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. 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. If I couldn't be an eagle, or a hawk, or a wild goose, or
one of those big-horned owls that we hear every night, or a
humming-bird, then I'd rather be a crow than most. A crow has got
enemies, of course, but then he's got brains, so that he knows how to
make a fool of most of his enemies. And he certainly does manage to
get a lot of fun out of life, taking it all in all, except when the owl
comes gliding around his roosting places in the black nights, or an
extra bitter midwinter frost catches him after a rainy thaw."

He paused and drew hard on his pipe, with that far-away look in his
eyes which the Babe had learned to regard as the forerunner to a story.
There were some interesting questions to ask, of course; but though
bursting with curiosity as to why anyone should find it better to be a
wild goose, or even a hummingbird, than a crow, the Babe s