“why, here’s quite a wood!” said the mouse, one evening, sitting under the foliage and peeping up with her bright eyes.
“we are the wood,” said the goat’s-foot.
“pray take a look round,” said the parsley. “if you like us, build your nest in us. all that we can offer you is at your service.”
“don’t believe them,” said the real bushes. “they only make a show while summer lasts. when autumn comes, they are gone without leaving a trace behind them.”
“i don’t know anything about autumn,” said the parsley.
“i don’t believe in autumn,” said the goat’s-foot. “it’s a cock-and-bull[6] story with which they take in the baby bushes.”
“autumn exists all right,” said the mouse. “and after that comes winter. then the thing is to have one’s larder full. it’s well i thought of it. i think i will dig myself a little hole between the stones and begin laying up.”
“let him burrow in the ground that pleases,” said the parsley.
“we have loftier aims,” said the goat’s-foot.
then they stood a bit and said nothing. and then the parsley sighed and said what they were both thinking.
“if only a bird would come and build her nest in us!”
“we would shade it and rock it and take such care of it that the real[7] bushes would die of envy,” said the goat’s-foot.
“won’t you have me?” asked a voice.
a queer, gray individual came walking up the hedge.
“who are you?” asked the parsley.
“i am the spider,” said the individual.
“can you fly?” asked the goat’s-foot.
“i can do a little of everything, if need be.”
“do you eat flies?” asked the parsley.
“all day long.”
“do you lay eggs?” asked the goat’s-foot. “for, of course, you’re a woman?”
“yes—thank goodness!” said the spider.
[8]“then you’re the bird for us,” said the parsley.
“you’re heartily welcome,” said the goat’s-foot. “you look pretty light, so you won’t break our branches. be sure and begin to build as soon as you please. you’ll find plenty of materials in the hedge.”
“it doesn’t matter in the least if you nip off a leaf here and there,” said the parsley.
“thanks, i carry my own materials with me,” said the spider.
“i don’t see any luggage,” said the goat’s-foot.
“perhaps your husband’s bringing it?” asked the parsley.
“i have no husband, thank goodness!” said the spider.
“poor thing!” said the mouse, who[9] sat listening. “that must be awfully sad for you.”
“ah, there’s the usual feminine balderdash!” said the spider. “that’s what makes us women such ridiculous and contemptible creatures. it’s always ‘my husband’ here and ‘my husband’ there. i should like to know what use a husband is to one, when all’s said. he’s nothing but a nuisance and a worry. if ever i take another, he sha’n’t live with me, whatever happens.”
“how you talk!” said the mouse. “i can’t think of anything more dismal than if my husband were to live away from me. and i should like to know how i should manage with the children, if he didn’t help me, the dear soul!”
“children!” replied the spider. “fiddle-de-dee![10] i don’t see the use of all that coddling. lay your eggs in a sensible place and then leave them alone.”
“she doesn’t talk like a bird,” said the parsley, doubtfully.
“i too am beginning to be uneasy about her,” said the goat’s-foot.
“you can call me what you like,” said the spider. “in any case, i don’t associate with the other birds. if there are too many of them here, i won’t even stay.”
“lord preserve us!” said the parsley, who began to fear lest she should go away. “there are hardly ever any here.”
“they flew into the wood when the trees were cut down,” said the goat’s-foot.
“yes, it’s dull here,” said the long[11] twigs on the stubs. “one never hears a note.”
“it’s all right here,” said the spider. “as long as the flies buzz, i’m content.”
“here we are!” said the goat’s-foot and the parsley, straightening themselves.
the spider crawled about and looked around her and the mouse kept on following her with her eyes:
“i beg your pardon,” said she. “but why do you build a nest when you leave your eggs to shift for themselves?”
“listen to me, mousie,” said the spider. “you may as well look upon me from the start as an independent woman. i think only of myself and my belongings and i look after myself. if i ever condescend to take a[12] husband, the milksop will have to look after himself.”
“lord, how you speak of him!” said the mouse. “my husband is bigger and stronger than i am.”
“i have never met him,” replied the spider, carelessly. “the men in my family are scarce a quarter as large as i am. wretched creatures, not worth a fly. i should be ashamed to share my flat with a customer like one of those. but now i’m going to build.”
“you had better wait till it’s light,” said the parsley.
“what will you build with?” asked the goat’s-foot.
“i like the dark, as it happens,” said the spider. “and i carry my own building-materials.”
then she scrambled to the top of[13] the goat’s-foot and looked round the landscape.
“you must have good eyes to see at night,” said the mouse. “mine are not bad, but still i shouldn’t care to build a nest by this light.”
“as for eyes, i have eight,” said the spider. “and they see what they have to. i have also eight legs, i may as well tell you, and you needn’t be struck with amazement on that account. taken all round, i am a woman who knows how to help herself in an emergency. there’s no coddling here and no nonsense.”
now she pressed her abdomen against the branch of the goat’s-foot on which she was sitting and then took a header into the air.
“she’ll break her neck!” cried the mouse, terrified.
“i haven’t got a neck,” said the spider, from down below. “and, if i had, i wouldn’t break it. you go home to your dear husband and fondle him. when you come back in the morning, you shall see what a capable woman can do who doesn’t waste her time on love and emotions.”
the mouse went away, because she had other things to see to and also because the spider’s words hurt her. but the goat’s-foot and the fool’s-parsley were obliged to remain where they were and so were the long twigs on the stubs. and the spider behaved in such a curious manner that none of them closed an eye all night for looking at her.
the fact is, she did nothing but take headers into the air. she jumped first from one branch and then from another, then crawled up again and jumped once more. and, although she had no wings, as any one could see, she let herself down quite slowly to the ground or to another branch, never missed her jump and did not come to the least harm. to and fro, up and down she went, the whole night long.
“it is a bird,” said the parsley, delightedly.
“of course,” said the goat’s-foot. “what else could it be?”
but the twigs on the stubs bobbed at one another mockingly:
“she’s never been a bird in her life,” they said. “can she sing? have you heard as much as a chirp from her?”
the goat’s-foot and the parsley looked at each other doubtfully. and, when the spider sat still, for a moment, catching her breath, the parsley ventured upon a question:
“can you sing?”
“pshaw!” replied the spider. “do you think i go in for that sort of twaddle? what is there to sing about? life is nothing but toil and drudgery and, if a lone woman is to hold her own, she must turn to and set to work.”
“birds sing,” said the goat’s-foot.
“they sing because they are in love,” said the spider. “i am not in love.”
“wait till the right man comes along,” said the parsley.
“if he does, he’d better look out,” said the spider.
then she took another header; and so she went on.
