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

of that?” said Whitefoot proudly as they reached the little round doorway.

Mrs. Whitefoot said nothing, but at once went inside. She was gone what seemed a long time to Whitefoot, anxiously waiting outside. You see, Mrs. Whitefoot is a very thorough small person, and she was examining the inside of that house from top to bottom. At last she appeared at the doorway.

“Don’t you think this is a splendid house?” asked Whitefoot rather timidly.

“It is very good of its kind,” replied Mrs. Whitefoot.

Whitefoot’s heart sank. He didn’t like the tone in which Mrs. Whitefoot had said that.

“Just what do you mean, my dear?” Whitefoot asked.

“I mean,” replied Mrs. Whitefoot, in a most decided way, “that it is a very good house for winter, but it won’t do at all for summer. That is, it won’t do for me. In the first place it is so high up that if we should have babies, I would worry all the time for fear the darlings would have a bad fall. Besides, I don’t like an inside house for summer. I think, Whitefoot, we must look around and find a new home.”

As she spoke Mrs. Whitefoot was already starting down the stub. Whitefoot followed.

“All right, my dear, all right,” said he meekly. “You know best. This seems to me like a very fine home, but of course, if you don’t like it we’ll look for another.”

Mrs. Whitefoot said nothing, but led the way down the tree with Whitefoot meekly following. Then began a patient search all about. Mrs. Whitefoot appeared to know just what she wanted and turned up her nose at several places Whitefoot thought would make fine homes. She hardly glanced at a fine hollow log Whitefoot found. She merely poked her nose in at a splendid hole beneath the roots of an old stump. Whitefoot began to grow tired from running about and climbing stumps and trees and bushes.

He stopped to rest and lost sight of Mrs. Whitefoot. A moment later he heard her calling excitedly. When he found her, she was up in a small tree, sitting on the edge of an old nest a few feet above the ground. It was a nest that had once belonged to Melody the Wood Thrush. Mrs. Whitefoot was sitting on the edge of it, and her bright eyes snapped with excitement and pleasure.

“I’ve found it!” she cried. “I’ve found it! It is just what I have been looking for.”

“Found what?” Whitefoot asked. “I don’t see anything but an old nest of Melody’s.”

“I’ve found the home we’ve been looking for, stupid,” retorted Mrs. Whitefoot.

Still Whitefoot stared. “I don’t see any house,” said he.

Mrs. Whitefoot stamped her feet impatiently. “Right here, stupid,” said she. “This old nest will make us the finest and safest home that ever was. No one will ever think of looking for us here. We must get busy at once and fix it up.”

Even then Whitefoot didn’t understand. Always he had lived either in a hole in the ground, or in a hollow stump or tree. How they were to live in that old nest he couldn’t see at all.

XXIX Making Over an Old House

A home is always what you make it.
With love there you will ne’er forsake it.

Whitefoot

Whitefoot climbed up to the old nest of Melody the Wood Thrush over the edge of which little Mrs. Whitefoot was looking down at him. It took Whitefoot hardly a moment to get up there, for the nest was only a few feet above the ground in a young tree, and you know Whitefoot is a very good climber.

He found Mrs. Whitefoot very much excited. She was delighted with that old nest and she showed it. For his part, Whitefoot couldn’t see anything but a deserted old house of no use to anyone. To be sure, it had been a very good home in its time. It had been made of tiny twigs, stalks of old weeds, leaves, little fine roots and mud. It was still quite solid, and was firmly fixed in a crotch of the young tree. But Whitefoot couldn’t see how it could be turned into a home for a Mouse. He said as much.

Little Mrs. Whitefoot became more excited than ever. “You dear old stupid,” said she, “whatever is the matter with you? Don’t you see that all we need do is to put a roof on, make an entrance on the under side, and make a soft comfortable bed inside to make it a delightful home?”

“I don’t see why we don’t make a new home altogether,” protested Whitefoot. “It seems to me that hollow stub of mine is ever so much better than this. That has good solid walls, and we won’t have to do a thing to it.”

“I told you once before that it doesn’t suit me for summer,” replied little Mrs. Whitefoot rather sharply, because she was beginning to lose patience. “It will be all right for winter, but winter is a long way off. It may suit you for summer, but it doesn’t suit me, and this place does. So this is where we are going to live.”

“Certainly, my dear. Certainly,” replied Whitefoot very meekly. “If you want to live here, here we will live. But I must confess it isn’t clear to me yet how we are going to make a decent home out of this old nest.”

“Don’t you worry about that,” replied Mrs. Whitefoot. “You can get the material, and I’ll attend to the rest. Let us waste no time about it. I am anxious to get our home finished and to feel a little bit settled. I have already planned just what has got to be done and how we will do it. Now you go look for some nice soft, dry weed stalks and strips of soft bark, and moss and any other soft, tough material that you can find. Just get busy and don’t stop to talk.”

Of course Whitefoot did as he was told. He ran down to the ground and began to hunt for the things Mrs. Whitefoot wanted.