“That'll do capitally,” I said; “and then—what kind of flowers does Sylvie like best?”
Bruno had to put his thumb in his mouth and consider a little before he could answer. “Violets,” he said, at last.
“There's a beautiful bed of violets down by the brook—”
“Oh, let's fetch 'em!” cried Bruno, giving a little skip into the air. “Here! Catch hold of my hand, and I'll help oo along. The grass is rather thick down that way.”
I couldn't help laughing at his having so entirely forgotten what a big creature he was talking to. “No, not yet, Bruno,” I said: “we must consider what's the right thing to do first. You see we've got quite a business before us.”
“Yes, let's consider,” said Bruno, putting his thumb into his mouth again, and sitting down upon a dead mouse.
“What do you keep that mouse for?” I said. “You should either bury it, or else throw it into the brook.”
“Why, it's to measure with!” cried Bruno. “How ever would oo do a garden without one? We make each bed three mouses and a half long, and two mouses wide.”
I stopped him, as he was dragging it off by the tail to show me how it was used, for I was half afraid the 'eerie' feeling might go off before we had finished the garden, and in that case I should see no more of him or Sylvie. “I think the best way will be for you to weed the beds, while I sort out these pebbles, ready to mark the walks with.”
“That's it!” cried Bruno. “And I'll tell oo about the caterpillars while we work.”