"When that Maid Norah goes about killing flies by the dozens, does she call herself a murderer?" demanded Mother Graymouse with indignation. "When that old black Tom gobbles up an innocent mouse for his supper, does she call him a murdering beast? Neither are we thieves," went on Mother Graymouse hotly. "Even mice must live, and unless we eat we will surely die. It is very ill-natured of the Giants to begrudge us the few poor scraps that we are able to pick up. But don't ever let me hear of your eating any cake again, Silver Ears, even if it is stuffed with jam, without first showing it to me," she finished in a severe tone.
"But, Mammy, I'm sure Ruth Giant would not give me cake that was not fit to eat."
Then Mother Graymouse drew up the five little red-painted stools in a row. She sat down before them in her rocking chair with little squirming Squealer upon her knees. She gave him a stick of pink candy to suck, so he would stop squealing while she talked.
"It is very painful," she began slowly, "but I see that I must teach you some lessons this morning. Sit on your little stools and come to order for school. Buster, you sit up straight and pay attention. Now listen every one.
"E—n—e—m—y. Now spell it after me."
"E—n—e—m—y!" piped five shrill little voices.
"Who can tell me what an enemy is?"
Buster waved his paw wildly.
"Something good to eat, Mammy," he answered, smacking his fat little chops.
"I fear, Buster, that I must make a dunce cap for you," said his mother, trying hard not to smile.