34 The Catskill Fairtes.

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So the little mouse sat on its hind-legs, and crossed its fore-
paws piteously.

“Tam very young to die. I ran away from the nest behind
the beam of the cellar just to see life. Oh! please don’t look
at me like that!” it said faintly.

“JT will not eat you if you tell a story,” said Puss.

“Oh, dear!” piped the little mouse. “How can I tell a
story? I have no ideas, and I have never been even to a
mouse school yet. I am really a baby. To be sure, we have
gnawed a great many books and papers; still we do not read
the print—we only make nests.”

“Do you stay in the corner of the hearth and think of a
story,” said the cat. “If you try to run away I will eat you
in one mouthful. There! I don’t mind your being a baby
mouse at all; your bones will be all the more tender on that
account.”

So the little mouse had to sit in the corner, and make the
best of it. When the cat looked at it, the mouse closed its
eyes, pretending to nap, for it wished to appear very much at
ease, but it trembled in every limb for dread of those terrible
jaws and gleaming eyes.

It was now the cat’s turn to tell a story.

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