"I thank you," answered Little Bear, most politely, "but I promised father and mother that I wouldn't go outside the yard."
Soon Father Rabbit came hopping along home.
"Storm coming, Baby Bear," he called. "Come home with me until it is over. There is nothing like a warm, dry burrow when there is a storm."
A big, wet, shaggy dog tumbled into the room
But Little Bear would not go. Soon Mrs. Reynard came hastening homeward.
"Come, child, come!" she called to Little Bear. "Come and cuddle up with my children until the storm is over." But Baby Bear would not go, although the clouds were piling up and up above the forest, and the trees were beginning to toss their branches to and fro. One by one the squirrels, the butterflies, the birds, and the bees went by. Baby Bear felt queer and lonely; but he would not go outside the yard, although other neighbors invited him to their homes.
At last pit-pat, pat, pat, patter—patter—patter down came big drops of rain. Suddenly two clouds rushed together over the little house in the forest, and they roared—crashety—crashety—bang—bang—bang! Little Bear knew that the sound was only thunder, and that the blinding flashes that soon came thick and fast were nothing but lightning, but he ran into the house and shut the door.
Big Bear had often told Little Bear that if ever he felt queer and lonely, the thing to do was to whistle. Little Bear felt queer and lonely now, so he puckered up his lips and whistled cheerily, although the storm made such an uproar that his best whistling sounded weak. Weaker still was a little pitiful whine outside the door, but Little Bear heard it, ran to the door, and opened it wide. A big, wet, shaggy dog tumbled into the room.
