As he continued to act like a king, and as every day he became a little more wicked than the day before, this set a certain little flea to thinking over the matter. It was a little bit of a flea, who was of no consequence at all, but full of good sentiments. This is not the nature of fleas in general; but this one had been very well brought up; it bit people with moderation, and only when it was very hungry.
“What if I were to bring the king to reason?” it said to itself. “It is not without danger. But no matter—I will try.”
That night the wicked king, after having done all sorts of naughty things during the day, was calmly going to sleep when he felt what seemed to be the prick of a pin.
“Bite!”
He growled, and turned over on the other side.
“Bite! Bite! Bite!”
“Who is it that bites me so?” cried the king in a terrible voice.
“It is I,” replied a very little voice.
“You? Who are you?”
“A little flea who wishes to correct you.”