Chirpy Cricket was so fond of fiddling that sometimes he was the last of all the big Cricket family to stop making music and go home to bed. Now and then he lingered so long above the ground that the dawn caught him before he crept into his hole in the ground, beneath the straw. And one morning it was getting so light before he had played enough to suit him that he crawled into a crack in Farmer Green’s garden. It looked like a comfortable place to spend the day. And he thought it would be foolish for him to do much travelling at that hour, because there was no telling when an early bird might spy—and pounce upon—him.

He found his retreat quite to his liking. Nothing had happened to disturb his rest. And if he had only had time to carry a few blades of grass into the crack, to eat between naps, Chirpy would have had nothing to wish for.

Late in the afternoon, however, a most unusual thing took place. Chirpy Cricket noticed a sound as of some one digging. It grew louder and louder as he listened. And it was not in the least like the scratching of a hen, looking for grubs and worms. This noise was deep down in the ground and like nothing Chirpy had ever heard.

He wished that he had not allowed himself to become so fond of fiddling. If he had cared less for it, he would have gone home in good season. But there he was in a crack in the garden! And he didn’t dare leave it because he had heard that the garden was a famous place for birds.

Chirpy Cricket was frightened. And when at last the loose earth near him began to quiver and even to crumble he was so scared that he didn’t know which way to move. The next instant a strange looking person stood before him. And for a few moments neither one of them said a word.

The newcomer was a big fellow, very long and with enormous legs. His front legs especially were short and powerful, with huge feet at the end of them. And yet, odd as the stranger was, Chirpy could not help noticing that somehow he had a look like the Cricket family.

“Well,” said the stranger at last, “you seem surprised. Perhaps you weren’t expecting callers.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Chirpy Cricket answered in a voice that was faint from the fright he had had.

“But you’re glad to see me, I hope,” the stranger went on. “You know I’m related to you. You know I’m a sort of cousin of yours.”

“Is that so?” Chirpy Cricket cried. “I did think for a moment that there was a slight family resemblance. But the longer I look at you the queerer you seem. May I ask your name?”

“I’m Mr. Mole Cricket,” said the stranger. “And I don’t need to inquire who you are. You’re one of the well-known Field Cricket family.”