CHAPTER VIII
The Mussel
The next evening, the reed-warbler peeped down into the water.
The fresh-water mussel was sitting there and yawning as usual. There was nothing out of the way about him.
"Good-evening," said the reed-warbler. "How are you, after your friend's unhappy end?"
"Thank you," replied the mussel. "It has not disturbed my composure in the least. Generally speaking, nothing disturbs my composure. Only, if any one sticks something between my shells, I become furious and I pinch."
"I should do the same in your place," said the reed-warbler. "And your equanimity is really quite enviable. But still I think that the misfortune of one's neighbour ... of your intimate friend."
"I have no neighbour," said the mussel. "And the carp was not my intimate friend. We were not rivals, that is all. In a case like that, it's easy to be friends. I was often amused at the carp's way of talking. But I never contradict, except when any one sticks something between my shells. The carp had had to do with human beings; that's what it was. It always makes animals so ridiculous. You're the same, for that matter."
"I look upon that as a compliment," said the reed-warbler, who was a little offended but did not wish to show it. "However, I have nothing to do with human beings, except that they protect me and have not the heart to do me harm, because of my pretty voice. They stop and listen to me as they pass. Many a poet has written beautiful lines about me."