“I sent a bunch of buds to a sick girl, this morning,” said the rose-bush with a blush.
“I think we shall have no lack of foreign missions,” remarked Bachelor.
“But what can we do?” asked an old gray squirrel. “We can’t preach, nor teach. We can run errands and carry messages, but that isn’t much.”
“You might be on the commissary department,” said the wind.
“What’s that?” they all asked.
“Things to eat. We shall need a great many, and you could all lay in a stock of nuts, enough to last all summer, for a great many.”
“Why, surely!” they cried, and all that fall such a hurrying and scurrying from bough to bough there was as never was seen before. They worked very hard, storing up nuts, and the people came near not getting any at all.
It must have been about a week from the time they sent their letter to Old Ocean, that one afternoon as they were assembled, waiting for the decision of a certain little committee, which had been sent over behind a stone to decide who should be the leader of the choir, that up the stream came a weary little fish.