“Why—your nose, and your eyes, and your ears—anything of that sort,” Mrs. Squirrel said. “It makes me feel faint just to think what almost happened.”
“But Jimmy Rabbit says long tails are out of fashion,” said Frisky.
“Out of fashion indeed!” Mrs. Squirrel sniffed. “He’s jealous—that’s what’s the trouble with him. He wishes he had a fine, long, bushy tail himself. Goodness me! I’m all of a flutter—I’m so upset.” And poor Mrs. Squirrel sat right down and fanned herself with her sun-bonnet. “Now, don’t you ever let anybody try to cut off your tail again,” she said to Frisky. “You have your father’s tail. And everybody always said that he had the most beautiful tail that was ever seen in these woods.”
Frisky didn’t quite understand what his mother meant. If he had his father’s tail, then where was his? And if it was his, then where was his father’s? All the way home he kept asking himself questions like those. But whatever the answers might be, Frisky was glad that he still bore that beautiful brush. He began to see that he would have looked very queer, with just a short stub like Jimmy Rabbit’s.
