If one may judge, however, from the looks of Simmo's overalls,
and from the number of times he woke me by scurrying around my tent, I
suspect that he is never too serious and never too busy for a joke. It
is a way he has of brightening the more sober times of getting his own
living, and keeping a sharp lookout for cats and owls and prowling
foxes.
Gradually the playground was deserted, as the rabbits slipped off one
by one to hunt their supper. Now and then there was a scamper among
the underbrush, and a high jump or two, with which some playful bunny
enlivened his search for tender twigs; and at times one, more curious
than the rest, came hopping along to sit erect a moment before the old
log, and look to see if the strange animal were still there. But soon
the old log was vacant too. Out in the swamp a disappointed owl sat on
his lonely stub that lightning had blasted, and hooted that he was
hungry. The moon looked down into the little clearing with its waving
ferns and soft gray shadows, and saw nothing there to suggest that it
was the rabbits' nursery.
Down at the camp a new surprise was awaiting me. Br'er Rabbit was
under the tent fly, tugging away at the salt bag which I had left
there carelessly after curing a bearskin. While he was absorbed in
getting it out from under the rubber blanket, I crept up on hands and
knees, and stroked him once from ears to tail.
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