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

He was very particular about it. He still didn’t think much of her idea of making over that old home of Melody’s, but if she would do it, he meant that she should have the very best of materials to do it with.

So back and forth from the ground to the old nest in the tree Whitefoot hurried, and presently there was quite a pile of weed stalks and soft grass and strips of bark in the old nest. Mrs. Whitefoot joined Whitefoot in hunting for just the right things, but she spent more time in arranging the material. Over that old nest she made a fine high roof. Down through the lower side she cut a little round doorway just big enough for them to pass through. Unless you happened to be underneath looking up, you never would have guessed there was an entrance at all. Inside was a snug, round room, and in this she made the softest and most comfortable of beds. As it began to look more and more like a home, Whitefoot himself became as excited and eager as Mrs. Whitefoot had been from the beginning. “It certainly is going to be a fine home,” said Whitefoot.

“Didn’t I tell you it would be?” retorted Mrs. Whitefoot.

XXX The Whitefoots Enjoy Their New Home

No home is ever mean or poor
Where love awaits you at the door.

Whitefoot

“There,” said Mrs. Whitefoot, as she worked a strip of white birch bark into the roof of the new home she and Whitefoot had been building out of the old home of Melody the Wood Thrush, “this finishes the roof. I don’t think any water will get through it even in the hardest rain.”

“It is wonderful,” declared Whitefoot admiringly. “Wherever did you learn to build such a house as this?”

“From my mother,” replied Mrs. Whitefoot. “I was born in just such a home. It makes the finest kind of a home for Wood Mouse babies.”

“You don’t think there is danger that the wind will blow it down, do you?” ventured Whitefoot.

“Of course I don’t,” retorted little Mrs. Whitefoot scornfully. “Hasn’t this old nest remained right where it is for over a year? Do you suppose that if I had thought there was the least bit of danger that it would blow down, I would have used it? Do credit me with a little sense, my dear.”

“Yes’m, I do,” replied Whitefoot meekly. “You are the most sensible person in all the Great World. I wasn’t finding fault. You see, I have always lived in a hole in the ground or a hollow stump, or a hole in a tree, and I have not yet become used to a home that moves about and rocks as this one does when the wind blows. But if you say it is all right, why of course it is all right. Probably I will get used to it after awhile.”

Whitefoot did get used to it. After living in it for a few days, it no longer seemed strange, and he no longer minded its swaying when the wind blew. The fact is, he rather enjoyed it. So Whitefoot and Mrs. Whitefoot settled down to enjoy their new home. Now and then they added a bit to it here and there.

Somehow Whitefoot felt unusually safe, safer than he had ever felt in any of his other homes. You see, he had seen several feathered folk alight close to it and not give it a second look. He knew that they had seen that home, but had mistaken it for what it had once been, the deserted home of one of their own number.

Whitefoot had chuckled. He had chuckled long and heartily. “If they make that mistake,” said he to himself, “everybody else is likely to make it. That home of ours is right in plain sight, yet I do believe it is safer than the best hidden home I ever had before. Shadow the Weasel never will think of climbing up this little tree to look at an old nest, and Shadow is the one I am most afraid of.”

It was only a day or two later that Buster Bear happened along that way. Now Buster is very fond of tender Wood Mouse. More than once Whitefoot had had a narrow escape from Buster’s big claws as they tore open an old stump or dug into the ground after him. He saw Buster glance up at the new home without the slightest interest in those shrewd little eyes of his. Then Buster shuffled on to roll over an old log and lick up the ants he found under it. Again Whitefoot chuckled. “Yes, sir,” said he. “It is the safest home I’ve ever had.”

So Whitefoot and little Mrs. Whitefoot were very happy in the home which they had built, and for once in his life Whitefoot did very little worrying. Life seemed more beautiful than it had ever been before. And he almost forgot that there was such a thing as a hungry enemy.

XXXI Whitefoot Is Hurt

The hurts that hardest are to bear
Come from those for whom we care.

Whitefoot

Whitefoot was hurt. Yes, sir, Whitefoot was hurt. He was very much hurt. It wasn’t a bodily hurt; it was an inside hurt. It was a hurt that made his heart ache. And to make it worse, he couldn’t understand it at all. One evening he had been met at the little round doorway by little Mrs. Whitefoot.

“You can’t come in,” said she.

“Why can’t I?” demanded Whitefoot, in the greatest surprise.

“Never mind why. You can’t, and that is all there is to it,” replied Mrs. Whitefoot.

“You mean I can’t ever come in any more?” asked Whitefoot.

“I don’t know about that,” replied Mrs. Whitefoot, “but you can’t come in now, nor for some time. I think the best thing you can do is to go back to your old home in the hollow stub.”

Whitefoot stared at little Mrs. Whitefoot quite as if he thought she had gone crazy. Then he lost