`What's the use of a fox when you've got it?' said Bruno. `I know you big things hunt foxes.'

I tried to think of some good reason why `big things' should hunt foxes, and he shouldn't hunt snails, but none came into my head; so I said at last: `Well, I suppose one's as good as the other. I'll go snail- hunting myself some day.'

`I should think you wouldn't be so silly,' said Bruno, `as to go snail-hunting all by yourself. Why, you'd never get the snail along, if you hadn't somebody to hold on to his other horn!'

`Of course I shan't go alone,' I said, quite gravely. `By the way, is that the best kind to hunt, or do you recommend the ones without shells?'

`Oh no, we never hunt the ones without shells,' Bruno said, with a little shudder at the thought of it. `They're always so c'oss about it; and then, if you tumble over them, they're ever so sticky!'

By this time we had nearly finished the garden. I had fetched some violets, and Bruno was just helping me to put in the last, when he suddenly stopped and said, `I'm tired.'

`Rest, then,' I said. `I can go on without you.'

Bruno needed no second invitation: he at once began arranging the dead mouse as a kind of sofa. `And I'll sing you a little song,' he said, as he rolled it about.

`Do,' I said. `There's nothing I should like better.'

`Which song will you choose?' Bruno said, as he dragged the mouse into a place where he could get a good view of me. `"Ting, ting, ting" is the nicest.'

There was no resisting such a strong hint as this: however, I pretended to think about it for a moment, and then said: `Well, I like "Ting, ting, ting" best of all.'

`That shows you're a good judge of music,' Bruno said, with a pleased look. `How many bluebells would you like?' And he put his thumb into his mouth to help me to consider.

As there was only one bluebell within easy reach, I said very gravely that I thought one would do this time, and I picked it and gave it to him. Bruno ran his hand once or twice up and down the flowers, like a musician trying an instrument, producing a most delicious, delicate tinkling as he did so. I had never heard flower-music before--I don't think one can, unless one's in the `eerie' state--and I don't know quite how to give you an idea of what it was like, except by saying that it sounded like a peal of bells a thousand miles off. When he had satisfied himself that the flowers were in tune, he seated himself on the dead mouse (he never seemed really comfortable anywhere else), and, looking up at me with a merry twinkle in his eyes, he began. By the way, the tune was rather a curious one, and you might like to try it for yourself, so here are the notes:

`Rise, oh, rise! The daylight dies:
   The owls are hooting, ting, ting, ting!
Wake, oh, wake! Beside the lake
   The elves are fluting, ting, ting, ting!
Welcoming our fairy king,
   We sing, sing, sing.'

He sang the first four lines briskly and merrily, making the bluebells chime in time with the music; but the last two he sang quite slowly and gently, and merely waved the flowers backwards and forwards above his head. And when he had finished the first verse, he left off to explain. `The name of our fairy king is Obberwon'--he meant `Oberon', I believe--`and he lives over the lake--there--and now and then he comes in a little boat--and then we go and meet him--and then we sing this song, you know.'

`And then you go and dine with him?' I said mischievously.

`You shouldn't talk,' Bruno hastily said; `it interrupts the song so.'