When they were gone, Gluck took a farewell look at his old friend in the melting pot, The flowing hair was all gone; nothing remained but the red nose, and the sparkling eyes, which looked more malicious than ever.  “And no wonder,” thought Gluck, “after being treated in that way.”  He sauntered disconsolately to the window, and sat himself down to catch the fresh evening air, and escape the hot breath of the furnace.  Now this window commanded a direct view of the range of mountains which, as I told you before, overhung the Treasure Valley, and more especially of the peak from which fell the Golden River.  It was just at the close of the day, and, when Gluck sat down at the window, he saw the rocks of the mountain tops all crimson and purple with the sunset; and there were bright tongues of fiery cloud burning and quivering about them; and the river, brighter than all, fell, in a waving column of pure gold, from precipice to precipice, with the double arch of a broad purple rainbow stretched across it, flushing and fading alternately in the wreaths of spray.

“Ah!” said Gluck aloud, after he had looked at it for a little while, “if that river were really all gold, what a nice thing it would be!”

“No, it wouldn’t, Gluck,” said a clear, metallic voice, close at his ear.

“Bless me, what’s that?” exclaimed Gluck, jumping up.  There was nobody there.  He looked round the room, and under the table, and a great many times behind him, but there was certainly nobody there, and he sat down again at the window.  This time he didn’t speak, but he couldn’t help thinking again that it would be very convenient if the river were really all gold.

“Not at all, my boy,” said the same voice, louder than before.

“Bless me!” said Gluck again, “what is that?” He looked again into all the corners and cupboards, and then began turning round and round, as fast as he could, in the middle of the room, thinking there was somebody behind him, when the same voice struck again on his ear.  It was singing now very merrily, “Lala-lira-la”; no words, only a soft running effervescent melody, something like that of a kettle on the boil.  Gluck looked out of the window.  No, it was certainly in the house.  Upstairs, and downstairs.  No, it was certainly in that very room, coming in quicker time and clearer notes every moment, “Lala-lira-la.”  All at once it struck Gluck that it sounded louder near the furnace.  He ran to the opening and looked in; yes, he saw right; it seemed to be coming, not only out of the furnace, but out of the pot.  He uncovered it, and ran back in a great fright, for the pot was certainly singing!  He stood in the furthest corner of the room, with his hands up, and his mouth open, for a minute or two, when the singing stopped, and the voice became clear and pronunciative.

“Hollo!” said the voice.  Gluck made no answer.

“Hollo, Gluck, my boy,” said the pot again.