I was more startled than I liked to show. There was something so _uncanny_ in this echo of the very words I had so lately heard from that little forest-sprite, that it was only by a great effort I succeeded in saying, carelessly, “Let us banish so unpleasant a topic. Won’t you sing us something, Lady Muriel? I know you _do_ sing without music.” “The only songs I know—without music—are _desperately_ sentimental, I’m afraid! Are your tears all ready?” “Quite ready! Quite ready!” came from all sides, and Lady Muriel—not being one of those lady-singers who think it _de rigueur_ to decline to sing till they have been petitioned three or four times, and have pleaded failure of memory, loss of voice, and other conclusive reasons for silence—began at once:— [Illustration: ‘THREE BADGERS ON A MOSSY STONE’] “There be three Badgers on a mossy stone, Beside a dark and covered way: Each dreams himself a monarch on his throne, And so they stay and stay—— Though their old Father languishes alone, They stay, and stay, and stay. “There be three Herrings loitering around, Longing to share that mossy seat: Each Herring tries to sing what she has found That makes Life seem so sweet. Thus, with a grating and uncertain sound, They bleat, and bleat, and bleat. “The Mother-Herring, on the salt sea-wave, Sought vainly for her absent ones: The Father-Badger, writhing in a cave, Shrieked out ‘Return, my sons! You shall have buns,’ he shrieked, ‘if you’ll behave! Yea, buns, and buns, and buns!’ “‘I fear,’ said she, ‘your sons have gone astray? My daughters left me while I slept.’ ‘Yes ’m,’ the Badger said: ‘it’s as you say.’ ‘They should be better kept.’ Thus the poor parents talked the time away, And wept, and wept, and wept.” Here Bruno broke off suddenly. “The Herrings’ Song wants anuvver tune, Sylvie,” he said. “And I ca’n’t sing it—not wizout oo plays it for me!” [Illustration: ‘THE FATHER-BADGER, WRITHING IN A CAVE’] Instantly Sylvie seated herself upon a tiny mushroom, that happened to grow in front of a daisy, as if it were the most ordinary musical instrument in the world, and played on the petals as if they were the notes of an organ. And such delicious _tiny_ music it was! Such teeny-tiny music! Bruno held his head on one side, and listened very gravely for a few moments until he had caught the melody. Then the sweet childish voice rang out once more:— “Oh, dear beyond our dearest dreams, Fairer than all that fairest seems! To feast the rosy hours away, To revel in a roundelay! How blest would be A life so free—— Ipwergis-Pudding to consume, And drink the subtle Azzigoom!