Buddie thought the path would be more agreeable, and they moved along, the Rabbit chatting pleasantly about the weather, which was remarkably fine, even for that time of year, but making no reference to the birthday party at the Bear’s and the strange way it broke up.
Yes; he was going on a journey later in the day, after the frolic at the Greenwood Club. He was going up to The Well, as he had informed her when first she met him. Where was this wonderful Well? The Rabbit could not say; he had never been there. Then how did he expect to find it? He had a map, which he showed Buddie.
“My grandfather made it,” said he. “He went up to The Well five years ago.”
“To find out why a rabbit wabbles his nose?” The Rabbit nodded. “Did he find out?” The Rabbit shook his head.
“The water was too high; he couldn’t get near the mouth of The Well.”
“Why, what a funny map!” cried Buddie.
“What’s wrong with it?” demanded the Rabbit.
Buddie did not undertake to say right off. She had seen a great many maps. Every land-looker that stopped at the log house for a chat or a dinner had a pocketful of them, and many an expedition into the timber had been planned within Buddie’s hearing. All these maps were ruled off into little squares, in which were indicated the rivers, swamps, hills and trails—when there were any trails, which wasn’t often. But the Rabbit’s map—well, if you will glance at the next page you will see just how it looked.
“What’s wrong with it?” the Rabbit again demanded, and in a slightly offended tone.
“It may be all right,” Buddie hastened to say; “only, you know, it’s nothing but circles.”