Out they all went, and it was Grandfather Mole who was to try the burning first of all. So they fetched sticks and twigs and covered him all over with them, and then set fire to them. Dear, dear, but it was a fine blaze that went up, but the mole had his wits about him; for as soon as he felt the heat of the fire he began digging down into the ground with all his might and main, so that not a spark touched him. “Do you burn, Grandfather Mole?” says the Great Red Fox. “No!” bawled Grandfather Mole. So they just threw on another armful of twigs. By and by the Great Red Fox says again: “Do you burn, Grandfather Mole?” for he thought by this time that the mole must be as scorched as an old shoe under the stove. But Grandfather Mole was ready for him. “_No!!_” he bawled, louder than ever. Dear, dear, but here was a strange happening; all the same, the Great Red Fox threw on wood and threw on wood, until the blaze went up like a chimney afire. “And _now_ do you burn, Grandfather Mole?” says he. “NO!!!” bawled Grandfather Mole until you might have thought his throat would have split with the noise he made. So they let the fire go out, and up came Grandfather Mole out of the ground looking as fresh and as sharp as a green gooseberry. And now it was the Great Red Fox’s turn; and they heaped the sticks and twigs over him as they had done over Grandfather Mole, and then set fire to them. “Do you burn?” says Grandfather Mole after a bit. “NO!!!” bawled the Great Red Fox, as though his throat was made of leather. So they threw on more sticks and twigs, but the Great Red Fox just shut his teeth and grinned, for he was bound that he would stand as much of a burning as an old blind mole. [Illustration: The Great Red Fox beareth all that he can.] “Do you burn now?” says Grandfather Mole. “No,” says the Great Red Fox, but his voice was as small as peas in March. So they threw on another armful of wood, and the fire grew hotter and hotter. “And do you burn now?” says Grandfather Mole. “_Thunder and lightning, yes!_” bawled the Great Red Fox, and out he jumped and away he scampered, smoking like a charcoal kiln. So all he gained by his roguery was a burnt skin and nothing to show for it; and that has happened more than once to rogues whose wits are so sharp that they cut their own fingers with them. Now in our town we do not make puddings without plums, or tell a story without rhyme or reason, but if you wish to find any meaning in these words, you must put on your spectacles and look for it for yourself, even though the tale stands all legs and no head, as the man in the moon said about his grandmother’s tongs. [Illustration] [Illustration] Eight O’clock·