"Ah! But if the wind happened to be blowing his way he'd be sure to smell you," cried Nimble's mother. "And he would find you. And he would jump at you."
"I'd run away from him then," said Nimble stoutly.
His mother shook her head.
"You're spry for your age. But you're too slow to escape a Fox. You're not quick enough for that yet. You don't know how quick Foxes are. So look out! Look out for a sly fellow with a pointed nose and a bushy tail!"
In spite of all these warnings Nimble didn't feel the least bit alarmed. And the older he grew the less he heeded his mother's words. He thought she was too careful. She seemed always to be on the watch for some danger. She was forever stopping to look back, lest somebody or something might be following her. Whenever she picked out a good resting place behind a clump of evergreens, out of the wind, she never lay down without first retracing her steps for a little way and peering all around. Then, of course, she had to walk back again before she sank down on the bed of her choosing. It all seemed very silly to young Nimble.
"What's the use," he finally asked her one day, "what's the use of fussing so much over your back tracks?"
"You should always know what's behind you," said his mother. "Besides, I can't rest well if I'm uneasy."
"Do you feel easy now?" he inquired, for she had just then lain down after giving her back tracks her usual attention.
"Quite!" said Nimble's mother, as she closed her eyes and heaved a deep sigh of contentment.
Her answer pleased Nimble. He smiled faintly as he watched her closely. And he chuckled when his mother's head nodded three times and then sank lower and lower.