“You are welcome,” said the cow.
“It’s a great night for travelling,” said the fly, “but one gets tired alone. Have you seen any of my people about?”
“No,” replied the cow, “no one but beetles to-night, and they seldom stop for a talk. You’ve rather a good kind of life, I suppose, flying about and enjoying yourself.”
“We all have our troubles,” said the fly in a melancholy voice, and he commenced to clean his right wing with his leg.
“Does any one ever lie against your back the way these people are lying against mine, or do they steal your milk?”
“There are too many spiders about,” said the fly.
“No corner is safe from them; they squat in the grass and pounce on you. I’ve got a twist, my eye trying to watch them. They are ugly, voracious people without manners or neighbourliness, terrible, terrible creatures.”
“I have seen them,” said the cow, “but they never done me any harm. Move up a little bit please, I want to lick my nose: it’s queer how itchy my nose gets”—the fly moved up a bit. “If,” the cow continued, “you had stayed there, and if my tongue had hit you, I don’t suppose you would ever have recovered.”
“Your tongue couldn’t have hit me,” said the by. “I move very quickly you know.”
Hereupon the cow slily whacked her tongue across her nose. She did not see the fly move, but it was hovering safely half an inch over her nose.