Deep down in a buried Etruscan tomb there lay a little three-cornered piece of pottery.
It had some letters on it and a beautiful man's head, and had belonged to a King some three thousand years ago.
Its only companions were a family of moles; for everything else had been taken out of the tomb so long ago that no one remembered anything about it.
"What a dull life mine is," groaned the piece of pottery. "No amusement, and no society! It's enough to make one smash oneself to atoms!"
"Dull, but safe," replied the Mole, who never took the least notice of the three-cornered Chip's insults. "And then, remember the dignity. You have the whole tomb to yourself."
"Except for you," said the Chip ungraciously.
"Well, we must live somewhere," said the Mole, quite unmoved, "and I'm sure we don't interfere. I always bring up my children to treat you with the greatest respect, in spite of your being cr-r—br-r—. I should say, not quite so large as you used to be."
"If only you had belonged to a King," sighed the Chip, "I might have had someone of my own class to talk to."
"I don't wish to belong to a King," said the Mole. "There's nothing I should dislike more. I am for a Liberal Government, and no farming."