About ten o'clock in the morning I stopped near a brook to drink and rest, for I was warm and tired.

And it was then that I bethought me of the little tin pipe in my knapsack, and straightway I got it out, and, sitting down at the foot of a tree near the brook, I put it to my lips and felt for the stops with unaccustomed fingers.

At first I made the saddest sort of work of it, and was not a little disappointed, indeed, with the sound of the whistle itself.

It was nothing to my memory of it! It seemed thin and tinny.
However, I persevered at it, and soon produced a recognizable imitation of Tom Madison's "Old Dan Tucker." My success quite pleased me, and I became so absorbed that I quite lost account of the time and place.
There was no one to hear me save a bluejay which for an hour or more kept me company.

He sat on a twig just across the brook, cocking his head at me, and saucily wagging his tail.