_Finnish_
Vanemuine, the god of song, dwelt on the Hill of Taara. But he grew
tired of living in Finland and of his beautiful hill, so he sent word
for all things to come to him to receive the language they were to speak
before he went away to his palace in the sky. As they gathered around
him, he opened his lips and sang so sweetly, so softly, that the murmur
of his harp strings seemed almost harsh as compared with the music of
his rich voice.
The wandering winds who listened afar off caught and remembered only the
loudest tones. The sacred stream that flows so softly around the Hill of
Taara chose for its language the rustling of the silken garments which
moved upon his shoulders as he played.
The listening trees of the forest heard the rushing of his flowing
mantle as he descended from his throne on the crest of the hill; and
ever since, this has been the language of the tree-tops. If one will sit
on the mossy bank of a little brook near by a full-leaved forest, he may
even now fancy that Vanemuine is come again to earth.
Some of the larger creatures took up the deeper tones of the heavy harp
strings, and their language is now full of these sounds. Others loved
the melody of the lighter strings, and this softer music is ever in
their voices.
In his great joy Vanemuine sang songs never before heard on the earth,
and the listening nightingale caught their meaning, never to forget.
When you hear the nightingale pour out its song in the dusk of evening
hours, you hear an echo of the song the nightingale heard upon the
Hill of Taara.
Vanemuine sang of love and of the beautiful springtime. The happy lark
heard and understood, and the sweetest tones of the song she sings over
and over with each returning morning. As she soars higher and higher
into the clear air, she sings her song, trying to tell the whole world
of the love and beauty of which she heard so long ago.
While everything else was being made so happy, the poor fishes were
having a sad time. They could not leave the water to go to the Hill of
Taara, but they stretched their heads out of the brooks and rivers to
their very eyes, yet kept their ears under. So they saw Vanemuine, the
song-god, move his lips, but heard nothing, and they did as he did and
made no sound. To this day the poor, dumb fishes move their lips, but
speak no language.
Only the men and women who stood close around the Hill of Taara
understood everything that was sung. That is why human voices more than
any others can thrill us and make us see the beautiful and true.
Vanemuine sang of the glory of heaven and of the beauty of earth. He
sang of the flowing waters and of the rustling leaves. He sang of the
joys and the sorrows that come to all people, to children and parents,
to the rich and to the poor. If we listen to the songs sung to-day, with
open ears and expectant hearts, we may hear all that Vanemuine sang so
long ago upon the Hill of Taara.
When Vanemuine's songs had been heard by all the world, he rose on the
wings of the winds and went far into cloudland to his golden palace in
the sky. There he still sings his wonderful songs for those who are
greater than mankind.
To this very day the people of Finland think they can sometimes hear
Vanemuine's voice when the forest trees sigh in the wind, or the water
in the river softly laps against its rocky shore. Perhaps--who
knows?--we may hear him, too, if we listen well!