The Hollow Tree Snowed-in Book Part 16

Everybody said that was a nice poem and sounded just like Mr. Rabbit, who was always so free-hearted--all except Mr. Crow, who tried to say it was nice, and couldn't. Then Mr. Rabbit said they'd better go out now to see the Hollow Tree garden, but Mr. Crow said really he couldn't stand it yet, and they could see by his looks that he was feeling pretty sick, and Mr. Turtle said it was too bad to think of taking Mr. Crow out in the sun when he had worked so hard.

So then they all sat around and smoked and told stories, and whenever they stopped Mr. Crow thought of something else to do and seemed to get better toward night, and got a great deal better when it got dark, and Mr. Jack Rabbit said all at once that now it was too late to see the Hollow Tree garden, and that he was so sorry, for he knew he could have learned something if he could just have one look at it, for n.o.body could see those vegetables and that garden without learning a great deal.

[Ill.u.s.tration: JACK RABBIT CAPERED AND LAUGHED ALL THE WAY HOME]

Then he said he must go, and Mr. Turtle said he guessed _he_ must go too, so they both set out for home, and when Jack Rabbit got out of sight of the Hollow Tree and into a little open moonlight place, he just laid down on the ground and rolled over and laughed and kicked his feet, and sat up and rocked and looked at the moon and laughed; and he capered and laughed all the way home at the good joke he had all to himself on Mr. Crow.

For Mr. Rabbit had been lying awake in bed that morning when Mr. Crow was in his garden, and he had seen Mr. Crow _all_ the time.

WHEN JACK RABBIT WAS A LITTLE BOY

A STORY OF A VERY LONG TIME AGO

THE Little Lady skips first on one foot and then on the other foot, around and around, until pretty soon she tumbles backward into _twelve flower-pots_.

That, of course, makes a great damage, and though the Little Lady herself isn't hurt to speak of, she is frightened very much and has to be comforted by everybody, including the Story Teller, who comes last, and finishes up by telling about something that happened to Jack Rabbit when _he_ was little.

Once upon a time, it begins, when Mr. Jack Rabbit was quite small, his mother left him all alone one afternoon while she went across the Wide Gra.s.s Lands to visit an old aunt of hers and take her some of the nice blackberries she had been putting up that morning. Mrs. Rabbit had been very busy all the forenoon, and little Jack had been watching her and making believe he was putting up berries too.

And when Mrs. Rabbit got through she had cleaned her stove and polished it as nice as could be; then she gave little Jack Rabbit his dinner, with some of the berries that were left over, and afterward she washed his face and hands and found his blocks for him to play with, besides a new stick of red sealing-wax--the kind she used to seal her cans with; for they did not have patent screw-top cans in those days, but always sealed the covers on with red sealing-wax.

Then Mrs. Rabbit told little Jack that he could play with his blocks, and build houses, with the red stick for a chimney, and to be a good boy until she came home. So little Jack Rabbit promised, and Mrs. Rabbit kissed him twice and took her parasol and her reticule and a can of berries, and started. Little Jack would have gone with her, only it was too far.

Well, after she had left, little Jack played with his blocks and built houses and set the stick of sealing-wax up for a brick chimney, and by-and-by he played he was canning fruit, and he wished he could have a little stove and little cans and a little stick of sealing-wax, so he could really do it all just as she did.

[Ill.u.s.tration: TOOK HER PARASOL AND HER RETICULE AND A CAN OF BERRIES, AND STARTED]

Then little Jack Rabbit looked at the nice polished stove and wondered how it would be to use that, and to build a little fire in it--just a _little_ fire--which would make everything seem a good deal more real, he thought, than his make-believe stove of blocks.

And pretty soon little Jack opened the stove door and looked in, and when he stirred the ashes there were still a few live coals there, and when he put in some shavings they blazed up, and when he put in some pieces of old s.h.i.+ngles and things they blazed up too, and when he put in some of Mrs. Rabbit's nice dry wood the stove got _quite hot_!

Then little Jack Rabbit became somewhat frightened, for he had only meant to make a very small fire, and he thought this might turn into a big fire. Also, he remembered some things his mother had told him about playing with fire and about _never going near a hot stove_. He thought he'd better open the stove door a little to see if the fire was getting too big, but he was afraid to touch it with his fingers for fear of burning them. He had seen his mother use a stick or something to open the stove door when it was hot, so he picked up the first thing that came handy, which was the stick of sealing-wax. But when he touched it to the hot door the red stick sputtered a little and left a bright red spot on the stove door.

[Ill.u.s.tration: AND HE MADE SOME STRIPES, TOO--MOSTLY ON TOP OF THE STOVE]

Then little Jack forgot all about putting up blackberries, admiring that beautiful red spot on the s.h.i.+ny black stove, and thinking how nice it would be to make some more like it, which he thought would improve the looks of the stove a great deal.

So then he touched it again in another place and made another spot, and in another place and made another spot, and in a lot of places and made a lot of spots, and he made some stripes, too--mostly on top of the stove, which was nice and smooth to mark on, though he made _some_ on the pipe. You would hardly have known it was the same stove when he got all through, and little Jack thought how beautiful it was and how pleased his mother would be when she got home and _saw_ it. But then right away he happened to think that perhaps she might not be so pleased after all, and the more he thought about it the more sure he was that she wouldn't like her nice red-striped and spotted stove as well as a black one; and, besides, she had told him _never_ to play with fire.

[Ill.u.s.tration: LITTLE JACK KNEW PERFECTLY WELL THAT SHE WASN'T AT ALL PLEASED]

And just at that moment Mrs. Rabbit herself stepped in the door! And when she looked at her red-spotted and striped stove and then at little Jack Rabbit, little Jack knew perfectly well without her saying a single word that she wasn't _at all pleased_. So he began to cry very loud, and started to run, and tripped over his blocks and fell against a little stand-table that had Mrs. Rabbit's work-basket on it (for Mrs. Rabbit always knit or sewed while she was cooking anything), and all the spools and b.u.t.tons and knitting-work went tumbling, with little Jack Rabbit right among them, holloing, "Oh, I'm killed! I'm killed!"--just sprawling there on the floor, afraid to get up, and expecting every minute his mother would do something awful.

But Mrs. Rabbit just stood and looked at him over her spectacles and then at her red-spotted and striped stove, and pretty soon she said:

"Well, this is a lovely mess to come home to!"

Which of course made little Jack take on a good deal worse and keep on bawling out that he was killed, until Mrs. Rabbit told him that he was making a good deal of noise for a _dead_ man, and that if he'd get up and pick up all the things he'd upset maybe he'd come to life again.

Then little Jack Rabbit got up and ran to his mother and cried against her best dress and got some tears on it, and Mrs. Rabbit sat down in her rocker and looked at her stove and rocked him until he felt better. And by-and-by she changed her dress and went to cleaning her stove while little Jack picked up all the things--all the spools and b.u.t.tons and needles and knitting-work--every single thing.

And after supper, when he said his prayers and went to bed, he promised never to disobey his mother again.

[Ill.u.s.tration: PROMISED NEVER TO DISOBEY HIS MOTHER AGAIN]

A HOLLOW TREE PICNIC

THE LITTLE LADY AND THE STORY TELLER, AND THEIR FRIENDS

NOT far from the House of Low Ceilings, which stands on the borders of the Big Deep Woods, there is a still smaller house, where, in summertime, the Story Teller goes to make up things and write them down.

And one warm day he is writing away and not noticing what time it is when he thinks he hears somebody step in the door. So then he looks around, and he sees a little straw hat and a little round red face under it, and then he sees a basket, and right away he knows it is the Little Lady. And the Little Lady says:

"I've brought the picnic--did you know it?"

"Why, no!" the Story Teller says, looking surprised. "Is it time?"

"Yes, and I've got huckleberries and cream, and some hot biscuits."

"Good gracious! Let's see!"

So then the Story Teller looks, and, sure enough, there they are, and more things, too; and pretty soon the Little Lady and he go down to a very quiet place under some hemlock-trees by a big rock where there is a clear brook and a spring close by, and they sit down, and the Little Lady spreads the picnic all out--and there is ham too, and bread-and-b.u.t.ter, and doughnuts--and they are so hungry that they eat everything, and both dip into one bowl when they get to huckleberries and cream.

Then the Little Lady says:

"Now tell me about the Hollow Tree People; they have picnics, too."

"Sure enough, they do. And I think I'll have to tell you about their very last picnic and what happened."

Well, once upon a time Mr. 'Possum said that he was getting tired of sitting down to a table every meal in a close room with the smell of cooking coming in, and if Mr. Crow would cook up a few things that would taste good cold he'd pack the basket (that is, Mr. 'Possum would) and Mr. 'c.o.o.n could carry it, and they'd go out somewhere and eat their dinner in a nice place under the trees.

Mr. 'c.o.o.n said he knew a pleasant place to go, and Mr. Crow said he'd cook one of Mr. Man's chickens, which Mr. 'Possum had brought home the night before, though it would take time, he said, because it was pretty old--Mr. 'Possum having picked it out in the dark in a hurry.

So then they all flew around and put away things, and Mr. Crow got the chicken on while Mr. 'c.o.o.n sliced the bread and Mr. 'Possum cut the cake, which they had been saving for Sunday, and he picked out a pie too, and a nice book to read which Mr. Crow had found lying in Mr. Man's yard while the folks were at dinner. Then he packed the basket all neat and nice, and ate a little piece of the cake when Mr. 'c.o.o.n had stepped out to see how the chicken was coming along, and when the chicken was ready he cut it all up nicely, and he tasted of that a little, too, while Mr. Crow was getting on his best picnic things to go.

And pretty soon they all started out, and it was so bright and sunny that Mr. 'Possum began to sing a little, and Mr. 'c.o.o.n told him not to make a noise like that or they'd have company--Mr. Dog or Mr. Fox or somebody--when there was only just enough chicken for themselves, which made Mr. 'Possum stop right away. And before long they came to a very quiet place under some thick hemlock-trees behind a stone wall and close to a brook of clear water.

[Ill.u.s.tration: AND HE TASTED OF THAT A LITTLE, TOO]

That was the place Mr. 'c.o.o.n had thought of, and they sat down there and spread out all the things on some moss, and everything looked so nice that Mr. 'Possum said they ought to come here every day and eat dinner as long as the hot weather lasted. Then they were all so hungry that they began on the chicken right away, and Mr. 'Possum said that maybe he _might_ have picked out a tenderer one, but that he didn't think he could have found a bigger one, or one that would have lasted longer, and that, after all, size and lasting were what one needed for a picnic.