The Tale of Grumpy Weasel Part 7

XVII

GRUMPY'S MISTAKE

As soon as Grumpy Weasel left to chase the squirrels and mice that he had frightened away from the corncrib Fatty c.o.o.n hurried into the building through a hole in the floor which n.o.body knew but himself.

Though he was a great eater Fatty was also a fast one. And now he bolted a huge meal of corn in only a few minutes. Then, smiling broadly, he left the corncrib by his private doorway and squatted down to await Grumpy's return.

In a little while Grumpy appeared.

"I hoped I'd see you again," Fatty c.o.o.n told him. "Did you have any luck?"

"No!" Grumpy Weasel snapped. "I was mistaken about your idea. It was a very poor one. For I've been running in a circle (as you suggested) till I'm dizzy; and I haven't seen the least sign of a mouse nor a squirrel."

Fatty c.o.o.n told him to cheer up.

"I've another idea for you," he said.

"Keep it! Keep it!" Grumpy Weasel hissed. "Your last idea only made me tired; and I haven't a capture to my credit to-night."

"That's because you ran too fast," Fatty explained glibly. "Now, if you'll be careful to run slowly, and do just as I tell you, I can promise that there'll be a capture, without fail."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Grumpy Weasel Visits the Corncrib. (_Page 70_)]

Grumpy had had such bad luck in his hunting about the farmyard that he decided to listen, anyhow. He told himself that he wouldn't take Fatty's advice unless it was much better than he expected.

"Well--go on!" he grunted.

"Do you see that little house near the woodshed?" Fatty c.o.o.n asked him.

"It has a low doorway that's always open, and no windows at all."

"Yes!" said Grumpy Weasel harshly. "Of course I see it. I'm not blind."

"Do you know who lives there?"

"I always supposed that it belonged to Johnnie Green," said Grumpy. "His father is big and lives in the big house, and Johnnie is little and lives in the little house."

Fatty c.o.o.n laughed merrily.

"You don't know as much as I thought you did!" he cried. It may be that Fatty had set out to make Grumpy angry. Anyhow, Grumpy's eyes burned in the darkness like two coals of fire.

"I'm right about that little house," he wrangled.

"Nonsense!" Fatty c.o.o.n exclaimed. And that made Grumpy angrier than ever.

"You learned that word of old Mr. Crow!" he grumbled. "It's his favorite expression; and I can't endure it."

"You don't need to stay here and listen to it," Fatty c.o.o.n said. "If you dared to you could run over to Johnnie Green's house (as you call it); and if you found that you were right about it I promise you I'd never say 'Nonsense' again."

If Grumpy Weasel hadn't been so angry perhaps he wouldn't have been so eager to prove himself right. While Fatty watched him he bounded across the farmyard and stopped at the doorway of the tiny house. And then he bounded back again, a great deal faster, with old dog Spot yelping behind him.

Fatty c.o.o.n did not wait for anything more. He made for the woods at top speed, grinning as he went.

The next day he pretended to be surprised to meet Grumpy.

"You must have forgotten my advice," he said. "I promised you that there would be a capture if you ran slowly. But it's plain that you ran too fast, or you wouldn't be here."

"Nonsense!" Grumpy Weasel shouted, flying into a pa.s.sion at once. And he often wondered, afterward, what Fatty c.o.o.n found to laugh at.

XVIII

POP! GOES THE WEASEL

There were many things that did not please Grumpy Weasel--things that almost any one else would have liked. For instance, there was music. The Pleasant Valley Singing Society, to which most of the bird people belonged, did not number Grumpy Weasel among its admirers. He never cared to hear a bird sing--not even Jolly Robin's cousin the Hermit, who was one of the most beautiful singers in the woods. And as for Buddy Brown Thrasher, whom most people thought a brilliant performer, Grumpy Weasel always groaned whenever he heard him singing in the topmost branches of a tree.

A bird-song--according to Grumpy Weasel--was of use in only one way: it told you where the bird was. And that was a help, of course, if you were trying to catch him.

Nor did the musical Frog family's nightly concerts have much charm for Grumpy, though he did admit that some of their songs were not so bad as others.

"I can stand it now and then," he said, "to hear a good, glum croaking, provided there are plenty of discords."

Naturally, knowing how he felt, Grumpy Weasel's neighbors never invited him to listen to their concerts. On the contrary they usually asked him please to go away, if he happened to come along. Certainly n.o.body could sing his best, with such a listener.

As a rule Grumpy Weasel was glad to go on about his business, though to be sure he hated to oblige anybody. But one day he stopped and scolded at the top of his voice when he came upon the Woodchuck brothers whistling in the pasture.

Their whistles quavered a bit when they noticed who was present. And they moved a little nearer their front door, in order to dodge out of sight if need be. Although Grumpy Weasel might follow them, there was a back door they could rush out of. And since they knew their way about their underground halls better than he did they did not worry greatly.

"We're sorry--" said the biggest brother, who was called Billy Woodchuck--"we're sorry you don't like our music. And we'd like to know what's the matter with it; for we always strive to please."

"It's not so much the way you whistle," Grumpy snarled, "though your whistling is bad enough, it's so cheerful. What I find fault with especially is the tune. It's insulting to me. And you can't deny it."

Well, the Woodchuck brothers looked at one another in a puzzled fashion.

"Never again let me hear you whistling, 'Pop! Goes the Weasel,'" Grumpy warned them. That was the name of the Woodchuck brothers' favorite air, and the one they could whistle best. And any one could see that they were quite upset.

"Why don't you like that tune?" Billy Woodchuck asked Grumpy Weasel politely.

"It's that word 'pop,'" Grumpy said. "It reminds me of a pop-gun. And a pop-gun reminds me of a real gun. And that's something I don't want to think about."

Well, the Woodchuck brothers looked at one another again. But this time they smiled.

"You've misunderstood," Billy Woodchuck told Grumpy Weasel. "This is a different kind of _pop_. It means that when you enter a hole you _pop_ into it in a jiffy, without taking all day to do it."