There, beneath a bush, were Jenny Ragtail and her son, Chee-Wee, still patting and thumping in the metre of the cake-walk and not knowing that the music had stopped. It takes sound some time to travel and I have always been very quick on my feet.
As soon as they saw me, they vanished.
When I returned to my instrument, it refused to work, and upon taking it apart, I discovered that the milk had been churned to butter. I was obliged to scrape the entire mechanism before I could play any more, but there was a smile of satisfaction upon my face as I did so. I had always known that the long ears of Rabbits served some good purpose in the wise economy of creation, and now I perceived that they were ears for music. A Donkey’s telephonic apparatus is constructed upon much the same plan, and everyone knows how he can sing.
I have not space to describe the gradual manner in which my acquaintance with Jenny Ragtail progressed, nor how I learned all that I know about Rabbits and their language. Suffice it to say that before many weeks had passed by, she and Chee-Wee would scamper into my presence as soon as I began the first notes of the cake-walk, and would sit very close to me as I extracted the melody from the instrument, patting and thumping at the accented notes.
I remembered reading in my well-thumbed copy of Uncle Remus that “Bre’r Rabbit was always a master hand to pat a tune,” but I never wholly believed it until I saw it done. Little Brothers of the Woods are sometimes very incredulous of the observations of others, as my readers have doubtless noted.
In the remainder of this scientific treatise, though I may translate freely and frequently from Rabbit into English, I shall say nothing that the Rabbits did not say. Accuracy has always been a strong point with me—in fact, I am rabid upon it.
Jenny Ragtail was a large, well-shaped brown Rabbit. Her body tapered slightly in at the waist line, and this led me to surmise that in the privacy of her chamber she wore some sort of a corset. Her finale was a gloriously beautiful tuft of white Rabbit fur, which led Chee-Wee in and out of the mazes of the forest trails like a friendly beacon. Her eyes were large and brown and motherly, and projected so far from her kind, matronly countenance, that she could see behind her, in the same manner that the ever-feminine of our own species can see around a corner or through a stone wall. Jenny’s intuition was marvellous.
Chee-Wee was almost infinitesimal in size. He looked like a baby Rat and was once taken for one by a lady book agent, with a very dignified carriage, who penetrated the wilderness as far as my hermitage. I never knew whose Nature Library she was canvassing for, because, at the first glimpse of Chee-Wee, she took the brakes off her carriage and fled into the next county. Those who think that women cannot run should have seen this book agent.
Chee-Wee was not many weeks old, but already he was beginning to study in the school his mother taught. There are schools of Rabbits, just as there are schools of Fish, though it is not so generally known. They learn by whisker touching, the sense of smell, telegraphy with the hind feet, and by another method which I shall explain later.
The first thing Jenny taught Chee-Wee was to play dead. One thump means “freeze.” Two thumps mean “follow me.” Three thumps mean “danger—run for dear life,” and four thumps mean “come.” The politicians who have their ears to the ground are many times only Unnaturalists in disguise, listening for Rabbit thumps. Then, when a valuable franchise comes along, they are in a position to grab it.