“Why, yes; he went away every winter, so that the frost wouldn’t bite him.”
“Oh! Uncle Garnaud, he didn’t, did he?”
“Yes, true, he did.”
The little girl was silent for a while; when the old man looked at her the tears were in her eyes.
“Why, my pretty, what’s the matter?”
“Oh, I was just thinking that why he didn’t sing was because he only saw you and me, and the road, and our trees, when he used to have everything.”
“Well,” said the old man, stopping his work, “he might have everything again, you know.”
“Might he?” she asked, doubtfully.
“Why, we might let him fly away.”
The bird dropped a clear note or two.