![]() If he released them too soon, they might get stuck crossways and make only a half-good tune, or he might lose them altogether and never be in the right mood to get hold of them again. Then he would simply have to put his lips to the mouth-organ, and all the notes would jump instantly into their places. It had to grow into a kind of happy conviction. ![]() He had kept this tune under his hat for several days, but hadn’t quite dared to take it out yet. A new tune, one part expectation, two parts spring sadness, and for the rest just the great delight of walking alone and liking it. It’s the right evening for a tune, Snufkin thought. Tomorrow and yesterday were both at a distance, and just at present the sun was shining brightly red between the birches, and the air was cool and soft. He felt happy about the wood and the weather, and himself. Walking had been easy, because his knapsack was nearly empty and he had no worries on his mind. ![]() He had been walking all day through undisturbed landscapes, listening to the cries of the birds also on their way northward, home from the South. One calm and cloudless evening, toward the end of April, Snufkin found himself far enough to the north to see still-unmelted patches of snow on the northern slopes. ![]()
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