"The wind was whispering among the trees," ("That wasn't good manners!" Bruno interrupted. "Never mind about manners," said Sylvie) "and it was eveninga nice moony evening, and the Owls were hooting"
"Pretend they weren't Owls!" Bruno pleaded, stroking her cheek with his fat little hand. "I don't like Owls. Owls have such great big eyes. Pretend they were Chickens!"
"Are you afraid of their great big eyes, Bruno?" I said.
"Aren't 'fraid of nothing," Bruno answered in as careless a tone as he could manage: "they're ugly with their great big eyes. I think if they cried, the tears would be as bigoh, as big as the moon!" And he laughed merrily. "Doos Owls cry ever. Mister Sir?"
"Owls cry never," I said gravely, trying to copy Bruno's way of speaking: "they've got nothing to be sorry for, you know."
"Oh, but they have!" Bruno exclaimed.
"They're ever so sorry, 'cause they killed the poor little Mouses!"
"But they're not sorry when they're hungry, I suppose?"
