“’First of all I heard the birds singing, then I noticed that there were different sorts of birds singing:  I heard the blackbird, the thrush, the little finches, and the warblers—­I could not tell you how many; some of them singing as if they could not make sound enough, and others sung a low song, with twitterings and chatterings all to themselves.  Some seemed calling to birds a long way off; then I heard those other birds answer, but the sound was so faint that I should not have heard it at all if we had not been so still.  I was trying to catch a faint sound of a bird some distance down the wood, which sounded like the coo of the wood-pigeon, when you said, “Open your eyes."’

“Then I turned to Harry—­your father, children—­and he said, ’Of course I heard the birds, but I thought, I can hear them any day; I shall listen for all sorts of odd sounds.  I heard the distant rumble of a farmer’s waggon, and the cows lowing at Brown’s farm; every now and again I heard the sound of the village blacksmith’s hammer, the faint puffing of a train, a man’s footsteps coming through the wood, and the voices of boys—­after birds’ nests, I suppose.’

“‘Well, Lizzie, what did you hear?’ I asked, turning to one of the girls.

“’I heard the wind moving very gently among the trees, making a soft rustling noise.  I could scarcely believe in the difference there is between this quiet sound and the roaring of the wind in a storm.  Then I heard the wild bee’s hum, and the little tiny noises made by the small creatures that live in the wood.  I heard our gardener sharpening his scythe, and the trickling of the brook in the hollow.’

“‘Now, little Fanny, tell us what you heard.’

“’I heard the hens cackling and calling to their chickens.  I thought I heard our dog bark; but all was so warm, and still, and sleepy, that I felt as if I should go to sleep too if I kept my eyes shut much longer.  I heard the birds though, and a great bumble-bee that flew by when our eyes were shut.’

“‘Now, children,’ I said, ’you have all heard something, and yet a little while ago you told me there was nothing particular to hear; nor is there, if you hear without listening.’”

Here grandmamma stopped awhile, then, looking at the grandchildren at her feet, said there was a poet once who wrote about a little girl called Lucy.  She lived among all the beautiful things that are to be seen in the country, and she loved them dearly.  The poet thought how, as she grew up, she would be yet more and more charmed by them, and that loving all grand and beautiful natural objects would make her charming.  Among other things he said,—­

       “She shall lean her ear
  In many a secret place,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
  Shall pass into her face.”

“How can sound show itself in a face, grandmamma?” asked Jack.

“Supposing you heard a loud, sudden scream, you would be startled and frightened by the cry; if you heard a tremendous clap of thunder, you might look a little frightened too, but you would also look solemn and still as you heard the grand sound; but you would have quite another look if you were lying on your back under a shady tree some calm summer evening, listening to the low song of the birds, and to the many sounds that are almost silence.”