It became my new project, learning to read music. Then he turned and left the room.Īfter he’d gone I went to the chest and sat down beside it, taking out a bundle of the papers with music written on them. I could see bundles of paper inside, some bound, some tied with ribbon. Then he got up and crossed to a polished wooden chest, and, using a large paw, pushed the top up. The white bear closed his eyes and flattened his ears against the sound. So I tried.Īnd though the tone of the instrument was lovely, my playing sounded like two birds of different pitch scolding each other. “I can’t.” But he just stared at me with those yearning eyes. “I don’t know how to play,” I explained, my cheeks a little red. He lay down on the rug near the cabinet and looked up expectantly, as he did in the weaving room when he was ready to hear a story. As he came closer I could read a sort of yearning in his eyes. I fought down the instinct to hide the flauto behind my back as though I were a naughty child caught playing with grown-up things. As that second note died away, the white bear entered the room. A loud ringing note came out, startling me so that I almost dropped the instrument. I placed the mouthpiece to my lips and blew. It was so beautiful I had been shy about even touching it, but one day I worked up my courage and took it out of the cabinet. “The instruments that I liked the most were the flautos and recorders, especially the lovely flauto in the box with blue velvet.
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