"Hee-haw! hee-haw!" laughed the Donkey. "Thistles and cactus, but that's rich!" And he hee-hawed until the tears ran down his nose. Poor Buddie, who knew she was being laughed at but didn't know why, began to feel very much like crying and wished she might run away.

   "Excuse these tears," the Donkey said at last, recovering his family gravity. "Didn't you ever hear the saying, A burnt child dreads the fire?"

   Buddie nodded, and plucked up her spirits.

   "Well, that's an old saw. And you must have heard that other very old saw, No use crying over spilt milk."

   Another nod from Buddie.

   "Here's my setting of that," said the Donkey; and after a few introductory chords, he sang:

   "How do you like my voice?" asked the Donkey, in a tone that said very plainly: "If you don't like it you're no judge of singing."

   Buddie did not at once reply. A professional critic would have said, and enjoyed saying, that the voice was of the hit-or-miss variety; that it was pitched too high (all donkeys make that mistake); that it was harsh, rasping and unsympathetic, and that altogether the performance was "not convincing."

   Now, Little One, although Buddie was not a professional critic, and neither knew how to wound nor enjoyed wounding, even

    she

   found the Donkey's voice harsh; but she did not wish to hurt his feelings—for donkeys

    have

   feelings, in spite of a popular opinion to the contrary. And, after all, it was pretty good singing for a donkey. Critics should not, as they sometimes do, apply to donkeys the standards by which nightingales are judged. So Buddie was able to say, truthfully and kindly:

   "I think you do very well; very well, indeed."

   It was a small tribute, but the Donkey was so blinded by conceit that he accepted it as the greatest compliment.

   "I

    ought

 Prev. P 16/98 next