“Afraid?” Nibble sat up and wiggled his ears at the idea. “Are storms ever afraid.”
“Of course,” said she, as though he ought to have known. “I told you everything is afraid of something.”
Nibble knew this was true. Here he was afraid of Slyfoot, and Slyfoot was afraid of Hooter. The ducks were afraid of the storm, and the storm was afraid of—
“Afraid of the wind!” finished Madame Mallard. “As long as a storm can keep its head nothing can stop it. But it doesn’t. Sooner or later it breaks into a rage and begins to thrash around. When a storm really loses its temper the next sensible wind can smash it into bits. It never pays to lose your temper. Something always happens if you do.”
Nibble was very much excited. But he wasn’t too excited to think of a good place to hide. There was that nice little tent made by a leaning shock of corn out in the Broad Field. As he passed the Brushpile, Chatter Squirrel was darting up a hickory tree with a mouthful of leaves. “There’s going to be a Terrible Storm,” called Nibble cheerfully, “the Mallards just told me about it.”
“Who doesn’t know that?” snapped Chatter, fussing with a clutter of leaves and twigs in the crotch of his hickory. “My home’s not half done. I thought I’d take my time and make a good one. Now here comes this Storm! If I can’t get it finished I’ll have to go over to that leaky old Oak that has bats in it. Yah!” And he swore in Squirrel language because one of the sticks he was using had snapped and he had to go for another one.
“The Ducks say you musn’t lose your temper, because something always happens,” quoted Nibble. And he didn’t mean to be impertinent. He was just pleased with himself for remembering it.
“It’ll happen to you, then,” Chatter retorted in a rage. “You and your ducks! You’ll stand there trying to mind my business for me until Silvertip catches you.” But there’s no way of knowing how much angrier Chatter might have been because right then something did happen. He gave one shriek—“Hooter!”—and made a flying leap for that hollow Oak Tree. And Mrs. Hooter clapped her beak at the hole.
“Stickly Prickles!” said Nibble to himself—that really isn’t swearing. “What are those owls doing out this time of the day?” For he could see Hooter flapping sleepily along behind his mate. It was too early in the day for him. It was a badly frightened rabbit who made the best of his chance while they were chasing Chatter to dart across the Cloverpatch and into the first shock he came to.
But he didn’t stay there. Just as he began to breathe again he heard the voice of Mrs. Hooter right above him. She was speaking crossly to her husband. “Pay attention,” she said. “It may be three days before we can hunt again. He went in there. I saw him.”