"Hark!" Honoria reined up.

"Isn't that the cuckoo ?" Taffy listened.

Yes, somewhere among the hillocks seaward its note was dinning.
"Count!" "Cuckoo, cherry-tree, Be a good bird and tell to me How many years before I die ?" "Ninety-six!" Taffy announced.
"Ninety-two," said Honoria, "but we won't quarrel about it.
Happy month to you!" "Eh ?" "It is the first of May.

Come along; perhaps we shall meet the Mayers, though we're too late, I expect.

Hullo! there's a miner-- let's ask him." The miner came upon them suddenly--footsteps make no sound among the towans; a young man in a suit stained orange-tawny, with a tallow candle stuck with a lump of clay in the brim of his hat, and a striped tulip stuck in another lump of clay at the back and nodding.
"Good-morning, miss.