“It is a bird,” said the parsley, delightedly.
“Of course,” said the goat’s-foot. “What else could it be?”
But the twigs on the stubs bobbed at one another mockingly:
“She’s never been a bird in her life,” they said. “Can she sing? Have you heard as much as a chirp from her?”
The goat’s-foot and the parsley looked at each other doubtfully. And, when the spider sat still, for a moment, catching her breath, the parsley ventured upon a question:
“Can you sing?”
“Pshaw!” replied the spider. “Do you think I go in for that sort of twaddle? What is there to sing about? Life is nothing but toil and drudgery and, if a lone woman is to hold her own, she must turn to and set to work.”
“Birds sing,” said the goat’s-foot.
“They sing because they are in love,” said the spider. “I am not in love.”
“Wait till the right man comes along,” said the parsley.