"Yes," said Peter, for he was well brought up, and always answered when
he was spoken to.

"My dear little child, thou art wise, though so young now; how shall we
get money to pay our rent?"

"Sell the eggs that the speckled hen has laid," said Peter.

"But when we have spent the money for them, what then?"

"Sell more eggs," said Peter, for he had an answer for everything.

"But when the speckled hen lays no more eggs, what shall we do then?"

"We shall see," said Peter.

"Now indeed art thou wise," said his mother, "and I take thy meaning;
it is this, when we have spent all, we must do as the little birds do,
and trust in the good Heaven." Peter meant nothing of the kind, but then
folks will think that such wise fellows as Peter and I mean more than we
say, whence comes our wisdom.

So the next day Peter started off to the town, with the basket full of
nice white eggs. The day was bright and warm and fair; the wind blew
softly, and the wheatfields lay like green velvet in the sun. The
flowers were sprinkled all over the grass, and the bees kicked up their
yellow legs as they tilted into them. The garlic stuck up stout spikes
into the air, and the young radishes were green and lusty. The brown
bird in the tree sang, "Cuckoo! cuckoo!" and Peter trudged contentedly
along, kicking up little clouds of dust at every footstep, whistling