“Go if you like,” said his father, “but I warn you, you won’t enjoy it. The first thing you know, you’ll be stumbling into the men’s country. And then you’ll be glad enough to come back again. Why, the last time I was there, you could hardly step in some places without stubbing your toe against one of their houses.”
“And I’ve heard,” put in his mother, “that it’s getting more crowded all the time.”
“There’s nothing so annoying,” went on his father, “as to be there with all those little creatures scampering about at your feet, and not one of them speaking to you or so much as seeing you.”
“But why can’t they see us?” cried Benevaldo. “We’re big enough, I hope.”
His father did not answer. A hurt look came into his great eyes, and he bent soberly over his walruses.
“Hush, Benny!” chided his mother. “Don’t you know they can’t see us because they don’t believe in us any more?”
“Never mind!” cried Benevaldo cheerfully. “I think I’d like to see them!”
“Why, Benny,” said his mother in despair, “whatever put that into your head?”
“I don’t know,” smiled Benevaldo. “The spring, I guess.”