At the edge of a harvested field, under a grain loft built on short wooden posts, the country mouse was sweeping husks from her floor with a dry grass stem. She had just set out her supper on a flat chip of bark: barley kernels, an oat head, two dried peas, and a bit of turnip rind. Before she could even sit down, she heard light feet on the ladder. Her cousin from the town appeared, neat-whiskered and bright-eyed, with dust from the road clinging to his little cloak of fur.
“Cousin,” said the country mouse, hurrying forward, “you have come a long way. Please, share what I have.” She pushed the bark chip toward him and brought a clover leaf folded into a cup of clear water. The town mouse sat down politely and nibbled a single barley kernel. He looked at the oat head, the peas, the turnip rind, and finally at the rough boards overhead. “You live with a brave heart,” he said, “but this is a hard table. In town, even the crumbs are finer than this.”
The country mouse turned the turnip rind in her paws and smiled a little. “It fills the evening,” she replied. But the town mouse was already boasting of a house with deep cupboards, a pantry lined with heavy sacks, and a dining room where people left white bread, cheese, cake, and sugared fruits on shining dishes. He spoke of carpets as soft as moss and curtains thick enough to …
6 chapters
