ise and bluster. And there are ways
of dealing with white-ants, too. I've lived upon this mountain, tree
and sapling, for--"

But as he was talking he fell fast asleep.

The Little Red House did not sleep. How could he, with his eyes wide
open? So he just stood there all night staring before him, lonely and
wretched. And when an owl came and sat in the tree and began to call,
"Mopoke," the Little Red House told him rudely to stop his silly noise
and clear out. That will just show you how very miserable he was.

It was quite late next morning when the Blue-gum awoke. He stretched
his big limbs, and began to wonder what he might say to comfort the
Little Red House. But when the Blue-gum looked down, he saw that the
Little Red House was smiling all over his face.

"Well, now!" cried the big Blue-gum cheerfully. "That's the kind of
face I like to see in the morning! So you've decided to be sensible
and forget your loneliness?"

But the Little Red House didn't say a word. He just went on smiling.

Then the big Blue-gum began to get uneasy.

"I do hope your troubles haven't turned you silly," he said. "You
haven't lost your senses, have you?"

"I?" cried the Little Red House. "Why, look down the valley! See
who's coming!"

Down, far down, the valley, just coming through the white gate, were
two figures that looked like tiny specks. And much nearer was another
speck, which was certainly a little dog.

"It's them--I mean those are they!" shouted the Little Red House
happily. "Sym and Emily Ann! And here comes our little dog."

"Well, you certainly have sharp eyes," replied the Blue-gum. "But I
suppose I'm getting old--over a hundred years, you know."

The two figures were through the white gate now, and had crossed the
red road out on to the stony flat--getting bigger and bigger as they
came; and the smile on the Little Red House seemed to grow broader
and broader. On they came, under the tree-ferns, up by the big rocks,
past the sign-post. And now the Little Red House could hear Sym
singing his Tinker's song.

But it was not quite the same song this time:

"Kettles and pans! Ho, kettles and pans!
Where's there a home like the tinkering man's?
Weary of wandering, home is the place--
The Little Red House with the smile on his face--
Weary and hungry, my Emily Ann.
Then put on the kettle! Ho, put on the pan!"

"Now THAT is the sort of song I DO like," said the Little Red House,
as he watched them coming up th