DELION, ALPENROSE [With their bells ranging
enviously] Oo-oo-oo!

From behind the Cow HORN are heard the voices of COWBELLS
and MOUNTAIN AIR:

"Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!"
"Mountain air! Mountain air!"

From behind THE WINE HORN rise the rival voices Of VIEW OF
ITALY, FLUME OF STEAM, and THINGS IN BOOKS:

"I am Italy! Italy!"

"See me--steam in the distance!"

"O remember the things in books!"

And all call out together, very softly, with THE FLOWERS
ringing their bells. Then far away like an echo comes a
sighing:

"Mountain air! Mountain air!"

And suddenly the Peak of THE COW HORN speaks in a voice as
of one unaccustomed.

THE COW HORN. Amongst kine and my black-brown sheep I Live; I am
silence, and monotony; I am the solemn hills. I am fierceness, and
the mountain wind; clean pasture, and wild rest. Look in my eyes.
love me alone!

SEELCHEN. [Breathless] The Cow Horn! He is speaking for Felsman
and the mountains. It is the half of my heart!

THE FLOWERS laugh happily.

THE COW HORN. I stalk the eternal hills--I drink the mountain snows.
My eyes are the colour of burned wine; in them lives melancholy. The
lowing of the kine, the wind, the sound of falling rocks, the running
of the torrents; no other talk know I. Thoughts simple, and blood
hot, strength huge--the cloak of gravity.

SEELCHEN. Yes. yes! I want him. He is strong!

The voices of COWBELLS and MOUNTAIN AIR cry out together:

"Clinkel-clink! Clinkel-clink!"

"Mountain air! Mountain air!"

THE COW HORN. Little soul! Hold to me! Love me! Live with me
under the stars!

SEELCHEN. [Below her breath] I am afraid.

And suddenly the Peak of THE WINE HORN speaks in a youth's
voice.

THE WINE HORN. I am the will o' the wisp that dances thro' the
streets; I am the cooing dove of Towns, from the plane trees and the
chestnuts' shade. From day to day all changes, where I burn my
incense to my thousand little gods. In white palaces I dwell, and
passionate dark alleys. The life of men in crowds is mine--of
lamplight in the streets at dawn. [Softly] I have a thousand loves.
and never one too long; for I am nimbler than your heifers playing in
the sunshine.

THE FLOWERS, ringing in alarm, cry:

"We know them!"

THE WINE HORN