A bird-song—according to Grumpy Weasel—was of use in only one way: it told you where the bird was. And that was a help, of course, if you were trying to catch him.
Nor did the musical Frog family's nightly concerts have much charm for Grumpy, though he did admit that some of their songs were not so bad as others.
"I can stand it now and then," he said, "to hear a good, glum croaking, provided there are plenty of discords."
Naturally, knowing how he felt, Grumpy Weasel's neighbors never invited him to listen to their concerts. On the contrary they usually asked him please to go away, if he happened to come along. Certainly nobody could sing his best, with such a listener.
As a rule Grumpy Weasel was glad to
go on about his business, though to be sure he hated to oblige anybody. But one day he stopped and scolded at the top of his voice when he came upon the Woodchuck brothers whistling in the pasture.
Their whistles quavered a bit when they noticed who was present. And they moved a little nearer their front door, in order to dodge out of sight if need be. Although Grumpy Weasel might follow them, there was a back door they could rush out of. And since they knew their way about their underground halls better than he did they did not worry greatly.
"We're sorry—" said the biggest brother, who was called Billy Woodchuck—"we're sorry you don't like our music. And we'd like to know what's the matter with it; for we always strive to please."
"It's not so much the way you whistle,"
Grumpy snarled, "though your whistling is bad enough, it's so cheerful. What I find fault with especially is the tune. It's insulting to me. And you can't deny it."