Once, after a long and prolonged wig-wagging on the part of an old, grey-whiskered Rabbit, I made out this: “Say, Jenny, what earthly good is that blamed hermit to you? Haven’t you influence enough to get us some corn?”
With a rare gift of repartee, Jenny replied: “You’re nothing but a pig. You’ve had so much corn now that you’ll have to ride in a grain elevator if you ever get home.” This Rabbit lived high up in a hollow tree to be out of the reach of draughts, as he was old and rheumatic, and so the speech had a double-edged meaning that set all the company to sneezing with suppressed mirth.
Other observers have described a Rabbit entertainment, but I doubt if any of them have ever seen such a one as fell to my lot to witness and even take part in, the night before I left my home in the wilderness to take my vacant place in the city. I do not know that I had been missed in the city, but it was pleasant to think so when the Fall rains fell upon me, and the woods had a penetrating chill which my bravest fire could not subdue.
I was packing, and Jenny and Chee-Wee sat sadly by, heartbroken at the prospect of separation. When I packed my little pincushion, Jenny went out and got a few pine needles to put in; when I gathered up my pens and ink, Chee-Wee scampered away to his treasure box and brought the skin of a Field Mouse for a penwiper. He had prepared and cured the skin himself, and I have it still.
I sat down on the side of my cot, and using the deaf-and-dumb alphabet, I spelled out with my fingers: “I would take you back with me, but you would not like the town, and I shall return next Summer.”
Surprised beyond measure, they were dumb animals for a moment, then Jenny’s ears began to work nervously. “We would not go,” she answered; “we have Winter flannels and are very comfortable here. There is going to be a party to-night. Will you not come?”
“Gladly,” I returned, with all sincerity. “What shall I bring?”
With one accord, Jenny and Chee-Wee ran to the opposite corner of the cabin and sat down on my concertina. They did not know how to spell the name of it, so they chose the more primitive manner of expression.
At eight o’clock they called for me. They were freshly washed and combed, had picked all the burrs out of themselves, and looked very spruce indeed.
We walked about eight miles to a clearing in the midst of the woods—a clearing where some hunters had once camped. This is the kind of a place that Rabbits love. I had matches in my pocket, and as soon as I got there I gathered materials for a fire, and peeled a large, straight piece of very white birch bark, which I set up on a forked stick behind the cheerful flame. This rude reflector served very well, and threw great pieces of ruddy light into the black shadows beyond us.