Probably there was no happier Thanksgiving in all the Great World
than the Thanksgiving of Lightfoot the Deer, when the dreadful
hunting season ended and he was once more back in his beloved
Green Forest with nothing to fear. All his neighbors called on
him to tell him how glad they were that he had escaped and how
the Green Forest would not have been the same if he had not
returned. So Lightfoot roamed about without fear and was
happy. It seemed to him that he could not be happier. There was
plenty to eat and that blessed feeling of nothing to fear.
What more could any one ask? He began to grow sleek and fat and
handsomer than ever. The days were growing colder and the frosty
air made him feel good.
Just at dusk one evening he went down to his favorite drinking
place at the Laughing Brook. As he put down his head to drink he
saw something which so surprised him that he quite forgot he was
thirsty. What do you think it was he saw? It was a footprint in
the soft mud. Yes, Sir, it was a footprint.
For a long time Lightfoot stood staring at that footprint. In his
great, soft eyes was a look of wonder and surprise. You see, that
footprint was exactly like one of his own, only smaller.
To Lightfoot it was a very wonderful footprint. He was quite sure
that never had he seen such a dainty footprint. He forgot to drink.
Instead, he began to search for other footprints, and presently
he found them. Each was as dainty as that first one.
Who could have made them? That is what Lightfoot wanted to know
and what he meant to find out. It was clear to him that there was
a stranger in the Green Forest, and somehow he didn't resent it
in the least. In fact, he was glad. He couldn't have told why,
but it was true.
Lightfoot put his nose to the footprints and sniffed of them.
Even had he not known by looking at those prints that they
had been made by a stranger, his nose would have told him this.
A great longing to find the maker of those footprints took
possession of him. He lifted his handsome head and listened for
some slight sound which might show that the stranger was near.
With his delicate nostrils he tested the wandering little Night
Breezes for a stray whiff of scent to tell him which way to go.
But there was no sound and the wandering little Night Breezes told
him nothing. Lightfoot followed the dainty footprints up the bank.
There they disappeared, for the ground was hard. Lightfoot paused,
undecided which way to go.