`` I should call it a phebe-bird , '' answered the girl , looking up with a twinkle in her black eyes . `` Where did it go ? '' `` It is here still . '' `` Where ? '' `` In my throat . Do you want to hear it ? '' `` Oh , yes ! I 'll come in . '' And Rose crept through the slide to the wide shelf on the other side , being too hurried and puzzled to go round by the door . The girl wiped her hands , crossed her feet on the little island of carpet where she was stranded in a sea of soap-suds , and then , sure enough , out of her slender throat came the swallow 's twitter , the robin 's whistle , the blue-jay 's call , the thrush 's song , the wood-dove 's coo , and many another familiar note , all ending as before with the musical ecstacy of a bobolink singing and swinging among the meadow grass on a bright June day . Rose was so astonished that she nearly fell off her perch , and when the little concert was over clapped her hands delightedly . `` Oh , it was lovely ! Who taught you ? '' `` The birds , '' answered the girl , with a smile , as she fell to work again . `` It is very wonderful ! I can sing , but nothing half so fine as that . What is your name , please ? '' `` Phebe Moore . '' `` I 've heard of phebe-birds ; but I do n't believe the real ones could do that , '' laughed Rose , adding , as she watched with interest the scattering of dabs of soft soap over the bricks , `` May I stay and see you work ? It is very lonely in the parlor . ''
`` Yes , indeed , if you want to , '' answered Phebe , wringing out her cloth in a capable sort of way that impressed XXXXX very much .
Moore Rose blue-jay bobolink coo dabs phebe-bird phebe-birds soap-suds twitter