Barty Crusoe and His Man Saturday. Burnett Frances Hodgson

me!" cried out Barty, joyfully. "He learned the tune in a minute."

      "He is a clever bird," said the Good Wolf. "Perhaps he knows a whole lot of things."

      "I believe he likes me," said Barty. "I believe he does."

      "All birds know a good thing when they see it," was what the Good Wolf said with his wisest air. "All animals do. I am an animal myself. You never threw a stone at a bird, did you, by the way?"

      Barty stood quite still and looked at the ground, thinking very hard.

      "I never threw a stone at anything," he said when he looked up.

      "Ah," said the Good Wolf. "Such a good plan that: Never to throw a stone at anything. In fact it's a good plan never to throw anything at anything. I shouldn't be surprised if you find your Desert Island ever so much nicer just because you're like that. Animals know, I tell you. So do fairies. Look at the bird!" Barty was looking at it. It flew a few yards ahead of him and perched on a slender young tree, making funny little chirping noises.

      "It sounds – " said Barty, "why, it sounds as if it were saying 'Trot along, trot along,' just as you did when we went to the Snow Feast."

      "I did not see it at the Snow Feast," the Good Wolf said. "But perhaps it had a relation there. If it says 'trot along,' let us trot. Perhaps it is clever enough to notice how loose your belt is, and it thinks it can show us something to eat which will make it tighter."

      So Barty trotted along and the Good Wolf trotted with him. The bird with the blue crest flew before them and Barty was quite sure it was showing them the way somewhere, because every now and then it stopped and perched on a bough and sang its little song. They went up the hill and up and up until they came to a place where they suddenly found themselves on the edge of a green hollow, and the minute they saw it the Good Wolf cried out, "There's something we want," and trotted down as fast as he could to a big, clear pool which lay at the bottom of the hollow, and began to lap quickly.

      "I want it, too," shouted Barty, and ran down the green slope himself.

      He was just going to kneel down when he saw his bird fluttering about under a tall tree, and when he looked up he saw the tree was a very funny one. It was like a palm tree but it had great balls hanging from it and something queer was going on high up among the branches. The leaves were shaking as if things were moving about among them, and Barty was rather startled because he heard chattering, squeaking little voices. The sounds were so funny that for a minute he forgot that he was thirsty.

      "That isn't birds," he said to the Good Wolf. "It isn't singing and it isn't chirping. What do you think it is?"

      "Just watch a minute and you will see," the Good Wolf answered. Barty did not get up from his knees but he threw his curly head back and looked with all his might. What do you suppose he saw? First one little tiny black face with sharp eyes and sharp white teeth and a wrinkled nose, and then another little tiny funny black face with sharp eyes and sharp white teeth and a wrinkled nose, and then another, and then another. They peeped at him from under the leaves, and from over the leaves and round the big balls which hung from the branches. They gibbered and chattered and squeaked, and squeaked and gibbered and chattered. Barty's eyes got bigger and bigger and began to sparkle, and suddenly he jumped up and clapped his hands.

      "They're monkeys!" he shouted. "They are little jet black monkeys, just like the ones that played in the land of the Snow Feast. Horray! Horray! Horray! Perhaps they are the very ones."

      He put his hands up to his mouth and made a trumpet of them and shouted through it to the top of the tree. It was such a very tall tree and there were so many monkeys in it and they were making such a noise that they never could have heard him if he hadn't shouted.

      "Hello!" he called. "Were you the ones at the Snow Feast? Did you play in the band?" There was such a lot of chattering and squeaking at this that Barty thought it must mean "yes." There was rustling and jumping and scuffling, and suddenly a tiny black arm and hand darted out and plucked off one of the big hanging balls and threw it down to the earth. It bounded and bounded and rolled, and Barty ran after it and caught it just as it was going to roll into the pool of water.

      "What is it?" he cried out. "What can it be?"

      "It is something that will make your belt tighter," chuckled the Good Wolf. "It is another thing we wanted. It's a big fresh cocoanut."

      He gave a jump as he said it and so did Barty. "There comes another," he called out, "and another and another." They had to keep jumping about because the jet-black monkeys were throwing the big nuts down as fast as they could.

      "They know we are hungry," said Barty.

      When the monkeys stopped throwing they settled themselves on the branches and watched with their little bright eyes twinkling as if they were delighted. They evidently wanted to see what Barty would do.

      The Good Wolf soon showed him what to do. He found a flat rock by the edge of the pool and laid the big nut on it and then looked for a stone heavy enough to break it open. When it was broken open Barty felt sure nothing had ever looked so nice before. He had never known what a fresh young cocoanut was like. It was soft and creamy and rich, like some new kind of wonderful breakfast food.

      Barty took a piece of the cocoanut shell and used it for a spoon. He sat comfortably on the grass and made quite a good breakfast. The blue and white bird watched him and the jet-black monkeys watched him, and the Good Wolf watched him.

      Presently the blue and white bird flew down from the twig she was sitting on and began to peck very hard at some green leaves growing among the grass. She was so busy that the Good Wolf stopped watching Barty and began to watch her.

      "That is a very clever bird," he said in a few minutes. "I believe she knows more about desert islands than people who have been to school for ten years." Barty stopped his cocoanut shell spoon halfway to his mouth.

      "I believe she is trying to dig up something," he said.

      "Claws are stronger than beaks," said the Good Wolf. "I will go and help her." He went to the place where the green leaves grew, and the minute he came near her the blue and white bird hopped out of his way and hopped on to the nearest bush and sang the little whistling song she had learned from Barty. It sounded so like talking that Barty almost shouted with delight.

      "She says 'all right,'" he cried out. "That is bird talk."

      The Good Wolf had begun to be very busy himself. He was digging very fast in the earth with his claws. Soon Barty saw he had dug up the root of the green leaves and it looked like a nice potato. He looked quite pleased and excited and went on digging and digging until he had dug up six fine roots and then he sat down by them and panted delightedly, with his nice big red tongue hanging out of his mouth.

      "Well," he said, when he found his breath again, "the intelligence of that bird is beyond everything. What would you think of a hot roast potato, when your belt got a little loose again?"

      "I should love it," answered Barty. "Sometimes my mother lets me roast a potato for myself, and it is nicer than anything."

      The Good Wolf looked down at his six roots and chuckled.

      "Blue Crest has shown us something just like potatoes, only nicer. There are plenty of them growing about here. We can always dig them up, and when we have roasted them we can get some of the salt that has dried on the rocks by the sea to eat them with. What do you think of that?"

      Barty was too joyful for anything.

      "It is just like Robinson Crusoe," he cried out. "Just – just – just! He was always finding things."

      "That's the advantage of a Desert Island," answered the Good Wolf. "You find everything when you have looked for it long enough to give you a beautiful appetite. Nobody could live on desert islands if they were not like that."

      CHAPTER THREE

      WHEN the Good Wolf made his remark about the convenience of desert islands, such a chattering broke out among the black monkeys in the high branches in the cocoanut tree that Barty threw his head back as far as he could to see what was happening.

      "Why,"