'Roger, Roger,' I shout. 'Come quick. We have company.'
Roger dashes over. I'm on my knees, separating the reeds with my
hands to see better. Roger helps and we see a baby jackrabbit.
We stare at the jackrabbit and don't move. We don't want to frighten
the baby jackrabbit and, of course, the baby jackrabbit doesn't want to
frighten us.
A rustling sound comes from behind a clump of reeds off to the side,
and out jumps a fully grown jackrabbit. It's as big as a cat, but has long,
flapping ears and a cotton-ball tail, which cats don't have.
The grown jackrabbit rushes to the baby and, with its mouth, grips the
back of the baby's neck and lifts it up. This must be the baby's mother,
because that is the way most parent animals carry their young. It
doesn't hurt the baby, and the mother does feel better knowing exactly
where her baby is.
The adult jackrabbit looks up at us. All this time we are very still. I
don't think the jackrabbit is frightened of us, but I suppose she has
other things to do and can't just stand around visiting.
After looking us over for a moment or two, the jackrabbit wriggles her
ears, turns away, twitches her cotton-ball tail and jackrabbit-jumps into
the reeds. She and her baby are on their way from one place to the
another. I guess only the jackrabbit really knows where and why.
'I hope they find their way to where they want to go,' Roger says, 'and I
hope the baby stays close to it's mother. A baby can get lost among
these reeds.'
'The mother jackrabbit knew where to find the baby,' I said. 'She must
be pretty smart. Don't you think so?'
'Yes,' Roger agreed, 'she's smart, all right.'
We walked back to the palms and, from there, home.