Then a thing happened that none of them had mentioned, because they were
not sure enough that it would. A brown thrush, catching the unusual
atmosphere of the orchard that morning, selected the tallest twig of an
apple tree and showed that orchard what real music was.
The thrush preened, flirted his feathers, opened his beak widely and sang
his first liquid notes. "Starts on C," commented Mr. Dovesky softly.
"Three times, and does it over, to show us we needn't think it was an
accident and he can't do it as often as he pleases," whispered Malcolm.
Mr. Dovesky glanced at the boy and nodded.
"There he goes from C to E," he commented an instant later, "repeats that
--C again, falls to B, up to G, repeats that--I wish he would wait till I
get my pencil."
"I can give it to you," said Malcolm. "He does each strain over as soon as
he sings it. I know his song!"
On the back of an envelope, Mr. Dovesky was sketching a staff of music in
natural key, setting off measures and filling in notes. As the bird
confused him with repetitions or trills on E or C so high he had to watch
sharply to catch just what it was, his fingers trembled when he added
lines to the staff for the highest notes.
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