“I mean,” said Nibble shamefacedly, “that I’m going up to see it to-morrow morning.” And off he hopped to his bed.
He woke up early, early, before the darkest night had begun to melt into the gray of dawn. He yawned sleepily and rolled over. My, but that hole of his was warm and comfortable! Suddenly he jumped up and began to scrub his face with his paws.
In about three minutes he was down by the pond, thumping for Doctor Muskrat. And weren’t the doctor’s eyes all sleepy when he poked his head out of the water? “Ouf,” he shivered, “what do you want at this hour of the night? Spear me with an icicle, but this pond is cold!” (If one of the Woodsfolk is found frozen to death the saying is that he’s been speared by an icicle.)
“Come along,” said Nibble. “I’m going up to the barn to see the Red Cow and her bad baby.”
“What do you take me for?” snorted the old doctor. “Don’t you forget that Silvertip the Fox is living there! Gimlet the Woodpecker said so. I can’t run like you can and there isn’t any water for me to dive into.”
“I forgot,” apologized Nibble.
“Well, you just be careful,” warned the wise old beast, “and you come straight back and tell me about him.”
So off went Nibble, creeping about among the puddles. He dove into the Brushpile for a minute because he heard two birds talking. But they were only little downy Mr. and Mrs. Screech Owl, smaller than Bobby Robin. “I tell you it’s too early for nesting,” one was saying.
“Not if Silvertip keeps on leaving all that nice food for us in the fence corner,” insisted the other. “He scarcely eats half of what he catches, and chickens are the best eating in the world for our owlets. We wouldn’t have to do any hunting.”
“So,” said Nibble to himself, “Gimlet was right. Silvertip’s catching Tommy Peele’s chickens.”