She understood so well, I was
sorry I couldn't give it to her. It made her mouth water all right,
for she drew a deep breath that sort of quivered; but it was no use,
she didn't get that pie.

"I think it looks delicious," she said. "Are you carrying it for
Candace?"

"No! She gave it to me. It's my very own."

"And you're doing without it yourself to carry it to Laddie, I'll be
bound!" cried the Princess.

"I'd much rather," I said.

"Do you love Laddie so dearly?" she asked.

My heart was full of him right then; I forgot all about when I had the
fever, and as I never had been taught to lie, I told her what I thought
was the truth, and I guess it WAS: "Best of any one in all this world!"

The Princess looked across the field, where she must have seen him
finishing the plowing, and thought that over, and I waited, sure in my
mind, for some reason, that she would not go for a little while longer.

"I have been wanting to see you," she said at last. "In fact I think I
came this way hoping I'd meet you. Do you know the words to a tune
that goes like this?"

Then she began to whistle "The Merry Farmer Boy." I wish you might have
heard the flourishes she put to it.

"Of course I do," I answered. "All of us were brought up on it."

"Well, I have some slight curiosity to learn what they are," she said.
"Would you kindly repeat them for me?"

"Yes," I said. "This is the first verse:

"'See the merry farmer boy tramp the meadows through,
Swing his hoe in careless joy while dashing off the dew.
Bobolink in maple high----'

"Of course you can see for yourself that they're not. There isn't a
single one of them higher than a fence post. The person who wrote the
piece had to put it that way so high would rhyme with reply, which is
coming in the next line."

"I see!" said the Princess.

"'Bobolink in maple high, trills a note of glee
Farmer boy a gay reply now whistles cheerily.'

"Then you whistle the chorus like you did it."

"You do indeed!" said the Princess. "Proceed!"

"'Then the farmer boy at noon, rests beneath the shade,
Listening to the ceaseless tune that's thrilling through the glade.
Long and loud the harvest fly winds his bugle round,
Long, and loud, and shrill, and high, he whistles back the sound.'"

"He does! He does indeed! I haven't a doubt about that!" cried the
Princess. "'Long, and loud, and shrill, and high,' he whistles over
and over the sound, un