
"And now the little buds are saying 'All right,'" you whispered, more softly still, for the bigger your eyes got, the smaller, always, was your voice.
A little song-sparrow came and teetered on a twig.
"Oh, Auntie, see! The birdie's come, too, to tell the buds, I guess."
Aunt Jane turned her head and smiled at the sparrow, but she did not stop playing. Your heart was beating in time to the music, as you sat on the hassock by the piano, watching the bird and the sun. The sparrow danced like Aunt Jane's fingers, and put up his little open bill. He was singing, though you could not hear.
"But, Auntie."
"Yes."