“Do you burn?” says Grandfather Mole after a bit.
“NO!!!” bawled the Great Red Fox, as though his throat was made of leather.
So they threw on more sticks and twigs, but the Great Red Fox just shut his teeth and grinned, for he was bound that he would stand as much of a burning as an old blind mole.
“Do you burn now?” says Grandfather Mole.
“No,” says the Great Red Fox, but his voice was as small as peas in March. So they threw on another armful of wood, and the fire grew hotter and hotter.
“And do you burn now?” says Grandfather Mole.
“Thunder and lightning, yes!” bawled the Great Red Fox, and out he jumped and away he scampered, smoking like a charcoal kiln.
So all he gained by his roguery was a burnt skin and nothing to show for it; and that has happened more than once to rogues whose wits are so sharp that they cut their own fingers with them.
Now in our town we do not make puddings without plums, or tell a story without rhyme or reason, but if you wish to find any meaning in these words, you must put on your spectacles and look for it for yourself, even though the tale stands all legs and no head, as the man in the moon said about his grandmother’s tongs.