CHAPTER II.
THE BLACK IMPS OF PINE-TOP "I think I'd _like_ to be a bird," murmured the Babe, wistfully gazing up at the dark green, feathery top of the great pine, certain of whose branches were tossing and waving excitedly against the blue, although there was not a breath of wind to ruffle the expanse of Silverwater.
"I _think_ I'd like it--rather." He added the qualification as a prudent after-thought, lest Uncle Andy should think him foolish.
"In _summer_!" suggested Uncle Andy, following the Babe's eyes toward the agitated pine-top.
"Of _course_ in summer!" corrected the Babe hastily.

"It must be awful to be a bird in winter!" And he shuddered.
"You'd better not say 'of course' in that confident way," said Uncle Andy rather severely.

"You know so many of the birds go away south in the winter; and they manage to have a pretty jolly time of it, I should think." For a moment the Babe looked abashed.

Then his face brightened.
"But then, it _is_ summer, for _them_, isn't it ?" said he sweetly.
Uncle Andy gave him a suspicious look, to see if he realized the success of his retort.

"Had me there!" he thought to himself.