One night when Chirpy Cricket was fiddling his prettiest, not far from the fence between the farmyard and the meadow, he had a queer feeling, as if somebody were gazing at him. And glancing up quickly, he saw that a plump person sat on a fence-rail, busily engaged in staring at him.
“How-dy do!” Chirpy Cricket piped; for the fat, four-legged person looked both cheerful and harmless. “I take it you’re fond of music.”
The stranger, whose name was Mr. Meadow Mouse, smiled. “I won’t dispute your statement,” he said.
“Perhaps you play some instrument yourself,” Chirpy observed.
But Mr. Meadow Mouse shook his head.
“No!” he replied. “No! To tell the truth, I haven’t much time for that sort of thing. Besides, it seems to me somewhat dangerous. I was wondering, while I watched you, whether you weren’t likely to fiddle yourself into bits—you were working so hard.”
Chirpy Cricket assured him that there wasn’t the least danger.
“All my family are famous fiddlers,” he said. “And I’ve never heard of such an accident happening to any of them.”
Mr. Meadow Mouse appeared to be slightly disappointed.
“I thought,” he said, “I could pick up the pieces for you, in case you fell apart.”