Only the wooden part of the handle
touches the bark. He goes over and over it until every spot on its surface
has felt his light blow. Now he lays the knife aside, and grasping the
stick with a firm hand below the ring in the bark, with the right hand he
holds the pounded end. He tries it with a careful twist. It sticks. Back
to his knees it goes and the tap, tap, begins again. When he twists it
again it slips, and the bark comes off smoothly in one piece, while we
breathe a sigh of relief. How white the stick is under the bark! It shines
and looks slippery. Now the boy takes his knife again. He cuts towards the
straight jog where the chip was taken out, paring the wood away, sloping
up to within an inch of the end of the bark. Now he cuts a thin slice of
the wood between the edge of the vertical cut and the mouthpiece.
The whistle is nearly finished. We have all seen him make them before and
know what comes next. Our tongues seek over moist lips sympathetically,
for we know the taste of peeled willow. He puts the end of the stick into
his mouth and draws it in and out until it is thoroughly wet. Then he
lifts the carefully guarded section of bark and slips it back into place,
fitting the parts nicely together.
The willow whistle is finished. There remains but to try it. Will it go?
Does he dare blow into it and risk our jeers if it is dumb?
With all the fine certainty of the Pied Piper the boy lifts the humble
instrument to his lips.
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