“Oh! Don’t sit on the damp ground!” Tommy cried. “That’s a dangerous thing to do.”
Chirpy Cricket smiled to himself. In a way Tommy Tree Cricket was queer. He always clung to trees and shrubs, claiming that it was much more healthful to live off the ground. But he was so pale that Chirpy Cricket was sure he was mistaken.
“The ground’s good enough for me,” Chirpy told his cousin.
“Well, we won’t quarrel about that tonight,” said Tommy Tree Cricket. “Sit there, if you will. And when I’ve finished playing this tune we’ll have a talk. I only hope you won’t catch cold while you’re waiting down there.”
“Can’t you stop fiddling long enough to talk with me now?” Chirpy asked him. “I’ve come here to ask you whether you ever saw a cousin of ours called Mr. Mole Cricket.”
“Re-teat! re-teat! re-teat!” Tommy Tree Cricket was already fiddling away as if it were the last night of the summer. He was making so much shrill music that he couldn’t hear a word Chirpy said. The more Chirpy tried to attract his attention the harder he played, rolling his eyes in every direction—except that of his caller.
Several times Chirpy Cricket leaped into the air, hoping that Tommy Tree Cricket would see that he had something important to say. But Tommy paid not the slightest heed to him.
At last Chirpy decided that he might as well do a little fiddling himself, to pass the time away. So he began his cr-r-r-i! cr-r-r-i! cr-r-r-i! And then Tommy noticed him immediately.
“You’re playing the wrong tune!” he cried. “It’s re-teat! re-teat! re-teat!”
Chirpy Cricket thought that his cousin’s face was slightly darker, as if a flush of annoyance had come over it. He certainly didn’t want to quarrel with Tommy Tree Cricket. So he said to him, very mildly, “I fear you do not like my playing.”