anemuine, the god of song, dwelt on the Hill of Taara. But he grew
tired of living in Finland and of his beautiful hill, so he sent word
for all things to come to him to receive the language they were to speak
before he went away to his palace in the sky. As they gathered around
him, he opened his lips and sang so sweetly, so softly, that the murmur
of his harp strings seemed almost harsh as compared with the music of
his rich voice.

The wandering winds who listened afar off caught and remembered only the
loudest tones. The sacred stream that flows so softly around the Hill of
Taara chose for its language the rustling of the silken garments which
moved upon his shoulders as he played.

The listening trees of the forest heard the rushing of his flowing
mantle as he descended from his throne on the crest of the hill; and
ever since, this has been the language of the tree-tops. If one will sit
on the mossy bank of a little brook near by a full-leaved forest, he may
even now fancy that Vanemuine is come again to earth.

Some of the larger creatures took up the deeper tones of the heavy harp
strings, and their language is now full of these sounds. Others loved
the melody of the lighter strings, and this softer music is ever in
their voices.

In his great joy Vanemuine sang songs never before heard on the earth,
and the listening nightingale caught their meaning, never to forget.
When you hear the nightingale pour out its song in the dusk of evening
hours, you hear an echo of the song the nightingale heard upon the
Hill of Taara.

Vanemuine sang of love and of the beautiful springtime. The happy lark
heard and understood, and the sweetest tones of the song she sings over
and over with each returning morning. As she soars higher and higher
into the clear air, she sings her song, trying to tell the whole world
of the love and beauty of which she heard so long ago.