"Well, then, you can just as well call your Aunt Seréna and Vrede-best a dream--just as much as this." A large bird--an eagle--swept around in stately circles, spying at them with its sharp, fierce eyes. Below, in the dark green of the valley, a small white temple, with its columns, was visible. Close beside it a mountain stream tumbled splashing down below. Still and straight as arrows, tall cypresses, with their pale grey trunks and black-green foliage, encircled it. A fine mist rose up from the splashing water, and, crowned with an exquisite arc of color, remained suspended amidst the glossy green myrtle and magnolia. Only where the water spattered did the leaves stir; elsewhere everything was motionless. But over all rang the warbling and chattering of birds, from out the forest shade. Finches sang their fullest strains, and the thrushes fluted their changeful tune, untiringly. But listen! That was not a bird! That was a more knowing, more cordial song; a melody that _said_ something--something which Johannes could feel, like the words of a friend. It was a reed, played charmingly. No bird could sing like that. "Oh, Wistik, who is playing? It is more lovely than blackbird or nightingale." "Pst!" said Wistik, opening his eyes wide. "That is only the flute, yet. By and by you will hear the singing." They sank down upon a mountain meadow, in a wide valley. The limpid, blue-green rivulet flowed through the sunny grass-plot, between blood-red anemones, yellow and white narcissi, and deep purple hyacinths. On both sides of it were thick, round azalea-bushes, entirely covered with fragrant, brick-red flowers. White butterflies were fluttering back and forth across it. On the other side rose tall laurel, myrtle, olive, and chestnut trees; and still higher the cedars and pines--half-way up the mountain wall of red-grey granite. It was so still and peaceful and great blue dragon-flies with black wings were rocking on the yellow narcissus flowers nodding along the stream. Then Johannes saw a fleeing deer, springing up from the sod in swift, sinewy leaps; then another, and another. The flute-playing sounded close by, but now there was singing also. It came from a shady grove of chestnut trees, and echoed gloriously from mountain-side to mountain-side, while the brook maintained the rhythm with its purling, murmuring flow. The voices of men and women could be heard, vigorously strong and sweetly clear; and, intermingling with these somewhat rude shouts of joy, the high-pitched voices of children.