Unhappiness without a cause you never, never find;
It may be in the stomach, or it may be in the mind.
--Whitefoot.
Whitefoot the Wood Mouse should have been happy, but he wasn't. Winter
had gone and sweet Mistress Spring had brought joy to all the Green
Forest. Every one was happy, Whitefoot no less so than his neighbors at
first. Up from the Sunny South came the feathered friends and at once
began planning new homes. Twitterings and songs filled the air. Joy was
everywhere. Food became plentiful, and Whitefoot became sleek and fat.
That is, he became as fat as a lively Wood Mouse ever does become. None
of his enemies had discovered his new home, and he had little to worry
about.
But by and by Whitefoot began to feel less joyous. Day by day he grew
more and more unhappy. He no longer took pleasure in his fine home. He
began to wander about for no particular reason. He wandered much farther
from home than he had ever been in the habit of doing. At times he would
sit and listen, but what he was listening for he didn't know. “There
is something the matter with me, and I don't know what it is,” said
Whitefoot to himself forlornly. “It can't be anything I have eaten. I
have nothing to worry about. Yet there is something wrong with me. I'm
losing my appetite. Nothing tastes good any more. I want something, but
I don't know what it is I want.”
He tried to tell his troubles to his nearest neighbor, Timmy the Flying
Squirrel, but Timmy was too busy to listen. When Peter Rabbit happened
along, Whitefoot tried to tell him. But Peter himself was too happy and
too eager to learn all the news in the Green Forest to listen. No one
had any interest in Whitefoot's troubles. Every one was too busy with
his own affairs.
So day by day Whitefoot the Wood Mouse grew more and more unhappy, and
when the dusk of early evening came creeping through the Green Forest,
he sat about and moped instead of running about and playing as he had
been in the habit of doing. The beautiful song of Melody the Wood Thrush
somehow filled him with sadness instead of with the joy he had always
felt before. The very happiness of those about him seemed to make him
more unhappy.
Once he almost decided to go hunt for another home, but somehow he
couldn't get interested even in this. He did start out, but he had not
gone far before he had forgotten all about what he had started for.
Always he had loved to run about and climb and jump for the pure
pleasure of it, but now he no longer did these things. He was unhappy,
was Whitefoot. Yes, sir, he was unhappy; and for no cause at all so far
as he could see.