"That's what the robin said," chuckled Fred. "Know what my sister, Betty, said yesterday morning? You know it rained the night before and the robins were picking up worms on the lawn right early—before breakfast.
"Bet was at the window and one fat robin picked up a worm, swallowed it, and flew right up into a tree where he began to sing like sixty! Bet says:
"'Oh! that robin gives me the squirms; how can he sing that way when he's all full of those crawly things?'"
"Now hush!" ordered Bobby, the next moment. "I'm going to drop this nice fellow right down beside that stump and see if I can coax Mr. Trout up."
But Mr. Trout did not appear. Bobby, with exemplary patience, tried it again and again. He changed his bait and dropped a fresh worm into the brown, cloudy water where he believed the trout lay.
"You're not fishing," chuckled Fred, from his station on the rock, a few yards away. "You're just drowning worms."
"Huh!" returned Bobby. "I don't see any medals on you. You haven't caught anything."
"But I'm going to!" whispered Fred, swiftly, and holding his pole with sudden attention.
Then, with a nervous jerk, he flung up the pole. Hook and sinker came with it, and a tiny, wriggling, silver fish, about a finger long, shot into the air. But Fred had not been careful to select his stand, and he drove his line and fish up among the branches of a tree.
"Now you've done it—and likely scared my trout," exclaimed Bobby.