Green Forest Stories - Thornton W. Burgess (sad books to read .TXT) 📗

for no cause at all so far as he could see. XXV Whitefoot Finds Out What the Matter Was

Pity the lonely, for deep in the heart
Is an ache that no doctor can heal by his art.

Whitefoot

Of all the little people of the Green Forest Whitefoot seemed to be the only one who was unhappy. And because he didn’t know why he felt so he became day by day more unhappy. Perhaps I should say that night by night he became more unhappy, for during the brightness of the day he slept most of the time.

“There is something wrong, something wrong,” he would say over and over to himself.

“It must be with me, because everybody else is happy, and this is the happiest time of all the year. I wish someone would tell me what ails me. I want to be happy, but somehow I just can’t be.”

One evening he wandered a little farther from home than usual. He wasn’t going anywhere in particular. He had nothing in particular to do. He was just wandering about because somehow he couldn’t remain at home. Not far away Melody the Wood Thrush was pouring out his beautiful evening song. Whitefoot stopped to listen. Somehow it made him more unhappy than ever. Melody stopped singing for a few moments. It was just then that Whitefoot heard a faint sound. It was a gentle drumming. Whitefoot pricked up his ears and listened. There it was again. He knew instantly how that sound was made. It was made by dainty little feet beating very fast on an old log. Whitefoot had drummed that way himself many times. It was soft, but clear, and it lasted only a moment.

Right then something very strange happened to Whitefoot. Yes, sir, something very strange happened to Whitefoot. All in a flash he felt better. At first he didn’t know why. He just did, that was all. Without thinking what he was doing, he began to drum himself. Then he listened. At first he heard nothing. Then, soft and low, came that drumming sound again. Whitefoot replied to it. All the time he kept feeling better. He ran a little nearer to the place from which that drumming sound had come and then once more drummed. At first he got no reply.

Then in a few minutes he heard it again, only this time it came from a different place. Whitefoot became quite excited. He knew that that drumming was done by another Wood Mouse, and all in a flash it came over him what had been the matter with him.

“I have been lonely!” exclaimed Whitefoot. “That is all that has been the trouble with me. I have been lonely and didn’t know it. I wonder if that other Wood Mouse has felt the same way.”

Again he drummed and again came that soft reply. Once more Whitefoot hurried in the direction of it, and once more he was disappointed when the next reply came from a different place. By now he was getting quite excited. He was bound to find that other Wood Mouse. Every time he heard that drumming, funny little thrills ran all over him. He didn’t know why. They just did, that was all. He simply must find that other Wood Mouse. He forgot everything else. He didn’t even notice where he was going. He would drum, then wait for a reply. As soon as he heard it, he would scamper in the direction of it, and then pause to drum again. Sometimes the reply would be very near, then again it would be so far away that a great fear would fill Whitefoot’s heart that the stranger was running away.

XXVI Love Fills the Heart of Whitefoot

Joyous all the winds that blow
To the heart with love aglow.

Whitefoot

It was a wonderful game of hide-and-seek that Whitefoot the Wood Mouse was playing in the dusk of early evening. Whitefoot was “it” all the time. That is, he was the one who had to do all the hunting. Just who he was hunting for he didn’t know. He knew it was another Wood Mouse, but it was a stranger, and do what he would, he couldn’t get so much as a glimpse of this little stranger. He would drum with his feet and after a slight pause there would be an answering drum. Then Whitefoot would run as fast as he could in that direction only to find no one at all. Then he would drum again and the reply would come from another direction.

Every moment Whitefoot became more excited. He forgot everything, even danger, in his desire to see that little drummer. Once or twice he actually lost his temper in his disappointment. But this was only for a moment. He was too eager to find that little drummer to be angry very long.

At last there came a time when there was no reply to his drumming. He drummed and listened, then drummed again and listened. Nothing was to be heard. There was no reply. Whitefoot’s heart sank.

All the old lonesomeness crept over him again. He didn’t know which way to turn to look for that stranger. When he had drummed until he was tired, he sat on the end of an old log, a perfect picture of disappointment. He was so disappointed that he could have cried if it would have done any good.

Just as he had about made up his mind that there was nothing to do but to try to find his way home, his keen little ears caught the faintest rustle of dry leaves. Instantly Whitefoot was alert and watchful. Long ago he had learned to be suspicious of rustling leaves. They might have been rustled by the feet of an enemy stealing up on him. No Wood Mouse who wants to live long is ever heedless of rustling leaves. As still as if he couldn’t move, Whitefoot sat staring at the place from which that