the mouse was astir early next morning:

“have you seen nothing of the young couple?” she asked.

“no,” said the parsley.

“they’re asleep,” said the goat’s-foot.

“ah!” said the mouse. “what a good thing that we got her married at last. now you’ll see how sweet and amiable she will become. there is no end to the wonders that love can work. and when the children come!...”

“do you think she’ll sing then?” asked the goat’s-foot.

“i shall hope for the best,” said the mouse. “she does not look as if she had a voice, but, as i said—love! now you’ll just see, when she comes, what a radiance there will be about her. i half doubt if we shall know her when we see her.”

and the mouse laughed and the parsley and the goat’s-foot laughed and the sun rose and laughed with the rest.

then the spider came crawling from under her leafy hiding-place.

“good luck! good luck!” squeaked the mouse.

“good luck! good luck!” said the parsley and the goat’s-foot.

the spider stretched herself and yawned. then she went off and sat in her web, as though nothing had happened.

“where’s the husband?” asked the mouse. “won’t he get out of bed?”

“i’ve eaten him this morning,” replied the spider.

the mouse gave a scream that was heard all over the hedge. the parsley and the goat’s-foot trembled so that all their flowers fell off. the twigs snapped as though a storm were raging.

“he looked so stupid and ugly as he sat there beside me,” said the spider; “so i ate him. he could have staid away!”

“heaven preserve us all!” screamed the mouse. “to eat one’s own, lawful husband!”

“oh dear, oh dear!” said the goat’s-foot and the parsley.

“stuff!” said the spider.