“Well, I guess maybe he doesn’t, except in fairy stories,” said Ted.
“What makes crows caw?” was Trouble’s next question.
“That’s the way they talk.”
“Oh, does crows talk?” eagerly cried Trouble. He listened a moment. Over the trees floated a cry of:
“Caw! Caw! Caw!”
“What’s him crow sayin’?” he demanded.
“Oh, I don’t know!” Ted had to confess. “You ask too many questions, Trouble! I can’t answer half of ’em. Crows must talk among themselves same’s dogs talk when they rub noses and wag their tails. Now there’s your whistle. Blow on it and then you can’t ask so many questions.”
He shut his knife and put it in his pocket, while Trouble put the blowing end of the whistle in his lips. It gave forth a shrill, clear sound.
“’At’s a fine whistle!” Trouble said. “Thanks you, Ted.”
“All right, boysie! I’m glad you like it. That’s it—toot away!”