The baker's wife went up to him, and gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder. "What are you thinking about?" said she.
"Ma'am," said the little boy, "what is it that sings?"
"There is no singing," said she.
"Yes!" cried the little fellow. "Hear it! Queek, queek, queek, queek!"
My friend and the woman both listened, but they could hear nothing, unless it was the song of the crickets, frequent guests in bakers' houses.
"It is a little bird," said the dear little fellow; "or perhaps the bread sings when it bakes, as apples do."
"No, indeed, little goosey!" said the baker's wife; "those are crickets. They sing in the bakehouse because we are lighting the oven, and they like to see the fire."
"Crickets!" said the child; "are they really crickets?"
"Yes, to be sure," said she, good-humoredly. The child's face lighted up.
"Ma'am," said he, blushing at the boldness of his request, "I would like it very much if you would give me a cricket."