then off he went, clipperty clip,
lipperty lip, and by and by he came to an old hollow stump. So he peeked
in, and then, all of a sudden, a purring voice asked:

"What are you doing, Mr. Curious One?"

"Oh, I wasn't doing anything wrong," answered the little bunny. "I just
wanted to see what was inside."

"Well, I'll show you," answered the voice, and out popped a little black
cat, with green eyes and a pink ribbon.

"Oh, it's you, Miss Pussy," laughed the little rabbit. "I'm glad it
wasn't a bear or a wildcat," and he laughed some more and wiggled his
little pink nose just for fun, you understand.

"What are you doing out here?"

"Looking for mice," answered the little black pussy.

"Don't you bother Timmy Meadowmouse," said Little Jack Rabbit quickly;
"he's a friend of mine."

And then, what do you suppose happened? Why, the Farmer's dog came by,
and away went the little rabbit, and up went Miss Pussy Cat's back, and
her tail grew so big that had she tried to get back into the hollow
stump I guess she would have had to leave her tail behind her! But she
didn't. No sireemam. She just humped her back and meowed, and the
Farmer's dog kept right on after Little Jack Rabbit, but of course he
never caught him.

Well, as soon as the little bunny was safe in the Shady Forest, he
looked about him, and pretty soon, not so very long, he saw Professor
Jim Crow with his little Black Book under his wing.

"Read me something, won't you please," begged the little rabbit. So the
old professor bird took out his book and turned over the pages until he
came to "The early worm must look out for the bird."

"Ha, ha," laughed the little rabbit. "I must tell that to mother. She
always tells it the other way 'round." Then off he hopped, and the old
black bird flew away to his tree in Kalamazoo. For that was the name of
the little village where Professor Crow has his home, and where he
taught in the grammar school arithmetic and the Golden Rule, and
sometimes Latin and sometimes Greek, and anything else that a bird can
speak. Goodness me, if my typewriter hasn't made up this poetry all by
itself. I wonder where it went to school.

A BUSY BEAVER

"Bunny Boy!" called Little Jack Rabbit's mother, oh, so early, as Mr.
Merry Sun climbed up the blue gray sky of the early morning, "Get up,
little bunny!"

So the little rabbit hopped out of bed; and after he had combed his hair
with a little chip, he ran downstairs to ask hi