ss.

"It's all the same to me," said the Flea. "She may have the old
Leap-frog, for all I care. I jumped the highest; but in this world
merit seldom meets its reward. A fine exterior is what people look at
now-a-days."

The Flea then went into foreign service, where, it is said, he was
killed.

The Grasshopper sat without on a green bank, and reflected on worldly
things; and he said too, "Yes, a fine exterior is everything--a fine
exterior is what people care about." And then he began chirping his
peculiar melancholy song, from which we have taken this history; and
which may, very possibly, be all untrue, although it does stand here
printed in black and white.

THE ELDERBUSH

Once upon a time there was a little boy who had taken cold. He had
gone out and got his feet wet; though nobody could imagine how it had
happened, for it was quite dry weather. So his mother undressed him, put
him to bed, and had the tea-pot brought in, to make him a good cup of
Elderflower tea. Just at that moment the merry old man came in who
lived up a-top of the house all alone; for he had neither wife nor
children--but he liked children very much, and knew so many fairy tales,
that it was quite delightful.

"Now drink your tea," said the boy's mother; "then, perhaps, you may
hear a fairy tale."

"If I had but something new to tell," said the old man. "But how did the
child get his feet wet?"

"That is the very thing that nobody can make out," said his mother.

"Am I to hear a fairy tale?" asked the little boy.

"Yes, if you can tell me exactly--for I must know that first--how deep
the gutter is in the little street opposite, that you pass through in
going to school."

"Just up to the middle of my boot," said the child; "but then I must go
into the deep hole."

"Ah, ah! That's where the wet feet came from," said the old man. "I
ought now to tell you a story; but I don't know any more."

"You can make one in a moment," said the little boy. "My mother says
that all you look at can be turned into a fairy tale: and that you can
find a story in everything."

"Yes, but such tales and stories are good for nothing. The right sort
come of themselves; they tap at my forehead and say, 'Here we are.'"

"Won't there be a tap soon?" asked the little boy. And his mother
laughed, put some Elder-flowers in the tea-pot, and poured boiling water
upon them.

"Do tell me something! Pray do!"

"Yes, if a fairy tale would come of its own