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“Boo!” said the ox.

“Bo!” said the moon. “What are you staring at?”

“I’m looking at those two who are lying there asleep,” said the ox. “Do you know them?”

“I believe something of the kind used to crawl over my face years and years ago,” replied the moon. “But I’m not sure. My memory has become very bad in the last hundred thousand years. It’s almost more than I can do to concentrate my thoughts upon my celestial course.”

“Yes, thinking is not my strong point either,” said the ox. “But I am frightened.”

“Of those two there?” asked the moon.

“I don’t know why,” said the ox, “but I can’t bear them.”

“Then trample them to death!” cried the moon.

“I dare not,” said the ox. “Not by myself. But perhaps I can persuade some one to help me.”

“That’s your look-out,” said the moon. “It’s all one to me.”

And she sailed on. But the ox stood and chewed the cud and thought and got no further.

“Are you asleep?” asked the sheep, sticking out her long face beside the ox.

And suddenly the whole meadow came to life.