Chester Cricket's New Home by George Selden

goes, I think the music that you kin make goes ivry bit is far is my light!”
    â€œOh no—” began Chester.
    â€œWe could find out!” the dragonfly interrupted him. He was shivering with excitement—so much that his wings shed a cascade of silver drops. “If you were to come and live with me—will, I could flicker my wings in the light and make my colors look like your music. Wowy me! Kik! kik! kik! How would that be, Chister?”
    â€œTerrific, Donald,” said Chester. “But…” Whatever the “but” was, it made him pause. “I just think—somehow—you make colors, and I make music, and—”
    â€œYiss, I see.” Donald nodded philosophically. “It’s bitter to keep thim apart.”
    â€œMost times,” said the cricket. “But some times, of course, we could do it together.”
    â€œFer spicial occasions!”
    â€œ Yiss! I mean, yes.”
    â€œYou still could live with me, Chister, though.”
    â€œI could,” agreed Chester, “but—” And this “but”—the biggest—needed no explanations.
    â€œI know,” said Donald. “I’m a loner, too. But I jist had to ask. ”
    â€œI will always be grateful,” said Chester Cricket. He hesitated, but then decided to speak his whole heart. “And, Donald, after this talk we’ve had—which I really enjoyed very much, more even than I can say—I always will think of you as being my secret best friend.”
    They touched wings, which is something that insects do.

EIGHT
    The Lady Beatrice
    The next morning, back at Simon’s Pool, the cricket didn’t tell either the snake or the turtle about what had happened the night before. It was too private—just insect to insect, one might say.
    However, the problem still remained. In fact, it stayed around all day.
    Walt Water Snake didn’t seem too upset—impatient, if anything, Chester thought. He was frisking and fidgeting all afternoon, as if he simply couldn’t wait for Chester to leave on another trial flight toward home.
    â€œSurely some kindly soul will offer you a night’s lodging,” said Walter. “As a matter of fact, I do believe that I spy a kindly soul—who looks like a whole week’s worth of lodging—waddling toward me this very minute!”
    Chester glanced at the bank. “Shh!” he whispered.
    â€œShe’ll hear you. You know how sensitive Beatrice is.”
    â€œWhy, Madame Plumage”—Walter made a very elaborate bow, which had at least three curves in it—“I just this second was saying to Chester, I wish those elegant fowl the Pheasants would come toddling over and pay us a visit.”
    Ambling along, by the side of the brook, were Beatrice Pheasant and her husband, Jerome. Now, it is well known that in most pheasant families the male bird always grows the most beautiful plumage. It’s his right—Nature says so. And, indeed, in the case of Jerome and Beatrice, if you looked very closely, you would see that the gold and the amber and the brown—and perhaps a hidden trace of green—that his feathers contained were more brilliant than hers. Yet, somehow, Beatrice seemed the more grand. Perhaps it was just that she always walked first, and talked first, and spoke with such quiet authority. Or maybe her size, which was very impressive, made her look rather special. Whatever the reason, and despite what Nature might say, Beatrice was the Pheasant who favored the Old Meadow with her presence, and Jerome was a pheasant, her husband, whom everyone tended to like and forget. (On most matters, in fact, Beatrice Pheasant liked to have the last word, and not leave it to Nature or anyone else whose views might differ from her own.)
    She cleared her throat and spoke with a slight but becoming warble. “Jerome and I were out for our constitutional—” By which she