“An exceedingly sensible woman,” said the goat’s-foot.
“That’s such an ugly name of yours,” said the mouse.
“Can’t help that,” said the spider. “Some people call me venom-head,[1] because of those few drops of poison I carry in my mandibles. They’re so immensely upset about the poor flies I catch; and they kill a fly themselves if he only settles on their nose. It’s six of one and half a dozen of the other. Nothing but sentimental affectation. Besides, I have no objection to changing my name. You can call me spinner, if you prefer. That’s a word which a dainty little lady like you can pronounce without fainting; and it suits me, because there’s not an animal in the world that spins as beautifully as I do.”
“That’s all very likely,” said the mouse, shaking her head. “But what you do is ugly and you yourself are so hideous that there’s no excusing you.”
“Is that it?” asked the spider and laughed. “Look here, little Mrs. Mouse: I’m rationally dressed. My homely gray clothes suit my work and don’t attract unnecessary attention. Thank goodness, I don’t have to dress up like the others, who deck themselves out to obtain love and happiness and who strut and swagger in a way that a sensible person would be ashamed of. But, of course, the ninnies despise me for my plain frocks. Let them! What do I care for ninnies? And, if they come into my meshes, I’ll eat them.”
The mouse shook her head and went away. The parsley and the goat’s-foot muttered softly to each other. The spider hung in her net, stretched her legs and digested her food.
When the sun came out, she crept under her leaf and then the mouse came back and peeped up:
“Is she asleep?” she asked.
“I think so,” said the parsley. “And you had better not wake her with your chattering.”
“She’s our bird, once and for all,” said the goat’s-foot. “Though she may behave differently from other birds, she has done us the honour and shown us the confidence to build in us and therefore we ask that she may be respected.”