"I don't," said Tod, "and I'll tell you why. I've just found out something that I've been looking for very nearly all my life."
He lit his pipe and leaned forward, with the fire shining in his eyes. The days were so short now that the dusk had already come, and the firelight cast strange shadows over the little quarry. The boys drew closer to him, and he took from his waistcoat pocket a small box, with a pinch of red powder in it.
"For twenty years," he said, "I've been trying to make this powder; and at last I've succeeded—just in time."
They bent over his hand and examined the powder. It was as light as thistle-down, and smelt like cloves.
"Now look," he said.
He threw some on the fire. But the boys could see nothing except the crumbling leaves.
Tod laughed.
"Look a little higher," he said; and then, in the smoke, they suddenly saw a bird hovering, and then another bird and another, and a couple of nests hanging faintly in the air.
"Now listen," said Tod; and above the whisper of the flames they could hear the soft sharpening of tiny beaks, and the sound of wings, and the ghosts of cheepings and chirpings, as if they had been hundreds of miles away. Then they faded, and Tod leaned back, looking triumphantly at the two boys.