“Walls, walls, the strong should be kind; but you are wicked, to stop the wind; you, wind, to drive away the clouds; you, clouds, to hide the sun; you, sun, to melt the ice; and you, ice, to have broken the ant’s leg—poor little leg.
“Then the walls said: ‘The rat is stronger than we; it bores holes through us.’
“Rat, rat, the strong—”
“But it is all the same thing, over and over again, Mother Ambroisine,” exclaimed Jules impatiently.
“Not quite, my child. After the rat comes the cat that eats the rat, then the broom that strikes the cat, then the fire that burns the broom, then the water that puts out the fire, then the ox that quenches his thirst with the water, then the fly that stings the ox, then the swallow that snaps up the fly, then the snare that catches the swallow, then—”
“And does it go on very long like that?” asked Emile.
“As long as you please,” replied Mother Ambroisine, “for however strong one may be, there are always others stronger still.”
“Really, Mother Ambroisine,” said Emile, “that story tires me.”
“Then listen to this one: Once upon a time there lived a woodchopper and his wife, and they were very poor. They had seven children, the youngest so very, very small that a wooden shoe answered for its bed.”
“I know that story,” again interposed Emile. “The seven children are going to get lost in the woods. Little Hop-o’-my-Thumb marks the way at first with white pebbles, then with bread crumbs. Birds eat the crumbs. The children get lost, Hop-o’-my-Thumb, from the top of a tree, sees a light in the distance. They run to it: rat-tat-tat! It is the dwelling of an ogre!”