Chirpy cricket was so good-natured that he wouldn’t quarrel with his cousin, Tommy Tree Cricket. Although Tommy had said bluntly that Chirpy’s fiddling reminded him of Farmer Green’s creaking pump, Chirpy made no disagreeable answer. He did not want to hurt his pale cousin’s feelings.

After making his rude remark Tommy Tree Cricket began his re-teat! re-teat! re-teat! once more. He shuffled his wings together at a faster rate than ever, as if he had to furnish all the music for the night. As before, he seemed to have forgotten all about his caller; for Chirpy still waited beneath the raspberry bush where Tommy Tree Cricket was fiddling.

But if Tommy paid no heed to Chirpy, there was a reason why. Near Tommy sat a pale young miss of his own sort, who listened with great enjoyment to his playing. Or at least she acted as if she thought it the most beautiful music in the whole world.

Tommy Tree Cricket was not so intent upon his fiddling that he couldn’t roll his eyes towards his fair listener. And Chirpy was not slow to understand that it was for her that Tommy was playing his re-teat! re-teat! re-teat!

“I’ll wait here until he rests,” Chirpy said to himself. “Then I’ll ask him again what he knows about Mr. Mole Cricket.”

Well, Chirpy waited and waited. But it seemed to him that as the night lengthened Tommy Tree Cricket fiddled all the faster. And if the weather hadn’t turned colder along toward morning probably he wouldn’t have had a chance to speak to Tommy again.

Anyhow, a cool wind began to whip around the side of Blue Mountain and sweep through Pleasant Valley. And the moment it struck Tommy Tree Cricket he began to play more slowly. Little by little a longer pause crept between his re-teats. And at last the pale miss beside him cried, “I hope you’re not going to stop your beautiful fiddling!”

“I fear I’ll have to,” Tommy told her with a sigh. “I’m beginning to feel a bit stiff, with this north wind blowing on me.”

This was Chirpy Cricket’s chance.

“Please!” he called. “Will you listen to me a moment?”

“What! Have you come back again?” Tommy Tree Cricket sang out.

“No! I’ve been here all the time,” Chirpy explained. “I’ve been waiting for hours to have a talk with you.”

“Very well!” Tommy answered. “It’s too cold for me to fiddle any more. So talk away! And you’d better be quick about it, for the night’s almost gone.”

But somehow Chirpy Cricket felt that his chat could wait a little longer. If the pale young person clinging to the raspberry bush near Tommy Tree Cricket loved music, he thought it was a pity to disappoint her.

“You may feel too cold to fiddle; but I don’t!” Chirpy said. “I’m quite warm down here on the ground. This little hollow where I’m sitting is sheltered from the wind. So I’ll fiddle for your friend.” As he spoke he began to play.

Looks as of great pain came over the pale faces of his two listeners in the raspberry bush. And they shuddered so violently that they had to cling tightly to their seats to keep from falling.

“My friend thanks you. But she says she doesn’t care for your fiddling,” Tommy Tree Cricket called down to Chirpy. “She says it’s too squeaky.”

Chirpy Cricket was fiddling so hard by that time that he never heard a word. And when he stopped at last, to rest a bit, a voice cried out, “That’s fine! Won’t you play some more?”

Chirpy Cricket was pleased. He thought, of course, that it was Tommy’s friend speaking to him. But when he looked up he couldn’t see her anywhere—nor her companion either.

They had both disappeared. And it was already gray in the east.