"The language of men, my dear," I observed to Mrs. Hedgehog, "is quite
different to ours, even in general tone; but I assure you that when I
first heard the tinker's mother, I could have wagered a louis d'or and a
bottle of brandy that I heard hedgehogs whining to each other. In fact,
I was about to remonstrate with them for their imprudence, when I found
out that it was the old woman who was moaning and muttering to herself."
"What is the matter with her?" asked Mrs. Hedgehog.
"I was curious to know myself," said I, "and from what I have overheard,
I think I can inform you. She is the tinker's mother, and judging from
what he said the other night, was not by any means indulgent to him when
he was a child. She is harsh enough to his young brats now; but it
appears that she was devoted to an older son, one of the children of
his first wife; and that it is for the loss of this grandchild that she
vexes herself."
"Is he dead?"
"No, my dear, but--"
"Has he been flitted?"
"Something of the kind, I fear. He has been taken to prison."
"Dear, dear!" said Mrs. Hedgehog; "what a trial to a mother's feelings!
Will they bake him?"
"I think not," said I. "I fancy that he is tethered up as a punishment
for taking what did not belong to him; and the grandmother's grievance
seems to be that she believes he was unjustly convicted.
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