"Are you tired, sister? If you are, I will carry you pick-a-back back."
"Oh, no, I am not one single bit tired."
"Then what makes you look so sober?"
"I was wishing that I could have one of those little birds to love, and to take care of always. I do think that it would make me very happy to have a dear little bird, that would know me, and turn his bright, black eyes up to me, like Mary Day's little canary. When she calls, "Billy, Billy," he turns his yellow head, first one side, then the other; and when he sees her, he sings so sweetly! Oh, couldn't you get just one of those little birdies for me, Frank?"
Frank looked very thoughtful for a moment, and Fanny spoke again.
"Just one; you know there are six little ones."
"I know there are six, Fanny; but you heard how the poor birds cried and scolded, when I only peeped into the nest; and if I took one away, what would they do?"
Fanny thought an instant, and then said:
"I did not have six mammas, I only had one; and God took my mamma away from me, and I am sure the birds could spare me one little one, when they have six, better than I could spare my mamma, when I only had one."
Fanny's reasoning seemed very correct to Frank; he was not old enough to explain the difference to her; so, promising to bring her one of the birds, he left her, and ran back, over the meadows, while Fanny kept on her way home, because she knew her grandmother always expected them earlier on Saturday afternoons. But though she made haste, it was quite sundown when she reached home. The snow white cloth was spread upon the table for tea, and Sally was cutting the fresh rye bread, as Fanny entered the room. Her grandmother sat by the little table, between the windows, and looked up to welcome Fanny, but missing Frank, she asked where he was.