“(#11: Siegfried stretches out comfortably beneath the lime-tree and watches Mime go.)
Siegfried: (#11/#2 Pattern) That he is not my father – how happy I feel at that! Only now do the fresh woods delight me; only now does the day smile upon me in gladness now that the loathsome dwarf has left me and I’ll nevermore see him again.
(He falls into a silent reverie: #Forest Murmurs; #11 [it develops now independently of the #2-based framework])
Siegfried: What must my father have looked like? Ha! – of course, like me! (#41?) If any son of Mime’s existed, (#41) must he not look just like Mime? (#7/#41) Just as filthy, fearful and wan, short and misshapen, hunchbacked and halting, with drooping ears and rheumy eyes – away with the elf! I don’t care to see him anymore!
(He leans further back and looks up through the treetops. Deep Silence. Forest Murmurs: #11/#2 Definitive; #66)
Siegfried: But – what must my mother have looked like? That I cannot conceive of at all! – (#66 >>; #106 Hint?) Like those of the roe-deer, her bright-shining eyes must surely have glistened – only far fairer! (#66; #89?) When, in her dismay, she gave me birth, why did she have to die then? Do all mortal mothers perish because of their sons? (#37?) Sad that would be, in truth! (#106; #40?) Ah, might I, her son, (#66) see my mother! (#40) My mother, (#66) a mortal woman!
(#38>>; #24/#11: He sighs deeply and leans further back. Deep silence. The forest murmurs increase. Siegfried’s attention is finally caught by the sound of the forest birds. [[ #128ab ]]: He listens with growing interest to a Woodbird in the branches above him: [[ #129ab ]]
Siegfried: (#11>>) You lovely Woodbird! I’ve never heard you before: is the forest here your home? Could I only make sense of his sweet-sounding babble! He must be telling me something – perhaps about my dear mother? [[ #128b ]] A querulous dwarf explained to me once that in time one could come to unriddle the babbling of little birds: but how could that be possible? Hey! I’ll try and copy him: I’ll sound like him on a reed! If I do without words and attend to the tune, (#98?) I’ll sing his language in that way and no doubt grasp what he’s saying.
(#57 Vari [as Birdcall]; #98; [[ #129b ]]/#11: He runs over to the nearby spring, cuts a reed with his sword and rapidly whittles a pipe from it. As he does so, he listens again. (#128 Fragments?; #129?)
Siegfried: He stops and listens: - I’ll chatter away then. (He blows into the pipe: #129a Vari [off-key]/#11: He removes it from his lips and whittles it down further
