Out jumped the little rabbit, but as he was about to hop away, oh, dear me! again the little voice from the treetop whispered:
“Wait—a—minute.”
“Oh, oh, oh!” sighed the little bunny, “I don’t want to wait. I want to get away!” But he minded the little voice from the treetop.
“Pick up—that stone—and slip—it in—the sack—oh,—so—care-ful-ly.”
And the little rabbit, all a-tremble, his little heart a-pitter-patter and his little knees a-clitter-clatter, picked up the stone and slipped it in the sack, oh, so care-ful-ly.
“Wait—a—minute!” whispered the little voice for the third time, as he was about to hop away.
“Oh, oh, oh, oh!” sighed the little bunny, looking over his shoulder at Mr. Wicked Wolf’s hairy back, “if I wait another minute I’ll never get away.” But he minded the little voice from the treetop.
“Pin up the slit—in the sack—with three—pine needle—pins,” whispered the little voice. All a-tremble, the poor, distracted little rabbit hunted on the ground under the big pine tree until he found the three little pins. Then, oh, so, care-ful-ly, he pinned up the slit in the sack.
“Now’s your chance!” whispered the little voice. “Hide!”
The next minute the little rabbit had hopped behind a tree. Buttoning up his pretty white fur overcoat so that it wouldn’t show around the trunk and drawing together the tips of his little ears, he waited, oh, so anxiously, for maybe just a minute or three.