“There, I’m all right now,” she said in a cheerful voice; “I’m used to accidents of that sort, and they never leave any bad effects beyond a little stiffness of the lungs. Come, Grasshopper, I’ll finish that story. Get on with your dancing, good people.”
“Nobody inquires after me,” croaked the Bull-frog, rubbing his chest. “I had no idea a Mole’s head was so hard.”
“Have some mountain-dew,” said the Butterfly, gracefully handing him a blue-bell filled with the precious liquid. “It has been gathered on the Scottish hills by a native Bee, who has just arrived laden with heather-honey.”
The Bull-frog accepted the goblet, and drained it to the bottom.
“It is strong,” he said, coughing and smacking his lips.
“Oo ay,” observed the Scotch Bee; “it’s got the credit o’ bein’ a wee thing nippy.”
Under the influence of the dew the Bull-frog began to sing bass lustily. The other musicians chimed in. The dancers seized each other by waist and hand—or by tail and wing those that happened to have no waists or hands—and the ball was about to go on, when the Grasshopper shouted—
“Stop!”
“Your money or your life!” added the lively young Cricket.
“Silence, pert monkey!—Let us wait a few moments, my friends, for here come our lamps.”