But this morning the old man looked doubtful. He did not immediately
put the fishing pole and then sit on the rock as usual.
6 He stood and stared at the water. Eyebrows raised, then lowered the bag of worn-out utensils he was carrying. Sitting on a rock in the most comfortable place and pulling something out of his shabby bag. Not a fishing rod but a bamboo flute. While the fishing rod stayed in the bag. "I thought the water was clear again, it was still cloudy," the man mumbled, perhaps to the birds of emprit on his head. "If the water is still cloudy like this, I'll just stick a fishing pole." Then with his dried-up finger adjusting his flute ring. By pressing the ring made of the bamboo flakes deeper, he wanted to make the sound of the flute as light as possible. He always wanted to blow the flute just to be heard alone. He does not mean to play it for someone else. Even if the ears themselves can not hear because the sound of the flute is directed to the soul. As the ends of the hanging branches began to sway by the touch of the wind, as the little birds began to squeak around their nests, from under the shade of the mbulu tree was dimly began to hear the strains of the flute. So faint that when the wind blew hard, the sound was melted by the wheezing of the wind through the leaves.
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