"Where else would he nest here?" Lou laughed. "But juncos are winter birds, I thought."
"Well, ain't this winter weather enough for you to-day?" said Art.
"The top of Washington is said to be about the climate of Labrador," Mr. Rogers put in. "That's why some juncos always spend the summer here instead of going farther north."
Lou was watching the pretty gray and white bird, as it hopped excitedly over the rocks, almost invisible sometimes against the bare gray granite, and in the whitish mist. "That junco is protectively colored on these rocks, all right," he said. "But gee, he looks kind of lonely way up here!"
"Lonely!" exclaimed Frank. "I must say, this whole place is the most desolate looking thing I ever saw—nothing but big hunks of granite piled every which way, and no sun and no sky and no earth below you. I feel kind of as if we were the only people in the whole world."
"So do I," said Peanut. "I like it, though! Way up in the clouds above everybody—not a sound but the win"
Just at that moment, seemingly from the gray cloud over their heads, rang out the call of a bugle!
Everybody stopped short, and exclaimed, "What's that?"
