It is hard to believe what seems impossible. And yet what seems
impossible to you may be a very commonplace matter to some one
else. So it does not do to say that a thing cannot be possible
just because you cannot understand how it can be. Peter Rabbit
wanted to believe what Lightfoot the Deer had just told him, but
somehow he couldn't. If he had seen those antlers growing, it
would have been another matter. But he hadn't seen Lightfoot
since the very last of winter, and then Lightfoot had worn just
such handsome antlers as he now had. So Peter really couldn't be
blamed for not being able to believe that those old ones had been
lost and in their place new ones had grown in just the few months
of spring and summer.
But Peter didn't blame Lightfoot in the least, because he had
told Peter that he didn't like to tell things to people who
wouldn't believe what he told them when Peter had asked him about
the rags hanging to his antlers. "I'm trying to believe it," he
said, quite humbly.
"It's all true," broke in another voice.
Peter jumped and turned to find his big cousin, Jumper the
Hare. Unseen and unheard, he had stolen up and had overheard what
Peter and Lightfoot had said.
"How do you know it is true?" snapped Peter a little crossly, for
Jumper had startled him.
"Because I saw Lightfoot's old antlers after they had fallen off,
and I often saw Lightfoot while his new ones were growing,"
retorted Jumper.
"All right! I'll believe anything that Lightfoot tells me if you
say it is true," declared Peter, who greatly admires his cousin,
Jumper. "Now tell me about those rags, Lightfoot. Please do."
Lightfoot couldn't resist that "please." "Those rags are what is
left of a kind of covering which protected the antlers while they
were growing, as I told you before," said he. "Very soon after
my old ones dropped off the new ones began to grow. They were
not hard, not at all like they are now. They were soft and very
tender, and the blood ran through them just as it does through
our bodies. They were covered with a sort of skin with hairs on
it like thin fur. The ends were not sharply pointed they now
are, but were big and rounded, like knobs. They were not like
antlers at all, and they made my head hot and were very
uncomfortable. That is why I hid away. They grew very fast, so
fast that every day I could see by looking at my reflection in
water that they were a little longer. It seemed to me sometimes
as if all my strength went into those new antlers. And I had to
be very careful not to hit them against anything. In the first
place it would have hurt, and in the second place it might have
spoiled the shape of them.
"When they had grown to the length you now see, they began to
shrink and grow hard. The knobs on the ends shrank until they
became pointed. As soon as they stopped growing the blood stopped
flowing up in them, and as they became hard they were no longer
tender. The skin which had covered them grew dry and split, and I
rubbed it off on trees and bushes. The little rags you see are
what is left, but I will soon be rid of those. Then I shall be
ready to fight if need be and will fear no one save man, and will
fear him only when he has a terrible gun with him."
Lightfoot tossed his head proudly and rattled his wonderful
antlers against the nearest tree. "Isn't he handsome," whispered
Peter to Jumper the Hare; "and did you ever hear of anything so
wonderful as the growing of those new antlers in such a short
time? It is hard to believe, but I suppose it must be true."
"It is," replied Jumper, "and I tell you, Peter, I would hate to
have Lightfoot try those antlers on me, even though I were big as
a man. You've always thought of Lightfoot as timid and afraid,
but you should see him when he is angry. Few people care to face
him then."