him, sharply and angrily, "What art thou afraid of, cowardly creature?

What art thou weeping at, heart of butter-paste? Who pursues or

molests thee, thou soul of a tame mouse? What dost thou want,

unsatisfied in the very heart of abundance? Art thou, perchance,

tramping barefoot over the Riphaean mountains, instead of being seated

on a bench like an archduke on the tranquil stream of this pleasant

river, from which in a short space we shall come out upon the broad

sea? But we must have already emerged and gone seven hundred or