“Oh, yes. They’re thankin’ the vermin for givin’ ’em such a fine breakfast of bees an’ termites. Kind of the foebeasts, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed it was, though I don’t think they’ll be bothered about birdsong right now. Mud poultices and dockleaves will be more their concern this fine morning.”

“Let that be a lesson t’the rogues, I say. None of ours were stung, were they, Cregga?”

“Only one. That was Florian, who had a smear of honey on the tip of his nose. That’ll teach him to steal scones!”

“Hush. Here he comes now.”

The hare looked a comical sight with his nose swathed in a poultice of dockleaf, motherwort and pond mud. He strode toward the pond in search of fresh mud, pursued by several Dibbuns and Tragglo, who had made up a little ditty about the incident, which he sang with evident gusto.

“Ho there am I, a liddle bee,

A-livin’ in my ole oak tree,

When some bad varmint wid an ax,

Deals my ’ome a good few whacks.

Oh buzz, sez I, now wot’s amiss,

Good gracious me, I can’t ’ave this.

So buzz, buzz, buzz, I flies right out,

Wags my sting an’ looks about,

Buzz buzz buzz, who can I sting?

Whoever did this wicked thing.

So right up in the air I fly,

An’ there the villain I espy,

Buzz buzz buzz, the one I chose,

Had honey smeared all on his nose,

Buzz buzz buzz, aye, that’s him there,

That ’orrible funny-lookin’ hare.

Steal my honey, that ain’t fair,

Yore goin’ to pay the price, proud sir,

Buzz buzz buzz, so down I goes,

An’ stings him hard upon his nose,

I made him leap an’ howl an’ wail,

An’ that’s the sting in my small tale.

Buzz buzz buzz, I tell you folk,

Stay clear o’ my ole three-topped oak!”

Ellayo chuckled as she described the scene to Cregga. “Heeheehee, the Dibbuns are dancin’ round mister Florian an’ whirrin’ their paws as if they was wings. Hear ’em makin’ buzzin’ noises? I won’t repeat t’you wot that hare’s a-sayin’.”

Cregga smiled. “You’ve no need to, friend. I can hear him.”

Florian was stumbling over Dibbuns, holding the poultice still and shouting at them. “Away an’ leave me in peace, you pint-sized rotters! Get from under me paws, vile infants! An’ you, Tragglo sir, there’s nothin’ funny in a warrior gettin’ his hooter nipped by a confounded buzzin’ insect. Shame on you an’ all your ilk, sir, you’re a bounder an’ a pollywoggle an’ a dreadful singer t’boot, so there, wot!”

Tragglo retaliated by quickly composing the first line of a new ditty. “I’ll sing ye a ballad of a fork from a salad . . .”