“Oh, dear me!” thought the little rabbit, “mother will never again see her little bunny boy come hopping up the path in the Old Bramble Patch.”
“Ha, ha!” chuckled Mr. Wolf, as he hurried along with the poor little rabbit.
“Oh, oh, oh!” cried the poor little bunny boy, all alone in the sack on the back of the big wicked wolf, “what shall I do, what shall I do? I’m a goner. Yes, I’m a goner, just as sure as
Monday follows Sunday
And sunshine follows rain,
And the little brook flows to the ocean,
And green apples give you a pain!”
Poor Little Jack Rabbit! all alone—in the sack—on the back—of Mr. Wicked Wolf.
Just then a little voice from the treetop whispered: “Haven’t you a knife in your pocket, little rabbit?”
It was Bobbie Redvest’s voice, so low and sweet that Mr. Wicked Wolf, who was old and deaf, never heard a word.