When Bumper floated away from the mouth of the sewer on his raft, he felt
quite jubilant, and a little proud of his achievement. He had escaped the
bats successfully, and now he had found a way out of the sewer itself. He
was so puffed up by these exploits that he wasn't a bit afraid of what
might happen to him on the river.
"This is really much better than being cooped up in the old woman's
backyard," he reflected. "Not even Jimsy or Wheedles ever dreamed of such
adventures as I've had. My! I feel like a great traveler already."
But when the current of the river began to draw his raft away from the
shore into the middle, his enthusiasm was not quite so great. The stream
grew rougher, and little white caps appeared ahead. His raft began to bob
up and down, and pretty soon a wave washed over it and wet Bumper's feet.
This made him very uncomfortable, for a rabbit doesn't like wet feet any
more than a cat does. He tried to sit up on his hind legs and dry his
front paws, but other waves washed over the raft and wet his haunches. He
couldn't very well stand on his front paws, and dry his hind ones, so he
had to endure the wet and cold.
The river passed through a beautiful field all aglow with flowers and
green grass, but the shore was too far away for Bumper to swim to it.
"I'll leave well enough alone," he said, "and stick to my raft."
Then he came to a woods through which the river flowed. It was swampy
here, and twigs and tree trunks seemed to grow out of the water long
distances from the shore.
"If I can find a tree fallen in the river, I'll hop on it and escape,"
Bumper reasoned.
He was so absorbed in watching for a chance to escape that he hardly
noticed a black shadow hovering over him. Not until it approached very
close did he duck his head and look up.
"Caw! Caw!"
It was a big, black crow. Now Bumper had never seen a crow. In fact, he
had never seen any of the wild animals of the woods, for it must be
remembered that he was born in the city. Of course, he had seen plenty of
sparrows, for they live in the cities, and also sewer rats. A few bats had
also flown over the old woman's backyard on warm nights hunting insects,
and Bumper was more or less acquainted with them.
But a crow! He didn't know what it was. So when the loud, raucous cry
assailed his ears, he squatted down on his raft, expecting every minute to
be attacked by the black shadow above.
"Caw! Caw!" screamed the big bird.
"Mr. Caw! Mr. Caw!" cried Bumper, supposing that was the bird's name.
"Good morning! How do you do?"
Now, the crow is very sensitive about his inability to sing. He used to
think that cawing was singing until the birds all laughed at him. After
that he kept by himself, and very rarely joined the other birds in the
woods or fields.
Bumper's calling him by that name very naturally angered him. It was a
slight, a slur upon his voice, and he resented it at once. It must be
remembered also that the crow had never seen a white rabbit before, and
Bumper's appearance floating on the plank had excited the bird's
curiosity. White rabbits don't run wild in the woods, and Bumper was
almost as much a mystery to the crow as the latter was to the former. All
the rabbits Mr. Crow knew were gray or brown, with a white belly and tail,
and none of them had pink eyes. So it was quite natural that the black
bird should be curious and surprised at the sight of a pure white rabbit,
with pink eyes, floating down the river on a raft.
"Caw! Caw!" screamed the crow, flapping his wings so that the wind made by
them ruffled Bumper's hair.
"Yes, yes, Mr. Caw. I understand," replied Bumper, getting excited by the
nearness of this big, black thing.
"How dare you make fun of me!" cried Mr. Crow, striking the tip of
Bumper's ears with his wings. "I'll teach you to laugh at my voice."
With that he struck out with both wings, and nearly upset Bumper from his
raft. Frightened by this exhibition of anger, Bumper's teeth chattered,
and his voice shook.
"I wasn't making fun of your voice, Mr. Caw," he said. "I think it's a
very sweet and pleasant voice. Please don't upset my raft."
The crow, a little mollified by this flattery, circled around the raft,
and surveyed the scene below with eyes filled with curiosity.
"What are you, anyway?" he called down at last. "You look like Mr. Rabbit,
but I never saw one so white before. What's your name? And what are you
doing on that raft?"
"I'm Bumper, the White Rabbit, and--"
"Rabbits are never white," interrupted the crow.
"But I assure you I am."
"Then you're not a rabbit. You're something else."
Bumper smiled and tried to look pleased. "Would you be something else if
you were white?" he asked.
Now this reference to an old fable of the crows touched a sensitive spot.
There were white crows, or at least there were rumors of them, and every
crow liked to believe the story was true. If one white crow, then why not
more? Why shouldn't all crows be white?
"Did you ever see a white crow?" the bird asked.
"Crow! Crow!" stammered Bumper. "Is that your name? I'm sorry, Mr. Crow, I
made a mistake. You see, I'm from the city, and crows don't live there."
"No, I should say not--unless the white ones do." He came nearer and
showed excitement. "Answer me. Did you ever see a white crow? If all
rabbits from the city are white, then maybe that's where the white crows
come from."
Now Bumper was learning shrewdness, and he saw right away through the
vanity of the bird that had him at his mercy. So, instead of answering
directly, he pretended that he knew a great deal more than he did.
"I'm surprised, Mr. Crow," he said, "that you've never been in the city to
see for yourself. You really mean to tell me you've never been in the
city?"
"Why, no, it's not a place for crows."
"Maybe not for black ones, but white crows are perfectly safe there, the
same as white rabbits. I never saw one hurt there."
"Don't men shoot them?"
"No. People don't shoot birds and animals in the city. They're not allowed
to carry guns at all. You're really safer than out here in the country."
"But there's nothing to eat in the city--not for crows. Is there?"
"All the white crows I knew were well fed. And the sparrows get plenty.
People feed them sometimes in the park. Why, there are squirrels that have
all the nuts they can eat, and they don't have to hunt for them."
"White squirrels?" interrupted Mr. Crow, eagerly.
"Did you ever see a white squirrel, Mr. Crow?" asked Bumper, instead of
answering this question.
"No, I never did."
"Then," sighing, "I'm afraid there are none."
Mr. Crow wasn't so much interested in white squirrels as in white crows,
and he dismissed the matter from his mind. After a pause, he added: "I
believe I'll take a trip to the city, if there's no danger. I'd like to
visit some of the white crows. It may be if I stay with them in the city,
I'll turn white, too."
Bumper didn't want to deceive him, but he was still afraid of him. Instead
of answering directly, he asked: "Before you go, Mr. Crow, can't you help
me to get ashore? I'm very tired of this raft. You make so much wind with
your beautiful wings, I'm sure you could blow me inshore with them."
"Yes, I suppose I could," was the reply. "Well, since you were kind enough
to tell me about my relatives in the city, I'll help you."
He began beating his wings violently, and the wind from them nearly blew
Bumper off the raft, but the board floated closer and closer to the shore
until the rabbit with a hop landed on it, and bade the crow good-bye.