“Wont it?” I said, innocently.  “Then, after that, suppose we put in some of these colored pebbles—­just to mark the divisions between the different kinds of flowers, you know.  That’ll have a very pretty effect.”

Bruno turned round and had another good stare at me.  At last there came an odd little twinkle in his eye, and he said, with quite a new meaning in his voice: 

“V’y well—­let’s put ’em in rows—­all the ’ed together, and all the blue together.”

“That’ll do capitally,” I said; “and then—­what kind of flowers does Sylvie like best in her garden?”

Bruno had to put his thumb in his mouth and consider a little before he could answer.  “Violets,” he said, at last.

“There’s a beautiful bed of violets down by the lake—­”

“Oh, let’s fetch ’em!” cried Bruno, giving a little skip into the air.  “Here!  Catch hold of my hand, and I’ll help you along.  The g’ass is rather thick down that way.”

I couldn’t help laughing at his having so entirely forgotten what a big creature he was talking to.

“No, not yet, Bruno,” I said; “we must consider what’s the right thing to do first.  You see we’ve got quite a business before us.”

“Yes, let’s consider,” said Bruno, putting his thumb into his mouth again, and sitting down upon a stuffed mouse.

“What do you keep that mouse for?” I said.  “You should bury it, or throw it into the lake.”

“Why, it’s to measure with!” cried Bruno.  “How ever would you do a garden without one?  We make each bed th’ee mouses and a half long, and two mouses wide.”

I stopped him, as he was dragging it off by the tail to show me how it was used, for I was half afraid the “eerie” feeling might go off before we had finished the garden, and in that case I should see no more of him or Sylvie.

“I think the best way will be for you to weed the beds, while I sort out these pebbles, ready to mark the walks with.”

“That’s it!” cried Bruno.  “And I’ll tell you about the caterpillars while we work.”

“Ah, let’s hear about the caterpillars,” I said, as I drew the pebbles together into a heap, and began dividing them into colors.

And Bruno went on in a low, rapid tone, more as if he were talking to himself.  “Yesterday I saw two little caterpillars, when I was sitting by the brook, just where you go into the wood.  They were quite g’een, and they had yellow eyes, and they didn’t see me.  And one of them had got a moth’s wing to carry—­a g’eat b’own moth’s wing, you know, all d’y, with feathers.  So he couldn’t want it to eat, I should think—­perhaps he meant to make a cloak for the winter?”

“Perhaps,” I said, for Bruno had twisted up the last word into a sort of question, and was looking at me for an answer.

One word was quite enough for the little fellow, and he went on, merrily: 

“Well, and so he didn’t want the other caterpillar to see the moth’s wing, you know; so what must he do but t’y to carry it with all his left legs, and he t’ied to walk on the other set.  Of course, he toppled over after that.”