Green Forest Stories, Thornton W. Burgess [ebook reader color screen .TXT] 📗

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.”

III Lightfoot Tells How His Antlers Grew

It is hard to believe what seems impossible. And yet what seems impossible to you may be a very commonplace matter to someone else. So it does not do to say that a thing cannot be possible just because you cannot understand how it can be. Peter Rabbit wanted to believe what Lightfoot the Deer had just told him, but somehow he couldn’t. If he had seen those antlers growing, it would have been another matter. But he hadn’t seen Lightfoot since the very last of winter, and then Lightfoot had worn just such handsome antlers as he now had. So Peter really couldn’t be blamed for not being able to believe that those old ones had been lost and in their place new ones had grown in just the few months of spring and summer.

But Peter didn’t blame Lightfoot in the least, because he had told Peter that he didn’t like to tell things to people who wouldn’t believe what he told them when Peter had asked him about the rags hanging to his antlers. “I’m trying to believe it,” he said, quite humbly.

“It’s all true,” broke in another voice.

Peter jumped and turned to find his big cousin, Jumper the Hare. Unseen and unheard, he had stolen up and had overheard what Peter and Lightfoot had said.

“How do you know it is true?” snapped Peter a little crossly, for Jumper had startled him.

“Because I saw Lightfoot’s old antlers after they had fallen off, and I often saw Lightfoot while his new ones were growing,” retorted Jumper.

“All right! I’ll believe anything that Lightfoot tells me if you say it is true,” declared Peter, who greatly admires his cousin, Jumper. “Now tell me about those rags, Lightfoot. Please do.”

Lightfoot couldn’t resist that “please.” “Those rags are what is left of a kind of covering which protected the antlers while they were growing, as I told you before,” said he. “Very soon after my old ones dropped off the new ones began to grow. They were not hard, not at all like they are now. They were soft and very tender, and the blood ran through them just as it does through our bodies. They were covered with a sort of skin with hairs on it like thin fur. The ends were not sharply pointed as they now are, but were big and rounded, like knobs. They were not like antlers at all, and they made my head hot and were very uncomfortable. That is why I hid