THE ANIMALS OF THE FOREST
The next morning the sun was up before Father Thrift. In fact, when he awoke the sun had already taken the sparkling dewdrops away on a journey back to the clouds.
The sky was bright. The birds were singing, the insects humming. And the flowers were smiling and thanking the sun for the warmth and the light.
Father Thrift rubbed his eyes and looked about him. Something was wrong, very wrong!
The rooster wasn’t crowing. The dog wasn’t barking. The horses weren’t neighing. Those were familiar sounds to Father Thrift’s ears. And he missed them.
He drew a deep breath. The air was sweet with the odor of fir trees and of pine.
“Ah,” he said, “how could I have forgotten that only yesterday I left the quaint old town!
“This, then, is my new home in the forest. It is a glorious home!”
Soon the queer little old man had his breakfast. He had freshly picked berries and bread, and clear, cool water from a spring near by.
Then he sat down on a log, to think.