"Well, no, sonny, I can't really say I do," he retorted. "I ain't
much on singin'."

"Oh, but I don't mean aloud. I mean inside. When you're happy,
you know."

"When I'm--oh!" The man stopped and stared, his mouth falling
open. Suddenly his face changed, and he grinned appreciatively.
"Well, if you ain't the beat 'em, boy! 'T is kinder like
singin'--the way ye feel inside, when yer 'specially happy, ain't
it? But I never thought of it before."

"Oh, yes. Why, that's where I get my songs--inside of me, you
know--that I play on my violin. And I made a crow sing, too. Only
HE sang outside."

"SING--A CROW!" scoffed the man." Shucks! It'll take more 'n you
ter make me think a crow can sing, my lad."

"But they do, when they're happy," maintained the boy. "Anyhow,
it doesn't sound the same as it does when they're cross, or
plagued over something. You ought to have heard this one to-day.
He sang. He was so glad to get away. I let him loose, you see."

"You mean, you CAUGHT a crow up there in them woods?" The man's
voice was skeptical.

"Oh, no, I didn't catch it. But somebody had, and tied him up.
And he was so unhappy!"