Hark how they shake all the fir-trees! See how they stir the small snow-slides!
Tronk — trónk — tronk, and the ice on the lake is a-shiver.
Trónk — tronk — trónk, and the rill that was dead is a-running.
Tronk — trónk — tronk, and the stars are lost.
TRÓNK — TRONK — TRÓNK, and the sun comes up to blaze on the Chaska-water. Red and gold and bright is the sun, silver the bugles blowing.
TRONK, coming, coming, coming, and the clamor is lost in the northlands. The heralds have sped with the tidings.
“Coming, coming!” the Cranes are crying.
“Coming, coming!” the Woodpecker drums.
“Coming, coming!” the Reeds whisper, rejoicing and rasping together. Only the ..text continues