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.