“A most delightful ballad, truly,” said the Baron.  “But like many others of our little songs, it requires a poet to fell and understand it.  Sing them in the valley and woodland shadows, and under the leafy roofs of garden walks, and at night, and alone, as they were written.  Sing them not in the loud world,—­for the loud world laughs such things to scorn.  It is Mueller who says, in that little song, where the maiden bids the moon good evening;

`This song was made to be sung at night,

And he who reads it in broad daylight,

Will never read the mystery right;

And yet it is childlike easy!’

He has written a great many pretty songs, in which the momentary, indefinite longings and impulses of the soul of man find an expression.  Hecalls them the songs of a Wandering Horn-player.  There is one among them much to our present purpose.  He expresses in it, the feeling of unrest and desire of motion, which the sight and sound of running waters often produce in us.  It is entitled, `Whither?’ and is worth repeating to you.

`I heard a brooklet gushing

From its rocky fountain near,

Down into the valley rushing,

So fresh and wondrous clear.

`I know not what came o’er me,

Nor who the counsel gave;

But I must hasten downward,

All with my pilgrim-stave.

`Downward, and ever farther,

And ever the brook beside;

And ever fresher murmured,

And ever clearer the tide.

`Is this the way I was going?

Whither, O brooklet, say!

Thou hast, with thy soft murmur,

Murmured my senses away.

`What do I say of a murmur?

That can no murmur be;

’T is the water-nymphs, that are singing

Their roundelays under me.

`Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur,

And wander merrily near;

The wheels of a mill are going

In every brooklet clear.’”

“There you have the poetic reverie,” said Flemming, “and the dull prose commentary and explanation in matter of fact.  The song is pretty; and was probably suggested by some such scene as this, which we are now beholding.  Doubtless all your old national traditions sprang up in the popular mind as this song in the poet’s.”

“Your opinion is certainly correct,” answered the Baron; “and yet all this play of poetic fancy does not prevent me from feeling the chill night air, and the pangs of hunger.  Let us go back to the mill, and see what our landlady has for supper.  Did you observe what a loud, sharp voice she has?”

“People always have, who live in mills, and near water-falls.”

On the following morning they emerged unwillingly from the green, dark valley, and journeyed along the level highway to Frankfort, where in the evening they heard the glorious Don Giovanni of Mozart.  Of all operas this was Flemming’s favorite.  What rapturous flights of sound! what thrilling, pathetic chimes! what wild, joyous revelry of passion! what a delirium of sense!—­what an expression of agony and woe! all the feelings of suffering and rejoicing humanity sympathized with and finding a voice in those tones.  Flemming and the Baron listened with ever-increasing delight.