Mary. And he can sing sweeter than a nightingale.
Arthur. I’d be a lark; for he goes up the highest.
Fred. He has a low enough place to start from.
Caroline. I know it,—’way down on the ground, ’mongst the grass.
Debbie. No matter what a low place he starts from, so long as he gets up high at last. Don’t you know Lincoln?
Joe. I know what I would be,—some kind of a water-fowl: then I could go to sea.
Johnny. You’d better be a coot.
Fred. Or one of Mother Carey’s chickens.
Joe. No. I’d be that great strong bird, I forget his name, that flies and flies over the great ocean, and never stops to rest, through storms and darkness right ahead. He doesn’t have to take in sail, or cut away the masts. I’d be an albatross!—Guss, what do you think about it?
Guss. Well, I think I’ll be an ostrich: then I can run and fly both together.