Fanchon hastened to dress her doll, then they both ran out of the house, and off to the wood. There they sat down on a nice grassy spot. And after they had played a while, Fanchon said:—
“Do you know, Frederic, that harper of yours does not play very well. Just listen how funny his harp sounds out here in the wood—with that eternal ting! ting! ping! ping!”
Frederic turned the handle more violently. “You’re right, Fanchon,” said he. “What the little fellow plays sounds quite horrible. He must make a better job of it!”
And with that he unscrewed the handle with such force, that—crack! crack!—the box on which the harper stood flew into a thousand splinters, and the arms of the little fellow were broken and hung useless at his sides.
“Oh! Oh!” cried Frederic.
“Ah, the poor little harper!” sighed Fanchon.
“Well, he was a stupid creature!” said Frederic. “He played very poor music, and bowed, and made faces like our yellow-faced cousin who gave him to us.” And as Frederic spoke, he threw the harper into a thicket.
“What I like, is my hunter,” he continued. “He hits the bull’s eye every time he fires.” And with that Frederic jerked the string so violently that—twang! twang!—the target was broken and the little man’s arms hung limp and motionless.
“Ah! Ah!” cried Frederic. “You could shoot at your target in-doors, but out here, you can’t shoot at all!” And so saying, Frederic, with all his might, shied the hunter after the harper into the thicket.
“Come, let us run about a bit,” said he to Fanchon.