Off to a lonely hill he took them, where they could browse contentedly upon the thick short grass, and where none could overhear him while he tried the flute. 他把他们带到一座孤零零的山上，让他们在茂密的矮草上心满意足地吃草，他吹笛子的时候，谁也听不见。

His fingers shook, and his breath came fast as he pressed the instrument to his lips, and drew out a feeble note. 他的手指颤抖着，当他把乐器压在嘴唇上，吐出一个微弱的音符时，他的呼吸急促起来。

It was shrill, and thin, and unlovely. 声音尖利、瘦削、不可爱。

Guillaume winced with disappointment. 纪尧姆因失望而畏缩了。

Nevertheless, he knew that beautiful sounds dwelt in the flute, and he was determined to call them out. 然而，他知道笛子里藏着美妙的声音，他决心把它们吹出来。

So he persevered. 所以他坚持。

Over and over he breathed carefully into the slender tube. 他一遍又一遍地小心翼翼地对着那根细长的管子呼气。

Over and over he pressed his fingers now upon this hole, now upon that, to make the notes. 他一次又一次地把手指按在这个孔上，又按在那个孔上，以便记笔记。

At last, to his delight, one pure mellow note rewarded him. 最后，令他高兴的是，一个清纯圆润的音符回报了他。

Each morning after that he pleaded to be allowed to take the instrument with him. 从那以后的每天早晨，他都请求允许他随身携带那件乐器。

His mother, having discovered that he always brought it back uninjured even by a single scratch, humored him, saying from time to time, 他的母亲发现他每次带回来的时候都毫发无伤，连轻轻的抓痕都没有，便迁就他说，

“Some day, my little Guillaume, thou shalt learn of Francois how to play upon it—some day when thou art older.” “总有一天，我的小纪尧姆，你会学会弗朗索瓦斯是怎样吹奏的——总有一天你会长大。”