“I should like to be a bird,” said Fin, placing one foot on an excrescence of a stumpy pollard oak, and, making a jump, she caught hold of a low bough.
“But not now,” cried Tiny. “What are you going to do?”
“Going to do?” laughed Fin. “Why, climb this tree;” and she got a step higher.
“Oh, Fin, how foolish! Whatever for? Suppose some one came by?”
“Nobody comes along here at this time of the day, my dear; so here goes, and if I fall pick up my pieces, and carry them safely home to dear Aunt Matty. ‘And the dicky-bird sang in the tree,’” she trilled out, as step by step she drew herself up into the crown of the stumpy, gnarled pollard.
“Oh, Fin!” exclaimed her sister.
“Its all right, Miss Timidity. I’m safe, and I came on purpose,” cried Fin, from up in her perch, her face glowing, and eyes sparkling with merriment.
“But what are you trying to do?”
“To get some of this, sweet innocent. You can’t see, I suppose, what it is?”
“No, indeed, I cannot,” said Tiny—“yes, I can. Why, it’s mistletoe.”