"Then stay," she pouted. And away she ran.
I looked on at Vogel and his work, one foot preparing to go, the other foot holding me.
"There is an old woman who lives in the wood," said Vogel, as he cut at the stick, "and she makes whistles."
"Does she?" I replied.
"She does," said Vogel. "She makes them of silver, and of glass, and of gold, and when you blow on them they go——"
A strange warbling sound filled the wood. It was Vogel showing how the whistles of the old woman sounded when you blew into them.
He had put a bird-call—the thing foresters use for snaring birds—between his lips. He removed it again with a laugh, and went on with his work.
"She lives in a house made of gingerbread," went on the fowler. "And know you what the panes of her windows are made of?"
"No."