Whose only talk was a pleasant purr.
The grandmother hummed the same tune, but in tones too low to drown the voice of her darling. Looking round on the broad panorama of hills, meadows, and cornfields, dotted with farm-houses, her soul was filled with the spirit of summer, and she began to sing, in tones wonderfully clear and strong for her years,
“Among the trees, when humming-bees
At buds and flowers were hanging,”
when Robin scrambled up the hill, calling out, “Sing something funny, Granny! Sing that song about me!” He made a motion to scatter Jenny’s mosses with his foot; but his grandmother said, “If you want me to sing to you, you must keep quiet.” He stretched himself full length before her, and throwing his feet up, gazed in her face while she sang:
“Robin was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’ rovin’, rantin’ rovin’;
Robin was a rovin’ boy,
Rantin’ rovin’ Robin.
“He’ll have misfortunes great and sma’