It was a mild day in November, and the purple haze in the atmosphere proved that it was Indian summer. There was a delicious smell of autumn in the air, and the smoke of burning brush was borne to them from the distance. One could hear sounds that seemed to come from far away, and in the pasture which lay to the right of the pine grove, a vast number of crows had alighted. Presently, having finished their conference, they rose with one accord and soared far above the tops of the tallest pine trees, cawing to one another as they went. Peter glanced up at them.
“I wish I were a crow,” said he.
Sophy gave a little sigh of relief. He had spoken; he was coming out of his mood.
“Why?” she asked, with alacrity.
“Oh, because—” And then he stopped. Sophy sighed again, this time with disappointment. He was not going to tell her! Presently, he again broke the silence.
“I wish I were anything,” said he; “anything but what I am.”
“Do you wish you were a girl?” asked his little sister.
“No!” exclaimed Peter; “of course not a girl! But anything else. A bird, a beetle, a squirrel. Something alive.”
This was difficult philosophy for Sophy to comprehend. Would the life of a beetle, or even of a bird, be preferable to that of a girl? And was not a girl “alive”? She was about to inquire further, when her brother spoke again.
“I’m tired of it,” said he. “Just tired of it! I’m not going to stand it any longer. I’m going to run away to sea. But if I disappear, Sophy, don’t you tell them where I’ve gone. Don’t tell the girls that I ever said anything about running away to sea; now mind!”