“He’s been a widower,” said Mr. Prindle, sadly, “ever since his wife stayed out one day to get a good look at a hawk.”
As he spoke, another chipmunk came around the end of the porch and hastened to join the other three.
“Here’s Bill now,” announced Mr. Prindle.
Then the old man reached into his pocket and took out a handful of butternuts and gave two to each of the Band.
“Hold one in your closed hand and the other between your thumb and finger where they can see it,” he advised them.
A moment later there was a chorus of delighted squeals. Each chipmunk had run up and taken the nut which was in sight, and was burrowing and scrabbling with soft little paws and sniffling little noses into four sets of clenched fingers, in an attempt to secure the other hidden nuts. When the last of them had disappeared, looking as if he had an attack of mumps, the Band thanked Mr. Prindle and started for home.
“Butternutly yours,” quoted Alice-Palace as they hurried down the long hill.
Have you ever dreamed of writing a wonderful poem, and then waked up and found that you had forgotten it; or, worse still, that it wasn’t wonderful at all? That is what happened to me the other night. All that was left of the lost masterpiece was the following alleged verse:—