ey not pretty? Seest thou not
how each hill is like a Kituta hut; but, unlike the straw with which the
Watuta thatch their houses, the great Sky-spirit has thatched these with
beautiful trees, and sent the lake winds to make music among the leaves
and branches. And look between the hills, Kalulu; follow the winding
valleys with thine eyes, until they rest where the valleys are lost in
those grey mountain folds. If thou wert close to any of those valleys,
thou wouldst hear the brooks sing and laugh as they race over rock and
pebble towards the deep Liemba."

After a little while he continued, more seriously: "The music of the
trees and the music of the brooks mingling together speak to us children
of the Arabs of the goodness of the Sky-spirit. If thine hearing was
fine enough, and we two were under those trees of the valley yonder,
thou wouldst be able to hear the voice of my mind and heart sing in
sympathy with the brook and the trees; and just as my heart sings out of
sympathy with their voices, so do the birds sing. Hast thou never
thought how pretty and sweet sound the songs of birds, Kalulu? I have
often, when in the mangoe grove near my father's house, seated on a
carpet of young and tender grass, watched a little bird coming with a
graceful, easy flight, and listened to it singing as it flew. I have
watched it turning its little head about so cunningly to see if I was
there, and I have seen it looking for a comfortable twig to rest upon,
and when it was satisfied I have heard it utter a wondrous melody, and
this it seemed to do by simply opening its mouth and erecting its head,
and I could not imitate it, try how I might. But though my voice
failed, my heart joined with it in song; and if all the little singing
birds sang together, my heart could sing as free, as clear as they.

"Hark, Kalulu! dost thou not hear the deep lake sing? No! I hear it,
and understand its song. Look at the minute waves the zephyr rolls on
the beach. Listen to the sound of them as they gather themselves up
like long bales of white cloth, and rush to lave the sand. That is
music to me, and while it sings I think of the deeper, sweeter music
which the sea of Zanj makes at eve of day, which it made while my father
and his kinsman sat near the foamy waves to watch the sun falling
towards the sunset land. Wouldst thou believe it, dear Kalulu, the
voices of those tiny waves sounding in my ear like the sighs of
departing friends