“A nice sort of bird!” said the twigs, with a sneer.
“In any case, she’s better than nothing,” said the parsley.
“Such louts as you had better hold your tongues,” said the goat’s-foot. “No one builds in you, at any rate.”
“She’s not a bird,” said the mouse. “But that’s no reason why she shouldn’t be very good. Now I think that she’s a poor, unhappy old maid, who has fallen out with existence. Perhaps her sweetheart jilted her; that leaves a wound. My first husband ran away with a white mouse, just after my children were born. So I speak from experience.”
“That’s possible,” said the parsley, thoughtfully. “But what can one do in a case like that?”
“We must try and make her happy,” said the mouse. “If she goes on leading this lonely life, she will grow more bitter every day and at last all gentler feelings will be stifled in her. If we could only find a husband for her!”
“Yes, if we only could!” said the parsley.
“Then perhaps she would build a real nest, with little eggs in it,” said the goat’s-foot.
“Perhaps she would sing to her young,” said the parsley.
“That would at once entitle us to rank with the bushes,” said the goat’s-foot.