seemed now--and he talked with the flower and the woodpecker; and the
yellow-bird came, too, and they all talked of the little boy. And at that
very moment the old woodchuck reared his hoary head by the hole in the
pasture, and he looked this way and that and wondered why the little boy
never came any more.

"Suppose," said Fido to the yellow-bird,--"suppose you fly to the window
'way up there and see what the little boy is doing. Sing him one of your
pretty songs, and tell him we are lonesome without him; that we are
waiting for him in the old fence-corner."

Then the yellow-bird did as Fido asked,--she flew to the window where they
had once seen the little boy, and alighting upon the sill, she peered into
the room. In another moment she was back on the bush at Fido's side.

"He is asleep," said the yellow-bird.

"Asleep!" cried Fido.

"Yes," said the yellow-bird, "he is fast asleep. I think he must be
dreaming a beautiful dream, for I could see a smile on his face, and his
little hands were folded on his bosom. There were flowers all about him,
and but for their sweet voices the chamber would have been very still."

"Come, let us wake him," said Fido; "let us all call to him at once. Then
perhaps he will hear us and awaken and answer; perhaps he will come."

So they all called in chorus,--Fido and the other honest friends. They
called so loudly that the still air of that autumn morning was strangely
startled, and the old woodchuck in the pasture 'way off yonder heard the