“Oh, oh, oh!” thought the little rabbit, all a-tremble, his little knees going clitter, clatter and his little heart pitter, patter, “I wonder if I have?” And he looked through his pockets one by one, his little pink nose trembling with fright just like a star on a frosty night. At last, oh joy! and a catch of his breath; he found his knife in the little handkerchief pocket of his coat.
Then he waited all alone—in the sack—on the back—of Mr. Wicked Wolf.
There! It came again, the little voice from the treetop:
“Cut a hole—in the sack—
Oh, so care-ful-ly!”
All a-tremble, the little rabbit opened his knife and made a slit in the bag, oh, so qui-et-ly.
Then, thrusting out his head, he was just going to hop away, when the little voice from the treetop whispered:
“Wait—a—minute.”
“Oh, dear me!” thought the little rabbit, “I don’t want to wait. I want to get away.” But he minded the little voice, and it was mighty well he did, for just then Mr. Wicked Wolf stopped short and said, “Gee whiskers, I’m getting tired. I guess I’ll sit down on this old log.” And down he sat, letting the sack slip to the ground. Taking out his old corncob, he filled it with tobacco and, scratching a match on his furry trouser leg, commenced to smoke.
“Now’s your chance!” whispered the little voice from the treetop.