In the twilight of the fast-approaching summer night, the Baron and Flemming walked forth along the borders of the stream. As they heard it, rushing and gushing among the stones and tangled roots, and the great wheel turning in the current, with its never-ceasing plash! plash! it brought to their minds that exquisite, simple song of Goethe, the Youth and the Mill-brook. It was for the moment a nymph, which sang to them in the voice of the waters. "I am persuaded," said Flemming, "that, in order fully to understand and fell the popular poetry of Germany, one must be familiar with the German landscape. Many sweet little poems are the outbreaks of momentary feelings;--words, to which the song of birds, the rustling of leaves, and the gurgle of cool waters form the appropriate music. Or perhaps I should say they are words, which man has composed to the music of nature. Can you not, even now, hear this brooklet tellingyou how it is on its way to the mill, where at day-break the miller's daughter opens her window, and comes down to bathe her face in its stream, and her bosom is so full and white, that it kindles the glow of love in the cool waters!" "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.' "