“Thank you; but we dogs don’t eat grass,” Don answered. “That is unless we take it as medicine when we aren’t feeling well. But I feel fine now—I don’t need grass, but I would like a juicy bone. And speaking of bones makes me hungry. I think I’ll trot to my kennel and get a bone.”
“What’s a kennel?” asked Winkie.
“My! I never knew any one to ask as many questions as you, unless it might be Mappo, the merry monkey,” barked Don. “A kennel is a house in which I live.”
“We call our house a burrow,” said Winkie. “Only we haven’t any now.”
“It wouldn’t do for all of us to live in the same kind of houses,” Don said. “I’d feel rather silly in a nest, and yet a nest is a home for a bird. Well, I’m going to trot along, Winkie. I hope I shall see you soon again.”
“I hope so too,” murmured Winkie, who knew that she was going to be lonely when Don went away.
Don started off, wagging his tail in a friendly farewell to Winkie. She was watching him and did not notice where she was walking until, all of a sudden, she felt herself falling into a hole with a lot of leaves and sticks.
“Oh! Oh!” cried Winkie. “Help me, Don! I’m in a trap!”
With a bark Don bounded back, and, with his paws, he helped Winkie up out of the hole.
“That wasn’t a trap,” he said. “You can’t get out of traps as easily as that. You just fell into a hole where once there was a stump or stone. The hole was covered with dried leaves and you didn’t see it, I guess.