asked, "Has Pete a mother, too?"

The youth nodded toward the big pine that grew to one side of the
group, and, lowering his voice, replied, "That's Pete's mother."

Mr. Howitt pointed to the grave; "You mean she sleeps there?"

"No, no, not there; there!" He pointed up to the big tree, itself.
"She never sleeps; don't you hear her?" He paused. The wind moaned
through the branches of the pine. Drawing closer to the stranger's
side, the boy whispered, "She always talks that a way; always, and
it makes Pete feel bad. She wants somebody. Hear her callin',
callin', callin'? He'll sure come some day, Mister; he sure will.
Say, do you know where he is?"

The stranger, startled, drew back; "No, no, my boy, certainly not;
what do you mean; who are you?"

Like the moaning of the pines came the reply, "Nothin', Mister,
nobody can't mean nothin', can they? I'm jest nobody. But Pete
lives in here; ask Pete."

"Is Pete watching the sheep?" asked Mr. Howitt, anxious to divert
the boy's mind to other channels.

"Yes, we're a tendin' 'em now; but they can't trust us, you know;
when they call Pete, he just goes, and course I've got to go
'long."

"Who is it calls Pete?"