“A nice woman!” said the mouse. “A shame and a disgrace to her sex, that’s what she is!”
“Such a dear little bird!” said the twigs on the stubs, sarcastically.
But the parsley and the goat’s-foot said nothing.
“The starling caught her,” said the mouse. “She was gone in a twinkling. I saw it myself.”
“If only she doesn’t make him ill,” said the twigs. “She must have been a bad mouthful.”
The mouse sat snug in her hole and the spider’s eggs lay snug in the ground. The goat’s-foot and the parsley withered and died. The twigs on the stubs lost their leaves, but rustled on through storm and frost and snow until next spring.
The frog was croaking his even-song, which took so long that there seemed to be no end to it. The bee crept into her hive and the little children cried because it was bed-time. The flowers closed their petals and bent their heads, the bird hid his beak under his wing and the stag lay down to rest in the tall, soft grass of the glade.
The bells of the village-church rang in the night and, when that was done, the old sexton went off home, chatted a little with the villagers who were taking their evening stroll or standing at their doors smoking a pipe, bade them good-night and shut his door.
By and by, it was quite still and darkness fell. There was still a light in the parsonage and at the doctor’s. But at the farm-houses it was dark, for the farmers rise early in the summer and therefore have to go early to bed.
Then the stars shone forth in the sky and the moon rose higher and higher. A dog barked down in the village. But he was certainly dreaming, for there was really nothing to bark at.
But no one answered, for there was no one there.
So the mist went on in his light, gleaming clothes. He danced over the meadows, up and down, to and fro. Now he would lie quite still for a while and then begin to dance again. He skipped across the pond and into the wood, where he flung his long, wet arms round the trunks of the trees.
“Who are you, friend?” asked the night-scented rocket, who stood and distilled her perfume for her own pleasure.
The mist did not reply, but went on dancing.
“I asked who you were,” said the rocket. “And, as you don’t answer me, I conclude that you are an ill-mannered churl.”