While Buster John, Sweetest Susan, and Drusilla were watching Chickamy Crany Crow and Tickle-My-Toes run away, and laughing at them, suddenly the sky in Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country grew brighter. The dark shadow of the buttermilk-jug had disappeared, and there were wavering lines of white light flashing across, as though the sun were trying to shine through. Along with these flashing lines there were wavering lines of shadow that rippled and danced about curiously. There seemed to be some tremendous commotion going on. If some person with the learning and wisdom of an astronomer had seen this wonderful display, he would have been overcome with awe and fear. He would have concluded that the sky was about to go to pieces, and ten to one he would have left his unreflecting telescope swinging in the air, and crawled under the bed.
But there was no astronomer in Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country, and the children had seen too many strange sights to be very much alarmed. Besides, Drusilla solved the mystery before they had time to gather their fears together.
“Shuh!” she exclaimed; “’t ain’t nothin’ ’t all. When dey tuck de jug outin’ de spring de water ’bleedge to be shuck up.”
And it was true. The rippling and wavering in the sky of Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country were caused by lifting the buttermilk-jug from the spring. As soon as the commotion ceased, it was seen that across the sky, from horizon to horizon, dark lines and shadows extended. They were irregular, and branched out here and there in every direction. Drusilla gazed at them for some moments without venturing to explain them. Suddenly a shadow that seemed to have life and motion made its appearance, and darted about among the dark lines. Drusilla laughed.
“La! Hit’s dat dead lim’ ober de spring, an’ dere’s a jay-bird hoppin’ about in it right now. Ain’t I done heah yo’ pa say dat lim’ ’ll hafter be cut off ’fo’ it fall an’ break somebody’s head?”
“Well, well! She ain’t so bad off up here as I thought she was,” said Mr. Thimblefinger, tapping his forehead significantly.
“Ain’t I done tell you dat dey’s mo’ in my head dan what you kin comb out?” exclaimed Drusilla indignantly.
“Speaking of combing and things of that sort,” remarked Mr. Rabbit, turning to Mrs. Meadows, “did I ever tell you how Brother Bear learned to comb his hair?”
Mrs. Meadows reflected a moment, or pretended to reflect. “Now, I’m not right certain about that. Maybe you have and maybe you haven’t; I don’t remember. How did you teach Brother Bear to keep his hair roached and parted? Mostly when I used to know him, he went about looking mighty ragged and shabby.”
Mr. Rabbit chuckled for several moments and then said: “Well, in my courting-days, you know, I used to go around fixed up in style. Many and many a time I’ve heard the girls whisper to one another and say, ‘Oh, my! Ain’t Mr. Rabbit looking spruce to-day?’ There was one season in particular that I was careful to primp up and look sassy. I put bergamot oil on my hair, and kept it brushed so slick that a fly would slip up and cripple himself if he lit on it.