'What are you talking about?' said Rollo, sitting up, and in his turn rubbing his eyes. 'Where have "who" gone to?'
'The birds, of course,' replied Maia. 'You can't be so stupid, Rollo, as not to have seen them.'
'I've been asleep,' said the poor boy, looking rather ashamed of himself. 'What birds were they? Did you see them? I have a queer sort of feeling,' and he hesitated, looking at Maia as if she could explain it, 'as if I had dreamt something about them—as if I heard some sort of music through my sleep. What did you see, Maia? do tell me.'
Maia described it all to him, and he listened with the greatest interest. But at the end he made an observation which roused her indignation.
'I believe you were dreaming too,' he said. 'Nobody ever heard of birds speaking like that.'
'And yet you say you heard something of it through your sleep? Is it likely we both dreamt the same thing all of ourselves?'
'But I didn't dream that birds were talking,' objected Rollo. 'They can't talk.'
Maia glanced at him with supreme contempt.
'Can squirrels talk?' she said. 'Would anybody believe all the things we have seen and done since we have been in this Christmas-tree land? Think of our drives in godmother's carriage; think of our finding our way through a tree's trunk; think of godmother herself, with her wonderful ways and her beautiful dress, and yet that she can look like a poor old woman! Would anybody believe all that, do you think? And we know it's all true; and yet you can't believe birds can talk! Oh, you are too stupid.'