The Maestro sat down at the piano, thought for a moment, and then, smiling, rippled into the first bars of a little air which none of his listeners had ever before heard. Eerily it tripped and chimed and lilted to its close, and the Maestro swung about and faced them, smiling still, quizzically. "What does it mean?" he asked. "I am very curious to know. Is it merely a tune--or does it remind you of something!" The Sturgises pondered. "It's like spring," Felicia said; "like little leaves fluttering." "Yes, it is," Ken agreed. "It's a song of some sort, I think--that is, it ought to have words. And it's spring, all right. It's like--it's like--" "It's like those toads!" Kirk said suddenly. "Don't you know? Like little bells and flutes, far off--and fairies." The Maestro clapped his hands. "I have not forgotten how, then," he said. "It _has_ words, Kenelm. I hope--I hope that you will not be very angry with me." He played the first twinkling measures again, and then began to sing: "Down in the marshes the sounds begin Of a far-away fairy violin, Faint and reedy and cobweb thin." Cobweb thin, the accompaniment took up the plaintive chirping till the Maestro sang the second verse. "I say," said Ken, bolt upright in his chair. "I _say_!" "_Are_ you angry?" asked the Maestro. He flung out his hands in a pleading gesture. "Will he forgive me, Kirk?" "Why, why--it's beautiful, sir!" Ken stammered. "It's only--that I don't see how you ever got hold of those words. It was just a thing I made up to amuse Kirk. He made me say it to him over and over, about fifty-nine times, I should say, till I'm sure I was perfectly sick of it." "Having heard it fifty-nine times," said the old gentleman, "he was able to repeat it to me, and I took the opportunity to write it off on a bit of paper, because, my dear boy, I liked it." "A lovely, scrumptious tune," said Kirk. "It makes it nicer than ever." "What do you say," said the Maestro, "to our giving this unsurpassed song to the world at large?" "Do you mean having it printed?" Felicia asked quickly, "Oh, what fun!" She beamed at Ken, who looked happy and uncomfortable at once. "I'm afraid I'm too unknown, sir," he said. "I--I never thought of such a thing." "Perhaps," said the Maestro, with a smile, "the composer is sufficiently well known to make up for the author's lack of fame." Ken's face grew a shade redder. "Of course," he stammered. "Oh, I beg your pardon." "Then the permission is granted?" Quite naturally, Ken granted it, with what he thought ill-worded thanks, and the Sturgises walked home across the meadow without knowing on what they trod. "A real author!" Felicia said. "I _told_ you that wasn't a pome, when I first heard it." But Ken chose to be severe and modest, and frowned on the "Toad Song"--as it was familiarly called--for a topic of conversation. And as weeks slid by, the whole affair was almost forgotten at Applegate Farm.