A thoughtful appearing goldfinch hovered about the strange tree. He would sit long in one of Snythergen’s branches as if lost in a golden study. Occasionally he would peck at the various wooden keys and listen critically, but the sounds he produced were sickly compared to the woodpeckers’ ringing tremolo.

“I wonder what he’s up to,” thought Snythergen. “Some deviltry, I’ll wager! He seems a wise little bird. Evidently he’s planning to do something to me. I suppose I’ll find out what it is when he gets ready to let me know, and not before!”

The goldfinch flew among the woodpeckers and assembled about two hundred of them in Snythergen’s branches. Then he made them a speech.

“He is explaining his project,” thought Snythergen. The finch would flit up to a key, peck it and return to his branch, chirping animatedly. When he had finished the woodpeckers tossed their heads and chorused something. Snythergen could not decide whether it was an oral vote or a cheer.

“The meeting must be over,” thought Snythergen, relieved. But his relief was short-lived. The entire flock flitted down, landing on his trunk, and covering it until there was a bird stationed beside each xylophone key.

“Whew,” gasped Snythergen. “It wouldn’t be so bad on a cold wintry day, but this is no time of year to be smothered in an overcoat of xylophones and birds!”

His sap coursed feverishly through his trunk and the veins of his leaves. He fanned his moist bark cautiously with his upper boughs. The birds were too absorbed in their scheme, whatever it was, to pay any attention to the tree’s unusual motions.

Snythergen was almost suffocated with heat. “Why don’t they tar and feather me and be done with it!” he groaned. “It amounts to that anyhow, for my sap is as hot as tar—and as for feathers!”

Here he paused, struck by the sweet sounds issuing from his trunk. The goldfinch was apparently leading an orchestra of woodpeckers and they were playing bird calls!

“So this is your scheme,” thought Snythergen. “Not a bad idea at all!” A cool breeze had just sprung up from the north, enabling Snythergen to cool off and enjoy the performance. The finch was perched on a central limb and was pointing his bill at the different players when he desired them to respond. He was standing on one leg. With the other he beat time, using a tiny twig as baton. The music attracted many birds and animals and the goldfinch made them a speech. As nearly as Snythergen could guess from his gestures the little bird said something like this:

“We’re going to give a symphony concert to-night shortly after bug time! Everybody is invited to come and bring his family and friends.”

Preparations for the concert were in progress all day. An hour before the audience was admitted the western sky was ablaze and the animals thought the forest was on fire. But it was only a cloud of fireflies coming to light the concert. When they arrived the business manager (an intelligent crow) directed them to stand just touching each other along all the branches, twigs and leaves of the tree, until Snythergen sparkled from roots to peak with thousands of points of light. The branch on which the goldfinch perched was lighted more brilliantly than the others. Festoons of acrobatic fireflies holding together hung down from it like ropes of light.

At the appointed time animals and birds were admitted to the reserved space about the tree. Crow ushers kept order and showed each one where to sit. Birds were admitted to all but the stage branches of the tree, and they covered every part of Snythergen unoccupied by fireflies. At first the fireflies were afraid of the great birds that stood close enough to touch them, and they would have flown off in terror if the crows had not watched over and protected them. By this time the ground was black with animals. Not only every seat, but every inch of standing room was taken. By eight o’clock every member of the orchestra was perched at attention. Beside every xylophone key a woodpecker awaited the signal to begin.

When all were seated the goldfinch walked proudly forth from his dressing room of leaves and took his position in the center of the stage-limb. He was indeed a handsome fellow. His gay head-dress was gracefully arranged. His feathers were as smooth as satin, and his manicured claws shone in the light of the fireflies. His entrance was greeted with tremendous applause and he had to bow again and again. When it was quiet, he raised his baton and bill together and gave the signal. The concert began. All listened breathlessly to the wonderful strains. Aside from the music there was not the faintest sound of animal, bird or insect in the forest. Even the trees kept tight hold of their leaves, to keep them from rustling in the breeze.

Before the concert was over the call of nearly every being present had been given by the orchestra. The meadow lark’s song was encored again and again. It was so short it was over in a jiffy and the audience could not get enough of it.

Once during the evening the leader was worried for a moment. In a front seat he had spied an old frog and he knew his bass woods did not go low enough to imitate the frog song. So when an usher came up and whispered in his ear that the frog was stone deaf and would not know it if his call were omitted, he was very much relieved. Happily the old fellow was the only frog present.

The favorite number proved to be the brown thrasher’s song. It was long enough to make a piece, and seemed just suited to xylophones. Since Snythergen wore at least twelve of these instruments in his skirt of mail, there were enough different keys to provide soprano, alto, tenor and bass. The audience was much stirred by the wonderful performance, and the leader as a compliment to the brown thrashers directed the ushers to conduct all of them present to a stage limb just beneath him. They were lined up in a row and firefly foot-lights shone upon a long line of feathery breasts in front and straight slender tails behind.

It was inspiring to hear this mighty chorus accompanied by full orchestra, in one of the most beautiful of bird songs. No wonder birds and animals clapped until their claws and paws ached, and when the concert was over, refused to go home until the leader announced another performance next week.

“Well, at last,” said Snythergen, when all had left, “I can have a moment’s rest. There won’t be another concert if I can help it—and I think I can!”