There was room for his head,
But not the least bit for his tail.”
“Oh, oh!” moaned Flip. “Spare me, spare me!”
So they spared him, but made him sing to torture Father. Then it was the most surprising thing. He sang in the softest, nicest voice, a voice that just seemed to fit in with the firelight and the “atmosphere”:
“Way up above the blackest trees that tease the sky at night
A million young star children dance a merry, fairy dance.
The fat old moon comes through the clouds and giggles with delight
To see the myriad youngsters as they skip and hop and prance.
Then, when the night is growing old and skies are fading grey
A mother star comes softly out a lullaby to hum.