“‘Takes the axe and chops off my head,’” Mr. Rabbit continued, as solemn as a judge, “‘and carries it out in the yard, where she can have light to see and room to work, and then she combs it and combs it until every kink comes straight and every hair is in its place. Then she brings my head back, puts it where it belongs, and there it is—all combed.’
“Brother Bear seemed to be very much astonished. Says he, ‘Doesn’t it hurt, Brother Rabbit?’
“Says I, ‘Hurt who? I’m no chicken.’
“Says he, ‘Doesn’t it bleed?’
“Says I, ‘No more than enough to make my appetite good.’”
Mr. Rabbit paused and looked up at the ripples of light and shade that were chasing each other across the sky in Mr. Thimblefinger’s queer country. Then he looked at the children.
“The upshot of it was,” he continued, “that Brother Bear went home and told Mrs. Bear how I had my head combed every day. Woman-like, she wanted to try it at once; so Brother Bear laid his head on a log of wood, and Mrs. Bear got the axe and raised it high in the air. Brother Bear had just time to squall out, ‘Cut it off easy, old woman!’ when the axe fell on his neck, and there he was!”
“Oh, did it kill him?” cried Sweetest Susan.
“That’s what the neighbors said,” replied Mr. Rabbit placidly.
Sweetest Susan didn’t seem to be at all pleased. Seeing this, Mrs. Meadows exclaimed:—