together. The saw—it did n't stop—it went on sawing. Then I did have thinks the silver voice was calling to the soul of the big fir tree. The saw did stop. There was a stillness. There was a queer sad sound. The big tree did quiver. It did sway. It crashed to the earth.
Yesterday was the day of the funeral of Aristotle. He died of eating too many mosquitoes. Now I have not three pet bats. I only have two pet bats—Plato and Pliny. And they are like mice with angel wings. I have likes to watch Pliny scratch his head with his hind-foot, and he does use a part of his wonderful stretchy wing for a washcloth. I have lonesome feels about Aristotle being gone. I go now goes to the garden to get turnips for supper.
I did. And I give to them washes in the brook. When I did take them in to put them on the cook-table, the mamma and the grandma was talking about the garden. The mamma did wonder where that third cabbage-head was gone. I did n't. I know. It is up the brook a ways dabbling its toes in the water. I dug it up this morning and put it there. To-night I shall plant it again in the garden. It will have had a glad day dabbling its toes in the brook. That does give one such a nice feel.
I have been sitting on a high stump looking looks to where is the road. Now the sun shines yellow and many flowers bloom yellow along the road.
