The children chattered and laughed. They ran gaily to and fro in their happy play.
The people of the village heard their merry voices. Their busy mother paused with her long bone needle between her fingers. She looked up and smiled at her little ones.
"How happy my children are to-day!" she said, and she hummed a little tune to herself.
"They are very wise children!" said a neighbour. "They say so many wonderful things. Indeed, they seem to know more of some things than even the wise men of the village!"
"Yes, they are quite wonderful," said the mother. "I sometimes listen to their chatter and watch their nimble little fingers, and I wonder who taught them all they know."
"Oh," said another woman, "they do not seem so extraordinary to me. In fact, they look to me like little birds, flitting about in their dark dresses."
"They do look like birds!" said the mother, gazing at the children.
"I do believe they are birds," said the neighbour.
"But the voices are my children's voices," said the mother, looking again in wonder.
"And they are still building tiny clay houses on the cliffs!" said the other woman.