So his Granny made a nice little drumikin out of his brother’s skin, with the wool inside, and Lambikin curled himself up snug and warm in the middle and trundled away gayly.  Soon he met with the Eagle, who called out,—­

 “Drumikin!  Drumikin! 
 Have you seen Lambikin?”

And Mr. Lambikin, curled up in his soft, warm nest, replied,—­

 “Fallen into the fire, and so will you
 On little Drumikin!  Tum-pa, tum-too!”

“How very annoying!” sighed the Eagle, thinking regretfully of the tender morsel he had let slip.

Meanwhile Lambikin trundled along, laughing to himself, and singing,—­

 “Tum-pa, tum-too;
 Tum-pa, tum-too!”

Every animal and bird he met asked him the same question,—­

 “Drumikin!  Drumikin! 
 Have you seen Lambikin?”

And to each of them the little slyboots replied,—­

 “Fallen into the fire, and so will you
 On little Drumikin!  Tum-pa, tum-too!”
 Tum-pa, tum-too! tum-pa, tum-too!”

Then they all sighed to think of the tender little morsel they had let slip.

At last the Jackal came limping along, for all his sorry looks as sharp as a needle, and he, too, called out,—­

 “Drumikin!  Drumikin! 
 Have you seen Lambikin?”

And Lambikin, curled up in his snug little nest, replied gayly,—­

 “Fallen into the fire, and so will you
 On little Drumikin!  Tum-pa—­”

But he never got any further, for the Jackal recognized his voice at once, and cried, “Hullo! you’ve turned yourself inside out, have you?  Just you come out of that!”

Whereupon he tore open Drumikin and gobbled up Lambikin.

THE BLACKBERRY-BUSH[1]

[1] From Celia Thaxter’s Stories and Poems for Children.

A little boy sat at his mother’s knees, by the long western window, looking out into the garden.  It was autumn, and the wind was sad; and the golden elm leaves lay scattered about among the grass, and on the gravel path.  The mother was knitting a little stocking; her fingers moved the bright needles; but her eyes were fixed on the clear evening sky.

As the darkness gathered, the wee boy laid his head on her lap and kept so still that, at last, she leaned forward to look into his dear round face.  He was not asleep, but was watching very earnestly a blackberry-bush, that waved its one tall, dark-red spray in the wind outside the fence.

“What are you thinking about, my darling?” she said, smoothing his soft, honey-colored hair.

“The blackberry-bush, mamma; what does it say?  It keeps nodding, nodding to me behind the fence; what does it say, mamma?”

“It says,” she answered, `I see a happy little boy in the warm, fire-lighted room.  The wind blows cold, and here it is dark and lonely; but that little boy is warm and happy and safe at his mother’s knees.  I nod to him, and he looks at me.  I wonder if he knows how happy he is!