Simon Screecher was more than willing. And they had no sooner settled themselves among the bare branches of the oak when Simon started to amuse himself by giving his well-known quavering whistle.
Solomon Owl stopped him quickly.
"Don't do that!" he said sharply. "Do you want to scare the Mice?" Simon Screecher cut his whistle off right in the middle of it.
"I forgot," he murmured. "But I don't believe my whistling would do any harm. I don't think there are many Mice left on Farmer Green's place. It's my opinion that they've moved away—most of them. Or maybe old Rough-leg, the Hawk, has caught more than his share. Anyhow, it's so long since I ate a Meadow Mouse that I've almost forgotten what they're like."
Solomon Owl made no reply. He was a person of few words. If anybody asked his opinion he was ready to give it. But he seldom gave any unsought advice.
"I've about made up my mind," said Simon Screecher, "that I'd move to some other neighborhood. If I knew where there was good mousing I'd move to-morrow."
While he was speaking, Solomon Owl started ever so slightly. And he cocked his head on one side, as if he were listening for something.
At that moment his cousin began to whistle again.
"Be quiet!" Solomon Owl thundered. "If I'm not mistaken I heard a squeak. But no Meadow Mouse will ever venture out of doors if you're going to whistle."
"I forgot," said Simon Screecher once more. "I'm so used to whistling that I don't know when I'm doing it."