"We'll rest here a while and maybe the bunny will come out to meet us,"
Dr. Fenneben said, and they sat down on the broad stone.

"It was somewhere here the bunny runned." Little Bug studied the roadside
with a quaint puzzled face. "Is you 'faid of snakes?"

"Not very much." The Dean's eyes were on the graceful flight
of pigeons circling about the trees beyond the bend.

"Vic isn't 'faid. He killed bid one, two, five, free wattle, wattle snakes--"
Bug caught his breath suddenly--"He told me not to tell that. I fordot.
I don't 'member. He didn't do it--he didn't killed no snakes fornever."

Dr. Fenneben gave little heed to this prattle. His eyes were
on the pigeons cleaving the air with short, graceful flights.
Presently he felt the soft touch of baby curls against his hand,
and little Bug had fallen asleep with his drooping head
on Fenneben's lap.

The Dean gently placed the tired little one in an easy position,
and rested his shoulder against the tree.

"That must be Pigeon Place," he mused. "Every town has its
odd characters. This is one of Lagonda Ledge's little mysteries.
Dennie finds it a pathetic one. How graceful those pigeons are!"
And his thoughts drifted to a far New England homestead where pigeons
used to sweep about an old barn roof.

A fuzzy gray rabbit flashed across the road, followed by a Great Dane