“Then, what do you eat for breakfast?” asked Buddie.
“Usually cracked wheat or rolled oats or some other kind of bird-seed—when I can get it. Then, I’m very fond of cherries and other small fruits. That’s why most birds make their homes in a farming country, where there is plenty of the right sort of breakfast food. I live some way south of here, in a wheat country, where I can have cracked wheat every morning; but once a year I take a trip into the pine woods for the benefit of my lungs. It’s no place for a small bird to live, though it does very well for a health trip. But you said you were going up to the Corner. If you wish, I’ll show you the way.”
“Thank you ever so much,” said Buddie. “I’ll count the trees, and you must tell me when I make mistakes. And now,”—jumping up—“which way do we go first?”
“Straight ahead,” said Snowfeathers, again perching on her shoulder. And the two set out for the Corner.
The first turn was reached without mistake, as there were only five trees to count, and there was no doubt that all of them were alive.
“Now, ten to the right,” said the White Blackbird.
But Buddie got no farther. The sound of music came to her ears, and she stopped to listen. The music was faint and sweet, with the sighful quality of an Æolian harp. Now it seemed near, now far.
“What can it be?” said Buddie.
“Wait here and I’ll find out,” said Snowfeathers. He darted away and returned before you could count fifty.