XIV. WHEN MR. WOOD MOUSE LEARNED FROM THE BIRDS
PETER RABBIT never will forget the first time that he saw Whitefoot the Wood Mouse pop out of a nest in a bush a few feet above his head. It wasn't so much the surprise of seeing Whitefoot as it was the discovery that that nest was White-foot's own. Peter, had seen that nest often. It was in a bush just a little above one of Peter's favorite paths on the edge of the Green Forest. Always he had supposed that it belonged to one of his feathered friends. He had seen many such nests. At least, he supposed he had. That was because he hadn't taken the trouble to look at this one particularly. He hadn't used his eyes. If he had, he might have seen that this, while very like other nests he had seen, was different. It was different in that it had a roof. Yes, Sir, this particular nest had a roof. And it had a doorway, a very small doorway, and this doorway was underneath, a very queer place for a bird to make a doorway had there been any bird of his acquaintance who would build a roof to a nest, anyway. All of which goes to show how easy it is to see things without really seeing them at all.
It was just at dusk that Peter happened along this particular little path and saw Whitefoot the Wood Mouse pop out of that nest.
“Hello!” exclaimed Peter. “What are you doing up there? What business have you in that nest? Have you been stealing eggs?”
“No, I haven't been stealing eggs,” retorted Whitefoot indignantly. “And if I haven't any business in this nest I should like to know who has. It's my nest! Who has a better right in it?”
“Your nest!” exclaimed Peter. “Why, I thought you lived in a hollow tree or a hollow log or a hole in the ground or some such place. How long is it since you learned to build a nest like a bird, and who taught you?”
Whitefoot knew by the tone of Peter's voice that Peter didn't believe a word of what he had been told. He looked very hard at Peter, and in his big, soft, black eyes was an indignant look which Peter couldn't help but see. “I don't care whether you believe it or not, this is my nest, and I built it,” said he indignantly. “At least I built it over,” he added, for Whitefoot is very truthful. “In the winter I do live in a hollow tree or a hollow log or a hole in the ground, whichever is most comfortable, but in the warm weather I have a summer home, and this is it. My family has known how to build such homes ever since the days of my great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather when the world was young. It was he who learned the secret, and it has been in our family ever since.”
Peter's long ears stood straight up with excited interest and curiosity. “Tell me about it!” he begged. “Tell me how your great-great-ever-so-great-grandfather learned how to build a nest like a bird. Please tell me, White-foot.”
Whitefoot sat up and daintily washed his pretty white hands. “I don't think I will,” he replied slowly. “You didn't believe me when I said that this nest is mine, and so I'm sure you won't believe the story of my great-grandfather. I don't like telling stories to people who don't believe.”
“But I will believe it!” cried Peter. “If you say it is true, I'll believe every word of it. Please tell me the story, Whitefoot. Oh, please do.” Peter was very much in earnest. “I'm sorry I didn't believe you at first when you said that this nest is yours. But I do now, Whitefoot. I do now. Please, please tell me the story.”