Farmer Brown’s boy with his rod and a can of worms was making his way to the Laughing Brook. He felt good all over, did Farmer Brown’s boy. He felt good because it was the kind of a day to make any one feel good. And he felt good because it was a holiday for him and he knew that he had earned it. He had worked hard in the hayfield for days and days, and in the cornfield and in the garden, and never once had he complained. You see, he knew that the work just had to be done. That morning at breakfast Farmer Brown had given him a surprise. It was such a splendid surprise! He had told him that that day was to be his very own in which to do just what he wanted to do. Do you wonder that he felt good all over?

The very first thing he thought of was fishing. He just knew that the speckled trout were waiting for him to catch them. And now he was on his way with a lunch in his pocket and joy in his heart, so much joy that it was bubbling out in the merriest of whistles. As he made his way through the Green Forest to the Laughing Brook, it seemed to him that all the little people he saw by the way were glad because he was glad.

Now there was a certain quiet pool deep in the Green Forest where Farmer Brown’s boy was certain he would find hungry trout. He hadn’t the smallest doubt of it. More than once he had looked down in that clear pool and seen big trout there, and he was sure he would find them there now. So he headed straight for this particular pool. When he was near enough he put a fat worm on his hook and dropped it in the water. He didn’t doubt that it would be taken at once by a fat, hungry, speckled trout.

“I ought to catch at least three in this pool,” said he to himself, and waited, keeping perfectly still. Nothing happened. Farmer Brown’s boy moved the bait about in the most enticing way he knew how, and still nothing happened. He didn’t get so much as a nibble.

“This is queer,” muttered Farmer Brown’s boy. “I never have had to wait so long for a bite in this pool before.” He continued to keep perfectly still, as a good fisherman should, and waited patiently. Still there wasn’t a nibble. Presently, having nothing else to do, he began to take note of things, the trees, the flowers, the humming insects and at last the opposite bank, which was steep and smooth.

“Looks as if something had been sliding down there,” he muttered. “Wonder what it could have been. Funny the trout don’t bite. I hate to give up, but guess I’ll have to. I’ll go down to the next pool and try my luck there.”

So he trudged down to the next pool and a pair of sharp eyes watched him go. They were the eyes of Sammy Jay, and Sammy was chuckling under his breath. You see, he knew why Farmer Brown’s boy had caught no fish. The pool which he had just left was the very pool in the bank of which Little Joe Otter and Mrs. Otter had their home, and now there were no fat trout there. Little Joe and Mrs. Joe had caught all of them. They are especially fond of trout.

But Farmer Brown’s boy knew nothing of this. In fact, he knew very little about Little Joe Otter anyway. So he trudged on, sure that he would have better luck in the next pool. Sammy Jay followed, still chuckling. He seemed to find something a great joke.

“There are smarter fishermen in this brook than you, and I wouldn’t give much for all the fish you will catch,” he remarked to no one in particular. But he was looking at Farmer Brown’s boy, who still had no luck.

Farmer Brown’s boy hadn’t had one bite, not one teeny, weeny nibble, and he really didn’t know what to make of it. Many times had he fished in the Laughing Brook but never before with quite such bad luck as this.

Farmer Brown’s boy said this over twice as he tossed his bait into the second little pool. Then he waited. He waited and waited and waited! All good fishermen wait and wait and wait. To catch fish patience is as necessary as bait. So Farmer Brown’s boy waited. Nothing happened; nothing at all.

“I wonder if some one has been here before me and caught all the trout,” thought he. “I didn’t get a nibble at the first pool and I haven’t had a nibble at this pool. Guess I’ll have to move on.”

So he moved on towards the third pool a little farther down the Laughing Brook. He had almost reached it when he heard a splash and then another splash. He put down his rod and crept forward very, very carefully, so as to make no sound. When he could see the little pool clearly he caught his breath. Other fishermen were ahead of him. In fact, a family fishing party was right in that very pool and having better luck, much better luck, than he had had. The members of that party were catching fish, the very trout he had been so sure of catching when he started out. These were the ones who had spoiled his fishing. Have you guessed who they were? They were Little Joe Otter, Mrs. Joe and the little Otters.

Farmer Brown’s boy kept perfectly still and held his breath. He forgot all about his own fishing. He had seen Little Joe only once or twice before, and then had caught only a glimpse of his brown head in the Smiling Pool. Of course he had never seen Mrs. Joe or the two children.

Little Joe dived. He was gone so long that Farmer Brown’s boy began to wonder what had become of him. Suddenly his brown head popped up and in his mouth was a beautiful, speckled trout, a trout that Farmer Brown’s boy would have been delighted to have caught.

“Gee!” exclaimed Farmer Brown’s boy under his breath.

Little Joe swam with the trout straight over to where the two little Otters were waiting on a big flat stone at the edge of the water, fairly dancing with excitement. Just before he reached them, Little Joe dropped that fish. It could still swim, though not very fast.

Splash! The two young Otters were in the water after it, each eager to be the one to catch it. They were clumsy and overeager, and you know overeagerness often is quite as bad as being too slow. Each got in the way of the other. The fish twisted and turned and they tried to follow. At last, one of them made a lucky dash and proudly turned towards the bank with the fish in his mouth. Very proud he looked. The other swam after and tried to take the fish away from him. It looked very much as if there might be a fight right there in that little pool in the Laughing Brook. But just then Mrs. Joe interfered. She swam in between the two and pushed the unsuccessful one away. He went off by himself and sulked while the other dragged his prize out on a rock and began to eat.

A few minutes later Mrs. Joe caught another trout and this she carried to the little Otter who had none. When she let the fish go, it could swim only a little and so the young Otter had no trouble in catching it. Farmer Brown’s boy wondered if it was just chance that those fish were alive, or if they had been kept so purposely to give the young Otters a lesson in fishing. I wonder too. Don’t you?

Farmer Brown’s boy watched the family fishing party until it moved on to the next pool. Then he remembered his own fishing and the fat trout he had promised to bring back for supper that night.

“Now I understand why I haven’t had a bite,” he chuckled. “Little Joe Otter and his family got started earlier than I did. They are welcome to all they have caught, for the fun of seeing those young Otters get their first fishing lesson is worth more to me than any fish could be. But I can’t allow them to get all the fish. I could frighten them away, but I don’t want to do that. No, Sir, I don’t want to make them afraid of me. I know what I’ll do; I’ll circle around through the woods and get ahead of them.”

So Farmer Brown’s boy tramped around through the Green Forest until he reached the Laughing Brook again at a point where he felt sure of being ahead of the Otter fishing party. In a minute there was a sharp tug at his line and presently he pulled out a silvery, speckled trout. Then Farmer Brown’s boy forgot all about everything but fishing.

Now it just happened that that very morning Old Man Coyote had taken it into his head to visit the Laughing Brook and see what was going on there. It may be that in the back of that shrewd head of his was an idea there might be some helpless young babies or headstrong and careless young children of one kind or another who would furnish him with a tender and easily gotten breakfast. Anyway, he was going up the Laughing Brook and Farmer Brown’s Boy was going down the Laughing Brook. Of course they met. However, Farmer Brown’s boy didn’t know it. He didn’t know a thing about it. You see, he was so intent on fishing that he had no eyes for anything but the water and his fishing line. So he didn’t see Old Man Coyote. But Old Man Coyote saw him and lifted his lips from his long, strong teeth in a most unpleasant manner as he sneaked past through the brush.

“Probably he has frightened everybody along the Laughing Brook,” grumbled Old Man Coyote bitterly, as he went on his way.

But he had gone only a short distance after passing Farmer Brown’s boy when his sharp ears heard a faint splash in a little pool just ahead. Instantly he dropped flat on his stomach and began to crawl forward an inch at a time, his eyes blazing with eagerness and his pointed ears cocked forward. Presently he saw Little Joe Otter and Mrs. Joe swimming, and a great disappointment swept over him. He knew that they were far too smart to be caught by him.

A moment later he saw the two young Otters. All his disappointment was forgotten and the eager look returned to his eyes. He couldn’t imagine anything more to his liking than young Otter. His mouth watered. He licked his lips hungrily. Inch by inch he crept nearer. One of the young Otters climbed up the bank almost in front of him. Old Man Coyote wriggled nearer. He brought his hind feet under him, ready for a quick spring. Then he waited. He wanted that young Otter, but he was too crafty to risk a fight with Little Joe Otter and Mrs. Joe unless he had to. So he waited.

Presently Little Joe and Mrs. Joe called the two children and started down the Laughing Brook. The young Otter in the water obeyed instantly, but the one on the bank didn’t. He was tired and he wanted to rest. The others could go if they wanted to, for they wouldn’t go far and he could soon catch up with them. He rather liked the idea of being left alone. It made him feel more independent. There was nothing to fear. So he sat still and watched the others disappear around a turn in the Laughing Brook. When they were out of sight he chuckled. He thought himself very smart.

A very tiny noise behind him, the rustle of a leaf, caused him to turn his head. He had just time to get a glimpse of fierce, yellow eyes and gleaming teeth. Then the paws of Old Man Coyote landed on him. He was caught!

The foolish little Otter, who hadn’t minded his father and mother but had remained behind on the bank of the little pool in the Laughing Brook, didn’t have time to even squeal before Old Man Coyote had him. Old Man Coyote didn’t kill him at once, as he might have done with one crunch of his great jaws. He wanted to play with him a little first.

Now, though Old Man Coyote thought that no one saw him, some one did. It was Sammy Jay. Sammy had been following the Otter family, keeping very still and taking the greatest pains to keep out of sight himself. You see, he was very much interested in those Otter children and he thought it great fun to watch them having their first lessons in fishing. So he was right where he could see perfectly what happened. The instant Old Man Coyote sprang from his hiding-place Sammy knew that the little Otter hadn’t a chance in the world unless he could do something. Right away he remembered Farmer Brown’s boy fishing just a little farther down the Laughing Brook. “Perhaps,” thought Sammy, “if I scream loud enough and long enough, he will come to see what all the fuss is about.”

So Sammy opened his mouth and began to scream at the top of his lungs. “Thief! Thief! Thief!” he screamed, flying down just over Old Man Coyote’s head.

Old Man Coyote looked up and snarled angrily. “Stop your noise!” he snapped. “This is none of your business.”

“Thief! Thief! Thief!” screamed Sammy louder than ever.

Now the very instant that Sammy began to scream Little Joe Otter and Mrs. Joe, who were just around a turn in the Laughing Brook, knew that an enemy was near. For the first time they missed the little Otter who had remained behind. Little Joe didn’t wait a second. He started back as fast as he could swim, which is very fast indeed. Mrs. Joe followed as soon as she had seen that the other little Otter was in a safe hiding-place.

Old Man Coyote was still snarling at Sammy Jay when he saw Little Joe coming, and behind him Mrs. Joe. He knew then that he was to have a fight, but he had no intention of giving up that little Otter. He backed away, dragging the little Otter with him and showing all his great teeth in ugly snarls. Meanwhile Sammy Jay kept up his screaming. Of course Farmer Brown’s boy heard it. He stopped fishing to listen. He knows the ways of Sammy Jay, does Farmer Brown’s boy.

“Something going on back there,” he muttered. “Wonder what it is. Sammy doesn’t scream like that unless he is terribly excited. Guess I’ll have to see what it all means.”

He laid his rod down, leaving the bait in the water. Very carefully he tiptoed back to where Sammy was making such a racket. He was just in time to see Little Joe and Mrs. Joe rushing at Old Man Coyote, who was growling and snarling, while with his two fore feet he held down the whimpering little Otter. Farmer Brown’s boy didn’t stop to think. He just opened his mouth and yelled. Then picking up a stick he rushed forward.

Old Man Coyote didn’t wait for him to get there. At the sound of that yell he jumped as if he had been shot. Then he turned and vanished like a shadow in the brush. Little Joe Otter and Mrs. Joe had been almost as much frightened as Old Man Coyote, and they ran too. But they didn’t run far. Oh, my, no! Their love was too strong for that. They dived into the little pool, but almost at once their brown heads appeared again, as they turned to see what new danger threatened their darling.

As for the latter, he was too badly frightened to move. He growled feebly in a very frightened way as Farmer Brown’s boy picked him up.

“You poor little thing,” said Farmer Brown’s boy gently. “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”

But the little Otter couldn’t understand a word and just shivered with fear. At first Farmer Brown’s boy thought that he would take the little fellow home for a pet. Then he looked down into the little pool straight into the eyes of Mrs. Joe, and he saw there such a look of anxious love and longing that he marched straight down to the edge of the water and gently put his little captive in it. Then he laughed and the laugh was good to hear as the little fellow dived and swam out to join his parents as fast as ever he could, and all three promptly disappeared. When he got back to where he had left his rod something was tugging at the line. It was the biggest trout he ever had caught.

Summer had passed and winter had brought the first snow. Peter Rabbit likes snow. That is, he likes it if there isn’t too much of it. Sometimes, when it is very deep, Peter has a hard time getting enough to eat. But when it isn’t too deep he likes it. You see, Peter is full of curiosity, and when there is snow on the ground and it isn’t crusted over, he is able to learn many things about his neighbors. All he has to do is to follow their tracks to find out where they have been and what they have been doing.

So with the coming of the first snow Peter hurried over to the Green Forest, and as soon as he got there he began to look for tracks. The first he found were the dainty little footprints of Whitefoot the Wood Mouse. They were almost as dainty as the tracks of birds. He followed them until they were joined by bigger tracks. Then Peter stopped. He suddenly lost interest. You see, those bigger tracks he recognized right away. They were the footprints of Reddy Fox. Peter decided that this was no place for him, for he knew that those footprints were made only a very short time before.

So away went Peter in quite another direction. Presently he found footprints very like his own, only very much bigger. They were the footprints of his cousin, Jumper the Hare. “I haven’t seen Cousin Jumper for a long time, so I guess I’ll see if I can catch up with him,” thought Peter.

He hurried, lipperty-lipperty-lip, following the trail of Jumper. It wound this way and that between the trees, and crossed and recrossed. Gradually it led towards the Laughing Brook. Suddenly Peter sat up and stared round-eyed at another trail that crossed the trail of Jumper. It was a queer trail. It was the queerest trail Peter ever had seen. There were footprints, but they were queer footprints. They were quite round, and following straight along with them was a little furrow in the snow. Peter guessed right away that this was made by a tail. That would mean that the maker of the tracks had short legs.

Right away Peter forgot all about his cousin, Jumper the Hare. He was all curiosity to find out who had made this queer trail. He turned and followed it. Presently he came to where there was a gentle slope. There the footprints ended, but there was a long furrow clear down to the bottom of the slope. It was as if something had been pushed or dragged down the slope through the snow.

Peter hurried on. At the bottom of the slope he found the footprints again. He noticed that this trail always followed the easiest way. It never led over logs or stumps, but always around them. By and by he came to another of those long furrows in the snow. He stopped to study it. He scratched a long ear with a long hind foot. He scratched the other long ear with the other long hind foot. He was puzzled. He was very much puzzled. He didn’t know what to make of this long furrow without any footprints.

“The only way to find out,” he decided, “is to catch up with the one who has made this trail.” So he hurried on, lipperty-lipperty-lip. And so at last he came to the top of a steep bank at the bottom of which ran the Laughing Brook. Beginning at the top of this bank was another one of those queer furrows. It ended down below at the edge of the water. Peter looked across the Laughing Brook. He could see no trail on the other side. He looked everywhere, but could see no signs of that trail. It simply ended right there at the Laughing Brook.

Peter Rabbit sat at the top of the steep bank of the Laughing Brook in the Green Forest, as puzzled a Rabbit as ever lived. The queer trail he had followed ended in this long furrow straight down the steep bank to the water. Peter hadn’t the least idea who had made that queer trail. So he sat there, staring all about rather foolishly, and now and then scratching a long ear with a long hind foot.

“Hello, Peter Rabbit! Isn’t this great weather? Don’t you just love it? I do,” said a voice.

Peter stared all around, everywhere but in the right direction. Finally he just happened to look down in the black, cold water of the Laughing Brook. There in the very middle of it he saw a brown head with a pair of bright eyes full of mischief looking up at him.

“Little Joe Otter!” cried Peter. “Goodness, how you startled me! I couldn’t tell where that voice came from. Yes, this is fine weather. I like it too. But I hope it won’t get any colder.”

“I don’t care how cold it gets,” declared Little Joe Otter. “By the way, what brings you over here to the Laughing Brook?”

That reminded Peter of the queer trail that had so puzzled him. “Some one, I haven’t the least idea who, has been traveling about in the Green Forest, and has left the queerest trail I’ve ever seen,” said he. “In parts of it there are no footprints at all; there is just a long furrow in the snow. Here is one of those furrows right down this bank.”

Little Joe Otter’s bright eyes twinkled. “That is queer,” said he. “Now who under the sun do you suppose could have made it?”

“That’s what I want to know,” declared Peter. “But I guess I’ll have to keep on wanting, for I don’t see that trail coming out of the water anywhere.”

“I’ll have to have a little closer look at that. I’ll join you in a minute,” said Little Joe Otter.

He swam swiftly up the Laughing Brook and came out of the water where the bank was low. Then he made his way around up to where Peter was sitting. “That is a queer trail,” said he, trying to keep his eyes from twinkling. “It looks to me as if some one had slid down there. I tell you what, Peter, let’s slide down, too, and see how it seems.”

“No, thank you,” replied Peter promptly, and backed away in a rather undignified manner. Just looking at that cold, black water made him chilly.

“Oh, come on, Peter! It is the greatest fun in the world!” cried Little Joe, and giving a quick, hard push with his hind feet he glided right down that furrow flat on his stomach straight into the water. Peter looked over at the trail Little Joe had made getting up there. Then in a flash he understood. That trail which had puzzled him so was made by Little Joe Otter himself. He had made those queer furrows by sliding on his stomach in the same way that he had gone down that bank. Peter gave a happy little sigh. His curiosity was satisfied.

Peter Rabbit was so tickled over having discovered who made the queer trail in the snow that he quite forgot to look down in the Laughing Brook to see where Little Joe Otter went to. When he did think to look, Little Joe was nowhere to be seen. Peter waited awhile, hoping that Little Joe would return. He wanted to see him slide down that bank again.

At last Peter decided that Little Joe had gone home, and that there was no use sitting on the snow-covered bank of the Laughing Brook any longer. He was just turning away when he heard a splash from the Laughing Brook. He stopped to look up stream. At once he saw four swimmers coming down the Laughing Brook and appearing to have no end of fun as they rolled over in the water, dived, swam under water, and moved swiftly along, with just their heads showing. They were Little Joe Otter, Mrs. Otter, and their two nearly grown children.

When they reached the place where Peter had first seen Little Joe climb out and up the bank, Little Joe made straight for shore. You remember that the bank was low there. Out he scrambled. Out behind him scrambled Mrs. Otter. Out behind her scrambled one of the young Otters, and out behind this one scrambled the other young Otter. Then, following the trail Little Joe had made in the snow, they came straight up along the bank towards where Peter was sitting. Peter suddenly felt bashful. He retreated rather hurriedly to the shelter of a snow-covered hemlock bough. He couldn’t help a suspicion that one of those Otters might suddenly think that a Rabbit dinner would taste good.

Little Joe led the way to the edge of the steep bank where Peter had watched him slide down. With a quick, hard kick of his hind feet he disappeared down that bank and a second later Peter heard a splash in the water. Then Mrs. Otter did the same thing, and the two young Otters followed. Peter remained right where he was. In a few minutes he saw Little Joe Otter coming back up the trail again. And behind him came Mrs. Otter and the two young Otters. “I do believe they’re going to slide again,” thought Peter. “I must get where I can watch them.”

So Peter crept out of his hiding-place and over to the edge of the bank, where from a safe distance he could watch Little Joe and his family. Again, flat on his stomach, Little Joe came sliding down that furrow in the snow straight into the Laughing Brook. One of the young Otters couldn’t wait for Mrs. Otter to go down in that same furrow and made a furrow of his own. The other followed right at his heels. Then there was a great swimming race to see who could get back to the low place on the bank first, and then another race through the snow to get to the top of the slide.

Such a merry coasting party as that was. Every time one of those Otters disappeared in the black, cold-looking water, Peter shivered. He just couldn’t help it. But there was no shivering on the part of Little Joe and his family. Not a bit of it! They appeared to enjoy those plunges into the water quite as much as they would have had it been a midsummer day. The more they slid the better the slide became and the faster they went.

“Come on and join us, Peter!” cried Little Joe, as he kicked off and went shooting down.

Peter shook his head. He did it a little wistfully. Those Otters were having such a merry time that Peter envied them. But every time he looked at that water, so cold and black, he shivered. The coasting part might be all right, but Peter preferred to try it where there was no water at the end of the slide.

Rough Brother North Wind and Jack Frost had been down from the Far North for some time now. The pond of Paddy the Beaver, the Smiling Pool, and the Laughing Brook, excepting where it ran swiftly, were covered with ice. The Green Meadows and the Green Forest and the Old Pasture were deep with snow. Only those who, like Johnny Chuck and Nimble Heels the Jumping Mouse and Striped Chipmunk and Bobby Coon, were asleep in their snug homes, or, like Paddy the Beaver and Jerry Muskrat, had plenty to eat close by their houses, had nothing to worry about. Those who had to hunt for their food were having a hard time of it. They always do in winter.

Little Joe Otter and his family had cause for worry. You know they live on fish. But now they were having to work as they never had before to get enough to eat. You see, they had been fishing so long in the Smiling Pool and along the Laughing Brook that fish were becoming scarce. It was the morning after the coasting party that Little Joe and Mrs. Otter went without breakfast that the two young Otters might eat.

“My dear,” said Little Joe, “this is the poorest fishing I have ever known. So much of the Laughing Brook is frozen over that only a few places are left in which we can fish. And we have already caught most of the fish in those places. We have got to do something about it.”

“I’ve been thinking that very thing,” replied Mrs. Otter. “Shall we take the youngsters down to the Big River?”

“I know of another brook, a bigger brook than this, which has deep spring holes in it, and many places where the water is swift and does not freeze. We might go there first,” said Little Joe.

“Is it far from here?” asked Mrs. Otter.

Little Joe admitted that it was very far from there. “But what of it?” said he. “It will give the youngsters a chance to see something of the Great World, and that will be good for them. When we reach that brook we can stay there as long as there is good fishing, and then follow it down to the Big River. Then we can come down the Big River and so back here to the Laughing Brook.”

Mrs. Otter thought this over for a few minutes. “Wouldn’t such a journey over land be dangerous?” she asked.

“Are you afraid?” asked Little Joe.

“Not for myself,” snapped Mrs. Otter rather sharply. “It is the children I am thinking of.”

“They’ve never been in any real danger,” said Little Joe. “It would be a good thing for them to make a journey on which they must watch out all the time. It would teach them how to take care of themselves.”

Mrs. Otter scratched her nose thoughtfully. “When do we start?” she asked very suddenly.

“To-night,” replied Little Joe promptly. “It will be moonlight to-night. Besides, the sooner we start, the sooner we’ll get a good meal.”

“You’re sure you know the way?” asked Mrs. Otter a bit doubtfully.

“Of course,” replied Little Joe. “Do you think I would propose going if I didn’t know the way?”

So it was decided that the Otter family would start on a journey that very night.

Gentle Mistress Moon, peeping down though the tops of the trees of the Green Forest, saw a queer procession going up the Laughing Brook to the pond of Paddy the Beaver, deep in the Green Forest. They were Little Joe Otter, Mrs. Otter, and the two nearly grown young Otters. Little Joe was leading, the others following in single file.