Years passed, and the children grew to be men and women, and after a
while all the songs Pine Tree heard were those of the grandmother, which
were soft and low. At last these, too, were heard no more--the little
cottage grew quiet and everything was still. Pine Tree wondered where
everybody was. The only company he had were the birds that came in
through the window and built nests in the attic. Now the cottage was no
longer a home, but was used as a barn, and the gentle cows, the woolly
sheep and the kind horses rested there at night. They, too, seemed to
sing a song to Pine Tree, but by and by even their song could not be
heard--nothing but the wind and the owls in the trees outside--because
what had once been the cottage, and then a barn, was now a forsaken
little hut.
One day Pine Tree heard a man whistling. Oh! how he hoped he would come
in, for he had not seen anybody nor heard any of the songs he had loved
for so long. Pine Tree heard the whistle come nearer and nearer, and at
last the man stepped through the doorway.
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