Below you'll find the ending to the city mouse and country mouse's story:
Dinner, for example, was different in the city than in the country. "At a five-star hotel, dinner begins with hors d'oeuvres," Alistair explained.
Alistair led Oliver through the dining room. They hid behind potted plants and raced under tablecloths. They waited until the chef went to check something in the dining room, then they scampered across the kitchen and into the dark pantry where Oliver stumbled over something.
"Do be careful," said Alistair.
Oliver saw what he'd stumbled over. "It's a-a-a . . ."
"A mousetrap." Alistair scooted it under a shelf with his paw. "You'll learn to stay away from them."
Alistair led Oliver up the shelves to the hors d'oeuvres. Alistair gobbled fancy crackers, nibbled pasta, and even managed to chew a hole in a tin of smoked salmon.
"Now this," said Alistair, patting his tummy, "is fine dining."
Oliver was still so frightened, that he barely ate a crumb.
"Tonight the chef is preparing roast duck with herbed potatoes in a delicate cream sauce." Alistair's mouth watered. His whiskers twitched. "One taste and you'll never go back to the country."
The mice crept out of the pantry. The kitchen seemed empty. Alistair darted about, gathering up bits of duckling and potatoes. He didn't notice the chef marching back into the kitchen.
But the chef noticed Alistair. "You again!" shouted the chef. The chef chased the mice around the kitchen with a broom.
Alistair and Oliver escaped through a hole under the sink.
"No main course tonight, I'm afraid," said Alistair. "But don't worry, cousin. We'll make up for it with dessert."
Alistair showed Oliver the tarts and turnovers and cheesecakes. Oliver timidly nibbled the edge of a flaky cream puff. It was so delicious! He leaned forward to get a bigger bite -- and splat!
The cart lurched forward. Oliver had landed face down in the cream puff.
Alistair grabbed the edge of a lacy napkin and hung on tight as a waiter wheeled the cart across the dining room.
Oliver wobbled off the cart. "I'm not cut out for life in the city," he said. "You take too many risks for your dinner. A mouse could starve to death here, too. I'm going home to the good life."
So Oliver dragged his carpet bag back through crowded city streets, over fields and valleys until he reached his hole under the root of the big old oak tree.
He ate a late supper of acorns and wheat kernels, then curled up in his oak leaf bed. He could hear the crickets chirping.
Back at his hotel, Alistair curled up in his linen napkin and listened to the orchestra play.
Both mice sighed. "I love being home," they said.