"Look underneath the bridge in that dark corner, just behind those rushes. Erik was rowing me home from your house, Gerda. When we got just there, something white and misty rose up out of the water. I heard a soft, sweet note, and Erik thought perhaps he did too. Then I thought I saw him dimly resting on the waves, just as Miss Eklund says water-sprites do." "Weren't you frightened?" asked Karin in wide-eyed surprise. "I wanted Erik to stop rowing so I could listen, but he wouldn't. Mother said he must never take me there again toward night. Father, won't you tell us the story of the water-sprite and the budding staff, while we are waiting for the wind to come up?" begged Sigrid. "It doesn't look as though we should do much sailing for awhile. But you must all know the old legend, I am sure," said Major Lund. "We should like to hear it just the same," the children all chimed in. "Well," began Major Lund, "this water-sprite lived under an old bridge just like that one over there. He was such a happy fellow that he sat playing his harp half the livelong day. One afternoon, a grim and sour-faced old priest came ambling along on his horse, over the bridge. "Suddenly he drew rein, for he heard the sweetest music. He rode back across the bridge and hunted several minutes before he discovered the merry sprite. "In his ugliest tone of voice the priest called out: "'Why do you play your harp so joyously? Have you nothing to do but idle away the day and the night in such foolishness? A lazy sprite like you will never get to heaven. I should sooner expect to see this staff which I carry grow green and blossom, than find you there.' "The water-sprite threw down his harp in great terror and began to weep bitterly. What had he ever done that the old priest should frighten him so? "Without giving further heed to the sprite, the priest rode on. For many years, his own life had been so dull and solemn, that it made him bitter to see other people happy. He found a cruel pleasure in making the little sprite wretched. "While he was buried in his own gloomy thoughts, he did not see that the staff in his hands was slowly changing into the green branch of a living tree. Tiny green buds, then leaves, slowly, silently unfurled. As silently flower-buds appeared and opened into rosy blossoms, spicy with fragrance. "The priest, at last, beheld the branch of leaves and flowers in his hand. He was filled with great wonder at himself. While the dead staff of wood slowly bloomed in his hands, something hard and cold in his heart seemed to melt. Not since he was a small boy had he listened to the singing of the birds with such joy. He dismounted from his horse to gather a handful of wild lilies-of-the-valley. "He even smiled on a whistling peasant boy who passed him on the road. Then he thought of the weeping sprite. In all haste he rode back to the bridge. "To the sobbing lad, he said: