“What did you get out of it?” asked Jig-Leg. “I don’t like this streak in you. Once you tune up, you don’t stop playing. And what’s the good of it?”

Hopeful silently threw a handful of twigs, broken up small, into the fire, and watched the sparks fly upward and go out in the damp air. He kept on blinking, and shadows ran across his face. Then he turned his head in the direction of the horse and looked at it for a long time.

The horse was standing motionless, as though rooted in the earth; her head, disfigured by the cloth, was drooping dejectedly.

“We must look at things more simply,” Jig-Leg said, sternly and impressively. “Our life is like this—a day and a night, and twenty-four hours are gone! If there is food—good; if not—squeal a bit, and then stop, it doesn’t get you anywhere.…But you, once you start, you never stop. It’s disgusting to listen to. It’s because you’re sick, that’s why.”

“It must be sickness,” Hopeful agreed meekly, but after a pause he added, “And maybe because my heart is soft.”

“And your heart is soft because of sickness,” declared Jig-Leg categorically.

He bit off a twig, waved it, cut the air with a swish, and said sternly:

“I’m all right, and I don’t act up that way.”

The horse shifted from one leg to another; a twig creaked; some earth plumped into the stream with a splash that brought a new note into its soft melody; then from somewhere two little birds started up and flew along the ravine, screeching uneasily. Hopeful followed them with his eyes and spoke quietly:

“What birds are those? If they are starlings they have no business in the woods. They must be waxwings.…”

“And maybe they’re cross-bills,” said Jig-Leg.

“It’s too early for cross-bills, and besides, cross-bills like evergreens. They have no business here. They’re sure to be waxwings.”

“Who cares?”

“You’re right!” agreed Hopeful, and for some reason drew a deep sigh.

Jig-Leg was working rapidly; he had already woven the bottom of the basket, and he was deftly making the sides. He cut the twigs with a knife, bit them through with his teeth, bent and wattled them with quick movements of his fingers, and wheezed from time to time, bristling his mustaches.

Hopeful looked at him and at the horse, petrified in its dejected pose, at the sky, already almost dark, yet starless.

“The peasant will look for the horse,” he suddenly spoke up in a strange voice, “and it won’t be there—he’ll look here, and there—no horse!”

Hopeful spread his arms wide. There was a foolish look on his face, and his eyes blinked rapidly as though he were looking at a bright light that had suddenly flared up before him.

“What are you driving at?” asked Jig-Leg sternly.

“I was reminded of something…” said Hopeful guiltily.

“What is it?”