"Excuse these tears," the Donkey said at last, recovering his family gravity. "Didn't you ever hear the saying, A burnt child dreads the fire?" Buddie nodded, and plucked up her spirits. "Well, that's an old saw. And you must have heard that other very old saw, No use crying over spilt milk." Another nod from Buddie. "Here's my setting of that," said the Donkey; and after a few introductory chords, he sang: "'Oh, why do you cry, my pretty little maid, With a Boo-hoo-hoo and a Heigho?' 'I've spilled my milk, kind sir,' she said, And the Cat said, 'Me-oh! my-oh!' 'No use to cry, my pretty little maid, With a Boo-hoo-hoo and a Heigho.' 'But what shall I do, kind sir?' she said, And the Cat said, 'Me-oh! my-oh!' 'Why, dry your eyes, my pretty little maid, With a Boo-hoo-hoo and a Heigho.' 'Oh, thank you, thank you, sir,' she said, And the Cat said, 'Me-oh! my-oh!'" "How do you like my voice?" asked the Donkey, in a tone that said very plainly: "If you don't like it you're no judge of singing." Buddie did not at once reply. A professional critic would have said, and enjoyed saying, that the voice was of the hit-or-miss variety; that it was pitched too high (all donkeys make that mistake); that it was harsh, rasping and unsympathetic, and that altogether the performance was "not convincing." Now, Little One, although Buddie was not a professional critic, and neither knew how to wound nor enjoyed wounding, even _she_ found the Donkey's voice harsh; but she did not wish to hurt his feelings--for donkeys _have_ feelings, in spite of a popular opinion to the contrary. And, after all, it was pretty good singing for a donkey. Critics should not, as they sometimes do, apply to donkeys the standards by which nightingales are judged. So Buddie was able to say, truthfully and kindly: "I think you do very well; very well, indeed." It was a small tribute, but the Donkey was so blinded by conceit that he accepted it as the greatest compliment. "I _ought_ to sing well," he said. "I've studied methods enough. The more methods you try, you know, the more of a donkey you are." "Oh, yes," murmured Buddie, not understanding in the least. "Yes," went on the Donkey; "I've taken the Donkesi Method, the Sobraylia Method, the Thistlefixu Method--" "I'm afraid I don't quite know what you mean by 'methods,'" ventured Buddie. The Donkey regarded her with a pitying smile. "A method," he explained, "is a way of singing 'Ah!' For example, in the Thistlefixu Method, which I am at present using, I fill my mouth full of thistles, stand on one leg, take in a breath three yards long, and sing 'Ah!' The only trouble with this method is that the thistles tickle your throat and make you cough, and you have to spray the vocal cords twice a day, which is considerable trouble, especially when traveling, as _I_ always am." "I should think it _would_ be," said Buddie. "Won't you sing something else?"