“I’m most sure I saw a little brown owl fly out of a hole in the ground last night, Mr. David,” he ventured, giving over the whistling after a time. “Do owls burrow in holes—like rabbits?”
“What strawberries, Joey?” I repeated perseveringly.
“Our strawberries—mine and yours. I put green salmon berry leaves in the basket. Jingles carried it so careful! Never spilled a berry.”
I stroked the shaggy head at my knee. “He’s a good old fuss pup. Aren’t you, Jingles?”
“That’s what she said, Mr. David. I sat on her porch a whole hour. She asked the most questions.” Joey reflected. “People always ask boys questions.”
“Do they, Joey?”
“Gracious—goodness! I should say so! She asked me what I was agoing to be when I grow up. I told her—” Joey came over to my knee and stroked the flute in my hand caressingly.
“What did you tell her, boy?”
“I told her,” he took his hand away and looked at me slyly, “I told her I was agoing to be a fixing man like you.”