"It says it could pinch me." Grant lazily addressed the trout.
"I wonder why it didn't, then, when it was being squashed?"
"I just wish to goodness I had! Only I suppose Aunt Phoebe--"
"I do believe it's got a temper. I wonder, now, if it could be a
LIVE angel?" Grant spoke to the softly swaying poplars.
"Oh, you--there now!" She made a swift little rush at him, nipped
his biceps between a very small thumb and two fingers, and stood
back, breathing quickly and regarding him in a shamed defiance.
"I'll show you whether I'm alive!" she panted vindictively.
"It's alive, and it's a humming-bird. Angels don't pinch."
Grant laid a finger upon his arm and drawled his solution of a
trivial mystery. "It mistook me for a honeysuckle, and gave me a
peck to make sure." He smiled indulgently, and exhaled a long
wreath of smoke from his nostrils. "Dear little
humming-birds--so simple and so harmless!"
"And I've promised to be nice to--THAT!" cried Evadna, in
bitterness, and rushed past him to the porch.
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