gue--then Crusoe _spoke_! Do we not speak at this moment to _you_?
and if so, then tell me, wherein lies the difference between a written
_letter_ and a given _sign_?

Yes, Crusoe spoke. He said to Dick as plain as dog could say it, slowly
and emphatically, "That's my opinion precisely, Dick. You're the
dearest, most beloved, jolliest fellow that ever walked on two legs, you
are; and whatever's your opinion is mine, no matter _how_ absurd it may
be."

Dick evidently understood him perfectly, for he laughed as he looked at
him and patted him on the head, and called him a "funny dog." Then he
continued his discourse--"Yes, pup, we'll make our camp here for a long
bit, old dog, in this beautiful plain. We'll make a willow wigwam to
sleep in, you and me, jist in yon clump o' trees, not a stone's throw to
our right, where we'll have a run o' pure water beside us, and be near
our buffalo at the same time. For, ye see, we'll need to watch him lest
the wolves take a notion to eat him--that'll be _your_ duty, pup. Then
I'll skin him when I get strong enough, which'll be in a day or two I
hope, and we'll put one half of the skin below us and t'other half above
us i' the camp, an' sleep, an' eat, an' take it easy for a week or two--
won't we, pup?"

"Hoora-a-a-y!" shouted Crusoe, with a jovial wag of his tail, that no
human arm with hat, or cap, or kerchief ever equalled.

Poor Dick Varley! He smiled to think how earnestly he had been talking
to the dog, but he did not cease to do it, for, although he entered into
discourses, the drift of which Crusoe's limited education did not permit
him to follow, he found comfort in hearing the sound of his own voice,
and in knowing that it fell pleasantly on another ear in that lonely
wilderness.

Our hero now set about his preparations as vigorously as he could. He
cut out the buffalo's tongue--a matter of great difficulty to one in his
weak state--and carried it to a pleasant spot near to the stream where
the turf was level and green, and decked with wild flowers. Here he
resolved to make his camp.

His first care was to select a bush whose branches were long enough to
form a canopy over his head when bent, and the ends thrust into the
ground. The completing of this exhausted him greatly, but after a rest
he resumed his labours. The next thing was to light a fire--a comfort
which he had not enjoyed for many weary days. Not that he required it
for warmth, for the weather