“that poor first skunk!” exclaimed nibble rabbit. “mother nature was mean to give him everything he asked for just the opposite to the way he wanted it. i’d have gone right off and been just as bad as ever i knew how to be.”

“eh, stripes skunk?” asked doctor muskrat, “is that how you feel about it?”

“n-n-no,” stripes answered slowly. “being good is something even mother nature couldn’t give the first skunk; he’d have to get it for himself. for the other things, i like being just the way we are. when i had to climb the tree to help bob white quail i’d have liked the handy-paws the first skunk wanted. but that’s just because i’ve never practised climbing, like my little cousin spotty. and handy-paws are no earthly good to dig with—you just ought to see these paddy-paws of mine make the dirt fly. but paddy-paws behind, where he wanted them, wouldn’t be half as nice as these good firm footy soles i stand on.

“i wouldn’t even give up my hairy tail. it’s heavy, but no one can bite it, and it’s wonderful to sleep in.” he whisked it into a billowy rug about his toes; then he finished contentedly, “i don’t mind mother nature making us so we can’t chase other folks, seeing that she gave us our scent so we’re not always being chased. she was perfectly fair.”

“fair!” you ought to have seen nibble turn his sniffy nose up at this. “she played you a horrid kind of a joke.”

“not at all!” answered stripes—and he was really quite indignant. “we don’t have to be unpleasant. anyway, it’s better than fighting, and i notice even you bunnies don’t like to be eaten. only nobody but doctor muskrat seems to understand.”

“furry-foot,” chuckled that wise old beast, “mother nature played that joke on a lot of other fellows besides the skunk. we were all of us asking for scents, and she simply couldn’t understand it. she thought if she gave the first skunk that one, the rest of us wouldn’t want them.”

“why did you?” nibble wanted to know. “we didn’t.”

“you didn’t, didn’t you?” doctor muskrat’s little eyes twinkled. “why do you run around the pickery things each evening and give a stamp at every tunnel?”

“so if any other rabbit comes he’ll know that the place belongs to me.”

“how will he know?” asked the doctor. “he mightn’t see you or hear you——”

“he’d smell me, of course!” nibble’s eyes were big and round.

“he would. now do you see why nearly every one wanted some way of leaving messages for other woodsfolk while he went off to hide or feed? you don’t dare make a noise; you can’t wait too long for fear someone will see you; so you leave that little smelly mark that stays and stays long after the warm smell of your body is blown away so you can’t be followed. but you’re so used to it you never think about it.”

“oh-h-h!” said nibble. “i hadn’t thought of that. i guess i’m beginning to understand.”

“i hope so,” sniffed the doctor. “of course nobody’ll ever be wise enough to know just how generous mother nature’s been. but remember, you never nibble a clover leaf that you haven’t her to thank for it.”

clover leaf! the bunny’s twitchy nose began to sniff for one. stripes skunk cocked up one ear and looked at the doctor with a little twinkle in his eye. “i s’pose we can thank her for snails,” said he. “’cause——” schloop! he licked a juicy one off the under side of a dock leaf, “’cause at least (crunch! crunch!) we can run fast—enough—to catch ’em.”