“There, Uncle Garnaud, I know he must mean something by that. What did he do all day before he was caught?”
“I don’t think he did any work. He just flew about and sang all day, and picked up seeds, and sang, and tried to balance himself on the wheat-ears.”
“He sang all day? Well, he doesn’t do that now.”
The bird seemed to recall a sunny field-corner, for his interlude was as light as thistledown, and after a pause he made two little sounds like the ringing of bells at Titania’s girdle.
“Perhaps he doesn’t like to be shut up and have nobody but us,” she said, after a moment.
“Well,” said the old man, hesitatingly, “we might let him go.”
“Yes,” faltered the child, “we might let him go.”
The next time little Blanche was there she said, “And he didn’t do anything but that, just sing and fly?”
“No, I think not.”
“Well, then, he could fly miles and miles, and never come back, if he didn’t want to?”