A little mouse pie,”
sang dear Uncle Lucky.
“Who’s singing?” all of a sudden, just like that, enquired a voice through the trees. But the two little rabbits made no answer, thinking it might be Old Man Weasel.
“Hush!” whispered Uncle Lucky. “Who do you suppose it is?”
“I don’t know,” answered the little rabbit, taking his pop-gun from his knapsack.
Again the same voice began to sing:
“I was always content when on pleasure bent,
Heigh hoo and a bottle of pop.
But no longer I’ll roam for I’ve built me a home,
And here in the forest I’ll stop.”