ndingly greater than yours.

What he will do under the unusual circumstances depends largely, not
upon himself, but upon you. With one exception, his feelings are
probably the reverse of your own. If you are bold, he is timid as a
rabbit; if you are panic-stricken, he knows exactly what to do; if you
are fearful, he has no fear; if you are inquisitive, he is instantly
shy; and, like all other wild creatures, he has an almost uncanny way of
understanding your thought. It is as if, in that intent, penetrating
gaze of his, he saw your soul turned inside out for his inspection. The
only exception is when you meet him without fear or curiosity, with the
desire simply to attend to your own affairs, as if he were a stranger
and an equal. That rare mental attitude he understands perfectly--for is
it not his own?--and he goes his way quietly, as if he had not seen you.

For every chance meeting Mooween seems to have a plan of action ready,
which he applies without a question or an instant's hesitation. Make an
unknown sound behind him as he plods along the shore, and he hurls
himself headlong into the cover of the bushes, as if your voice had
touched a button that released a coiled spring beneath him. Afterwards
he may come back to find out what frightened him. Sit perfectly still,
and he rises on his hind legs for a look and a long sniff to find out
who you are. Jump at him with a yell and a flourish the instant he
appears, and he will hurl chips and dirt back at you as he digs his
toes into the hillside for a better grip and scrambles away whimpering
like a scared puppy.

Once in a way, as you steal through the autumn woods or hurry over the
trail, you will hear sudden loud rustlings and shakings on the hardwood
ridge above you, as if a small cyclone were perched there for a while,
amusing itself among the leaves before blowing on. Then, if you steal up
toward the sound, you will find Mooween standing on a big limb of a
beech tree, grasping the narrowing trunk with his powerful forearms,
tugging and pushing mightily to shake down the ripe beechnuts. The
rattle and dash of the falling fruit are such music to Mooween's ears
that he will not hear the rustle of your approach, nor the twig that
snaps under your careless foot.

If you cry aloud now to your friends, under the hilarious impression
that you have Mooween sure at last, there is another surprise awaiting
you. And that suggests a bit of advice, which is most pertinent: