LIGHTFOOT'S NEW ANTLERS
Peter Rabbit was puzzled. He stared at Lightfoot the Deer a wee bit
suspiciously. "Have you been tearing somebody's coat?" he asked again.
He didn't like to think it of Lightfoot, whom he always had believed
quite as gentle, harmless, and timid as himself. But what else could he
think?
Lightfoot slowly shook his head. "No," said he, "I haven't torn
anybody's coat."
"Then what are those rags hanging on your antlers?" demanded Peter.
Lightfoot chuckled. "They are what is left of the coverings of my new
antlers," he explained.
"What's that? What do you mean by new antlers?" Peter was sitting up
very straight, with his eyes fixed on Lightfoot's antlers as though he
never had seen them before.
"Just what I said," retorted Lightfoot. "What do you think of them? I
think they are the finest antlers I've ever had. When I get the rest of
those rags off, they will be as handsome a set as ever was grown in the
Green Forest."
Lightfoot rubbed his antlers against the trunk of a tree till some of
the rags hanging to them dropped off.
Peter blinked very hard. He was trying to understand and he couldn't.
Finally he said so.
"What kind of a story are you trying to fill me up with?" he demanded
indignantly. "Do you mean to tell me that those are not the antlers that
you have had as long as I've known you? How can anything hard like those
antlers grow? And if those are new ones, where are the old ones? Show me
the old ones, and perhaps I'll believe that these are new ones. The idea
of trying to make me believe that antlers grow just like plants! I've
seen Bossy the Cow all summer and I know she has got the same horns she
had last summer. New antlers indeed!"
"You are quite right, Peter, quite right about Bossy the Cow. She never
has new horns, but that isn't any reason why I shouldn't have new
antlers, is it?" replied Lightfoot patiently. "Her horns are quite
different from my antlers. I have a new pair every year. You haven't
seen me all summer, have you, Peter?"
"No, I don't remember that I have," replied Peter, trying very hard to
remember when he had last seen Lightfoot.
"I _know_ you haven't," retorted Lightfoot. "I know it because I have
been hiding in a place you never visit."
"What have you been hiding for?" demanded Peter.
"For my new antlers to grow," replied Lightfoot. "When my new antlers
are growing, I want to be away by myself. I don't like to be seen
without them or with half grown ones. Besides, I am very uncomfortable
while the new antlers are growing and I want to be alone."
Lightfoot spoke as if he really meant every word he said, but still
Peter couldn't, he just _couldn't_ believe that those wonderful great
antlers had grown out of Lightfoot's head in a single summer. "Where did
you leave your old ones and when did they come off?" he asked, and there
was doubt in the very tone of his voice.
"They dropped off last spring, but I don't remember just where," replied
Lightfoot. "I was too glad to be rid of them to notice where they
dropped. You see they were loose and uncomfortable, and I hadn't any
more use for them because I knew that my new ones would be bigger and
better. I've got one more point on each than I had last year." Lightfoot
began once more to rub his antlers against the tree to get off the queer
rags hanging to them and to polish the points. Peter watched in silence
for a few minutes. Then, all his suspicions returning, he said:
"But you haven't told me anything about those rags hanging to your
antlers."
"And you haven't believed what I have already told you," retorted
Lightfoot. "I don't like telling things to people who won't believe
me."