“Little Mr. Quail grew thoughtful. Then he started in to help Old Mr. Toad catch bugs so as to give the green things a chance to grow. He had found work to do, and he did it with all his might. He forgot he ever had wanted to sail around in the air or flit about in the trees. He had found his place in the Great World, and he had found work to do, and also he had found the secret of the truest happiness. He was so happy that he had to tell his neighbors about it. So every morning, just before starting work, he would fly up on a stump and whistle with all his might; what he tried to say was, 'All-all's right! All-all's right!' But what his neighbors thought he said was, 'Bob-Bob White! Bob-Bob White!'
“So they promptly called him Bob White and loved him for the cheer which his clear whistle brought to them. When Old Mother Nature came to see how things were getting on, she found little Mr. Quail the happiest and the most useful of all the birds, and as she listened to his whistle, she smiled and said: 'I love you, Bob White, and all the world shall love you.' And all the world has loved him to this very day.”
DID something move among the dead leaves along that old log, or was it the wind that stirred them? Peter Rabbit stared very hard trying to find out. Not that it made the least bit of difference to Peter. It didn't. If something alive had moved those leaves, that something was too small for Peter to fear it. Probably it was a worm or a bug. It might have been a beetle. That looked like a good place for beetles. There was Jimmy Skunk ambling down the Lone Little Path this very minute, and Jimmy always appeared to be looking for beetles. Peter stared harder than ever. A leaf moved. Another turned fairly over. There wasn't any wind just then. Dead leaves don't turn over of themselves, so there must be something alive there.
“What has Peter on his mind this morning to make him stare so?” asked Jimmy Skunk as he ambled up.
Peter grinned. “I was just wondering,” said he, “if there are any fat beetles under that log over there. Those dead leaves along the side of it have a way of moving once in a while without cause that I can see. There! What did I tell you?”
Sure enough, a couple of leaves had moved. Jimmy Skunk's eyes brightened. He actually almost hurried over to that old log, and began to rake away the leaves. Suddenly he stopped and sniffed. At the same time Peter thought he saw something dart in at the hollow end of that log. It might have been a shadow, but Peter had a feeling that it wasn't. Jimmy Skunk sniffed once more and then deliberately turned his back on that old log, and with his nose turned up, his face the very picture of disgust and disappointment, he rejoined Peter.
“Teeny Weeny, clever and spry,
Disappears while you wink an eye.'
said Jimmy.
“Oh!” exclaimed Peter. “Is that who it was? I suppose he was hunting beetles himself. He's such a little mite of a fellow that I should think a goodsized beetle could almost carry him away. I declare to goodness, I don't see how any one so small manages to live! Danny Meadow Mouse and Whitefoot the Wood Mouse are small enough, but they are giants compared with Teeny Weeny the Shrew. They have a hard enough time keeping alive, and I should think that any one smaller would stand no chance at all.”
“Do you know Teeny Weeny very well?” asked Jimmy.
“No,” confessed Peter. “I've seen him only a few times and then had no more than a glimpse of him.”
“And yet he lives right around here where you come and go every day,” said Jimmy.
“I know it,” replied Peter. “I suppose it is because he is so small. He can hide under next to nothing.” Jimmy grinned. “I don't see but what you've answered yourself,” he chuckled. “It's because he is so small that Teeny Weeny manages to keep out of harm. He isn't very good eating, anyway, so I have heard say.”
“Why? Because there isn't enough of him to make a bite?” asked Peter.
“No,” replied Jimmy. “Of course I don't know anything about it, but I've heard those who do say that a Shrew doesn't taste good, and that no one who is at all particular about his food will touch one. I am told that Hooty the Owl hunts Teeny Weeny, but Hooty isn't at all particular, you know. If Teeny Weeny tastes the way he smells, I for one don't want to try him.”
Peter laughed right out. He couldn't help it. The idea of Jimmy Skunk being fussy about smells was too funny.
“What are you laughing at?” demanded Jimmy, suspiciously.
“At the idea that any one so small can smell bad enough to make any difference,” replied Peter. “I wonder how he comes to have that bad smell.”
“It's a reward,” replied Jimmy. “It's a reward handed down to him from the days when the world was young, and his great-great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather, the first Shrew, you know, who was also called Teeny Weeny, was given it by Old Mother Nature, because he had sense enough to be grateful and to tell her that he was.”
“It's a story!” cried Peter. “It's a story, and you've just got to tell it to me, Jimmy Skunk.”
“Say please,” grinned Jimmy.
“Please, please, please, please,” replied Peter. “If that isn't enough, I'll say it as many times more.”
“I guess that will do, because after all it isn't so very much of a story,” returned Jimmy, scratching his head as if he were trying to stir up his memory.
“It happened way back in the beginning of things that when Old Mother Nature had about finished making the birds and the animals, she had just a teeny weeny pinch of the stuff they were made of left over. Because she couldn't then and can't now bear to be wasteful, she started to make something. First she started to make it into a very tiny mouse. Then she changed her mind and started to make it into a tiny mole. Finally she changed her mind again and made it into something like each but not just like either, blew the breath of life into it, and set it free in the great world. That was Teeny Weeny, the first Shrew, and the smallest of all animals.
“For a while Teeny Weeny wished that he hadn't been made at all. He wished that Old Mother Nature hadn't been so thrifty and saving. What was the good of being an animal at all if he wasn't big enough to be recognized as such? That's the way he felt about it for a while. It hurt his feelings to have old King Bear say, after just missing him with his great foot. 'I beg your pardon, You are so tiny I thought you were a bug of some kind. Of course, I don't mind stepping on bugs, but I wouldn't step on you for the world. Why don't you grow so that we can see you?'
“'Yes, why don't you?' asked old Mr. Wolf. 'If you get stepped on, don't blame us.' Even Mr. Meadow Mouse laughed at him because he was so small. Teeny Weeny was quite furious at that. So for a while he was very unhappy because he was so small. He ate and ate and ate, hoping that this would make him grow bigger. But it didn't. He remained as small as ever, the smallest of all the four-footed people. And his temper didn't improve. Not a bit. He was fretful and snappish. He said all sorts of things about Old Mother Nature because she had made him so small. He almost hated her. He couldn't see a single advantage in being so small.
“Time went on, and at length came the hard times of which you have heard, the times when food was so scarce and most of the little people were always hungry. Then it was that the big and strong began to hunt the small and weak, as you know. At first Teeny Weeny was in a regular panic of fear. He felt that because he was so small he hadn't any chance at all. But after a while he made a discovery, a most amazing discovery. It quite took his breath away when he first realized it. It was that because he was so small he had more chance than some of those of whom he had been envious. Because he was so small, he could slip out of sight in a twinkling. He could slip into holes that no one else could get into. A leaf on the ground would hide him.
“Then he discovered that because he was so very small, it didn't take much food to fill his stomach, and he had no trouble in finding all he needed to eat. While his neighbors were going hungry, he was fat and comfortable. Bugs there were and worms there were in plenty, and on these he lived. One day he saw Old Mother Nature, and she looked worried. She was worried. It was in the very middle of the hard times and wherever she went, the little people of the Green Forest and the Green Meadows crowded about her to complain and ask her help. Teeny Weeny remembered all the bitter things he had said and all the bitter thoughts he had had because she had made him so small, and he was ashamed. Yes, Sir, he was ashamed. You see, he realized by this time that his small size was his greatest blessing.
“What did Teeny Weeny do but march right straight up to Old Mother Nature the first chance he got and tell her how grateful he was for what she had done for him. He was quite honest. He told her how he had felt, and how he had said bitter things, and how sorry he was now that he understood how well off he was. Then he thanked her once more and turned to leave. Old Mother Nature called him back. She was wonderfully pleased to have these few words of thanks amid so many complaints.
“'Teeny Weeny,' said she, 'because you have been smart enough to see, and honest enough to admit a blessing in what you had thought a hardship, and because you have been grateful instead of complaining, I herewith give you this musky odor, which will be distasteful to even the hungriest of your enemies. It is a further protection to you and your children and your children's children for ever and ever.'
“And so it was, and so it has been, and so it is, and that's all,” concluded Jimmy Skunk.
TURNCOAT isn't considered a very nice name to call any one. You see, it is supposed to mean one who has turned traitor, as it were; has been on one side and gone over to the other side. If a soldier who is fighting for France should go over to the German army and fight for Germany against France, he would be a turncoat. Benedict Arnold, of whom you have read in history, was a turncoat. But the meaning isn't always bad. Just take the case of Jumper the Hare. In summer he wears a coat of brown, but in winter he wears a coat of white, the white of the pure driven snow. So you see he is a turncoat, but in his case it doesn't mean anything bad at all. On the contrary, it means something rather nice and very interesting.
Now you know Jumper is the cousin of Peter Rabbit and looks very much like Peter, save that he is very much larger and has longer hind legs and longer ears. But Peter wears the same little homely brown coat in winter that he does in summer, the only difference being that it is thicker and so warmer. I am afraid that Peter has sometimes let a little envy creep into his heart when he has met his cousin wearing a coat of pure white. Be that as it may, Peter puzzled over the matter a great deal until he found out from Grandfather Frog how it happens that Jumper has such a lovely winter coat.
It happened one evening in early June, when Peter was hopping along down the Lone Little Path through the Green Forest, that he met Jumper and stopped to gossip for a few minutes. He had not seen Jumper since gentle Sister South. Wind had swept away the last of the winter snow. Then Jumper's coat had been white; now it was brown. This reminded Peter that he never had been able to tease Jumper into telling him how he could change his coat that way. None of Peter's other friends of the winter seemed to know, for he had asked all of them, and each had told him to ask Grandfather Frog. Of course, Peter couldn't do that in winter because Grandfather Frog was then fast asleep in the mud at the bottom of the Smiling Pool. With the coming of spring he had forgotten all about the matter. Now at the sight of Jumper once more, it all came back to him.
When Peter and Jumper parted, Peter started for the Smiling Pool, lip-perty-lipperty-lip. He arrived there quite out of breath. Grandfather Frog smiled a big, broad smile. Before Peter could say a word Grandfather Frog spoke.
“If you will catch a foolish green fly for me, Peter, Ill tell you the story,” said he.
For a full minute Peter couldn't find his tongue, he was so surprised. “How do you know what story I want?” he stammered at last.
“I don't know, but that doesn't make any difference,” replied Grandfather Frog. “Catch me a foolish green fly, and I'll tell you any story you want.”
“But—but—but I can't catch foolish green flies,” cried Peter. “I would if I could, but I can't, and you know I can't.”
“You can try,” replied Grandfather Frog gruffly, but with a twinkle in his eyes which Peter didn't see.
Peter hesitated. Then suddenly he shut his lips in a way that meant that he had made up his mind to something. He looked this way and that way. Whichever way he looked he saw foolish green flies flitting about. He jumped for one and missed it. He jumped for another and missed it. It was the beginning of such a funny performance that Grandfather Frog nearly rolled off his big green lily-pad with laughter. Peter raced and jumped this way and that way on the banks of the Smiling Pool as if he had gone quite crazy, and at last in his excitement jumped right into the Smiling Pool itself after a foolish green fly. But not one did he catch.
As he crawled out of the water, looking forlorn enough, Grandfather Frog took pity on him. “Chug-a-rum!” said he. “Lie down there in the sun and dry off, Peter, and I'll tell you the story.”
“But I haven't caught you a foolish green fly!” exclaimed Peter.
“No, but you've tried, and willingness to try is just as deserving of reward as successful effort. Now what was it you wanted to know?” replied Grandfather Frog.
“If you please, I want to know how it is that my cousin, Jumper the Hare, happens to have a white coat in winter. It seems to me very curious,” replied Peter.
“A long time ago, in the beginning of things,” began Grandfather Frog, “Old Mother Nature gave the first Hare a brown coat and turned him out into the Great World to shift for himself, just as she had done with all the other animals. That was a very easy matter for old Mr. Hare, who wasn't old then, of course. You see, those were good times with plenty for all to eat without trying to eat each other. Mr. Hare was very bashful, and like most bashful people he liked to be by himself. So he made his home in the most lonely part of the Green Forest and was very happy and contented for a long time.
“Now being alone so much made him very timid, ready to jump and run at the least unusual sound, and this, it happens, proved to be a very good thing for Mr. Hare. You see, being by himself that way, he had plenty to eat even after the hard times of which you have-heard had begun. So he was in splendid condition, was Mr. Hare, even after some of the other little people had begun to grow thin because of lack of food. One day Mr. Lynx happened to stray to that part of the Green Forest where Mr. Hare was living. He saw Mr. Hare before Mr. Hare saw him. He licked his lips hungrily. 'Ha!' thought he, 'this is where I get a good dinner.'
“With this he began to creep ever so softly towards Mr. Hare. But careful as he was, he stepped on a tiny stick and it snapped. Instantly away went Mr. Hare without stopping to see what had made the noise. That was because he had grown so timid from living so much alone. Then Mr. Lynx made a mistake. With a yell he started after Mr. Hare, and so Mr. Hare learned that it was no longer safe to trust his neighbors. Mr. Lynx didn't catch Mr. Hare, because Mr. Hare was too swift of foot for him, but he gave him such a scare was that Mr. Hare was more timid than ever.
“Others tried to catch him, and, little by little, Mr. Hare learned that he must always be on the watch, and that safety lay in two things—his long legs and his brown coat. He learned about the latter by being surprised once by Mr. Wolf. He knew that Mr. Wolf didn't see him as he crouched among the brown leaves. For once he was too frightened to run, Mr. Wolf was so close to him, and this, as it happened, was a very good thing. Mr. Wolf trotted right past without seeing him or smelling him.
“After that Mr. Hare tried that trick often, for he was smart, was Mr. Hare. When he suspected that he had been seen he ran, but when he felt sure that he hadn't been seen, he sat tight right where he happened to be. But when the first snow came, Mr. Hare found himself in a peck of trouble. He didn't dare sit still when an enemy was near, because his brown coat stood out so against the white snow, and when he ran it was an easy matter to keep him in sight. One day he was squatting under a snow-covered hemlock bough when he was startled by the howl of Mr. Wolf not far away. In his fright he jumped up, and the next thing he knew down came the snow from the bough all over him. Then, to his dismay, he saw Mr. Lynx not two jumps away. He sat still from force of habit. Mr. Lynx didn't see him; he went right past Presently Mr. Wolf came along, and he went right past.
“Mr. Hare was puzzled. Then he just happened to glance at his coat. He was white with snow from head to foot! Then he understood, and a great idea popped into his head. If only he could have a brown coat in summer and a white coat in winter, he felt sure that he could take care of himself. He thought about it a great deal. Finally he screwed up his courage and went to Old Mother Nature. He told her all about how he had learned to sit tight when he wasn't seen, but that it didn't always succeed when there was snow on the ground. Then he told her how Mr. Lynx and Mr. Wolf had run right past him the time he was covered with snow. Very timidly he asked Old Mother Nature if she thought it possible that he might have a white coat in winter. Old Mother Nature said that she would think about it. It was almost the end of winter then, and he heard nothing from Old Mother Nature. With the coming of summer he quite forgot his request. But Old Mother Nature didn't. She kept an eye on Mr. Hare and she saw how timid he was and how he was in constant danger from his hungry neighbors. With the beginning of the next winter, Mr. Hare discovered one day that his coat was turning white. He watched it day by day and saw it grow whiter and whiter until it was as white as the snow itself. Then he knew that Old Mother Nature had not forgotten his request and at once hastened to thank her. And from that day to this, the Hares have had brown coats in summer and white coats in winter,” concluded Grandfather Frog.
“Oh, thank you, Grandfather Frog,” cried Peter with a little sigh of contentment. “I—I wish I could catch a foolish green fly for you.”
“I'll take the will for the deed, Peter,” replied Grandfather Frog. And he suddenly snapped up a foolish green fly that flew too near.
OF all his feathered friends and neighbors there was none whom Peter Rabbit enjoyed watching more than he did Sooty the Chimney Swift. There were two very good reasons why Peter enjoyed watching Sooty. In the first place Sooty always appeared to be having the very best of good times, and you know it is always a pleasure to watch any one having a good time. Ol' Mistah Buzzard, sailing and sailing high in the sky with only an occasional movement of his great wings, always seemed to be enjoying himself, and so did Skimmer the Swallow, skimming just above the tall grass of the Green Meadows or wheeling gracefully high in the air. But neither these two nor any other bird ever seemed to Peter to be getting so much real fun out of flying as Sooty the Swift. Just to hear him shout as he raced with swiftly beating wings and then glided in a short half circle was enough to make you want to fly yourself, thought Peter.
The second reason why Peter enjoyed watching Sooty was that he was very much a bird of mystery, in spite of the fact that Peter saw him every day through the long summer. You know, we all enjoy anything that is mysterious. To Peter there was no end of mystery about Sooty the Swift. He was not like other birds. In the first place he hardly looked like a bird at all. His tail was so short that it was hardly worth calling a tail. His neck was so short that his head seemed a part of his body. And then in all the time he had known him, Peter never had seen Sooty still for a single instant. Ol' Mistah Buzzard would come down from high up in the blue, blue sky and sit for hours on a dead tree in the Green Forest or walk about on the ground. Skimmer the Swallow would sit on the branch of a tree, or on the very top of Farmer Brown's barn, and twitter sociably. But Sooty the Swift was always in the air. At least, he always was whenever Peter saw him.
Sometimes Peter used to wonder if Sooty slept in the air as Ducks sleep on the water. Of course, he didn't really think that he did, but never seeing him anywhere but in the air, he was ready to believe almost anything. Then one evening just at dusk, Peter happened to be over in the Old Orchard close by Farmer Brown's house, and he saw something that puzzled him more than ever. He saw Sooty the Swift right above the chimney on Farmer Brown's house. It seemed to Peter as if something happened to Sooty. He beat his wings in a queer way, but instead of flying on, he dropped right straight down, down, down, and disappeared. He had fallen down that chimney! Peter waited a long time, but Sooty didn't appear again, and finally Peter went home with the feeling that he never again would see Sooty.
But he did see him again. He saw him the very next day, flying and shouting and seemingly having just as good a time as ever. It was then that Peter's curiosity would no longer be denied. He headed straight for the Smiling Pool to consult Grandfather Frog.
“He'll know all about Sooty if anybody does,” thought Peter and hurried as fast as he could, lipperty-lipperty-lip. Grandfather Frog was in his usual place on his big green lily-pad. One glance told Peter that Grandfather Frog was in the best of humor, so he wasted no time.
“Grandfather Frog,” cried Peter before he was fairly on the bank of the Smiling Pool, “I saw something queer last night, and you are the only one I know of who can tell me what it meant, because you are the only one I know who knows all about everything.”
Grandfather Frog smiled. It was a great, big, broad smile. It pleased him to have Peter say that he knew everything. “Chug-a-rum! Not everything, Peter! I don't know everything. Nobody does,” said he. “But if I happen to know what you want, to know, I'll be glad to tell you. Now what is it that is on your mind?”
Peter at once plunged into his story. He told Grandfather Frog how much he enjoyed watching Sooty fly and how little he knew about Sooty. He wound up by telling how he had seen Sooty fall down that chimney and how surprised he had been to see Sooty about the next day as well and happy as ever. He called Sooty a Swallow, for that is what Peter thought that Sooty was. He always had thought so.
When Peter had finished, Grandfather Frog chuckled. It was a long, deep chuckle that seemed to come clear from his toes. When he had enjoyed his chuckle to his heart's content, he looked up at Peter and blinked his great goggly eyes.
“What would you say, Peter, if I should tell you that Sooty isn't a member of the Swallow family at all?” he asked.
“I'd believe you,” replied Peter promptly, “but I never again would dare guess what family anybody belonged to from his looks.”
“Well, Sooty isn't a Swallow at all,” said Grandfather Frog slowly. “He is a Swift, which is another family altogether. Furthermore, he didn't fall down that chimney. No, Sir, he didn't fall down that chimney. He flew down, and he did it because he lives there. Now listen, and I'll tell you a story.” Peter needed no second invitation. A story from Grandfather Frog is always one of Peter's greatest treats, as you know.
“Chug-a-rum!” began Grandfather Frog, as he always does. “When Old Mother Nature first peopled the Great World, she made each bird a little different from every other bird, and each animal a little different from every other animal. Then she turned them loose to make their way the best they could, and let them alone to test them and see how each would make the best of his advantages. Mr. Swift, the great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather of Sooty, felt at first as if Old Mother Nature had forgotten to give him any advantages at all. He was homely. There wasn't so much as a single bright feather in his whole coat. He had a tail which might as well have been no tail at all, so far as he could see. He had tiny feet on which he couldn't walk at all, and with which it was all he could do to hang on to a twig when he wanted to rest. But when it came to wings, he wasn't long in discovering that in these he was blessed beyond most of his neighbors. Those wings certainly were made for speed. They were long and narrow, and they drove him through the air faster than his neighbors with broader wings could fly and with a great deal less effort. He could fly all day without getting tired, and he never was so happy as when darting about high in the air.
“Of course, it didn't take him long to find out that he could catch all kinds of flying insects, and so he had no trouble in filling his stomach while flying, for his mouth was very wide. 'It must be,' thought he, 'that Old Mother Nature expects me to live in the air. I wish I could sleep while I am flying, but I can't. I never feel comfortable sitting on a twig.'
“One day he discovered that he could do something that no other bird could do. By using his wings in a certain way he could drop right straight down without really falling. He practised this a great deal just for fun. Then one day as he was flying over a rocky place, he saw right under him a great hole that went straight down into the ground. It interested him. He wondered what it was like inside. The more he wondered, the more he wanted to find out. So one day, after many trials, he dropped straight down into the hole by means of that new way of flying he had discovered.
“He didn't go very far down, because it was so dark in there, and he was beginning to get a wee bit frightened. On his way up he brushed against the side of the rocky wall and without knowing why, he put out both feet and clung to it, folding his wings for a minute's rest. Then he found that by pressing his funny little tail, which ended in sharp spines, against the wall, he rested more comfortably than ever he had before in all his short life. He could cling to a rough wall very much easier than he could sit on a perch. After that he spent his nights in that hole and was happy.
“A long time later he was far from home when night was coming on, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to get there before dark. Looking down as he flew, he saw the hollow trunk of a great tree which had been broken off by the wind. Why not sleep in that? He circled over it two or three times and then dropped straight down inside. He liked it. He liked it better than he did the hole in the rocks. After that he made his home in a hollow tree.
“In course of time old King Eagle led the birds to a new part of the Great World which Old Mother Nature had been preparing for them to spend the summer in. Mr. Swift went with the others. But when he got there, he could find no hole in the ground and no hollow tree. But he found something else. He found the queer homes of men and on top of each a straight, tall thing quite like a hollow tree, only all black inside and made of what seemed like stone. Having no other place to go, he tried one of them. The next day he searched for a hollow tree but could find none, and so returned to that chimney, for that is what it was. So it was every day. After a little he began to like the chimney. It was easy to get in and out of. No one ever bothered him there. It was easy to cling to the wall of it. At last he decided to build a nest there. And from that day to this, the Swifts have lived in the chimneys on the houses of men. When you thought you saw Sooty fall, he was simply going home to spend the night,” concluded Grandfather Frog.
“Thank you,” replied Peter with a long sigh. “It's a funny world, isn't it, Grandfather Frog? The idea of living in a chimney! The very idea!”
HOPPITY-SKIP down the Crooked Little Path, lipper-ty-lipperty-lip, went Peter Rabbit in his usual heedless, careless way. Peter never can seem to get it into his funny little head why he should be careful when there appears to be no particular reason for being careful. He is like a great many people—careful when he knows that there is danger near, but as heedless as you please when he thinks that all is safe. He has got to see or hear danger before he will believe that it is near. Like a lot of other folks he has yet to wake up to the fact that the only way to keep out of trouble is to be always prepared for trouble.
So Peter hopped and skipped down the Crooked Little Path, as he had a thousand times before, without a thought of danger. Nothing ever had happened to him on the Crooked Little Path, and so he thought nothing ever could. Suddenly as he rounded a little turn, there was a sound that made Peter stop so suddenly that he almost fell over backward—a sound that made every hair on his body stand on end and his eyes pop out with fright. It was a hiss, the loudest, most awful hiss he ever had heard. For just a second Peter was too frightened to move. There, coiled up right in the Crooked Little Path, was a member of the Snake family whom he never had seen before. And such a fierce, ugly-looking fellow as he was! No wonder Peter was frightened. This Snake had the flattest head Peter ever had seen. His body was rather short and thick, and his neck was flattened in a way that made it appear very large and gave to him a very ugly and dangerous look.
As soon as he could get his wits together, Peter turned and raced pell-mell up the Crooked Little Path as fast as his long legs would take him. Looking behind him he didn't see in front of him, and so he almost ran into Jimmy Skunk. In fact, he would have, if Jimmy hadn't cried:
“Hi, there! Why don't you look where you are going? What is the matter with you, anyway, Peter Rabbit?” Peter was so startled by Jimmy that he jumped to one side as if he suddenly had stepped on something hot. Then he saw who it was. “Oh, Jimmy,” he cried, “you mustn't go down the Crooked Little Path!”
“Why not?” demanded Jimmy Skunk, staring at Peter and noting how frightened Peter was.
“Because,” panted Peter, “right down there in the middle of it is one of Mr. Black Snake's cousins, and I know by his looks that he is one of the dangerous kind, like Buzztail the Rattler. Ugh! I nearly ran into him, and he hissed enough to make your hair rise. He's got a terrible temper. I wouldn't go near him again for the world. Where are you going, Jimmy?”
“Down the Crooked Little Path to have a look at this terrible fellow,” replied Jimmy over his shoulder. “Perhaps I can teach him some manners.”
“Oh, Jimmy, do be careful!” begged Peter. “He really is very terrible. I know his bite must be awful. I guess it is worse than that of Buzztail the Rattler. I wouldn't go if I were you.”
“I'm not such a fraidy as you, Peter,” replied Jimmy Skunk, and ambled on down the Crooked Little Path. Peter wasn't sure about it, but he thought he heard Jimmy chuckle. That settled matters for Peter. If Jimmy was laughing at him for warning him of danger, he could just go on and get a good fright. It would serve him right. Peter hesitated a minute, then at a safe distance he followed. He wanted to see Jimmy Skunk when he rounded that little turn in the Crooked Little Path and heard that terrible hiss.
Jimmy ambled along slowly, for you know he never hurries. Presently he disappeared around that little turn, and right away Peter heard that terrible hiss. He expected to see Jimmy come racing back, and he was all ready to make fun of him for pretending to be so brave. But Jimmy didn't come. Once more Peter beard that angry hiss and felt his hair rise on end. Then all was still.
Peter waited as long as he could stand it, and then his curiosity got the best of him. Slowly and carefully be tiptoed along until he could see around the turn in the Crooked Little Path. What he saw quite took his breath away. There sat Jimmy Skunk looking down at something stretched out at his feet. It was that dreadful Snake on his back, and he appeared to be quite dead. Jimmy reached out and poked him, but Mr. Snake didn't move. Jimmy poked him some more, and still he didn't move.
“Oh, Jimmy, however did you dare to try to kill him?” cried Peter.
Jimmy looked back at Peter and grinned. “Come on with me, and I will tell you a story,” said he.
Peter hesitated, but the thought of a story was too much for him, and he followed Jimmy down the Crooked Little Path, taking pains to go around the body of Mr. Snake and not very near it at that, although he knew it was silly and foolish to be afraid of one who was dead. Jimmy didn't go far. He sat down and waited for Peter to join him. From where they were they could see the body of Mr. Snake stretched out on its back in the Crooked Little Path. Somehow, now that he was dead, Mr. Snake didn't look so very fierce and terrible. In fact he didn't look nearly so big as he had when he was alive. Peter was thinking of this when his heart gave a funny little jump. He had turned his head for just a second and now, as he looked back at Mr. Snake, he felt that his eyes must be playing him tricks for Mr. Snake was on his stomach instead of on his back!
Peter opened his mouth to say something, but Jimmy made a sign to keep still. So Peter kept still and with popping eyes watched Mr. Snake. Presently he saw Mr. Snake's head come up a little at a time and then move from side to side as if Mr. Snake were looking to see that the way was clear. Slowly Mr. Snake began to glide forward. Then, as if satisfied that no one was watching, he moved faster as if in a hurry to get away from there, and in a moment he disappeared.
Peter gulped two or three times as if trying to swallow the truth and then turned to stare at Jimmy Skunk. Jimmy laughed right out because Peter looked so funny.
“You—you didn't kill him, after all,” gasped Peter.
“No,” replied Jimmy, “I didn't even touch him until you saw me poke him when he lay there on his back.”
Peter looked quite as puzzled as he felt. “Was he just pretending to be dead the way Unc' Billy Possum does?” demanded Peter.
Jimmy nodded. “You've guessed it,” he replied.
“But why did he do it?” persisted Peter, such a puzzled look on his face that Jimmy just had to laugh again.
“Because he was afraid and tried to fool me into thinking him dead so that I would leave him alone,” replied Jimmy.
“Afraid! That fellow afraid!” exclaimed Peter in an unbelieving tone of voice. “Why, when I saw him first, he was the most savage, dangerous-looking fellow that ever I have met.”
Once more Jimmy laughed. “All in his looks, Peter,” said he. “Yes, Sir, all his fierceness is in his looks. Really he is one of the most harmless and gentle fellows in the world. He tried to scare me just as he frightened you, and when he found it wouldn't work, he tried the other plan—pretended that he was dead. No one but Old Mr. Toad has the least reason in the world to be afraid of him. All his fierceness is just pretending, and that is how he comes by his name, which is Bluffer the Puff-Adder. I'm surprised that you've never happened to meet him before. I believe some folks call him the Hog-nosed Snake. I always like to meet him just to see him try to scare me, and when he finds he can't, I do a little pretending myself and give him a little scare by pretending that I am going to fight him. Then he always rolls over on his back and pretends that he is dead. I suppose he is chuckling to himself now because he thinks that he fooled us. The next time you meet him just show him that you know he is perfectly harmless and see how quickly he'll stop pretending that he is so ugly and dangerous. He learned that trick of bluffing from his father, and his father learned it from his father, and so on way back to the days when the world was young. I would tell you the story now if I had time, but I haven't.”
“Then you'll have to do it some other time,” retorted Peter, “for I shall give you no peace until you do.”
PETER RABBIT never will forget the first time that he saw Whitefoot the Wood Mouse pop out of a nest in a bush a few feet above his head. It wasn't so much the surprise of seeing Whitefoot as it was the discovery that that nest was White-foot's own. Peter, had seen that nest often. It was in a bush just a little above one of Peter's favorite paths on the edge of the Green Forest. Always he had supposed that it belonged to one of his feathered friends. He had seen many such nests. At least, he supposed he had. That was because he hadn't taken the trouble to look at this one particularly. He hadn't used his eyes. If he had, he might have seen that this, while very like other nests he had seen, was different. It was different in that it had a roof. Yes, Sir, this particular nest had a roof. And it had a doorway, a very small doorway, and this doorway was underneath, a very queer place for a bird to make a doorway had there been any bird of his acquaintance who would build a roof to a nest, anyway. All of which goes to show how easy it is to see things without really seeing them at all.
It was just at dusk that Peter happened along this particular little path and saw Whitefoot the Wood Mouse pop out of that nest.
“Hello!” exclaimed Peter. “What are you doing up there? What business have you in that nest? Have you been stealing eggs?”
“No, I haven't been stealing eggs,” retorted Whitefoot indignantly. “And if I haven't any business in this nest I should like to know who has. It's my nest! Who has a better right in it?”
“Your nest!” exclaimed Peter. “Why, I thought you lived in a hollow tree or a hollow log or a hole in the ground or some such place. How long is it since you learned to build a nest like a bird, and who taught you?”
Whitefoot knew by the tone of Peter's voice that Peter didn't believe a word of what he had been told. He looked very hard at Peter, and in his big, soft, black eyes was an indignant look which Peter couldn't help but see. “I don't care whether you believe it or not, this is my nest, and I built it,” said he indignantly. “At least I built it over,” he added, for Whitefoot is very truthful. “In the winter I do live in a hollow tree or a hollow log or a hole in the ground, whichever is most comfortable, but in the warm weather I have a summer home, and this is it. My family has known how to build such homes ever since the days of my great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather when the world was young. It was he who learned the secret, and it has been in our family ever since.”
Peter's long ears stood straight up with excited interest and curiosity. “Tell me about it!” he begged. “Tell me how your great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather learned how to build a nest like a bird. Please tell me, White-foot.”
Whitefoot sat up and daintily washed his pretty white hands. “I don't think I will,” he replied slowly. “You didn't believe me when I said that this nest is mine, and so I'm sure you won't believe the story of my great-grandfather. I don't like telling stories to people who don't believe.”
“But I will believe it!” cried Peter. “If you say it is true, I'll believe every word of it. Please tell me the story, Whitefoot. Oh, please do.” Peter was very much in earnest. “I'm sorry I didn't believe you at first when you said that this nest is yours. But I do now, Whitefoot. I do now. Please, please tell me the story.”
Whitefoot's black eyes snapped and twinkled. He enjoyed being teased for that story. You see, he is such a little fellow, such a very little fellow, that his bigger neighbors seldom take any notice of him unless it is to try to catch him. There are several who would be glad to swallow Whitefoot if they could catch him. So, being such a little fellow, he felt rather puffed up, rather important, you know, that Peter Rabbit should be so interested and should actually be begging him for a story. He climbed up to a crotch in a tree just a little above Peter's head, a place where he could watch out for danger, made himself comfortable with his back against the trunk of the tree, carefully combed his fur, for Whitefoot is very particular how he looks, and then began his story.
“Always, ever since the world was young, Mice have been among the smallest of the little people of the Green Meadows and the Green Forest, and because of this they have had to live by their wits if they would live at all. In the beginning of things it was not so, I have heard it said, because then there was plenty for all to eat and no cause for the big and strong to seek to kill the small and weak. But when the hard times came and hunger led to the doing of many dreadful things, all of the Mouse tribe found that they were in danger all the time, just as they are to-day.
“My great-great-great-grandfather, the first of all the Wood Mice, chose the Green Forest for his home instead of the Green Meadows where his cousin, old Mr. Meadow Mouse, liked best to live. He chose the Green Forest because it was always beautiful there, and because among the roots of the trees and in the trees themselves there were so many hiding-places. He was very small, just as I am, and he was very smart.”
“Just as you are?” inquired Peter with a twinkle in his eyes.
“I didn't say that!” retorted Whitefoot indignantly. “I never have claimed to be very smart, though I've been smart enough to keep out of the clutches of Reddy Fox and Hooty the Owl and all the others who hunt me. But great-great-great-grandfather was smart. In the Green Forest he had prepared for himself many hiding-places. Some were in the ground, some were in holes in trees, and some were in hollow stumps and logs. For a while he felt quite safe and easy in his mind, even when the times had become so hard and food so scarce that night and day some of his big neighbors like Mr. Lynx and Mr. Fox and Mr. Wolf and Mr. Owl and Mr. Hawk and even old King Bear were sure to come prowling about looking for little people like himself. You see, he had plenty to eat himself because he had been forehanded and had stored away seeds in some of his hiding-places. And he felt perfectly safe because the doorways to his hiding-places were so very small that none of these people could follow him into them.
“So he used to laugh at those who hunted him and sometimes would dodge into one of his little doorways right under their very noses. But one day he saw old King Bear tear open an old hollow stump with his great claws, and he knew that King Bear was looking for him. Another day quite by chance he happened to see Mr. Weasel slip into one of his smallest doorways, and then a great fear took hold of Grandfather Wood Mouse. His enemies knew now where to look for him and how to get into his hiding-places; they were no longer safe.
“'I must find a new hiding-place and keep it a secret,' thought he. For many days he went about, thinking and thinking. One day he had this very much on his mind as he watched Mr. Catbird build a nest. All in a flash a great idea came to him. If he could have a home in a bush like that of Mr. Catbird, no one ever, ever would think of looking for him there! 'If birds can build nests, why can't I?' thought he. All that day he watched the building of Mr. Catbird's nest, trying to see just how each stick was placed and how the nest was lined with fine roots and grass and strips of grapevine bark. The next day he hunted up some old nests in bushes not too high above the ground and climbed up to them. He even pulled some of them to pieces to see how they were made and then tried to put them together again.
“'I believe I can do it!' he exclaimed over and over to himself. 'I believe I can do it! Any way, it will do no harm to try. No harm can come of trying.'
“He remembered an old nest in a bramble bush not far from where he lived. This he examined very carefully. It would do for a foundation. Then he went to work, taking care to build only when no one was near to discover his secret. He brought grass and fine roots, and he made that nest more comfortable than it had been when it was first built. Then he built a roof over it, so that it would shelter him in bad weather, and to get into it he made a little round doorway. When it was finished, he was very proud of it, as he had reason to be. He carried seeds into it, and then he made it his home for the summer and way into the fall. Of course, no one ever dreamed of looking for him in what seemed like a bird's nest, and many a time he peeped out and watched his hungry neighbors walk right under him without ever suspecting that he was near.
“Of course, he taught his children the secret of nest-building which he had learned from the birds, and that has been the most precious secret in our family ever since. You won't tell any one, will you, Peter?” he concluded anxiously.
“No,” said Peter, “I won't tell any one. Of course I won't. It must be nice to have a sort of sky-parlor in the summer,” he added wistfully.
“It is,” replied Whitefoot. “I just love my summer home.” With this he climbed up to his snug nest, and the last Peter saw of him was his long slim tail disappearing through the little round doorway.