Yet it speedily became worse,—so much worse, indeed, that Frisky redoubled his efforts to free himself,—though he had an awful feeling that it was no use.
It was Tattle-tale the Jay who warned him.
Tattle-tale kept pretty close track of all that went on in the forest, and then told all he knew.
So many times had he flown ahead of Frisky Fox, screaming at the top of his lungs: “A Fox! A Fox! Beware!” that Frisky had come to dread the sound of his voice.
This time Tattle-tale, who played no favorites, was doing Frisky a good turn, but the little fox was in no position to appreciate the fact.
“Look out, there! Look out, everybody,” Tattle-tale was screaming. “Old Man Lynx is coming!”
“Old Man Lynx!” squeaked Shadow Tail, the Red Squirrel, making for his hole in the oak tree.
“OLD MAN LYNX, Mammy, Old Man Lynx!” squealed Timothy Cottontail, hopping madly for a hollow log.
“Old Man Lynx!” grunted Unk-Wunk, the Porcupine. “A lot I care!” And he rolled himself up into a prickly ball in the top of a swaying birch tree.
“Old Man Lynx!” thought Frisky Fox, fairly beside himself with frenzy. Hanging there heels uppermost in the grapevine, he was as helpless as a mouse in a trap. And here was the great cat, his ancient enemy, creeping, creeping, creeping through the shadows, his nose sniffing this way and that for the scent that would tell him where to find a good supper.