Part 2

She looked up in surprise, and saw facing her not a foot away a tremendous blacksnake. He was the king blacksnake of the woods, with a body almost as big around as her head, and a tail that stretched way off in the distance. The rabbits called him Killer the Snake because he had destroyed so many birds and young bunnies. He was so big and ferocious that he could swallow a small rabbit whole.

When Fuzzy Wuzz saw Killer the Snake so close to her she became paralyzed with fear. Instead of using her wits as Bumper had cautioned when in danger she simply crouched down, and made a pitiful little noise of terror. Killer, conscious of his magnetic power, swayed his head back and forth, his small, beady eyes on her, and began approaching in slow, rhythmic motions. Fuzzy Wuzz for the life of her couldn’t move, but she kept up her pitiful little moaning.

It was this noise that attracted Bumper, and he called out: “What’s the matter, Fuzzy Wuzz?”

There was no answer but the moaning continued. Bumper stopped chewing the delicious leaf he had in his mouth, and hopped in her direction. His coming must have disturbed Killer, for he shook his head angrily, and half turned to face this unknown thing hopping through the bushes.

Bumper came upon Killer from behind. He had never seen a snake before, but the long black body half coiled like a rope instantly told him that it meant danger. A sight of Fuzzy Wuzz confirmed his suspicions. Bumper’s first intention was to pounce upon the snake to save Fuzzy Wuzz. Then he stopped to think. No, this would never do. Killer might then turn and make short work of him.

Bumper kept at a respectable distance while he tried to work his wits, although this was difficult with Fuzzy Wuzz’s pitiful moaning in his ears. Then suddenly he saw his opportunity.

Some distance back from Killer was a big tree that had been snapped off near the ground by a terrific wind. It was still held suspended in air by a few branches and the bark that had not been broken by the storm.

Bumper turned and hopped toward this tree. Killer watched him suspiciously, but as he remained at a safe distance he turned his head slowly back to Fuzzy Wuzz. Bumper began gnawing at the bark which held the tree suspended over the spot where Killer lay. He gnawed with his sharp teeth until they began to bleed.

Fuzzy Wuzz, thinking that he had deserted her, moaned louder than ever, and Killer, sure now that Bumper wasn’t going to attack him from the rear, turned all his attention to his victim. It was a moment of terrible suspense to Bumper. Would Killer reach Fuzzy Wuzz before he could cut the bark so the tree would fall? How tough the bark seemed! He gnawed and chewed with all his might, ripping big pieces off it. But still the tree hung suspended in the air.

Then suddenly, after one desperate effort, Bumper was rewarded by seeing the giant trunk drop down an inch then two inches, then—

There was a crash like a thunder-clap, and sticks and branches flew in the air. Bumper jumped to one side as the big trunk fell to the ground, catching Killer by the tail. The tree fell right across the lower part of the snake’s body, and pinioned him there.

“Now run, Fuzzy Wuzz!” shouted Bumper. “There’s no danger!”

Fuzzy Wuzz gave one quick glance at the squirming, twisting snake, and then darted off toward home, with Bumper close behind her.

STORY IV SPOTTED TAIL SHOWS ENMITY

You can imagine how grateful Fuzzy Wuzz was to Bumper for saving her from Killer the Snake! Not only that, but she was mightily impressed by his wisdom. Who but a king would have thought of gnawing off the butt of the tree so it would fall on Killer!

She was so grateful that she told the story again and again to her people, and they seemed as greatly impressed as Fuzzy Wuzz at Bumper’s shrewdness. But Spotted Tail was not pleased. Perhaps he was still suspicious, and thought it was more luck than knowledge that had saved Bumper’s reputation. He still believed that Bumper had never seen a hornet’s nest until that day he innocently mistook Mr. Yellow Jacket’s home for a big, harmless ball.

This fact, coupled with several other little things that he had observed, Bumper’s avoidance of certain plants, for instance, that he seemed to think might be poisonous until the others ate them, convinced him that Bumper was not fit to be the leader of his people.

“If Old Blind Rabbit could see with his eyes,” he reasoned, “he’d know, too. But some day I’ll catch him, and show him up. He’s no king, for a king should know everything.”

By letting such things dwell upon his mind, Spotted Tail worked himself up into a pitch of excitement that was not pleasant. He fancied himself wronged by Bumper. If the white rabbit hadn’t come into the woods, Spotted Tail would have been chosen the natural leader.

Jealousy and spite are enough to sour any disposition, and Spotted Tail was in a fair way of showing that he was not really fitted to be a leader. A good leader never grows sullen and discontented because somebody else happens to get more favors than he. Fuzzy Wuzz’s attachment to Bumper further increased Spotted Tail’s displeasure. In time he came almost to hating Bumper, and tried to think of ways and means to disgrace him before the others.

Bumper was only partly conscious of this feeling toward him. He knew that Spotted Tail was suspicious of his knowledge of wood lore, and he was on his guard all the time to prevent any mistake that would give him away. But he never dreamed that the big rabbit was beginning to dislike him. He seldom hunted with him, and had few words with him, but there had been no open enmity between them.

Then one day in the woods Bumper found himself unexpectedly separated from the others, with only Spotted Tail in view. Fuzzy Wuzz and the rest had crossed the brook on a natural rustic bridge of logs, and were feeding on the opposite side when Bumper discovered them.

“Hello!” he exclaimed. “How’d they get across there? Surely, they didn’t jump that distance.”

Spotted Tail, to whom this was addressed, replied:

“You should know by this time that a rabbit never jumps a stream that he can get across any other way.”

Bumper nodded and smiled. “Still, I don’t see how else they got across.”

Spotted Tail said indifferently:

“Oh, I suppose they crossed on Mr. Beaver’s house.”

This remark caused Bumper to reflect. He had heard of Mr. Beaver, but he wasn’t sure just what kind of an animal he was. And his house was more of a mystery to him than anything else.

“On Mr. Beaver’s house?” he asked, before thinking. “Oh, you mean—”

He stopped in confusion, and Spotted Tail smiled gleefully.

“You mean what?” he asked, his eyes twinkling wickedly. “Don’t you know what kind of a house Mr. Beaver builds?”

“Why, what a question?” laughed Bumper, trying to evade a direct answer.

“I think it’s a very natural question,” added Spotted Tail. “I don’t believe you ever saw Mr. Beaver or his house.”

Bumper laughed heartily at this, but it was a laugh to conceal his embarrassment and not an expression of his enjoyment.

“Ho! Ho! You can be very comical if you want to!” he said. “Now maybe _you_ can describe what sort of a house Mr. Beaver builds. Let me see if you can.”

But Spotted Tail felt he had Bumper in a corner, and he wasn’t to be bluffed. “I could describe it,” he said, leering, “but I don’t have to. If you have any eyes in your head you can see for yourself what it is like.”

“How’s that?” asked Bumper, growing more uncomfortable.

“Just what I said,” was the quick rejoinder. “We’ve been standing near it for some time, and you can see it with your own eyes—if you know where to look for it.”

“Oh! Ho!” laughed Bumper, less joyously than before. “Mr. Beaver’s house is in plain sight, is it? Well, then, neither one of us will have to describe it.”

“No, but where is it?” pursued Spotted Tail relentlessly.

Now Bumper was in a terrible quandary. There was nothing in view that looked like a house. So he cast a glance up at the trees, hoping to find it among the branches, and then back through the thick, tangled bushes. There was nothing in sight that suggested the home of any animal.

All the time his eyes were searching around for some evidence of Mr. Beaver’s house, Spotted Tail was watching him with an exultant grin on his face.

“Ah! I thought so,” he said finally, with a triumphant grin on his face. “You don’t know what kind of a house Mr. Beaver builds. You don’t even know where he builds it. You’ve been looking for it up among the trees, and back in the woods. Ho! Ho! And you call yourself a leader—the king of the rabbits! Why, you don’t know anything about the woods.”

Bumper felt he was cornered, and he was mighty glad the others were not present to witness his discomfit.

“Now, if you’re king, show me where Mr. Beaver’s house is, and where he builds it!” continued Spotted Tail. “If you can’t I’ll go back and tell all the others you’re an ignorant impostor. You’re no king! You don’t know anything about the woods or its people. A king indeed!”

There was such scorn and contempt in the voice that Bumper winced. He realized for the first time that he had an enemy in Spotted Tail. There was no other excuse for his words and actions.

“Spotted Tail,” Bumper began in an injured voice, “why do you dislike me, and try to offend me?”

“Don’t give me any such talk,” rudely interrupted the other. “I see through it all. You’re trying to avoid the question. Answer me! Where’s Mr. Beaver’s house? If you don’t know, confess your ignorance.”

Bumper’s wits failed him for the first time. He saw no way out of the corner. Spotted Tail had him, and the disgrace of confession was horribly mortifying.

A sudden splash in the water attracted his attention. A big rat-like animal was swimming toward the shore, with only his head and muzzle above the surface. Bumper watched him in fascination. When he reached the shore, he crawled upon it, and said quite angrily:

“I wish, Mr. Spotted Tail, your people would stop crawling across the roof of my house. It annoys me very much. I was fast asleep when they thumped over it.”

Spotted Tail was deeply upset by this interruption, and Bumper’s wits, coming to his rescue, made him smile. Speaking at a venture, he addressed the rat-like animal.

“I’ll ask them not to do it again, Mr. Beaver. Of course, it is very annoying to be disturbed when asleep by people climbing over the roof of your house.”

“Thank you!” replied Mr. Beaver, dipping into the water and swimming back to his dam. Bumper pointed to the dam across the stream, and said to Spotted Tail: “There’s Mr. Beaver’s house.”

STORY V A TEST OF FLEETNESS

Confident that he had Bumper cornered, and that nothing but the timely appearance of Mr. Beaver had saved him from disgraceful confession, Spotted Tail returned to the burrow in an angry mood. He had not stopped even to look when Bumper triumphantly pointed out the beaver dam. He had hoped to be able to tell the others how Bumper was ignorant of such a common thing as a beaver’s dam, and now he had nothing but an empty triumph. Mr. Beaver had spoilt everything for him—that and Bumper’s ready wit.

But he was all the more determined to show him up. He began to brag about his knowledge of woodcraft, telling many stories of his shrewdness and skill. Bumper remained quiet, and listened with the others.

Spotted Tail then switched to another subject. “But it takes more than knowledge and skill to be a good leader,” he said. “One must be as swift as the wind as well as wise as the owl.”

He stopped suddenly and turned to the white rabbit. “A king ought to be the swiftest runner of his people, Bumper. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, I suppose he should be, if—”

“Then are you the fleetest runner in the woods?” interrupted Spotted Tail.

“Why, I’ve never tried it. I’m sure I don’t know,” Bumper stammered.

Spotted Tail, sure of his fleetness of foot, decided to challenge him to a race. Nothing would humiliate Bumper more than to be defeated in a speed trial.

“A king should not only be the swiftest and wisest of his people,” he said slowly, “but there should be no doubt in his own mind of it.”

“A king doesn’t always tell what’s in his mind,” replied Bumper.

“No, but he should prove his skill and ability when challenged,” was the quick retort.

“I didn’t know that I was challenged,” replied Bumper, in a weak voice.

Spotted Tail smiled wickedly. “But you are, Bumper. I, Spotted Tail, the swiftest and strongest rabbit in the woods, and the wisest, challenge you to run a race with me. Are you afraid?”

Spotted Tail’s friends immediately clapped their paws and nodded their heads. Fuzzy Wuzz and the other followers of Bumper looked a little worried, but their faith in their white leader came to their rescue.

“Yes, yes,” they said in a breath, “Bumper will race Spotted Tail, and prove to him that he is no longer the swiftest and strongest rabbit of the woods.”

“Of course! Of course!” echoed Spotted Tail’s friends. “There will be a race—a fair race—and a long race. We will all turn out to see it.”

Bumper’s heart began to quake. Spotted Tail had long, powerful legs and he could use them to good purpose. He was cut out for a fleet runner, and Bumper had no illusions on that point. His life in the city had never given him a chance to train for long running, and his muscles had never been fully developed. He had his misgivings about his speed when compared with that of this big, powerful wild cousin of his.

Yet, as he recalled the wild flight he had made when pursued by the bats in the sewer, and of his subsequent race with Mr. Fox in the woods, a smile crept into his face. He had certainly run fast on those two occasions.

“Fear makes a rabbit run faster than anything else,” he remembered hearing the Old Blind Rabbit remark one day.

“I wish then,” Bumper said to himself, “if I must race with Spotted Tail I’d get a good fright. Maybe I would beat him then.”

There was no way out of the challenge. Spotted Tail had made it, and all the others, including friends and foes, had taken it up. Bumper could not withdraw without disgracing himself.

The test of speed was to be one of endurance as well as of fleetness of foot. It was arranged to run a mile straight out to Mr. Beaver’s dam, and back again. A committee of four were to wait for them at the dam to see that each contestant rounded the point. This would prevent any trick on the part of either one.

Bumper realized right away that it was speed and endurance that would tell. Wit and wisdom would have nothing to do with the decision. Spotted Tail really had the advantage, for he was more familiar with the trails and by-paths so that he could seek out the best in going and coming.

Nevertheless, Bumper put up a brave front, and entered the race with the determination to do his best. They started from the burrow on even terms, and shot through the bushes at a tremendous speed. For a time they kept abreast within sight of each other. Then they became separated, for Spotted Tail veered off to the right to follow an easier trail.

Bumper had great difficulty in getting to the beaver’s dam, for twice he got lost in the bushes, and had hard work finding the trail again. He lost so much by this that when he reached the dam, he was not surprised to hear his friends shout:

“Hurry! Hurry, Bumper! Spotted Tail’s on his way back!”

The first half of the race was lost to him; but he could not refrain from calling back to his friends: “The race is never decided until it’s finished.”

Fuzzy Wuzz and the others clapped their hands at this confident remark. Instead of losing faith in him they were more certain than ever that Bumper would win.

Well, it didn’t look so to Bumper. He felt that he could never overtake Spotted Tail and beat him to the finish. He might be a quarter of a mile ahead of him, and running like the wind. The disheartening effect of being beaten to the first stake told on his speed, and he ran only half-heartedly.

Then suddenly out of the bushes on his right sprang something red and flashing. Bumper caught sight of it, and his heart gave a great bound of fear. It was Mr. Fox!

Bumper’s fright was so great that he sprang over a clump of bushes that he never thought he could clear. Then, with his heart in his mouth, he ran for dear life. The Old Blind Rabbit’s wise remark that “fear makes a rabbit run faster than anything else” never occurred to him. He was too frightened to think of anything. But, oh, how he ran! His feet barely touched the ground. He seemed to be flying rather than running. Never—not even when the Bats pursued him—had he run so fast.

And the fox kept close behind him, gaining a few steps now and then, but losing whenever Bumper took one of his wild leaps. It was a terrible race, in which death or life was the stake. If he weakened or faltered an instant, those red, dripping jaws would have him.

When Bumper came within sight of the burrow near the big rock, he could see the rabbits waiting for the end of the race. They were talking and chatting among themselves. Spotted Tail was not in sight. Perhaps he had already finished.

“Scatter! Scatter for your life!” called Bumper, as he took a wild leap in the air.

“It’s Bumper!” some one cried. Then they caught sight of the red streak in pursuit. “Mr. Fox is after him! Run for the burrow!”

They scampered for shelter just as Bumper cleared the starting line and eluded the fox by a narrow margin. Once inside the burrow, he asked: “Where’s Spotted Tail?”

“He hasn’t come yet. You won the race, Bumper!”

And later, when Spotted Tail appeared, he was in a crestfallen mood, for when the race was apparently won by him he had been frightened off the trail by the sudden appearance of Mr. Fox. Instead of running straight ahead, he had dodged into the bushes to hide.

“When you’re racing,” remarked Bumper, “you don’t want to turn aside for anything—not even to save your hide.”

STORY VI A TEST OF COURAGE

Spotted Tail was so chagrined by losing the race that he immediately began to scheme to humiliate Bumper in some other way. He was confident that the race hadn’t gone to the swiftest and strongest, but he could not convince the others of this. The story of how the tortoise beat the hare in a race, because the latter had lain down to sleep on the way, was an old joke among the rabbits, and Spotted Tail’s excuses only aroused mirth and derision.

No, clearly, Spotted Tail could not redeem his lost glory by challenging Bumper to another race. But there were other ways to discredit him in the eyes of his people.

“Oh, Bumper, King of the rabbits!” he exclaimed one day in mock courtesy. “The Lion is called the King of the beasts, and he won that title by his bravery and courage. Do you think that should make one king?”

“Courage is a quality that every king and leader should have,” replied Bumper, cautiously.

“Greater than that of any of his subjects?”

Bumper hesitated, for he feared a trap; but when all the others looked at him, waiting upon his words, he felt that he had to assent.

“Yes, I suppose he should be the bravest of his people.”

“Then,” smiled Spotted Tail, “you must be the bravest of all the rabbits in the woods—braver than Old Blind Rabbit ever was, or any of the young ones here.”

“I shouldn’t like to claim that,” faltered Bumper, modestly.

“Then you shouldn’t be king. Isn’t that the law of the woods?”

“A leader should be as brave as any of his people,” Bumper answered, “not braver. Perhaps that would be impossible.”

“Well said,” muttered the Old Blind Rabbit. “There are many of my people who are brave as any king, and more could not be asked of their leader.”

Spotted Tail licked his lips and smiled. “We should make a test,” he added, “to see who are the brave ones among us. All who choose can enter it. Has any one a test to suggest?”

There was absolute silence. Spotted Tail knew no one would think of a suitable test on the spur of the moment. So he proposed one himself, one that he had had in mind for some days.

“Suppose, then,” he added, still smiling, “we cross, one by one, Swinging Bridge, and those who get over safely will be entitled to be called brave.”

There was a gasp of surprise and consternation. Swinging Bridge was a small tree that had fallen across Rocky Ford where the river cut deep through a narrow gorge. The tree seemed almost suspended in mid-air by the vines and bushes, and was very dangerous. Every wind swung it back and forth like a hammock strung between two trees.

No rabbit had ever dared to cross it. It was supposed to be an impossible feat. The tree was so small and slippery that it afforded small chance for an animal without claws to walk across it. It hung fifty feet from the river’s bed so that a fall from it meant almost sure death.

It was foolhardy to try it. Bobby Gray Squirrel could run across it easily, but that was because he had claws with which to cling to it. Sleepy the Opossum and Washer the Raccoon could likewise walk across the bridge without fear of falling. But for a rabbit, whose feet were not made to climb, it was a dangerous undertaking.

“Oh, no, not that!” exclaimed Fuzzy Wuzz, shuddering.

“Why not?” asked Spotted Tail. “It will be a wonderful record for any rabbit who can do it. What do you say, Bumper?”

“I’m willing if you are,” Bumper replied, feeling that he could not withdraw from the challenge.

“Then we will draw lots to see who goes first,” promptly added Spotted Tail, who had arranged the whole thing.

“That isn’t fair,” interrupted one of Bumper’s followers. “The challenger should go first.”

“Since when was drawing lots unfair?” queried Spotted Tail. “I appeal to your judgment, Old Blind Rabbit. Isn’t it fair?”

The old leader of the rabbits hesitated for a moment, but he had to admit that this form of selection had been common with his people as long as he could recollect.

So when he decided in favor of Spotted Tail, the work of choosing their order of going across the bridge began. There were ten who stepped forward to accept the challenge. The Old Blind Rabbit held the sticks as each one stepped up to choose. Bumper got the short one, either through chance or through some trick Spotted Tail had arranged. No one could say which it was, but a murmur of dissent went up at once.

“It wasn’t a fair drawing!” they cried. “Try it over again. Spotted Tail played a trick on Bumper.”

“No,” interrupted Bumper, “we’ll not draw lots again. I’ll cross Swinging Bridge first.”

This decision was accepted with applause, and the rabbits trooped through the woods to Swinging Bridge. Bumper’s first sight of it made him shiver. It was worse than he had imagined. The chasm was at least thirty feet across, and the butt end of the tree was not more than eight inches in diameter, while the smaller end seemed to dwindle away into a mere whip. In fact, the tree could never have remained in its position if it hadn’t been for the vines suspending it.

“I’ll begin on this end,” Bumper said, choosing the butt end of the tree. His quick eye had seen the only possible chance for crossing. Half way across, where the tree grew smaller rapidly, there was a crotch which offered a firm footing. Bumper decided to walk out to this, and then reach the other side in one tremendous hop. That would be crossing the bridge, for nothing in the terms had been said about the manner of going.

While the others held their breath, and Fuzzy Wuzz shook and trembled with fear, Bumper hopped on the tree, and began making his way slowly along. He dared not look below where the river rolled and tossed over the rocks. He kept his eyes on the crotch ahead.