Hardly had Johannes taken it in his hand when he felt that he was as light and swift as one of the doves. He stretched out his arms, the doves flew up, and Johannes found himself in their midst, in the spacious free air and glorious sunshine. There was nothing around him but the pure blue, and the bright shimmer of fluttering white wings.
They flew across the great garden, towards the wood, where the thick tree-tops waved in the distance like the swell of a green sea. Johannes looked down and saw his father through the open window, sitting in the house-place,--Simon was lying in the window seat with his crossed forepaws, basking in the sun.
'I wonder if they see me!' thought he; but he dared not call out to them.
Presto was trotting about the garden walks, sniffing at every shrub and behind every wall, and scratching against the door of every shed or greenhouse to find his master.
'Presto, Presto!' cried Johannes. The dog looked up and began to wag his tail and yelp most dolefully.
'I am coming back, Presto! only wait,' cried Johannes, but he was too far away.
They soared over the wood, and the rooks flew cawing out of the top branches where they had built their nests. It was high summer, and the scent of the blossoming limes came up in steamy gusts from the green wood.
In an empty nest, at the top of a tall lime-tree, sat Windekind, with his wreath of bindweed. He nodded to Johannes.
'There you are! that is good,' said he. 'I sent for you; now we can remain together for a long time--if you like.'
Then he thanked the friendly doves who had brought him hither, and went down with Windekind into the woods. There it was cool and shady. The oriole piped his tune, almost always the same, but still a little different.
'Poor bird!' said Windekind. 'He was once a bird of Paradise. That you still may see by his strange yellow feathers; but he was transformed and turned out of Paradise. There is a word which can restore him to his former splendid plumage, and open Paradise to him once more; but he has forgotten the word; and now, day after day, he tries to find his way back there. He says something like the word, but it is not quite right.'
Numberless insects glittered like dancing crystals in the sun's rays where they pierced between the thick leaves. When they listened sharply they could hear a humming, like a great concert on one string, filling the whole wood. This was the song of the sunbeams.