Walter Water Snake craned his head up as far as he could above the surface of Simon Turtle’s Pool. He could see just over the rim of the bank of luscious mud that surrounded, on three sides, the neat inlet where he and Simon lived. The fourth side opened out to the brook which in its rush kept fast fresh water circling their blue-green home. “I’m gonna bite that mutt!” “No, you’re not,” said Chester Cricket wearily. He’d heard all this before. Chester, too, lived in Simon’s Pool—or rather above it, in a hole in a log that had been chewed out by Simon and Walt. The cricket’s first home, a comfortable stump, had been squashed by two overweight ladies who sat on it. “You know you don’t bite.” “I can try!” Walter fumed. “After all—I am a snake! And I have to keep up appearances.” “Walt—will you behave?” demanded Chester. “And not even pretend to bite Dubber?” “Oh—tchoor!” When Walter Water Snake was feeling frisky, which was most of the time, or feeling mischievous, which was most of the rest, he said “tchoor”
