"That's right," he admitted.
The child listened to the lugubrious canine wails for a moment; then she said thoughtfully: "I feel kind of sorry for this poor dog, though. He sounds as if he wanted the moon just dreadf'ly."
"Um . . . yes . . . I presume likely he thinks he does. But he'll feel better about it by and by. He'll realize that, same as you say, the moon wasn't made for a dog. Just as soon as he comes to that conclusion, he'll be a whole lot better dog. . . . Yes, and a happier one, too," he added, slowly.
Barbara did not speak at once and Jed began to whistle a doleful melody. Then the former declared, with emphasis: "I think SOME dogs are awf'ly nice."
"Um? . . . What? . . . Oh, you do, eh?"
She snuggled close to him on the bench.
"I think you're awf'ly nice, too, Uncle Jed," she confided.
Jed looked down at her over his spectacles.
"Sho! . . . Bow, wow!" he observed.
Babbie burst out laughing. Ruth turned and came toward them over the dew-sprinkled grass.