"I'm a little hoarse," apologized the singer. "That's what you want to be, isn't it?" said Buddie, misunderstanding him. "Hee-haw!" laughed the Donkey. "Is that a joke? I mean my _throat_ is hoarse." "And the rest of you is donkey!" cried Buddie, who could see a point as quickly as any one of her age. "There's something to that," said the other, thoughtfully. "Now, if the _hoarseness_ should spread--" "And you became _horse_ all over--" "Why, then--" "Why, then--" "Think of another old saw," said the Donkey, picking up his lute. "No; I don't believe I can remember any more old saws," said Buddie, after racking her small brain for a minute or two. "Pooh!" said the Donkey. "They're as common as, Pass the butter, or, Some more tea, please. Ever hear, Fair words butter no parsnips?" Buddie shook her head. "The wolf does something every day that keeps him from church on Sunday--?" Again Buddy shook her head. "It is hard to shave an egg--?" Still another shake. "A miss is as good as a mile? You can not drive a windmill with a pair of bellows? Help the lame dog over the stile? A hand-saw is a good thing, but not to shave with? Nothing venture, nothing have? Well, you haven't heard much, for a fact," said the Donkey, contemptuously, as Buddie shook her head after each proverb. "I'll try a few more; there's no end to them. Ever hear, When the sky falls we shall all catch larks? Too many cooks spoil the broth?" "I've heard _that_," said Buddie, eagerly. "It's a wonder," returned the Donkey. "Well, I have a very nice setting of that." And he sang: "Some said, 'Stir it fast,' Some said, 'Slow'; Some said, 'Skim it off,' Some said, 'No'; Some said, 'Pepper,' Some said, 'Salt';-- All gave good advice, All found fault. Poor little Tommy Trottett! Couldn't eat it when he got it." "I like that," said Buddie. "Oh, and I've just thought of another old ax--I mean saw, if it _is_ one--Don't count your chickens before they are hatched. Do you sing that?" "One of my best," replied the Donkey. And again he sang: "'Thirteen eggs,' said Sammy Patch, 'Are thirteen chickens when they hatch.' The hen gave a cluck, but said no more; For the hen had heard such things before. The eggs fall out from tilted pail And leave behind a yellow trail; But Sammy,--counting, as he goes, Upon his fingers,--never knows. Oh, Sammy Patch, your 'rithmetic Won't hatch a solitary chick." "I like that the best," said Buddie, who knew what it was to tip over a pail of eggs, and felt as sorry for Sammy Patch as if he really existed. "It's one of my best," said the Donkey. "I don't call it my very best. Personally I prefer, Look before you leap. You've heard that old saw, I dare say." "No; but that doesn't matter. I shall like it just as well," replied Buddie. "_That_ doesn't follow, but _this_ does," said the Donkey, and once more he sang: