“Her ears are bigger than mine,” said the donkey, getting behind the pig.
But the fiddle pushed to the front and growled, “Rr-r-r-r-zing, you silly thing, I’m not afraid of an old witch owl. I’ll ask the ridiculous question.”
“Do, sweet fiddle,” whispered the little squealing pig and the roly-poly pup and the kicking, kicking donkey, “how kind of you to have come.”
“Rr-r-r-r-zing, you silly thing, and you, and you; I came to please myself.”
“Madame Witch Owl,” he growled, spoiling the music of the verse, “is it true that
“A long time ago pigs had wings
And pups grew in the tree-tops,
In that good time donkeys brayed in rhyme,
And fiddles danced the barn hops?”
The old witch looked down at him. And her eyes glowed so much like two round wheels of fire that the fiddle in secret fright burst another string. But for all that he stared back at her. “Hoot-hoot-hoot,” she cried, “wait till I’ve heard your betters. Let the pig stand forth and the pup and the donkey.”