The Foundling by Lloyd Alexander

exclaimed. “I’ll soon have the knack of it, and play my harp as well as I rule my kingdom!”

    At last he fancied himself ready to stand before the High Council of Bards and ask to be ranked among their number.
    â€œA Fflam goes forth!” cried Fflewddur. “Gird on my sword! Saddle my charger! But have a care, she’s wild and mettlesome.”
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    All his subjects who could spare the time gathered to cheer him on, to wave farewell, and to wish him good speed.
    â€œIt saddens them to see me go,” Fflewddur sighed. “But a Fflam is faithful! Even as a famous bard, I’ll do my kingly duty as carefully as ever.”
    And so he journeyed to golden-towered Caer Dathyl and eagerly hastened to the Council Chamber.
    â€œA Fflam is quick-witted!” he cried confidently. “Prove me as you please! I’ve got every morsel of learning on the tip of my tongue, and every harp tune at my fingers’ ends!”
    However, when the Council and the Chief Bard questioned him deeply, all that Fflewddur had learned flew out of his head like a flock of sparrows. He gave the right answers to the wrong questions, the wrong answers to the right questions; and worst of all, when he fumbled to strike a tune on his harp it slipped from his grasp and shattered in a thousand splinters on the flagstones. Then Fflewddur bowed his head and stared wretchedly at his boots, knowing he had failed.
    â€œAlas, you are not ready to be one of us,” the Chief Bard regretfully told him. But then, with all his poet’s wisdom and compassion, the Chief Bard pitied the hapless king, and spoke apart with a servant, desiring him to bring a certain harp which he put in Fflewddur’s hands.
    â€œYou still have much to learn,” said the Chief Bard. “Perhaps this may help you.”

    Seeing the harp, Fflewddur’s dismay vanished in that instant, and his face beamed with delight. The beautiful instrument seemed to play of itself. He needed only touch his fingers to the strings and melodies poured forth in a golden tide.
    â€œGood riddance to my old pot!” Fflewddur cried. “Here’s a harp that shows my true skill. A Fflam is grateful!”
    The Chief Bard smiled within himself. “May you ever be as grateful as you are now. Come back when it pleases you to tell us how you have fared.”
    High-hearted, Fflewddur set out from Caer Dathyl. His new harp gladdened him as much as if he were in fact a bard, and he rode along playing merrily and singing at the top of his voice.
    Nearing a river he came upon an old man painfully gathering twigs for a fire. Winter had hardly ended, and a chill wind still bit sharply, and the old man’s threadbare garments gave no comfort against the cold. He shivered in the gale, his lips were bitter blue, and his fingers were so numb he could scarcely pick up his twigs.
    â€œA good greeting, friend,” called Fflewddur. “Brisk weather may be good for the blood, but it seems to me you’re ill-garbed for a day like this.”
    â€œNo warmer clothing do I have,” replied the old man. “Would that I did, for I’m frozen to the marrow of my bones.”
    â€œThen take my cloak,” urged Fflewddur, doffing his garment and wrapping it about the old man’s shoulders.
    â€œMy thanks to you,” said the old man, wistfully fondling the cloak. “But I cannot take what you yourself need.”
    â€œNeed?” exclaimed Fflewddur. “Not at all,” he added, though his own lips had begun turning blue and his nose felt as if it had grown icicles. “Take it and welcome. For the truth of the matter is, I find the day uncomfortably hot!”

    No sooner had he spoken these words than the harp shuddered as if it were alive, bent like an overdrawn bow, and a string snapped in two with a loud twang.
    â€œDrat that string!” muttered Fflewddur. “The weather’s got into it