ter, if it pleases me? Now the last child is really
a wonder. He is quite black and has little white claws, but not a single
white hair on his body.

MISS MOUSE. What have you named him?

CAT. I'm afraid that will please you no better than the others, but still I
will tell you. First, though, run to see if your dear mother is not coming.

[_Miss Mouse nods and runs out. The Cat creeps to the pot and eats all the
fat. She then crosses to the window._]

CAT. What one begins one must needs finish.

[MISS MOUSE _returns._]

MISS MOUSE. Mother is nowhere to be seen. Now tell me what you named your
youngest child.

CAT. All-out.

MISS MOUSE. All-out? Why, that is more curious than the others. I have
never seen it in print.

CAT (_glaring at Miss Mouse_). You never will!

MISS MOUSE (_frightened_). What do you mean?

CAT (_preparing to spring_). I mean to put you down with the fat!

MISS MOUSE. Help! help!

[_Enter_ MOTHER MOUSE _just as the Cat clutches her daughter and jumps out
of the window with her. Mother Mouse crosses and looks into the empty
grease-pot._]

MOTHER MOUSE (_sighing sadly_). 'T was ever thus! Show your grease-pot, and
you'll go with it!

THE GIRL WHO TROD ON THE LOAF

SCENE I

TIME: _the day before Christmas_.

PLACE: _Inge's Mother's home_.

* * * * *

INGE.
HER MOTHER.

* * * * *

[_The_ MOTHER _stands at the kitchen window, watching for Inge._]

MOTHER. Ah, here she comes at last!

(_Short pause. Enter_ INGE.)

I have waited long for you, my child. Where have you been?

(_Inge is silent._)

Have you been to the Elf Hill? Tell me.

INGE (_hesitating_). Just for a little while, mother.

MOTHER. Inge! Inge! What have I ever told you?

INGE. I thought I'd go just this once.

MOTHER (_showing sorrow_). Ah, Inge, that's what you always say.

INGE. There's no harm talking with the elves.

MOTHER. And I, your mother, say there is harm.

INGE. But, mother,--they talk so prettily.

MOTHER (_nodding_). Aye! and that's the harm. They've put such silly ideas
into your head.

INGE. They say 't is friendship makes them talk as they do.

MOTHER (_indignantly_). Friendship! 'T is friendship, is it, to tell you
not to fetch the wood?

INGE. They say 't will spoil my hands.

MOTHER. Out upon them and their pretty talk! You shall go there no more. Do
you hear me, Inge?

INGE (_pouting_). I hear.