"Oh no! We never hunt the ones without shells," Bruno said, with a
little shudder at the thought of it. "They're always so c'oss about it;
and then, if you tumble over them, they're ever so sticky!"

By this time we had nearly finished the garden. I had fetched some
violets, and Bruno was just helping me to put in the last, when he
suddenly stopped and said, "I'm tired."

"Rest, then," I said; "I can go on without you."

Bruno needed no second invitation: he at once began arranging the mouse
as a kind of sofa. "And I'll sing you a little song," he said as he
rolled it about.

"Do," said I: "there's nothing I should like better."

"Which song will you choose?" Bruno said, as he dragged the mouse into
a place where he could get a good view of me. "'Ting, ting, ting,' is
the nicest."

There was no resisting such a strong hint as this: however, I pretended
to think about it for a moment, and then said, "Well, I like 'Ting,
ting, ting,' best of all."

"That shows you're a good judge of music," Bruno said, with a pleased
look. "How many bluebells would you like?" And he put his thumb into
his mouth to help me to consider.

As there was only one bluebell within easy reach, I said very gravely