Suppose Danny Fox, or Mr. Wicked Weasel, or Hungry Hawk, who are fond of fat little meadowmice, should chase him over the snow. And suppose he couldn’t get back to one of his subway entrances in time.
Timmy Meadowmouse turned all these things over in his mind, and then—yes, sir, he did—he pushed out through the snow and scampered over to the Old Bramble Patch.
But, oh dear me. He had gone only half way when up jumped Danny Fox, who had been hiding by the Old Rail Fence. He had been lying there so long that the snow had drifted over him, making him look just like a snowpile.
If Timmy Meadowmouse had only seen the old fox’s eyes through the snow. But he hadn’t. But when the old robber jumped up, the poor little mouse saw him all right.
It was too late to turn back, so with a frightened squeak, he made for the Old Bramble Patch. And just in time he ran in between the prickly stems and stalks and tumbled headlong into Little Jack Rabbit’s front door.
“Oof! oof!” growled Danny Fox, who didn’t care to push through the prickly briars, “I’ve lost a nice dinner.”
SAFE!
“Goodness me!” cried Little Jack Rabbit, as a cold blast of air and a whirl of snowflakes came through the doorway, “What can be the matter?”
“Oh, Little Jack Rabbit,” cried Timmy Meadowmouse, “I didn’t have time to knock. I hardly had time to get in, for Danny Fox chased me right up to the Old Bramble Patch.”