Seemed to me like there was a
good breakfast in every house in the land, and not a sick child or woman
anywhere. It was a fine mornin'.
And I says to my neighbor, "That's music, that is."
But he glared at me like he'd like to cut my throat.
Presently the wind turned; it begun to thicken up, and a kind of gray
mist came over things; I got low-spirited directly. Then a silver rain
began to fall. I could see the drops touch the ground; some flashed up
like long pearl ear-rings, and the rest rolled away like round rubies.
It was pretty, but melancholy. Then the pearls gathered themselves into
long strands and necklaces, and then they melted into thin silver
streams, running between golden gravels, and then the streams joined
each other at the bottom of the hill, and made a brook that flowed
silent, except that you could kinder see the music, especially when the
bushes on the banks moved as the music went along down the valley. I
could smell the flowers in the meadow. But the sun didn't shine, nor the
birds sing: it was a foggy day, but not cold.
The most curious thing was the little white angel-boy, like you see in
pictures, that run ahead of the music brook and led it on, and on, away
out of the world, where no man ever was, certain, I could see the boy
just as plain as I see you.
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