"What's that?" asked the wild pig, jumping around.
"Grandma's glasses, I guess," said the chair. "I hope they aren't broken. They were in my cushions when I ran away and I had no means of sending them back."
"No, they aren't broken," said the wild pig, who could see quite well in the dim cave. "Here they are," and he picked them up and gave them back to Racky, who tucked them in between the cushions again.
"Thanks," creaked the chair. "But is some one going to cook a meal, that I see a fire glowing?"
"No, that is fox-fire—it has no heat," explained the wild pig.
"Fox-fire?" cried Racky, wonderingly. "Are there foxes in here, and will they nibble my legs? Though my legs are only wood, I should not like to have them scratched or nibbled."
"Have no fear!" laughed the wild pig. "It is only called fox-fire because, in the olden days, foxes were supposed to see their way about in the forest by its light. It comes from old, punky, rotten wood and it only glows as pale and gently as you see it now. There is no danger. The fox-fire comes from an old rotten stump that has been in this cave longer than I can remember. But, even if a real fox came in this cave, out of the storm, he would do you no harm. We are all friends here. Now I am going to sleep again."
"And I will sleep, too," said Racky, who was glad to be in the cave out of the rain, which was now pattering down harder than ever. And so, in the soft glow of the fox-fire, Racky went to sleep.
It was still raining when he awakened in the morning, and a little daylight streamed into the cave. Before the gleam of the gray dawn the pale fox-fire seemed to fade away.
"But it will glow again when night comes," said the wild pig. Then, waddling over to the rocker, the pig asked: "Have you a garden rake about you?"