Sometimes in summer when it's hot,
My mother, dad, and I,
Ride 'till we reach the mountain top,
Then sleep out 'neath the sky.
We don't take tents and things like that,
Just blankets on the ground.
And then the wind comes slow and soft
And doesn't make a sound.
The leaves all whisper very low,
Indeed, they never shout!
I try, and try, and try to hear
Just what they talk about.
I never yet have understood
A single word they say,
Although I've listened many nights,
And thought of it by day.
I hear most every word,
They laugh and sing and tumble 'round,
The jolliest way I 've heard.
My mother says it's just the brook,
That there's no fairy band.
But I believe that she's too old
To really understand.