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“Nonsense,” said Bobby, and he said it peckishly, for no one likes to hear a little rabbit cry. “I know your mother, and she knows the law of the woods. You can fly—run, I mean—can’t you. And feed yourself?”

“Yes,” answered Nibble, for his brothers and sisters had gone to dig their own holes and find their own food weeks ago.

“Well, then,” finished Bobby, nodding wisely to himself, “if there’s any fresh rabbit fur under Hooter’s tree it’s not your mother’s.”

To his surprise Nibble stopped squeezing the tears from his eyes and opened them wide. “I’m going to look!” he announced. And he began to scrub his face and polish off his ears with his little soft forepaws.

“Going to look where?” asked Bobby Robin.

“Oh, lots of places—the Clover Patch, and the Brush Pile, and the Broad Field. But first I’m going to see if there’s any fur under Hooter’s tree.”

“What?” squawked Bobby. He came tumbling down to the ground where he could make Nibble look him straight in the eye and listen to an awful lecture.