had flown on to one of its branches and had burst
out into a scrap of a song. Ben Weatherstaff
laughed outright.

"What did he do that for?" asked Mary.

"He's made up his mind to make friends with
thee," replied Ben. "Dang me if he hasn't took
a fancy to thee."

"To me?" said Mary, and she moved toward
the little tree softly and looked up.

"Would you make friends with me?" she said
to the robin just as if she was speaking to a person.
"Would you?" And she did not say it either in
her hard little voice or in her imperious Indian
voice, but in a tone so soft and eager and coaxing
that Ben Weatherstaff was as surprised as she had
been when she heard him whistle.

"Why," he cried out, "tha' said that as nice
an' human as if tha' was a real child instead of a
sharp old woman. Tha' said it almost like Dickon
talks to his wild things on th' moor."

"Do you know Dickon?" Mary asked, turning
round rather in a hurry.

"Everybody knows him. Dickon's wanderin'
about everywhere. Th' very blackberries an'
heather-bells knows him. I warrant th' foxes
shows him where their cubs lies an' th' skylarks
doesn't hide their nests from him."

Mary would have liked to ask some more

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v?