He pushed aside the red chestnut flowers and the sycamore branches, and as he did so all the birds seemed to wake up, and to sing a wonderfully beautiful song. There were nightingales singing, though it was day, and the larks were carolling as blithely as at early morn. As for the thrushes, their voices were so clear that Belinda was sure she could hear the words they were saying.
Of course it was poetry, only Belinda had never heard such beautiful poetry before.
And the waterfall was singing, so was the brook, but they sang a different song.
"Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Slumbering let the maiden lie,
Sweetest dreams shall float around her,
Magic blossoms shall surround her.
Fairy chains shall keep her still,
Fairy wand ward off all ill,
Gnat or fly shall not come nigh,
Lullaby, oh, lullaby!
Sleep, sweet maiden, fear no harm,
Potent is the fairy charm."
"Oh, boy! are they talking about Blanche?"
"Hush!" said he; "come quietly."
Belinda came softly, and looked where he pointed, and would have cried out—
"Blanche!"
But the boy put his hand over her mouth.
Nevertheless they had found Blanche.