But the Babe's face betrayed no sign of triumph, nothing but that eager appetite for information of which Uncle Andy so highly approved.
"So it depends on what kind of a bird, eh, what ?" said he, deftly turning the point.

Then he scratched a sputtering sulphur match on the long-suffering leg of his trousers.
"Yes," said the Babe, with more decision now.

"I'd like to be a crow." Uncle Andy smoked meditatively for several minutes before replying, till the Babe began to grow less confident as to the wisdom of his choice.

But as he gazed up at those green pine-tops, so clear against the blue, all astir with black wings and gay, excited _ca_-ings, he took courage again.

Certainly _those_ crows, at least, were enjoying themselves immensely.
And he had always had a longing to be able to play in the tops of the trees.
"Well," said Uncle Andy at last, "perhaps you're not so _very_ far off, this time.