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 ques-
