"How do you like my voice?" asked the Donkey, in a tone that said very plainly: "If you don't like it you're no judge of singing."
Buddie did not at once reply. A professional critic would have said, and enjoyed saying, that the voice was of the hit-or-miss variety; that it was pitched too high (all donkeys make that mistake); that it was harsh, rasping and unsympathetic, and that altogether the performance was "not convincing."
Now, Little One, although Buddie was not a professional critic, and neither knew how to wound nor enjoyed wounding, even she found the Donkey's voice harsh; but she did not wish to hurt his feelings—for donkeys have feelings, in spite of a popular opinion to the contrary. And, after all, it was pretty good singing for a donkey. Critics should not, as they sometimes do, apply to donkeys the standards by which nightingales are judged. So Buddie was able to say, truthfully and kindly:
"I think you do very well; very well, indeed."
It was a small tribute, but the Donkey was so blinded by conceit that he accepted it as the greatest compliment.
"I ought to sing well," he said. "I've studied methods enough. The more methods you try, you know, the more of a donkey you are."
"Oh, yes," murmured Buddie, not understanding in the least.
"Yes," went on the Donkey; "I've taken the Donkesi Method, the Sobraylia Method, the Thistlefixu Method—"
"I'm afraid I don't quite know what you mean by 'methods,'" ventured Buddie.
The Donkey regarded her with a pitying smile.