opened wide his moist red lips and began singing, his head on one side, his eyes shut, and his beard quivering:
'The hare beneath the bush lies still,
The hunters vainly scour the hill;
The hare lies hid and holds his breath,
His ears pricked up, he lies there still
Waiting for death.
O hunters! what harm have I done,
To vex or injure you? Although
Among the cabbages I run,
One leaf I nibble—only one,
And that's not yours!
Oh, no!'
Cucumber went on with ever-increasing energy:
'Into the forest dark he fled,
His tail he let the hunters see;
'Excuse me, gentlemen,' says he,
'That so I turn my back on you—
I am not yours!"'
Cucumber was not singing now . . . he was bellowing:
'The hunters hunted day and night,
And still the hare was out of sight.
So, talking over his misdeeds,
They ended by disputing quite—
Alas, the hare is not for us!
The squint-eye is too sharp for us!'
The first two lines of each stanza Cucumber sang with each syllable drawn out; the other
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