The Owl paid no heed to this interruption, but lectured on, and having talked for about ten minutes or so with no applause, withdrew to a further corner of the barn and fell asleep.
When she had gone, the Japanese birds began murmuring softly to each other. The Robin brought his head from under his wing with a start.
"What's that you said?" he inquired.
"In our country," began the elder Japanese bird, with a slightly foreign accent, but in otherwise perfect English, "we look on snowflakes as the whirling mantles of the dancing moon maidens; and when the trees and mountain-peaks are seen covered with snow in the morning, we say the moon maidens have left their mantles hanging up or spread out to dry."
"Charming idea, and most romantic," piped the Robin. "I am not romantic myself, and I must say that the Mother Goose idea strongly appeals to my practical nature. Still, there may be something in what you say."
"An absolutely too sweet notion. Fancy a foreigner thinking of it," chirped the Sparrow.
"Have you ever seen a Moon Maiden?" continued the Robin, without heeding the Sparrow's rude interruption.
"No, they are invisible now," said the Japanese bird; "but my great-grandfather told my father a story about one of them once. We always tell it to each other in snow time. It keeps us warm and makes us think of home."
The other Japanese bird piped a few sad notes, which, as the Robin said, "stirred his nature to the very depths!"
"Would it be asking too much for you to tell us the story too?" he said. "I hope it is something cheerful, though; the roast beef and plum-pudding type of story is what appeals to me."