"Quite right, Curly," sighed Ruth. "Go ahead. Make us laugh. I feel like crying."
"Then you can cry over it," retorted the boy. "There was a butcher who had a stuffed owl in his shop and an old Irishman came in and asked him: 'How mooch for the broad-faced bur-r-rd?'
"'It's an owl,' said the butcher.
"The old man repeated his question—'how mooch for the broad-faced bur-r-rd?'
"'It's an owl, I tell you!' exclaimed the butcher.
"'I know it's ould,' says the Irishman. 'But what d'ye want for it? It'll make soup for me boar-r-rders!'"
"That's a good story," admitted Ruth, "but try to think up some way of finding poor little Amy, instead of telling funny tales."
"Oh, how can I help——"
Curly stopped. Ann, who was sitting in the middle, grabbed both him and Ruth. "Listen to that!" she whispered. "That isn't another owl, is it?"
"What is it?" gasped Ruth.