After meeting that odd Mr. Mole Cricket, who claimed to be his cousin, Chirpy Cricket tried to find out more about him from his nearer relations. But there wasn’t one that had ever seen or heard of such a person. One night Chirpy even travelled quite a distance to call on Tommy Tree Cricket, with the hope that perhaps Tommy might be able to tell him something.

Chirpy found Tommy Tree Cricket in the tangle of raspberry bushes beyond the garden. It was not hard to tell where he was, because he was a famous fiddler. He played a tune that was different from Chirpy’s cr-r-r-i! cr-r-r-i! cr-r-r-i! Tommy Tree Cricket fiddled re-teat! re-teat! re-teat! And many considered him a much finer musician than Chirpy himself. He was small and pale. Beside Chirpy Cricket, who was all but black, Tommy Tree Cricket looked decidedly delicate. But he could fiddle all night without getting tired.

“I’ve come all the way from the yard to have a chat with you!” Chirpy called to his cousin Tommy.

“Come up and have a seat!” said Tommy Tree Cricket.

“I can find one here, thank you!” Chirpy answered.

“Oh! Don’t sit on the damp ground!” Tommy cried. “That’s a dangerous thing to do.”

Chirpy Cricket smiled to himself. In a way Tommy Tree Cricket was queer. He always clung to trees and shrubs, claiming that it was much more healthful to live off the ground. But he was so pale that Chirpy Cricket was sure he was mistaken.

“The ground’s good enough for me,” Chirpy told his cousin.

“Well, we won’t quarrel about that tonight,” said Tommy Tree Cricket. “Sit there, if you will. And when I’ve finished playing this tune we’ll have a talk. I only hope you won’t catch cold while you’re waiting down there.”

“Can’t you stop fiddling long enough to talk with me now?” Chirpy asked him. “I’ve come here to ask you whether you ever saw a cousin of ours called Mr. Mole Cricket.”

“Re-teat! re-teat! re-teat!” Tommy Tree Cricket was already fiddling away as if it were the last night of the summer. He was making so much shrill music that he couldn’t hear a word Chirpy said. The more Chirpy tried to attract his attention the harder he played, rolling his eyes in every direction—except that of his caller.

Several times Chirpy Cricket leaped into the air, hoping that Tommy Tree Cricket would see that he had something important to say. But Tommy paid not the slightest heed to him.

At last Chirpy decided that he might as well do a little fiddling himself, to pass the time away. So he began his cr-r-r-i! cr-r-r-i! cr-r-r-i! And then Tommy noticed him immediately.

“You’re playing the wrong tune!” he cried. “It’s re-teat! re-teat! re-teat!”

Chirpy Cricket thought that his cousin’s face was slightly darker, as if a flush of annoyance had come over it. He certainly didn’t want to quarrel with Tommy Tree Cricket. So he said to him, very mildly, “I fear you do not like my playing.”

“I can’t say that I do,” said Tommy. “It makes me think of that creaking pump at the farmhouse.”

“And of what”—Chirpy Cricket stammered—“of what, pray, does your own fiddling remind you?”

“Ah!” said Tommy. “My own music is like nothing in the world except the sound of a shimmering moonbeam.”

There is no doubt that Tommy Tree Cricket thought very well of his own fiddling.