Читать книгу The Bad Little Owls онлайн

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Stripes did know. He knew the rule of tents because his people were friendly with the Indians just like cats are friendly with us housefolk. They hunted around the campfires to catch creepy-crawley things. He didn’t know the difference between Louie’s blanket and a real tent, nor between Louie’s lantern and a real campfire because he’d never seen them. So he was just as pleased as though this was a real camp and Louie a real Indian. “Come along,” he called to his kittens. “This is the rule of fires: When the men aren’t walking around them you can lie down three tail lengths from the light and get your whiskers warm.” So down they lay. And weren’t they just conceited because all the other Woodsfolk had their eyes popped out, staring at them.

All this time, Tad was sitting right squash on his bushy tail in the edge of the pond, using all his other three paws to hold the poor burned one in his mouth—because it hurt him so dreadfully—at least he thought it did. Tad Coon’s always thinking he’s killed when he’s hardly more than mussed his fur. (He made an awful fuss the time Grandpop Snapping Turtle nipped his tail, and after all, Grandpop only pulled a couple of hairs out.) “Oo-h-ow-h-ow!” whimpered Tad, licking himself between each sniffle.