“One, two, three!” sang out Uncle Lucky, and down came the mallet, whack! against the board. The next minute Hungry Hawk found himself by the woodpile. But, dear me! The board hadn’t cracked open. No, the nails had just pulled out of the Big Red Barn.
All of a sudden the old hawk gave a tre-men-dous squirm and away he flew, with a whirr of wings, above the Sunny Meadow.
“I guess he won’t bother little rabbits for some time,” cried Uncle Lucky. But, children dear, I’m sorry to say, a little further on in the book he does something dreadful.
Oh, hawks are very crafty things,
They fly about on silent wings,
And if, perchance, a little rabbit
Is heedless of a watchful habit,
He’ll find too late some sunny morning
He should have followed mother’s warning.