Part 6

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.

XV. WHEN MR. HUMMINGBIRD GOT HIS LONG BILL

“I saw him here; I saw him there;

And now he is not anywhere!

He is not there; he is not here,

Yet no one saw him disappear.”

|PETER RABBIT didn't intend that for any ears but his own, but it never is safe to talk out loud if you want no one else to hear.

“Huh!” said a voice right back of Peter. Peter started ever so little and hastily turned his head, but saw no one.

“Huh!” said the voice again. “Huh! Are you a poet, Peter Rabbit?”

This time Peter turned wholly around in a single jump. Staring up at him from under a mullein-leaf was Old Mr. Toad.

“What's a poet?” demanded Peter.

“A poet is some one who--who--Say, Peter Rabbit, have you eaten something that went to your head?” Old Mr. Toad looked really anxious.

“No,” replied Peter, “it went to my stomach. Everything I eat goes to my stomach.”

“Then it can't be that you are a real poet,” sighed Old Mr. Toad. “I was a little afraid you might be when I overheard you just now. On the whole I am rather glad, Peter. It would be so tiresome to have to listen to you talking that way. By the way, who is it that is not there and is not here, yet no one saw him disappear?”

“Hummer the Hummingbird,” replied Peter eagerly. “You see him in one place and before you can get your mouth open to speak, he is somewhere else. Then in a shake of your tail he isn't anywhere at all. I mean he isn't anywhere in sight.”

“I haven't any tail,” retorted Old Mr. Toad rather testily. “I got rid of the silly thing long ago, as you very well know, Peter Rabbit.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Toad. I didn't mean anything personal. It was just a way of speaking to show how quickly Hummer disappears. I was thinking of my own tail,” said Peter.

“Huh!” grunted Old Mr. Toad just as before. “Then you weren't thinking of much.”

Peter laughed. “Not so very much,” he replied. “Still I can shake it, even if there isn't much of it. See!” He stood up and twitched his funny little tail until solemn Old Mr. Toad had to laugh in spite of himself.

“Hummer is such a wonderful little fellow,” continued Peter eagerly. “He is so tiny it doesn't seem possible that he can be like other birds. I don't feel really acquainted with him because he isn't still long enough for me to more than nod to him.”

“That's true,” replied Old Mr. Toad, nodding sagely. “He isn't still down near the ground, but if you happened to find his home, you would often see him sitting near it as still as any other bird. By the way, Peter, did you ever hear how it happened that he comes by such a long bill?”

“A story!” cried Peter, jumping up and down and clapping his hands. “Oh, Mr. Toad, I never did hear, and I'm just dying to know. Please do tell me!” There was a twinkle in Old Mr. Toad's beautiful eyes,--for they really are beautiful, you know. He backed a little farther under the big mullein-leaf where the sun couldn't reach him, opened and closed his big mouth two or three times without making a sound, rolled his eyes back as if he were looking way, way into the past, and then, just as Peter had begun to think that there wasn't going to be any story after all, he began to talk in a funny little voice that seemed to come from way down where his throat and his stomach meet.

“It was long, long, long ago,” said he.

“I know! It was way back when the world was young,” interrupted Peter eagerly.

“Oh! So you know the story after all, do you?” grunted Old Mr. Toad rather crossly.

“I beg your pardon. I do indeed. I'm sorry,” Peter hastened to say.

“Very well. Very well,” grumbled Old Mr. Toad, “but don't do it again. Now I'll have to begin all over again. It was a long, long, long time ago in the beginning of things when Old Mother Nature had made all the big birds and the middle-sized birds and the little birds that she discovered that she had just a teeny, weeny bit of the things birds are made of left over. There wasn't enough to make even the head of an ordinary bird. No bird had use for another head, anyway.

“Now Old Mother Nature never could bear to waste anything, and she didn't intend to begin. So she made a teeny, weeny bird and she made him just as perfect as any other bird. She gave him feathers just like any other bird, only of course his feathers were teeny, weeny. She gave him a tail just like any other bird, only it was a teeny, weeny tail. She gave him feet with toes and claws just like any other bird, only they were teeny, weeny feet. And she gave him a bill, only it was a teeny, weeny bill and it was short. And because he was so teeny, weeny and yet a perfect bird, Old Mother Nature was very proud of him, so she gave him a beautiful green coat. The beautiful ruby throat was not given him until later, when he proved so brave of heart and so loyal to King Eagle, you remember.”

“I remember,” said Peter. “He got his ruby throat when old King Eagle won his crown of white.”

“When Old Mother Nature sent little Mr. Hummingbird out into the Great World to join the other birds, she told him that tiny as he was she could treat him no differently from the others, and that he would have to take care of himself and prove that he was worthy to live and have a place in the work of the Great World, for that was a law which she could not break for any one, great or small.

“So little Mr. Hummingbird darted away to join the other birds and find a place for himself in the Great World. When the other birds first saw him, they laughed at him because he was so tiny, and made fun of him. though truth to tell some of them were envious because of his beautiful coat, and others were envious because of the way in which he could dart about, for not one among them could fly so swiftly as little Mr. Hummingbird.

“Tiny though he was, he was stout of heart and fairly bursting with spunk. He would dash into the very faces of those who tried to tease him and would be away again before they could so much as strike at him. So it wasn't long before they let him alone, though among themselves they still looked on him as a joke and were sure he would not live long. Being such a teeny, weeny fellow, of course Mr. Hummingbird had a teeny, weeny stomach, and he soon discovered that he couldn't eat the things that other birds did but must hunt for teeny, weeny things. It didn't take him long to find out that there were many teeny, weeny insects just suited to him, especially about the flowers. So Mr. Hummingbird spent most of his time darting about among the flowers catching teeny, weeny insects to fill his teeny, weeny stomach.

“One day he paused in front of a deep-throated flower and discovered that many teeny, weeny insects had hidden in the heart of it. Try as he would he could not reach them. Now his own swift little wings were not quicker than Mr. Hummingbird's temper, and he promptly pulled that flower to pieces. Then he caught all the insects, and in doing this he discovered that in the heart of the flower were sweet juices, better than anything he ever had tasted before. After that he wasted no time hunting for teeny, weeny insects in the air, but darted from one deep-throated flower to another, pulling them to pieces and filling his teeny, weeny stomach with the insects hiding there and the sweet juices.

“One day along came Old Mother Nature to see how things were going. On every side were beautiful flowers torn to rags. She threw up her hands in dismay. 'Dear me!' she cried. 'I wonder who can have been doing such dreadful mischief!'

“Just then she caught sight of little Mr. Hummingbird tearing another flower to pieces. Sternly she called him before her, and he came fearlessly. 'Why are you tearing my beautiful flowers to pieces?' she demanded.

“'Because it is the only way I can get the food in the hearts of them, and it is the food best suited to me,' replied little Mr. Hummingbird promptly but respectfully.

“Old Mother Nature tried to look severe, but a twinkle crept into her eyes. Secretly she was pleased with the fearlessness of the teeny, weeny bird.

“'That may be, but I cannot have my beautiful flowers destroyed this way. It will never do at all!' said she.

“She scratched her head thoughtfully for a few minutes. Then she reached out and took hold of Mr. Hummingbird's teeny, weeny bill. 'Pull,' said she. Little Mr. Hummingbird pulled with all his might, and his bill was pulled out until it was long and slender, and his tongue was pulled out long with it.

“'Now,' said Old Mother Nature, 'I guess you won't have to pull my flowers to pieces.'

“Little Mr. Hummingbird darted away to the nearest deep-throated flower and found that he could reach the teeny, weeny insects and the sweet juices without the least trouble, and from that time on he took the greatest care not to hurt the beautiful flowers. That is how Hummer, whom you know, happens to have a long bill,” concluded Old Mr. Toad.

“And I suppose that is why he seems to love the flowers so,” said Peter as he looked down at Old Mr. Toad thoughtfully.

“It is,” replied Old Mr. Toad, and yawned sleepily.

XVI. WHEN OLD MR. BAT GOT HIS WINGS

|IT happens that the Merry Little Breezes, who, as you know, are the children of Old Mother West Wind, are quite as fond of stories as is Peter Rabbit. In fact, whenever they suspect that Peter is going to ask some one for a story, they manage to be about so that they may hear it too. Now the Merry Little Breezes are very fond of Grandfather Frog and many, many times they have helped him get a good dinner by blowing foolish green flies within his reach. It was after one of these times that Grandfather Frog promised them a story.

Now the Merry Little Breezes did not intend to let Grandfather Frog forget that promise, so one afternoon when they had grown tired of romping on the Green Meadows, they danced over to the Smiling Pool and settled around the big, green lily-pad on which Grandfather Frog was dozing. All together they shouted:

“We know you're old;

We know you're wise;

And what you say

We dearly prize.

So tell a tale

Of olden days,

And then, mayhap,

We'll go our ways.”

“Chug-a-rum! What shall it be about?” demanded Grandfather Frog, waking up quite good-natured.

“Tell us why Flitter the Bat can fly when none of the other animals can,” cried one of the Merry Little Breezes.

Grandfather Frog cleared his throat several times, and then he began, and this is the story he told:

“Once upon a time when the world was young, old Mr. Bat, the many times great-grandfather of Flitter, whom you all know, lived in a cave on the edge of the Green Forest. Old Mr. Bat was little, quite as little as Flitter is now. He didn't have any wings then. No, Sir, old Mr. Bat had no wings.

“Now old Mr. Bat's teeth were small and not made for cracking hard seeds and things of that sort, so he lived mostly on insects. He used to hunt for them under sticks and stones. Sometimes he had hard work to find enough for a meal, because, you know, so many other Green Forest people were hunting for them too.

“Now old Mr. Bat's eyes were very small, very, very small indeed, and the bright sun hurt them. So old Mr. Bat used to stay in his cave all day and hunt for his meals only after jolly Mr. Sun had gone to bed behind the Purple Hills. When he did come out most of the crawling bugs had been caught by others, and it was hard work finding them. So often Mr. Bat went hungry.

“One evening old Mr. Bat noticed that at twilight a great many bugs fly about. He sat on a big stone at the mouth of his cave and watched. It seemed to him that the air was full of bugs. By and by a big fat fellow came so near that old Mr. Bat forgot where he was and jumped for him--jumped right off: the top of the big stone. Of course he got a hard tumble, but he didn't mind it a bit, not a bit, for he had caught the bug. After that, old Mr. Bat used to spend most of the time he was awake jumping for flying bugs.

“One night he made a very long jump from a _very_ high stone and got such a fall that all the breath was knocked out of his funny little body. When he had gotten his breath back he discovered that some one was looking down and smiling at him. It was Old Mother Nature.

“'Pretty hard work to get a dinner that way, isn't it, Mr. Bat?' asked Old Mother Nature.

“Mr. Bat allowed that it was.

“'How would you like to fly!' asked Old Mother Nature.

“Mr. Bat thought that that would be very fine indeed, but that was quite out of the question because, as you know, he hadn't any wings.

“Old Mother Nature said no more, but something seemed to be pleasing her greatly as she left Mr. Bat.

“The next evening when old Mr. Bat awoke, he really didn't know whether he was himself or not. No, Sir, he didn't. His legs were much longer than they used to be and really of no use at all for walking. Between them was a queer thin skin. He couldn't run. He couldn't even crawl very well.

“At last, after much work, he managed to get to the top of a big rock. He was very hungry, and when a big, fat bug came along, he forgot all about his troubles and tried to jump. But instead of jumping as he always had, he just tumbled off the big rock. As he fell he spread out his legs. What do you think happened? Why, old Mr. Bat found that he could fly!

“And ever since that long-ago time the Bats have lived in dark caves and have been able to fly,” concluded Grandfather Frog.

“Splendid!” cried the Merry Little Breezes. “And we thank you ever and ever so much!” Then they had a race to see who could be the first to blow a foolish green fly over to Grandfather Frog.

THE END