also had thought to be fairly off. "Don't you like the bread?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am!" said the child.

"Well, then, carry it to your mother, my little friend. If you wait any
longer, she will think you are playing by the way, and you will get a
scolding."

The child did not seem to hear. Something else absorbed his attention.

The baker's wife went up to him and gave him a friendly tap on the
shoulder. "What are you thinking about?" said she.

"Ma'am," said the little boy, "what is that that sings?"

"There is no singing," said she.

"Yes!" cried the little fellow. "Hear it! Queek, queek, queek, queek!"

My friend and the woman both listened, but they could hear nothing,
unless it was the song of the crickets, frequent guests in bakers
houses.

"It is a little bird," said the dear little fellow; "or perhaps the
bread sings when it bakes, as apples do?"

"No, indeed, little goosey!" said the baker's wife; "those are crickets.
They sing in the bake-house because we are lighting the oven, and they
like to see the fire."