Cricket laughed. »I saved but one thing, my dearest possession,« he cried, and held aloft his fiddle. »What care I for house and food, since I have my fiddle?« And he played so merrily his friends were scandalized.
»Well, we had an idea of helping you out,« said the neighbors, »but if you think more of playing that thing than saving your useful bed, and your food, then you can just help yourself.« With that they went their ways, one to rake leaves over his roof, another to hoe the earth about his cellar, and a third to pile brush against the windows to keep away the cold winds.
Cricket smiled to himself. »Queer kind of friends,« he thought. Then he set to work to build his house by himself.
Early Monday morning he cleared away all the ashes of his burned house, and that night he sat and fiddled to himself for courage. Nobody came.
All day Tuesday he bent over the hoe, making a smooth floor for his new dwelling. It seemed so endless a task that that night he sat and fiddled to himself for hope. Nobody came.
Wednesday he carted and piled stones through the hot hours, to build the cellar. That night he sat wearily down and fiddled to himself for patience. Nobody came.
Thursday through the rain, he gathered and laid green twigs for the walls of his fine new house, and when they were done that night he sat and played his fiddle for joy. Nobody came.
Friday he brought long grasses and moss and thatched a neat little roof above his home, and that night he sat on the top of it and fiddled away for happiness and the beauty of the harvest moon. Still nobody came.
Saturday he fashioned a little bed and a little table, benches, a cupboard and a store room, and filled the pantry with berries and grain. That night he sat before his door and fiddled away for dancing, and that night they came.
»That must be Cricket playing that fiddle he saved from the fire,« said Squirrel as he hurried to the clearing. Merrily, gaily the melody rang in time with the village bells, and little feet began to twitch to the magic of the tune. Soon the whole clearing was alive with tiny creatures on their way to Cricket’s.
The Cricket who raked the leaves, the one who hoed the ground, the one who piled the brush; they all came, and when they saw that fine new house and Cricket himself, his hard work done, they laughed and shouted with joy. They waved their arms. They doubled their legs. They scraped their little brown bodies, making the magic music they had come to dance to.
