UNCLE WIGGILY AND THE BAKER
IT was still raining in Woodland, where the animal folk lived. All
around the hollow-stump bungalow, where Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the
muskrat lady, kept house for Uncle Wiggily Longears, the rabbit
gentleman, there were puddles of water; little lakes and rivers, too.
“I think it is getting colder,” said Uncle Wiggily, as he came in from
having been up to the Orange Mountain, to get a dozen of lemons so Nurse
Jane could bake a cherry pie.
“If it gets colder, perhaps it will stop raining,” Miss Fuzzy Wuzzy
remarked, “and goodness knows we have had enough of water.”
“Yes, a little snow for a change would seem nice,” spoke the bunny
uncle, looking out of the window at the rain-drops still splashing down.
“Was it raining on the Orange Mountain?” Nurse Jane wanted to know.
“Yes, just as hard as it is down here in the valley. But the water runs
off the sides of the mountain, so there are not so many puddles to step
in, as I stepped in one the other day, and got my foot caught in a tree
root, when the butcher, in his rub-a-dub-dub tub, cut me loose.”
“That was quite an adventure,” said Nurse Jane. “You haven’t seen the
other friends of Mother Goose—the baker and the candlestick maker—have
you?”
“No,” Uncle Wiggily answered. “But I understand that the butcher’s two
friends, the baker and the candlestick maker, are having a race with
him, each one in a tub. They may sail along any day now. I guess I’ll go
out and look for them.”
“What! In all this rain?” cried Nurse Jane, in surprise. “You’ll catch
cold in your rheumatism, I’m sure.”
“Oh, no, I’ll wrap up well in my rubber coat, and put on my rubber boots
as I did before,” said the bunny uncle, making his nose twinkle like a
gold tooth in the wax doll.
Off started the old rabbit gentleman, carrying a big umbrella so that
too many rain-drops would not get on his tall silk hat. He walked along
through the woods, down from the trees of which the rain-drops dripped.
There were many puddles, but Uncle Wiggily kept as much out of them as
he could.
“It is getting quite some colder,” he said to himself, as he put one paw
in his pocket to warm it—warm his paw, I mean, not his pocket, for that
was warm already. “I wouldn’t be surprised to see it snow.”
And, in a little while, a few flakes of snow did begin to fall, dodging
their way in between the rain-drops, and sort of playing tag with one
another.
“How pretty the flakes look,” said Uncle Wiggily, coming to a stop to
watch them. “I think I’ll sit down a minute and look at them.” He found
a fallen log, which, being under a Christmas tree, was not as wet as it
might otherwise have been, and down Uncle Wiggily sat on that.
More snowflakes fell, and they looked so pretty that Uncle Wiggily
stayed longer than he meant to, sitting on the log. It kept on getting
colder and colder, and finally the bunny uncle said:
“Well, I mustn’t sit here any longer. I’ll get up and go back to my
nice, warm, cozy hollow-stump bungalow. Yes, I’ll get up and——”
But Uncle Wiggily did not get up. He couldn’t! He had frozen fast to the
log, which had some water on it. The cold air had made the water freeze,
and Uncle Wiggily was held as fast there as if he had sat down in sticky
fly paper—even more tightly, I believe.
“Oh, dear!” he cried. “This is quite too bad! In fact, it is terrible.
What shall I do!”
He tried to get up, but he could not, and he did not want to take off
his rubber coat, and so free himself, for fear he might catch cold
without his coat.
“Oh, dear! I don’t know what to do!” cried Uncle Wiggily. “Help! Help!
Will no one help me to get loose?”
Then, through the woods he suddenly heard a rub-a-dub-dub drumming
sound.
“Ha! I wonder if that can be my friend, the butcher?” thought the bunny
uncle. But when he looked he saw a baker coming along, dressed in a
spotless white apron and cap. The baker had a loaf of bread in his hand,
and with a large spoon he was pushing himself along in his tub through
the puddles of water, which had not yet solidly frozen over, though
there were chunks of ice in them. And the baker was singing:
“Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub;
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker;
But I am the one with the hot baked potato.”
Then the baker, seeing Uncle Wiggily sitting on the log, called to the
bunny uncle as he stopped his tub boat:
“Would you like to buy a loaf of bread?” asked the baker.
“Well, yes, I might, for I heard Nurse Jane say we needed some,”
answered the bunny uncle.
“Then please come and get it,” said the baker. “For I am riding a
boat-tub race with the butcher and the candlestick maker, and I don’t
want to stop. They might get in ahead of me. You see, we are doing a
little different from what it says in the Mother Goose book,” went on
the baker, shaking some rain-drops off his white cap. “We each have a
tub to ourselves.”
“I see,” said Uncle Wiggily. “I heard about it. In fact, I met the
butcher sailing along in his tub the other day.”
“Oh, did you? Then I must hurry,” cried the baker, “or he will win the
race. Come and get your loaf of bread and I’ll paddle along.”
“I can’t come and get it,” said Uncle Wiggily. “I am sorry, but I really
can’t.”
“Why not?” asked the baker.
“Because I am frozen fast to this log,” said the bunny uncle, “and I
really can’t get up, much as I would like to. I was calling for help,
and, when you came along, I hoped——”
“Ha! Say no more!” cried the baker, in a jolly voice. “Of course I’ll
help you. Never mind about the race. I’ll get you loose!”
“How?” asked Uncle Wiggily.
“I’ll show you!” cried the baker. He stopped his tub, which had started
off by itself, put on his rubbers, and stepped out into a little puddle.
In his hands he carried the hot loaf of bread, and the hot baked potato.
Putting these down on the log, one on each side of Uncle Wiggily, the
heat of them soon melted the ice, and the rabbit gentleman was unfrozen,
and could get up and go on his way as well as ever.
“Oh, thank you!” he called to the baker. “Thank you!”
“You are welcome,” was the answer, “and take the hot bread and potato
with you,” and with that the baker jumped back in his tub and went on
sailing, hoping to catch up to the butcher.
So Uncle Wiggily went to his hollow-stump bungalow, not being frozen any
more, and all was well. And if the soft boiled egg doesn’t go sliding on
the ice and fall down so it breaks all to pieces and has to be put in a
pudding, I’ll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and the candlestick
maker.
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