A chorus of loud caws greeted this question. And Mr. Crow flew into a rage.
“There’s no use talking with this great clown,” he said to his friends. “It’s impossible to converse with him.” And rising swiftly, Mr. Crow tore off toward the woods. His friends followed him, jeering boisterously. And Mistah Mule gave voice to a loud hee-haw, which only made Mr. Crow fly the faster.
Mistah Mule stood still and watched his late callers straggle into the cover of the tree-tops.
“I doesn’t look to see that old Crow ’round here agin in a hurry,” he murmured.
“I certainly hope not!” said somebody in a squeaky tone, right at his feet.
“My sakes! Who’s here?” Mistah Mule exclaimed.
XVI
ALL ABOUT GHOSTS
When Mistah Mule heard the tiny, squeaky voice, he didn’t know, at first, who had spoken. He looked all around for some moments before he spied two beady bright eyes peeping up at him from beneath a plantain leaf.
“Sakes alive!” Mistah Mule exclaimed then. “I thought they was ghostses ’round here.”
“No!” said the small person who eyed him steadily. “I am not one of those things. I am Master Meadow Mouse.”