“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 his mother about the early worm professor jim crow had mentioned in the last story. after breakfast he hopped out on the sunny meadow and looked about him. mr. merry sun was shining down on the frosty dew and billy breeze was very chilly, and the meadow grass brown and withered. it didn’t look at all like the lovely sunny meadow.

“oh, dear,” sighed the little rabbit, “all the flowers are gone, and most of the birds have flown to the sunny south.” just then professor jim crow flew by with his little black book under his wing:

“helloa, there, little bunny, how are you this chilly day?” and then that old crow began to read out of his little book:

“little rabbit’s coat of brown

soon will turn to white.

then among the snowy drifts

he can hide from sight.

“you see how mother nature looks after you,” said that wise old blackbird. “in the summer your coat is brown like the dry grass and brambles. but when winter comes it turns white so that you won’t be seen so well against the snow.”

then away flew professor jim crow to read his little black book to somebody else, and the little rabbit hopped along and by and by he came to the bubbling brook where the speckled trout swam in and out among the rocks and the little fresh water crabs played in the quiet pools. all of a sudden down fell a tree.

“there,” said busy beaver, “i’ll now have some logs to make a dam.”

“why do you want a dam? do you want to spoil the bubbling brook?”

“it won’t spoil the brook,” answered the little beaver. “it will only make it deep so that when i build my house for the winter my front door won’t freeze up tight.”

“oh, i see,” said little jack rabbit, and he wiggled his little pink nose sideways. “and how soon will you have it finished?”

“oh, long before old mr. north wind brings the snow,” answered busy beaver.

old mr. north wind

on his snow horse,

swiftly is riding

down the golf course,

over the meadow

and up the steep hill,

shouting so hoarsely;

“gid ap, there, bill!”