speak, but he couldn't help thinking again that it would be very
convenient if the river were really all gold.

"Not at all, my boy," said the same voice, louder than before.

"Bless me!" said Gluck again, "what is that?" He looked again
into all the corners and cupboards, and then began turning round
and round as fast as he could, in the middle of the room,
thinking there was somebody behind him, when the same voice
struck again on his ear. It was singing now, very merrily, "Lala-
lira-la"--no words, only a soft, running, effervescent melody,
something like that of a kettle on the boil. Gluck looked out of
the window; no, it was certainly in the house. Upstairs and
downstairs; no, it was certainly in that very room, coming in
quicker time and clearer notes every moment: "Lala-lira-la." All
at once it struck Gluck that it sounded louder near the furnace.
He ran to the opening and looked in. Yes, he saw right; it
seemed to be coming not only out of the furnace but out of the
pot. He uncovered it, and ran back in a great fright, for the
pot was certainly singing! He stood in the farthest corner of
the room, with his hands up and his mouth open, for a minute or
two, when the singing stopped and the voice became clear and
pronunciative.

"Hollo!" said the voice.

Gluck made no answer.

"Hollo! Gluck, my boy," said the pot again.