“Oh! the wicked creature,” I whispered, then my conscience pricked me. I had just been looking for a nice, sweet, little meadow mouse down by the river.
Serena, who never ate mice, was following the workings of my mind. “My back smarts terribly where he ripped it,” she sighed. “I am very sorry for every creature that suffers.”
“Wait till we get out of this,” I said comfortingly, “and I will give your back a good licking.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, then she said, “Alas! poor Beauty.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Beauty and her chickens are sleeping in that apple-tree to-night,” said Serena, nodding toward the young orchard. “She wouldn't go in the hen-house, and Della laughed at her and said she could sleep out. Every chick skipped up the branches after her. That wretch hears them. Chickens move about in their sleep sometimes, the way human babies nestle.”
“Mona is sleeping up by the barn door to-night,” I said. “She likes to be there because it is high, and she can see all over the farm. I wish she were here.”
“She can't fly,” said Serena.
“No, but she could bark and rouse the farmer. I'm going to call her,” and I mewed loudly, “Mona, Mona.”
The good old dog, who does not sleep as soundly as when she was young, heard me and came running to us.