So the bunny uncle was saved by the butcher, you see, and, if the gas lamp doesn’t go down cellar in the dark and stumble over the fire shovel when it’s playing in the ashes, I’ll tell you next about Uncle Wiggily and the baker.
CHAPTER XIII
UNCLE WIGGILY AND THE BAKER
It was still raining in Woodland, where the animal folk lived. All around the hollow-stump bungalow, where Nurse Jane Fuzzy Wuzzy, the muskrat lady, kept house for Uncle Wiggily Longears, the rabbit gentleman, there were puddles of water; little lakes and rivers, too.
“I think it is getting colder,” said Uncle Wiggily, as he came in from having been up to the Orange Mountain, to get a dozen of lemons so Nurse Jane could bake a cherry pie.
“If it gets colder, perhaps it will stop raining,” Miss Fuzzy Wuzzy remarked, “and goodness knows we have had enough of water.”
“Yes, a little snow for a change would seem nice,” spoke the bunny uncle, looking out of the window at the rain-drops still splashing down.
“Was it raining on the Orange Mountain?” Nurse Jane wanted to know.
“Yes, just as hard as it is down here in the valley. But the water runs off the sides of the mountain, so there are not so many puddles to step in, as I stepped in one the other day, and got my foot caught in a tree root, when the butcher, in his rub-a-dub-dub tub, cut me loose.”
“That was quite an adventure,” said Nurse Jane. “You haven’t seen the other friends of Mother Goose—the baker and the candlestick maker—have you?”