big, hard, unwavering circles.

"You're a funny little bird," said she. "Say something!"

Like his congener of the hortatory poem, the owl held his peace.

"Perhaps you're a stuffed little bird," said Io, "and this not a real
desert at all, but a National Park or something, full of educational
specimens."

She walked past the occupant of the cactus, and his head, turning,
followed her with the slow, methodical movement of a toy mechanism.

"You give me a crick in my neck," protested the intruder plaintively.
"Now, I'll step over behind you and you'll _have_ to move or stop
watching me."

She walked behind the watcher. The eyes continued to hold her in direct
range.

"Now," said Io, "I know where the idea for that horrid advertisement
that always follows you with its finger came from. However, I'll fix
you."

She fetched a deliberate circle. The bird's eyes followed her without
cessation. Yet his feet and body remained motionless. Only the head had
turned. That had made a complete revolution.

"This is a very queer desert," gasped Io. "It's bewitched. Or am I? Now,
I'm going to walk once more around you, little owl, or mighty magician,