Presently there was a knock at the door, and Mr. Woodchuck hastened to open. It was the Iron Grenadier from the farm across the way. He had begun life as a door-weight, but losing his position and the greater part of his substance with it, by an accident in middle age, had since spent his declining years in the barn. He was old and very stiff, but on hearing that a party was to be given in honour of the strangers he came stumping up the hill, pounding on every door in turn and shouting enquiries, until at last he found Mrs. Woodchuck’s house.
He was given at once the place of honour by the chimneyside, with a mug of blackberry cider and Mr. Woodchuck’s best pipe.
“A bit of a bore,” Mrs. Weasel whispered to Poor Cecco, “and he shouts so loudly it’s quite dreadful at times, but he is a solid character, and we all feel proud of him!”
Suddenly, while the enjoyment was at its height, and Jensina had just performed for the third time her most dashing gypsy dance, twirling on her toes and snapping her fingers, there was a strange and sinister scuffling overhead, accompanied by loud squeaks. And immediately through the hole in the roof which Mr. Woodchuck had still forgotten to repair, something fell with a thud right at Jensina’s very feet.
It was a large stone, with a piece of paper wrapped around it. Poor Cecco was the first to snatch it up, and when he had unfolded the paper this is what they saw:
