He could not tell, at first, what it might be.

For it was as unlike the violin as it was like the bow and the rosined strings.

Then he made out, surely, that it was the whistling of a human being.
It followed no tune, no reasoned theme.

The music was beautiful in its own self.

It rose straight up like the sky-lark from the ground, sheer up against the white light of the sky, and there it sang against heaven's gate.