He was silent.
"What's the matter? What do you see?" She was never long silent. He was
searching for a word.
"It's solemn. I like it." He moved forward and patted the huge hole with
a feeling of reverence and affection. "I wish he could speak to us. How
are you, old fellow?"
Leila watched him. As yet she had no least comprehension of this sense of
being kindred to nature. It is rare in youth. As he spoke, a little
breeze stirred the old fellow's topmost crest and a light downfall of
snow fell on the pair. Leila laughed, but the boy cried, "There! he has
answered. We are friends."
"Now, if that isn't Uncle Jim all over. He just does make me laugh."
John shook off the snow. "Let's go home," he said. He Was warm and red
with the exercise, and in high good-humour over his success. "Did you
never read a poem called 'The Talking Oak'? I had a tutor used to read it
to me."
"Now, the idea of a tree talking!" she said. "No, I never heard of it.
Come along, we'll be late. That's funny about a tree talking. Can you
run?"
They ran, but not far, because deep snow makes running hard. It was after
dark when they tramped on to the back porch. John's experience taught him
to expect blame for being out late. No one asked a question or made a
remark. He was ignored, to his amazement.
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