"And then you can tell the audience that the trained bird is going to ride on the monkey's back," cried Polly.
"Oh, hooray!" shouted Joel, prancing off to hop with David down the path and over the grass.
"And then when you've got through showing him off, David must sing a little song to show he is a bird. This way," and Polly threw back her head and twittered twee-dee-ed, and chee-chee-ed, and trilled in a way she had, till the boys looked up in the branches of the old scraggy apple tree to see if there really was any little bird there.
"That's fine!" cried Joel, clapping his hands and drawing a long breath.
"Oh, I never can do it so nice as Polly," said David, in despair, growing quite sober.
"Polly," cried Joel, suddenly, "couldn't you stay behind the bushes and sing? and folks will think it's Dave,--the bird--I mean."
"Why, yes, Joel, if Davie doesn't want to sing," said Polly; "but he's the bird, you know, so it must be as he wants."
"But he can't sing good, you know," said Joel, impatiently.
"I'd rather you'd sing the bird, Polly," said little David, "'cause I can't do it good like you; and I'll be the bird." And he repressed the sigh he felt like giving.
"Then I will, gladly," said Polly, who loved dearly to sing.