“What corner?” Buddie called after him. “What corner? What Corner?”
But only an echo came back; and not, oddly enough, an echo of her own words, but something that sounded like
“His no-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ose—
Wabble his nose—
Why does he wabble his nose?”
And, like everything else in this queer wood, the echo was upside down. That is to say, it began faintly and grew clearer, clearer, clearer, until the wood rang with it.
It seemed to come from somewhere overhead, and Buddie looked up. As she did so, the interlacing tree-tops melted away, and the patches of sky ran together and became one big sheet of blue. Gradually she lowered her eyes, and—
There she was back in Beavertown, in the meadow bordering the little river. And there was the Laziest Beaver, lying in the sun and fanning himself with his tail. And there was the Yellow Dog, just finishing the chorus of his song, Nobody Knows.
Now wouldn’t that surprise you, Little One?