They resumed their journey, and before long the sound of falling waters came to their ears.
“We’re getting there,” remarked the Donkey, complacently. “This beats traveling on the rings of a target.”
To this fling the Rabbit made no reply. Probably he did not hear it. His thoughts were of his precious nose. At last, fortune favoring, he was to unravel the great mystery of his existence. Now or never should he find out why he wabbled his nose. Trembling with excitement, he bounded ahead, and when the others came up to The Well, they found him leaning over the curb staring into the dark interior.
The Well was picturesquely located on a sloping ledge which formed one bank of the river, at the foot of a tinkling cascade. Swirling stones in floodtime had made it—had bored down through the solid rock as neatly as a diamond drill could do the work. I have seen a great many of these wells, but none exactly like the one Buddie described to me; for this had a curb around it, and above it, supported by two posts, was the legend:
As round as an apple, as deep as a cup,
And all the king’s horses can’t pull it up.
“Well, here we are,” said the Donkey to the Rabbit. “Go ahead and find out why you wabble your nose. I confess I am rather curious to know.”
“Perhaps,” said the Rabbit, nervously, “we’d better ask about the Guinea-Pig first. He isn’t here, but some one can inquire for him.”
“What does the Guinea-Pig want to know?” asked the Donkey, who never had met that tearful little creature.
“He wants to know why his eyes fall out when you hold him up by the tail,” the Rabbit replied.
“For that matter,” said Colonel, “I should like to know why a yellow dog isn’t considered as respectable as a dog of any other color.”