wonderful stories to tell,--stories of marvellous adventures, of narrow
escapes, of battles with cruel dogs, and of thrilling experiences that
were altogether new to his wondering listeners. Meanwhile the red-headed
woodpecker's eggs in the hollow maple had hatched, and the proud mother
had great tales to tell of her baby birds,--of how beautiful and knowing
they were, and of what good, noble birds they were going to be when they
grew up. The yellow-bird, too, had four fuzzy little babies in her nest in
the lilac-bush, and every now and then she came to sing to the little boy
and Fido of her darlings. Then, when the little boy and Fido were tired
with play, they would sit in the rowen near the fence-corner and hear the
flower tell a story the dew had brought fresh from the stars the night
before. They all loved each other,--the little boy, Fido, the old
woodchuck, the redheaded woodpecker, the yellow-bird, and the
flower,--yes, all through the days of spring and all through the summer
time they loved each other in their own honest, sweet, simple way.

But one morning Fido sat on the front porch and wondered why the little
boy had not come to the fence-corner and called to him. The sun was high,
the men had been long gone to the harvest fields, and the heat of the
early autumn day had driven the birds to the thickest foliage of the
trees. Fido could not understand why the little boy did not come; he felt,
oh' so lonesome, and he yearned for the sound of a little voice calling
"Goggie, goggie, goggie."

The red-headed woodpecker could not explain it, nor could the yellow-bird.
Fido trotted leisurely down to the fence-corner and asked the flower if
she had seen the little boy that morning. But no, the flower had not laid
eyes on the little boy, and she could only shake her head doubtfully when
Fido asked her what it all meant. At last in desperation Fido braced
himself for an heroic solution of the mystery, and as loudly as ever he