Green Forest Stories

I

Peter Rabbit Meets Lightfoot

Peter Rabbit was on his way back from the pond of Paddy the Beaver deep in the Green Forest. He had just seen Mr. and Mrs. Quack start toward the Big River for a brief visit before leaving on their long, difficult journey to the faraway Southland. Farewells are always rather sad, and this particular farewell had left Peter with a lump in his throat—a queer, choky feeling.

“If I were sure that they would return next spring, it wouldn’t be so bad,” he muttered. “It’s those terrible guns. I know what it is to have to watch out for them. Farmer Brown’s boy used to hunt me with one of them, but he doesn’t any more. But even when he did hunt me it wasn’t anything like what the Ducks have to go through. If I kept my eyes and ears open, I could tell when a hunter was coming and could hide in a hole if I wanted to. I never had to worry about my meals. But with the Ducks it is a thousand times worse. They’ve got to eat while making that long journey, and they can eat only where there is the right kind of food. Hunters with terrible guns know where those places are and hide there until the Ducks come, and the Ducks have no way of knowing whether the hunters are waiting for them or not. That isn’t hunting. It’s—it’s—”

“Well, what is it? What are you talking to yourself about, Peter Rabbit?”

Peter looked up with a start to find the soft, beautiful eyes of Lightfoot the Deer gazing down at him over the top of a little hemlock tree.

“It’s awful,” declared Peter. “It’s worse than unfair. It doesn’t give them any chance at all.”

“I suppose it must be so if you say so,” replied Lightfoot, “but you might tell me what all this awfulness is about.”

Peter grinned. Then he began at the beginning and told Lightfoot all about Mr. and Mrs. Quack and the many dangers they must face on their long journey to the faraway Southland and back again in the spring, all because of the heartless hunters with terrible guns. Lightfoot listened and his great soft eyes were filled with pity for the Quack family.

“I hope they will get through all right,” said he, “and I hope they will get back in the spring. It is bad enough to be hunted by men at one time of the year, as no one knows better than I do, but to be hunted in the spring as well as in the fall is more than twice as bad. Men are strange creatures. I do not understand them at all. None of the people of the Green Forest would think of doing such terrible things. I suppose it is quite right to hunt others in order to get enough to eat, though I am thankful to say that I never have had to do that, but to hunt others just for the fun of hunting is something I cannot understand at all. And yet that is what men seem to do it for. I guess the trouble is they never have been hunted themselves and don’t know how it feels. Sometimes I think I’ll hunt one some day just to teach him a lesson. What are you laughing at, Peter?”

“At the idea of you hunting a man,” replied Peter. “Your heart is all right, Lightfoot, but you are too timid and gentle to frighten anyone. Big as you are I wouldn’t fear you.”

With a single swift bound Lightfoot sprang out in front of Peter. He stamped his sharp hoofs, lowered his handsome head until the sharp points of his antlers, which people call horns, pointed straight at Peter, lifted the hair along the back of his neck, and made a motion as if to plunge at him. His eyes, which Peter had always thought so soft and gentle, seemed to flash fire.

“Oh!” cried Peter in a faint, frightened-sounding voice and leaped to one side before it entered his foolish little head that Lightfoot was just pretending.

Lightfoot chuckled. “Did you say I couldn’t frighten anyone?” he demanded.

“I—I didn’t know you could look so terribly fierce,” stammered Peter. “Those antlers look really dangerous when you point them that way. Why—why—what is that hanging to them? It looks like bits of old fur. Have you been tearing somebody’s coat, Lightfoot?” Peter’s eyes were wide with wonder and suspicion.

II

Lightfoot’s New Antlers

Peter Rabbit was puzzled. He stared at Lightfoot the Deer a wee bit suspiciously. “Have you been tearing somebody’s coat?” he asked again. He didn’t like to think it of Lightfoot, whom he always had believed quite as gentle, harmless, and timid as himself. But what else could he think?

Lightfoot slowly shook his head. “No,” said he, “I haven’t torn anybody’s coat.”

“Then what are those rags hanging on your antlers?” demanded Peter.

Lightfoot chuckled. “They are what is left of the coverings of my new antlers,” he explained.

“What’s that? What do you mean by new antlers?” Peter was sitting up very straight, with his eyes fixed on Lightfoot’s antlers as though he never had seen them before.

“Just what I said,” retorted Lightfoot. “What do you think of them? I think they are the finest antlers I’ve ever had. When I get the rest of those rags off, they will be as handsome a set as ever was grown in the Green Forest.”

Lightfoot rubbed his antlers against the trunk of a tree till some of the rags hanging to them dropped off.

Peter blinked very hard. He was trying to understand and he couldn’t. Finally he said so.

“What kind of a story are you trying to fill me up with?” he demanded indignantly. “Do you mean to tell me that those are not the antlers that you have had as long as I’ve known you? How can anything hard like those antlers grow? And if those are new ones, where are the old ones? Show me the old ones, and perhaps I’ll believe that these are new ones. The idea of trying to make me believe that antlers grow just like plants! I’ve seen Bossy the Cow all summer and I know she has got the same horns she had last summer. New antlers indeed!”

“You are quite right, Peter, quite right about Bossy the Cow. She never has new horns, but that isn’t any reason why I shouldn’t have new antlers, is it?” replied Lightfoot patiently. “Her horns are quite different from my antlers. I have a new pair every year. You haven’t seen me all summer, have you, Peter?”

“No, I don’t remember that I have,” replied Peter, trying very hard to remember when he had last seen Lightfoot.

“I know you haven’t,” retorted Lightfoot. “I know it because I have been hiding in a place you never visit.”

“What have you been hiding for?” demanded Peter.

“For my new antlers to grow,” replied Lightfoot. “When my new antlers are growing, I want to be away by myself. I don’t like to be seen without them or with halfgrown ones. Besides, I am very uncomfortable while the new antlers are growing and I want to be alone.”

Lightfoot spoke as if he really meant every word he said, but still Peter couldn’t, he just couldn’t believe that those wonderful great antlers had grown out of Lightfoot’s head in a single summer. “Where did you leave your old ones and when did they come off?” he asked, and there was doubt in the very tone of his voice.

“They dropped off last spring, but I don’t remember just where,” replied Lightfoot. “I was too glad to be rid of them to notice where they dropped. You see they were loose and uncomfortable, and I hadn’t any more use for them because I knew that my new ones would be bigger and better. I’ve got one more point on each than I had last year.” Lightfoot began once more to rub his antlers against the tree to get off the queer rags hanging to them and to polish the points. Peter watched in silence for a few minutes. Then, all his suspicions returning, he said:

“But you haven’t told me anything about those rags hanging to your antlers.”

“And you haven’t believed what I have already told you,” retorted Lightfoot. “I don’t like telling things to people who won’t believe me.”