But Barker wrinkled his nose at him in such a happy dog smile and wagged his stubby little tail so contentedly that Billy decided he was used to the diet and turned to the Singing Tree. "Good evening," said Billy, "I hope you are well." "Mi?-so-so," sang the tree, "pause and rest at my bass." "Excuse me, sir, but what is your name?" said Billy; "you see I'd like to know how to address you." "C. Octavious Minor," sang the tree. "But it's time you slept. I'll look sharp for accidental intruders and pitch into them with my staff if they bother us; good night." Then he began to sing softly: "When the clucking cows have gone to roost And the milk hens all are fed, When the sheep have sung their young to wake And the bats have gone to bed, When the sun has risen in the west And the golden moon has sunk, When the gentle watch dog's wound and set And the day owl's in his bunk, It's time for wakeful boys to sleep Despite the hooting lark, For yesterday will soon be here And work begins with dark." And when the tree got to this point in his song he stopped. For Billy was sound asleep with Barker snuggled up in his arms, while from his half-opened lips came a contented snore. Billy was awakened in the morning by the singing tree tickling him gently on the nose with one of its branches. "Up--up," it sang. Barker thinking it was calling "up pup" jumped up, and ran madly around the tree for his morning's exercise. And then suddenly there was no tree. Barker didn't notice this at first, and circled around where the tree had been three times more before he discovered that it was gone. Have you ever seen a dog look surprised and hurt and just a little bit ashamed? Well, that's the way Barker looked when Billy picked him up and stowed him away again in his jacket. "Well, I must be off," said Billy to himself. "Don't hurry," said a voice at his elbow. Billy was so startled that he stepped back, caught his foot in a vine, and rolled over and over on the ground. There, where a minute before had been nothing at all, stood a great red Tomato leaning on its vine. "It's--it's a fine morning, sir," said Billy. "A vine morning you mean," said the Tomato sourly. "I beg your pardon?" said Billy, because he hadn't quite understood the Tomato. "Granted for just this once. But don't do it again." "What?" "Anything--great tin cans! how I hate boys." "I'm sorry, sir," said Billy. "No, you're not," grumbled the Tomato; "you say you are, but you're not; boys are never sorry." "Why don't you like boys, sir? I'm sure"--and then he stopped. He was on the point of saying "boys like tomatoes" when he remembered that this might sound a little personal and thought better of it. The Tomato did not notice this, however, and said, wiping a dew tear from his eye, "A boy threw my favourite sister at a cat last week and I have never been able to abide boys since; and, come to think of it, you look like that boy."