The guide well knew, though Kissie did not, that this strange rabbit plays some unaccountable pranks, and is the direct cause of many hearty laughs at a “greenhorn’s” expense. Seeing a human being, he at once retreats, limping as if badly hurt. This attracts some one not “well up” in prairie life, and he pursues it. But let the sequel tell its own tale.
As Kissie drew near, the rabbit bounded away as if suddenly cured of its disability, gaining some distance; then he limped again—this time dragging one of its hind-legs laboriously.
His long ears were laid upon his back, which was suddenly shrunken, as if by a shot in the spine; he pawed hastily with his fore-feet; and, evidently, was badly hurt. Perhaps his sudden activity was the result of severe fright, succeeded by a reaction—so reasoned Kissie.
“Bunny, Bunny,” she cried, “you are mine—you are my captive.”
She was quite close upon him, and was drawing closer at every spring. The rabbit was almost caught.
“Count not your chickens before they are hatched,” warns an old saw. Perhaps it would have been better for Kissie to have recollected it. But on she went, with no other desire or thought besides catching the feebly-struggling animal.
To her surprise she drew no nearer, though the rabbit seemed scarce moving, and Dimple was going at a smart gallop. Surprised and nettled, she plied the whip, and once again she was on the rabbit’s very heels.
Once again the rabbit suddenly darted away as lightly as a deer; but only for a few smart leaps.
Again he seemed stricken by that odd impediment to his flight. It was very strange—what could it mean?
For an hour the strange chase continued, the participants sustaining their respective positions, while Dimple panted and lagged, and Kissie alternately wondered and plied the whip.