he burst out crying louder and more like a five-finger exercise than ever before, and no one had the heart to stop him. They could only put their fingers in their ears and shake their heads and stamp.
“Indeed it doesn’t hurt,” Poor Cecco was saying. “Bulka, dear Bulka, I’ll buy a new tail to-morrow if you’ll stop crying!”
But Bulka refused to be comforted. His weeping swelled out on the breeze, loud and strong. All over the garden one could hear him, and all the potato bugs came running, wakened out of sleep, to know what the matter was. To Anna, however, lost among the potato vines and very miserable, it was a positive blessing. She lifted her head, stopped snivelling, and lumbered back, led by the sound, to where the others were gathered.
“What has happened?” she began. “Have you found the treasure? Why is Bulka crying?”
“Poor Cecco has lost his tail!”
Then Anna had to cry too.
“Hoo—Hoo—” they all lamented. “Poor Cecco has lost his tail!”
“Where did he lose it?” asked the potato-bugs, who after all are practical people.
“He broke it off. Hoo—Hooo!”
“Then why did you say he lost it?” returned the eldest potato-bug, slightly annoyed. “Lost is one thing, broken another. We can’t do anything about that!” And the
