had the recipe handed down in her family--her side--you know,
from my great-great-grandmother's half-sister who was a De l'Oie but
married a Mr. Gans and was potted in the year--"

They got Peter through the door by main force, Ann and Rudolf pushing
behind and the Hare pulling in front. Even then, I am ashamed to say,
Peter kept calling out that he would like "just a taste", and he
didn't see why the Goose's worms wouldn't be just as good as the white
kind cook sent up with cheese on the top!

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV

THE FALSE HARE

As they hurried away from the Goose's house, the children cast one
last look behind them. There at the window was the Lady Goose waving
in farewell the spoon she had stirred the hot worms with. Suddenly a
whirl of white feathers flew out of the chimney, the window and the
door, which the children in their haste had left open behind them, and
hid her completely from their sight. At the same instant two feeble
shrieks came from within the house.

"Squealer and Squawker both went into the heap that time, I guess,"
said Rudolf.

"I'm glad of it!" Ann cried. "_I'd_ never help either of the horrid
little things out again. Would you, sir?" she asked, turning politely
to the Hare.

"I dare say not," he answered, yawning. "That is, of course, unless I
had particularly promised _not_ to. In that case I suppose I'd have
to."

All three children looked very much puzzled.

"Would you mind telling us," asked Ann timidly, "what you meant when
you said _this_"--and she touched her hair--"was not your business?"

"Not at all," said the Hare cheerfully. "I meant that it was."

"But you said--"

"Oh, what I _said_ was, of course, untrue."

"Do you mean you tell stories?" Ann looked very much shocked, and so
did the others.

"Certainly," said the Hare, "that's my business, I'm a False Hare, you
know. Oh, dear, yes, I tell heaps and heaps of stories, as many as I
possibly can, only sometimes I forget and then something true will
slip out of me. Oh, it's a hard life, it is, to be thoroughly
untruthful every single day from the time you get up in the morning
till the time you go to bed at night--round and round the clock, you
know! No eight-hour day for me. Ah, it's a sad, sad life!" He sighed
very mournfully, at the same time winking at Rudolf in such a funny
way that the boy burst out laughing. "Take warning by me, young man,"
he continued solemnly, "and inq