account of his nose, which was always red and polished on the end, like a ripe cherry. He was overjoyed when he saw the piece of wood, and rubbed his hands together in satisfaction, mumbling to himself. "This is just the thing to make into a table leg."
He began at once, raising a sharp axe to peel the bark and shape the wood, but just as he was on the point of striking, he stopped with his arm still in air, for he heard a tiny, thin little voice say, "Do not strike me so hard."
Imagine the surprise of good old Master Cherry! He turned his frightened eyes around the room to find the source of the voice, but saw no one. He looked under the bench, and no one was there; he looked in a cupboard that was always kept closed, but it was empty; he looked in a basket of chips and shavings; he even opened the door to glance into the street. Who could it be?
"Oh I see," he said finally, scratching his wig and laughing. “Evidently I imagined I heard that little voice. I will just get to work again."
