When all is said and all is done
'Tis only love of two makes one.
--Whitefoot.
Little Miss Dainty, the most beautiful and wonderful Wood Mouse in all
the Great World, according to Whitefoot, was very shy and very timid. It
took Whitefoot a long time to make her believe that he really couldn't
live without her. At least, she pretended not to believe it. If the
truth were known, little Miss Dainty felt just the same way about
Whitefoot. But Whitefoot didn't know this, and I am afraid she teased
him a great deal before she told him that she loved him just as he loved
her.
But at last little Miss Dainty shyly admitted that she loved Whitefoot
just as much as he loved her and was willing to become Mrs. Whitefoot.
Secretly she thought Whitefoot the most wonderful Wood Mouse in the
Great World, but she didn't tell him so. The truth is, she made him feel
as if she were doing him a great favor.
As for Whitefoot, he was so happy that he actually tried to sing. Yes,
sir, Whitefoot tried to sing, and he really did very well for a Mouse.
He was ready and eager to do anything that Mrs. Whitefoot wanted to do.
Together they scampered about in the moonlight, hunting for good things
to eat, and poking their inquisitive little noses into every little
place they could find. Whitefoot forgot that he had ever been sad and
lonely. He raced about and did all sorts of funny things from pure joy,
but he never once forgot to watch out for danger. In fact he was more
watchful than ever, for now he was watching for Mrs. Whitefoot as well
as for himself.
At last Whitefoot rather timidly suggested that they should go see his
fine home in a certain hollow stub. Mrs. Whitefoot insisted that they
should go to her home. Whitefoot agreed on condition that she
would afterwards visit his home. So together they went back to Mrs.
Whitefoot's home. Whitefoot pretended that he liked it very much, but
in his heart he thought his own home was very much better, and he felt
quite sure that Mrs. Whitefoot would agree with him once she had seen
it.
But Mrs. Whitefoot was very well satisfied with her old home and not
at all anxious to leave it. It was in an old hollow stump close to the
ground. It was just such a place as Shadow the Weasel would be sure to
visit should he happen along that way. It didn't seem at all safe to
Whitefoot. In fact it worried him. Then, too, it was not in such a
pleasant place as was his own home. Of course he didn't say this, but
pretended to admire everything.
Two days and nights they spent there. Then Whitefoot suggested that they
should visit his home. “Of course, my dear, we will not have to live
there unless you want to, but I want you to see it,” said he.
Mrs. Whitefoot didn't appear at all anxious to go. She began to make
excuses for staying right where they were. You see, she had a great love
for that old home. They were sitting just outside the doorway talking
about the matter when Whitefoot caught a glimpse of a swiftly moving
form not far off. It was Shadow the Weasel. Neither of them breathed.
Shadow passed without looking in their direction. When he was out of
sight, Mrs. Whitefoot shivered.
“Let's go over to your home right away,” she whispered. “I've never seen
Shadow about here before, but now that he has been here once, he may
come again.”
“We'll start at once,” replied Whitefoot, and for once he was glad that
Shadow the Weasel was about.
CHAPTER XVIII: Mrs. Whitefoot Decides On A Home
When Mrs. Mouse makes up her mind
Then Mr. Mouse best get behind.
--Whitefoot.
Whitefoot the Wood Mouse was very proud of his home. He showed it as he
led Mrs. Whitefoot there. He felt sure that she would say at once that
that would be the place for them to live. You remember that it was high
up in a tall, dead stub and had once been the home of Timmy the Flying
Squirrel.
“There, my dear, what do you think of that?” said Whitefoot proudly as
they reached the little round doorway.
Mrs. Whitefoot said nothing, but at once went inside. She was gone what
seemed a long time to Whitefoot, anxiously waiting outside. You see,
Mrs. Whitefoot is a very thorough small person, and she was examining
the inside of that house from top to bottom. At last she appeared at the
doorway.
“Don't you think this is a splendid house?” asked Whitefoot rather
timidly.
“It is very good of its kind,” replied Mrs. Whitefoot.
Whitefoot's heart sank. He didn't like the tone in which Mrs. Whitefoot
had said that.
“Just what do you mean, my dear?” Whitefoot asked.
“I mean,” replied Mrs. Whitefoot, in a most decided way, “that it is a
very good house for winter, but it won't do at all for summer. That
is, it won't do for me. In the first place it is so high up that if we
should have babies, I would worry all the time for fear the darlings
would have a bad fall. Besides, I don't like an inside house for summer.
I think, Whitefoot, we must look around and find a new home.”
As she spoke Mrs. Whitefoot was already starting down the stub.
Whitefoot followed.
“All right, my dear, all right,” said he meekly. “You know best. This
seems to me like a very fine home, but of course, if you don't like it
we'll look for another.”
Mrs. Whitefoot said nothing, but led the way down the tree with
Whitefoot meekly following. Then began a patient search all about. Mrs.
Whitefoot appeared to know just what she wanted and turned up her nose
at several places Whitefoot thought would make fine homes. She hardly
glanced at a fine hollow log Whitefoot found. She merely poked her nose
in at a splendid hole beneath the roots of an old stump. Whitefoot
began to grow tired from running about and climbing stumps and trees and
bushes.
He stopped to rest and lost sight of Mrs. Whitefoot. A moment later he
heard her calling excitedly. When he found her, she was up in a small
tree, sitting on the edge of an old nest a few feet above the ground.
It was a nest that had once belonged to Melody the Wood Thrush. Mrs.
Whitefoot was sitting on the edge of it, and her bright eyes snapped
with excitement and pleasure.
“I've found it!” she cried. “I've found it! It is just what I have been
looking for.”
“Found what?” Whitefoot asked. “I don't see anything but an old nest of
Melody's.”
“I've found the home we've been looking for, stupid,” retorted Mrs.
Whitefoot.
Still Whitefoot stared. “I don't see any house,” said he.
Mrs. Whitefoot stamped her feet impatiently. “Right here, stupid,” said
she. “This old nest will make us the finest and safest home that ever
was. No one will ever think of looking for us here. We must get busy at
once and fix it up.”
Even then Whitefoot didn't understand. Always he had lived either in a
hole in the ground, or in a hollow stump or tree. How they were to live
in that old nest he couldn't see at all.
CHAPTER XXIX: Making Over An Old House
A home is always what you make it.
With love there you will ne'er forsake it.
--Whitefoot.
Whitefoot climbed up to the old nest of Melody the Wood Thrush over the
edge of which little Mrs. Whitefoot was looking down at him. It took
Whitefoot hardly a moment to get up there, for the nest was only a few
feet above the ground in a young tree, and you know Whitefoot is a very
good climber.
He found Mrs. Whitefoot very much excited. She was delighted with
that old nest and she showed it. For his part, Whitefoot couldn't see
anything but a deserted old house of no use to any one. To be sure, it
had been a very good home in its time. It had been made of tiny twigs,
stalks of old weeds, leaves, little fine roots and mud. It was still
quite solid, and was firmly fixed in a crotch of the young tree. But
Whitefoot couldn't see how it could be turned into a home for a Mouse.
He said as much.
Little Mrs. Whitefoot became more excited than ever. “You dear old
stupid,” said she, “whatever is the matter with you? Don't you see that
all we need do is to put a roof on, make an entrance on the under side,
and make a soft comfortable bed inside to make it a delightful home?”
“I don't see why we don't make a new home altogether,” protested
Whitefoot. “It seems to me that hollow stub of mine is ever so much
better than this. That has good solid walls, and we won't have to do a
thing to it.”
“I told you once before that it doesn't suit me for summer,” replied
little Mrs. Whitefoot rather sharply, because she was beginning to lose
patience. “It will be all right for winter, but winter is a long way
off. It may suit you for summer, but it doesn't suit me, and this place
does. So this is where we are going to live.”
“Certainly, my dear. Certainly,” replied Whitefoot very meekly. “If you
want to live here, here we will live. But I must confess it isn't clear
to me yet how we are going to make a decent home out of this old nest.”
“Don't you worry about that,” replied Mrs. Whitefoot. “You can get the
material, and I'll attend to the rest. Let us waste no time about it. I
am anxious to get our home finished and to feel a little bit settled. I
have already planned just what has got to be done and how we will do it.
Now you go look for some nice soft, dry weed stalks and strips of soft
bark, and moss and any other soft, tough material that you can find.
Just get busy and don't stop to talk.”
Of course Whitefoot did as he was told. He ran down to the ground
and began to hunt for the things Mrs. Whitefoot wanted. He was very
particular about it. He still didn't think much of her idea of making
over that old home of Melody's, but if she would do it, he meant that
she should have the very best of materials to do it with.
So back and forth from the ground to the old nest in the tree Whitefoot
hurried, and presently there was quite a pile of weed stalks and
soft grass and strips of bark in the old nest. Mrs. Whitefoot joined
Whitefoot in hunting for just the right things, but she spent more time
in arranging the material. Over that old nest she made a fine high roof.
Down through the lower side she cut a little round doorway just big
enough for them to pass through. Unless you happened to be underneath
looking up, you never would have guessed there was an entrance at all.
Inside was a snug, round room, and in this she made the softest and
most comfortable of beds. As it began to look more and more like a home,
Whitefoot himself became as excited and eager as Mrs. Whitefoot had
been from the beginning. “It certainly is going to be a fine home,” said
Whitefoot.
“Didn't I tell you it would be?” retorted Mrs. Whitefoot.
CHAPTER XXX: The Whitefoots Enjoy Their New Home
No home is ever mean or poor
Where love awaits you at the door.
--Whitefoot.
“There,” said Mrs. Whitefoot, as she worked a strip of white birch bark
into the roof of the new home she and Whitefoot had been building out of
the old home of Melody the Wood Thrush, “this finishes the roof. I don't
think any water will get through it even in the hardest rain.”
“It is wonderful,” declared Whitefoot admiringly. “Wherever did you
learn to build such a house as this?”
“From my mother,” replied Mrs. Whitefoot. “I was born in just such a
home. It makes the finest kind of a home for Wood Mouse babies.”
“You don't think there is danger that the wind will blow it down, do
you?” ventured Whitefoot.
“Of course I don't,” retorted little Mrs. Whitefoot scornfully. “Hasn't
this old nest remained right where it is for over a year? Do you suppose
that if I had thought there was the least bit of danger that it would
blow down, I would have used it? Do credit me with a little sense, my
dear.”
“Yes'm, I do,” replied Whitefoot meekly. “You are the most sensible
person in all the Great World. I wasn't finding fault. You see, I have
always lived in a hole in the ground or a hollow stump, or a hole in
a tree, and I have not yet become used to a home that moves about and
rocks as this one does when the wind blows. But if you say it is all
right, why of course it is all right. Probably I will get used to it
after awhile.”
Whitefoot did get used to it. After living in it for a few days, it no
longer seemed strange, and he no longer minded its swaying when the wind
blew. The fact is, he rather enjoyed it. So Whitefoot and Mrs. Whitefoot
settled down to enjoy their new home. Now and then they added a bit to
it here and there.
Somehow Whitefoot felt unusually safe, safer than he had ever felt in
any of his other homes. You see, he had seen several feathered folk
alight close to it and not give it a second look. He knew that they
had seen that home, but had mistaken it for what it had once been, the
deserted home of one of their own number.
Whitefoot had chuckled. He had chuckled long and heartily. “If they make
that mistake,” said he to himself, “everybody else is likely to make it.
That home of ours is right in plain sight, yet I do believe it is safer
than the best hidden home I ever had before. Shadow the Weasel never
will think of climbing up this little tree to look at an old nest, and
Shadow is the one I am most afraid of.”
It was only a day or two later that Buster Bear happened along that way.
Now Buster is very fond of tender Wood Mouse. More than once Whitefoot
had had a narrow escape from Buster's big claws as they tore open an old
stump or dug into the ground after him. He saw Buster glance up at the
new home without the slightest interest in those shrewd little eyes of
his. Then Buster shuffled on to roll over an old log and lick up the
ants he found under it. Again Whitefoot chuckled. “Yes, sir,” said he.
“It is the safest home I 've ever had.”
So Whitefoot and little Mrs. Whitefoot were very happy in the home
which they had built, and for once in his life Whitefoot did very little
worrying. Life seemed more beautiful than it had ever been before. And
he almost forgot that there was such a thing as a hungry enemy.
CHAPTER XXXI: Whitefoot Is Hurt
The hurts that hardest are to bear
Come from those for whom we care.
--Whitefoot.
Whitefoot was hurt. Yes, sir, Whitefoot was hurt. He was very much hurt.
It wasn't a bodily hurt; it was an inside hurt. It was a hurt that made
his heart ache. And to make it worse, he couldn't understand it at all.
One evening he had been met at the little round doorway by little Mrs.
Whitefoot.
“You can't come in,” said she.
“Why can't I?” demanded Whitefoot, in the greatest surprise.
“Never mind why. You can't, and that is all there is to it,” replied
Mrs. Whitefoot.
“You mean I can't ever come in any more?” asked Whitefoot.
“I don't know about that,” replied Mrs. Whitefoot, “but you can't come
in now, nor for some time. I think the best thing you can do is to go
back to your old home in the hollow stub.”
Whitefoot stared at little Mrs. Whitefoot quite as if he thought she
had gone crazy. Then he lost his temper. “I guess I'll come in if I want
to,” said he. “This home is quite as much my home as it is yours. You
have no right to keep me out of it. Just you get out of my way.”
But little Mrs. Whitefoot didn't get out of his way, and do what he
would, Whitefoot couldn't get in. You see she quite filled that little
round doorway. Finally, he had to give up trying. Three times he came
back and each time he found little Mrs. Whitefoot in the doorway. And
each time she drove him away. Finally, for lack of any other place to
go to, he returned to his old home in the old stub. Once he had thought
this the finest home possible, but now somehow it didn't suit him at
all. The truth is he missed little Mrs. Whitefoot, and so what had once
been a home was now only a place in which to hide and sleep.
Whitefoot's anger did not last long. It was replaced by that hurt
feeling. He felt that he must have done something little Mrs. Whitefoot
did not like, but though he thought and thought he couldn't remember a
single thing. Several times he went back to see if Mrs. Whitefoot felt
any differently, but found she didn't. Finally she told him rather
sharply to go away and stay away. After that Whitefoot didn't venture
over to the new home. He would sometimes sit a short distance away
and gaze at it longingly. All the joy had gone out of the beautiful
springtime for him. He was quite as unhappy as he had been before he met
little Mrs. Whitefoot. You see, he was even more lonely than he had been
then. And added to this loneliness was that hurt feeling, which made it
ever and ever so much worse. It was very hard to bear.
“If I could understand it, it wouldn't be so bad,” he kept saying
over and over again to himself, “but I don't understand it. I don't
understand why Mrs. Whitefoot doesn't love me any more.”
CHAPTER XXXII: The Surprise
Surprises sometimes are so great
You're tempted to believe in fate.
--Whitefoot.
One never-to-be forgotten evening Whitefoot met Mrs. Whitefoot and
she invited him to come back to their home. Of course Whitefoot was
delighted.
“Sh-h-h,” said little Mrs. Whitefoot, as Whitefoot entered the snug
little room of the house they had built in the old nest of Melody the
Wood Thrush. Whitefoot hesitated. In the first place, it was dark in
there. In the second place, he had the feeling that somehow that little
bedroom seemed crowded. It hadn't been that way the last time he was
there. Mrs. Whitefoot was right in front of him, and she seemed very
much excited about something.
Presently she crowded to one side. “Come here and look,” said she.
Whitefoot looked. In the middle of a soft bed of moss was a squirming
mass of legs and funny little heads. At first that was all Whitefoot
could make out.
“Don't you think this is the most wonderful surprise that ever was?”
whispered little Mrs. Whitefoot. “Aren't they darlings? Aren't you proud
of them?”
By this time Whitefoot had made out that that squirming mass of legs
and heads was composed of baby Mice. He counted them. There were four.
“Whose are they, and what are they doing here?” Whitefoot asked in a
queer voice.
“Why, you old stupid, they are yours,--yours and mine,” declared little
Mrs. Whitefoot. “Did you ever, ever see such beautiful babies? Now I
guess you understand why I kept you away from here.”
Whitefoot shook his head. “No,” said he, “I don't understand at all. I
don't see yet what you drove me away for.”
“Why, you blessed old dear, there wasn't room for you when those babies
came; I had to have all the room there was. It wouldn't have done to
have had you running in and out and disturbing them when they were so
tiny. I had to be alone with them, and that is why I made you go off and
live by yourself. I am so proud of them, I don't know what to do. Aren't
you proud, Whitefoot? Aren't you the proudest Wood Mouse in all the
Green Forest?”
Of course Whitefoot should have promptly said that he was, but the truth
is, Whitefoot wasn't proud at all. You see, he was so surprised that
he hadn't yet had time to feel that they were really his. In fact, just
then he felt a wee bit jealous of them. It came over him that they would
take all the time and attention of little Mrs. Whitefoot. So Whitefoot
didn't answer that question. He simply sat and stared at those four
squirming babies.
Finally little Mrs. Whitefoot gently pushed him out and followed him.
“Of course,” said she, “there isn't room for you to stay here now. You
will have to sleep in your old home because there isn't room in here for
both of us and the babies too.”
Whitefoot's heart sank. He had thought that he was to stay and that
everything would be just as it had been before. “Can't I come over here
any more?” he asked rather timidly.
“What a foolish question!” cried little Mrs. Whitefoot. “Of course you
can. You will have to help take care of these babies. Just as soon as
they are big enough, you will have to help teach them how to hunt for
food and how to watch out for danger, and all the things that a wise
Wood Mouse knows. Why, they couldn't get along without you. Neither
could I,” she added softly.
At that Whitefoot felt better. And suddenly there was a queer swelling
in his heart. It was the beginning of pride, pride in those wonderful
babies.
“You have given me the best surprise that ever was, my dear,” said
Whitefoot softly. “Now I think I will go and look for some supper.”
So now we will leave Whitefoot and his family. You see there are two
very lively little people of the Green Forest who demand attention and
insist on having it. They are Buster Bear's Twins, and this is to be the
title of the next book.
End of Project Gutenberg's Whitefoot the Wood Mouse, by Thornton W. Burgess