When he bs his hair that is the colour of dead leaves, dead leaves fall out of it; they rustle and drift to the ground as though he were a tree and he stand as still as a tree, when he wants the doves to flutter softly, ing as they e, down upon his shouders, those silly, fat, trusting woodies with the pretty wedding rings round their necks. He makes his whistles out of an elder twig and that is what he uses to call the birds out of the air -- all the birds e; and the sweetest singers he will keep in cages. The wind stirs the dark wood; it blows through the bushes. A little of the cold air that blows raveyards always goes with him, it crisps the hairs on the bay neck but I am not afraid of him; only afraid of vertigo, of the vertigo with which he seizes me. Afraid of falling down. Falling as a bird would fall through the air if the Erl-King tied up the winds in his handkerchief and khe ends together so they could not get out. Then the moving currents of……（内容加载失败！）
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