"Surely it is," said Mrs. Harding. "Why childie, haven't you ever seen a turkey, either?"
"No I didn't ever," said Peaches. "Can turkey birds sing?"
Just then the gobbler stuck forward his head and sang: "Gehobble, hobble, hobble!" Peaches gripped Peter's hair and started to ascend him again. Mrs. Harding waved her apron; the turkey suddenly reduced its size three-fourths, skipped aside, and a neat, trim bird, high stepping and dainty, walked through the orchard. Peaches collapsed in Peter's arms in open-mouthed wonder. "Gosh! How did it cave in like that?" she cried.
Peter's shoulders were shaking, but he answered gravely: "Well that's a way it has of puffing itself up and making a great big pretense that it is going to flop us, and then if just little Bobbie or Ma waves an apron or a stick it gets out of the way in a hurry."
"I've seen Multiopolis millyingaires cave in like that sometimes when I waved a morning paper with an inch-high headline about them," commented Mickey.
Peter Harding glanced at his wife, then they laughed together. Peter stepped over a snake fence, went carefully down a hill, crossed the meadow to the shade of a tree, sat on the bank of the brook and watched Peaches as she studied first the clear babbling water, then the grass trailing in the stream, the bushes, trees, and then the water again.
"Mickey, come here!" she commanded. "Put your head right down beside mine. Now look just the way I do, an' tell me what you see."
"I see running water, grassy banks, trees, the birds, the sky and the clouds—the water shows what's above it like a mirror, Lily."
Peaches pointed. Mickey watched intently.
"Sure!" he cried. "Little fish with red speckles on them. Shall I catch you one to see?"