Down by the gate of the orchard
      This Saturday afternoon,
Harry and Arthur and Robin
      Are getting their whistles in tune.
Different notes they are playing;
      Different echoes they hear;--
Always the best of the music
      Is in the musician's ear.

Harry says, "Hark! when I whistle,
      March winds are wind on the hills;
Waterfalls break from the snow-drifts;
      Their thunder the forest fills.
Thousands of bluebirds and sparrows,
      Sing on the branches bare;
Oceans of musical murmurs
      Ripple and stir in the air."

Arthur is whispering, "Listen!
      Dropping of April showers,--
Dripping of rainy rosebuds,--
      Flight of the rustling hours;--
And a speckled lark in the meadow,
      That utters one long sad note,
As if the sorrow of gladness
      Were hid in his little throat."

"Whistle, O whistle!" cries Robin.
      "Never such echoes could be
Coaxed from a twig of the willow
      As wait in my whistle for me.
When I shape at last the mouthpiece
      And let the rich music out,
You will think that Pan or Apollo
      Is wandering hereabout:

"You will dream of orchards in blossom;
      Of lambs in the grass at play;
And of birds that warble all summer
      The wonderful songs of May."
No doubt of it, Rob! in the whistle
      That nobody yet has played,
Is sleeping a melody sweeter
      Than ever on earth was made.