But the parsley and the goat’s-foot said nothing.
The next morning the spider was gone.
“The starling caught her,” said the mouse. “She was gone in a twinkling. I saw it myself.”
“If only she doesn’t make him ill,” said the twigs. “She must have been a bad mouthful.”
Then autumn came and winter.
The mouse sat snug in her hole and the spider’s eggs lay snug in the ground. The goat’s-foot and the parsley withered and died. The twigs on the stubs lost their leaves, but rustled on through storm and frost and snow until next spring.
THE MIST