THE WICKED PLOT OF THE BAD LITTLE OWLS
As soon as the whippoorwill had finished whispering the news, about
where Silvertip was hiding, he flew off so quietly that even the doctor
couldn’t hear him. Then the wise old beast raised his queer, thin call,
almost like a whistle, to tell Nibble Rabbit he was wanted, and swam
quite as quietly to the place in the bulrushes by the pond where they
always met.
But no Nibble came. Nibble Rabbit was still hiding in the Quail’s
Thicket, listening to Mr. and Mrs. Screech Owl, who were perched right
above him.
“That bird’s telling him about Silvertip,” said one. “If it had been any
other bird in the woods he’d have spoken so we could overhear him.”
“I wish he had,” said the other. “We’ve picked that last hen so clean
we’ll have to hunt for ourselves if we can’t find him. I wonder what
that muskrat wants of him. He’s been asking every bird who came down to
drink for the last three days. I heard Chaik the Jay talking to Chewee
the Chickadee about it just when I was going to sleep this morning.”
“What did they say?” demanded Mrs. Screech Owl. The lady owl is always
the more thoughtful. They both live in trees. Silvertip never bothers
them.
“I didn’t understand,” said her mate. “Chaik was insisting that they
must all hunt hard for Silvertip. He said that it concerned every good
friend of Tommy Peele’s.”
“You pinfeathered idiot!” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell me that
before? That explains why Tommy Peele and his dog were sniffing about
Silvertip’s fence corner. And that rabbit was with them. He’s at the
bottom of all this. Something’s wrong there. I never knew a wild rabbit
to be friends with a dog in all my life. If he’ll do that he’ll do
anything. Silvertip must be warned. We can’t let anything happen to him.
Besides, think how much he could do for us if he felt grateful.”
“Grateful? Not much. A fox is never grateful. But he’d know we were
useful and that amounts to the same thing. I wonder why that rabbit
doesn’t answer Doctor Muskrat?” and Mr. Screech Owl flew cautiously over
the doctor’s house in the middle of the pond. Back he came to where his
wife was still thinking. “He must have meant that call for the
whippoorwill,” he said to his mate. “He’s gone to bed.”
“We must get some friend who lives on the ground to keep watch for us,
too,” said the Lady Owl thoughtfully. “Only Silvertip has no friends.
He’ll eat anybody.”
“Excepting old Foul Fang the Rattlesnake,” said Mr. Screech Owl. “We
could buy Foul Fang’s service for a mouse a day. I’ll just do that, and
you go up to the house, not the barn, mind, and see if you can get a
word with that grandson of Ouphe the Rat who lives there. Silvertip’s
never hunted him. By the kitchen door—now flutter!” And away they went.
But Nibble waited until he was perfectly sure they had gone before he
crept down to talk with Doctor Muskrat in the bulrushes.
And he was a pretty trembly little rabbit. He hopped very carefully,
gliding from shadow to shadow like a fieldmouse. And the doctor never
moved when Nibble Rabbit slipped in beside him; he was listening to the
stars as they danced in the pool just exactly the way he had done the
night they told him Nibble’s fortune. He was muttering:
“Let him who is both young and wise
Beware the killer with lidless eyes.
“Yes, that’s all I can make out of it,” said the old doctor slowly. “Now
what does that mean, I wonder?”
“I know,” gasped Nibble, “I know—it’s Foul Fang the Rattlesnake. The
little owls don’t want us to catch that fox, Silvertip, because he
catches chickens and leaves their bones for the owls to pick. They heard
Chaik and Jay and Chewee the Chickadee talking about it. So the he-owl
has gone out to hire Foul Fang to help them. They’re going to pay him a
mouse a day to do it. And his wife has gone up to the house to bargain
with the grandson of Ouphe the Rat who lives in the walls. He’s to keep
watch on Tommy and warn them what he means to do about Silvertip. But
they don’t know where Silvertip is.”
“That’s one good thing,” the doctor nodded. “And another is that
Silvertip has no friends—nor the owls, either. They only work for him
because of what he gives them, and they have to hire their own helpers.
Now all the woods know how you help any one who’s in trouble, and Tommy
Peele has quite a few friends. I can’t see whether this warning is for
you or for Tommy.”
“Tommy, of course. Watch the Dog says he’s the cleverest boy in all the
world, and Watch is his dog, so he ought to know about him,” said Nibble
promptly.
“Hm,” laughed Doctor Muskrat into his whiskers. “Well, for a rabbit, you
know a thing or two. What cheers me up is this. The stars never warn
about something that’s surely going to happen. They warn so you can be
careful and escape your enemies. Now I’ll set every bird who drinks here
at the pool to keep watching for Foul Fang. And I’m going over to the
stump right now to send out word to all the fieldmice.”
“And I’ll go back to the Brushpile,” said Nibble, “and listen to the Bad
Little Owls when they come to their hole in the morning.”
Off set the rabbit, lipity-lipity, scudding under the brush and over the
shadows and through the grasses, until he snuggled down in a nice little
pocket where only a mouse could have found him. And about dawn he heard
the screech owls.
“It’s all fixed,” said the he-owl. “I found Foul Fang, and he knew where
Silvertip was because he’d already smelled him (snakes say they smell
any one instead of seeing him), and when I squawk the signal he’ll
rattle and Silvertip will hear it and run. I didn’t find Silvertip
because he stayed out hunting too long.”
“Fine,” said his wife. “And Tommy’s gun is all ready to start in the
morning.”