"I'm right enough you see—there's nothing of that sort the matter with me."
The horse shifted from leg to leg; a branch cracked somewhere; some earth plumped into the stream, introducing some fresh notes into its quiet melody; then from somewhither two little birds started up and flew along the gully, screeching uneasily. Hopeful followed them with his eyes and remarked quietly:
"What birds are those? If they are starlings they have no business in this forest. They are mostly around dwelling-places. I suppose they are silk-tails[2] ... lots of 'em about."
"They may be cross-bills."[3]
[2] Bombycilla garrula.
[3] Loxia curvirostra.
"It's too early for cross-bills, and besides, what does a cross-bill want in a fir-wood? It has no business there. They can only be silk-tails."
"All right—drop 'em."
"Oh certainly!" agreed Hopeful, and he sighed heavily for some reason or other.
The work in the hands of Jig-Leg progressed rapidly, he had already woven the bottom of the basket, and was skilfully making the sides. He cut the osiers with his knife, bit them through with his teeth, bent and twined them, and snorted from time to time whenever he gave a tug at his bristling moustaches.