WHY THE LITTLE OWLS’ PLANS WENT WRONG
Tommy Peele got up early, very early, on Saturday morning and took care
of his cows, for this was the day he was to hunt Silvertip the Fox with
a gun. His big cousin Sandy had come with his hound, Trailer. Sandy was
to do the shooting. And Watch took Trailer into a quiet corner and
remarked: “I don’t want to be unpleasant, but it’s a fox, not a rabbit
we’re going to kill, and if you so much as yelp at another thing I’ll
tear the hide right off you.” And Trailer opened his big brown eyes and
promised to be very careful.
All the woods and fields were ready, too, for the fox killed a great
many things besides Tommy’s chickens. Every one hoped Tommy would kill
him; every one but little Mr. and Mrs. Screech Owl and Foul Fang the
Rattlesnake, who was hiding that very minute in the leaves in front of
the fox’s log.
Nibble wanted to warn Watch, but when he saw Trailer sniffing along
beside him he didn’t dare. So off he set toward the woods. And Watch and
Trailer followed him. Pretty soon Trailer said: “I thought you weren’t
chasing rabbits.”
“I’m not,” growled Watch. “He’s showing us where the fox is hidden.” And
maybe that didn’t set Trailer wondering.
Just then those Bad Little Owls stumbled past, bumping against the
twigs, for they fly badly in the daytime. But they never reached Foul
Fang, for Chaik the Jay, who was another of Tommy’s friends, was lying
in wait for them. He had his whole family to help him, and what they did
to those Bad Little Owls!
Meantime, Nibble was going slowly and carefully on the lookout for Foul
Fang. “Stop!” shrieked Chewee the Chickadee from a branch above him.
“Foul Fang’s right in front of you. I saw him move a minute ago, but I
can’t see him until he moves again.”
Nibble froze in his tracks. Foul Fang was ahead, that strange dog was
behind him. But he knew he mustn’t let any one pass him. He waited until
the dogs were very close, then he darted past them, right to Tommy’s
feet, calling: “Foul Fang! Foul Fang!”
“Wait!” barked Watch to Trailer. “Something’s wrong.” And he ran and
caught Tommy by the coat to stop him. And of course Trailer and Tommy’s
cousin Sandy stopped, too. “What’s up?” demanded Sandy.
“I don’t know,” said Tommy, “but there’s my chickadee, and here’s my
rabbit. Something’s frightening them.”
“There, there! Look!” squeaked Chewee, dancing about on his twig like a
crazy bird. Foul Fang raised his ugly head to sniff at them. Then he
wound into his striking coil.
“Bz-z-z!” began Foul Fang’s rattle. “Bang-bang!” went Sandy’s gun. “A
snake! No wonder they were frightened!” exclaimed Sandy. “Lucky that
rabbit saw him!”
“Wow-wow-wow!” bayed Trailer, for Silvertip bolted out of his log and
began to run.
“Bang—bang!” went the gun. And that did scare Nibble. It sent him flying
through the woods, straight for Doctor Muskrat’s Pool.
The old doctor was out on his flat stone; but he wasn’t asleep. He was
sitting straight up with his round ears pricked and his whiskers
stiffened, listening. Ka-flick, ka-flick, came the long bounces of
Nibble Rabbit. “Chick-adee-dee-dee-dee-ee!” rang out the joyful shout of
Chewee, just a little way behind him. “We-e-e-ak!” came the far-away
squeak of a fieldmouse. “We-e-e-aw!” echoed one nearer at paw.
“R-r-r-r!” drummed a partridge, and a meadowlark who was drinking
remarked: “That’s a death beat, but he isn’t muffling it. Sounds as
though he were mighty glad about it.”
Ka-flick-thump! Nibble Rabbit landed beside the doctor. “I warned
Tommy!” was all he had breath to gasp. But here came Chewee, his wings
whirring like a humming bird’s, his eyes popping like a crawfish’s, as
though they had stalks to stand on. “Whee!” he screeched. “You ought to
see—ee—ee!”
“See what?” called Chaik, who was hurrying by to find out what all the
noise meant, and he circled back to listen.
“Foul Fang!” squeaked Chewee, turning somersaults on a bulrush. “He’s in
three pieces, and his tail is cut off and his wicked scales are
squirming in the sun.”
“Yeah!” squawked Chaik, dancing on his wings. “And those Bad Little Owls
are hiding in the Brushpile. I’m all mussed up from climbing in after
them, but my relatives and I have picked them ’most as clean as the mice
picked Nibble’s woodchuck. I’m going back to shout the news at them.
Yeah!” And off he flew.
“What did it?” gasped Nibble.
“You silly rabbit,” chuckled Doctor Muskrat. “That ‘bang!’ was a gun.”
“Oh,” and Nibble sat up to think. “The partridge did say Man could make
more noise than a summer storm. He certainly can!”
“Why, Nibble!” teased Doctor Muskrat, his shiny little eyes twinkling,
“didn’t you ever hear a gun? Every other creature in all the Woods and
Fields has been waiting for that noise to celebrate the death of
Silvertip the Fox. That was what Tommy Peele brought out here to kill
him.”
“Did it?” demanded Nibble Rabbit. He knew that it pretty nearly stunned
one small and scary rabbit he could tell about.
“Not if it bit Foul Fang in three pieces,” answered the wise old doctor.
“That takes two bites, one for each noise. Silvertip isn’t bitten yet.”
“Shot” was what he meant, but the Woodsfolk don’t use that word.
“How do you know he isn’t bitten?” squealed Chewee the Chickadee. He was
twirling and tumbling about the bulrushes because he was too happy and
excited to keep still. “He jumped right out under the nose of Trailer,
that hound Tommy Peele brought to help his own dog Watch. And the last I
saw he was just about two steps ahead of Trailer’s jaws.”
“Ssh!” warned Doctor Muskrat, and he cocked his ears. Far, far away they
could hear Trailer calling, “Where, where?” And Watch answered: “Isn’t
this fox?” and Tommy Peele’s cousin was shouting: “Hie out, Trailer!
Find him!”
“You see,” said the doctor, “Silvertip’s saved his skin this time. But
we’ll find him again.”
He was right. Late in the afternoon Tommy came trudging along with his
head down, too unhappy to listen to the “Thank you” the meadowlarks were
singing, and the one Chewee brought from the partridge. For every
creature that lived or nested on the ground was more than grateful to be
rid of Foul Fang. Tommy’s big cousin Sandy was carrying his gun, and his
dog Trailer was so tired he could scarcely crawl. Watch was tired and
sheepish besides. He came down for a drink and whispered: “See where
Silvertip sleeps. We’ll be out again to-morrow.”
“I wonder how he got away,” said Nibble, stamping impatiently. He’d come
from eating a dandelion head in the Quail’s Thicket to see what Watch
had to say.
“I can tell you,” came the soft whisper of the whippoorwill who had
skimmed a drink as he flew across the pond, leaving a wake of tiny,
quiet ripples. “There’s still deep water in the ditches. Silvertip
splashed along in it to hide his trail and then sneaked into the culvert
where it runs under the woods road. The frogs say he almost drowned. But
he shivered in there with only his nose out until Trailer circled past.
Then he ran back in the ditch on the other side and jumped over to a
tree that was broken off by the terrible storm. He climbed up the limbs
to the broken stump—it’s ten good wingbeats above the ground—and curled
up in a woodduck’s nest. And he ate every egg she’d laid, too. Now he’s
coming this way.”
[Illustration: Silvertip hid under the culvert until Trailer circled
past.]
“My stars, Nibble!” exclaimed the doctor, “you can’t sleep here. Warn
Watch and hide somewhere up near the barn!” So off Nibble ran.