|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.