The six friends sat silently listening for strains of music. In the stillness of the forest they heard nothing but the songs of the birds, broken occasionally by the caw of a crow or the tapping of a woodpecker. But it was good to stop chattering for a while in this peaceful place, and Billie, lying on her back looking up into the interlacing branches of the trees, smiled happily. How could she have been out of humor when just at their very doorstep lay the most wonderful enchanted forest? It would not be easy to recall silly domestic troubles in the midst of all this beauty. "Curious. I was certain I heard the sound of some instrument like a mandolin or a zither," said Elinor. "It was just one strain, almost as if the wind had blown over an aeolian harp." "It was fairy music," put in Mary. "Like enough," said Ben; "and we had better be moving on," he added, rising and leading the way. "The fairies don't like human ears to hear their music and they might be playing tricks on us. Then we'd be in the deuce of a fix out in the wilderness." "They don't mind at all," said Mary. "You're entirely mistaken, Ben. You are thinking of elves. The fairies are kind little people who never harm anyone." They had been walking for some time when they heard cries behind them. "Help! Help!" screamed the voice of Nancy from around a curve in the trail. "What did I tell you," said Ben, running back with the others to see what had happened, and then bursting into a perfect roar of laughter. There was Percy in the act of killing a long black snake, which was curled up with head thrust out in an attitude of defence, and there was Nancy, who had evidently started to run and, missing the trail, had rushed into a tall clump of bramble bushes. The brambles had wrapped themselves about her like the tentacles of an octopus, and the jaunty feather was caught in an overhanging branch. "Don't kill the snake, Percy," objected Ben. "There are lots more just like him, and it won't help any to kill one. Besides, they never start a quarrel." "All right, old S. P. C. A.," said Percy, as relieved as the snake, which immediately glided off into the bushes as if it had actually understood that Ben was making a plea for its life. With subdued giggles they released Nancy from the clutches of the brambles. The feather was broken in half and dragged dejectedly over the crown of her hat, and there was a long scratch across her left cheek. "Do you remember Jim Phipps in the Fourth Grade, Ben," began Percy, pointing to Nancy's hat. "Do you remember the poem called 'Absalom' he recited? That is, he began it but he never got any farther than the first line, because he started out by saying, 'Abalsom, my son Abalsom.'" The laugh was against Nancy, but she took it good-naturedly and joined in, while she broke the feather in half and left the lower end standing up in the band in a straight cockade.