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Updated: July 26, 2025
Back and forth along the lower edge of his yard the farmer hunted, with the whimpering, cowed terrier to guide him, poking in dark corners with the muzzle of his shotgun for the unseen intruder whose coming had aroused the household. In a brushpile just over the fence to the east Mr.
When he had wasted ten or fifteen minutes in a vain search the farmer went shivering back indoors to dry out his wet shirt. But the groveling figure in the brushpile lay for a long time where it was, only stirring a little while the rain dripped steadily down on everything. The wreck was on a Tuesday evening.
Molly kicked up her hind legs to make fun of him and skipped into the briers along one of their old pathways, where of course the hawk could not follow. It was the main path from the Creekside Thicket to the Stove-pipe brushpile. Several creepers had grown across it, and Molly, keeping one eye on the hawk, set to work and cut the creepers off.
Having so decided, he lost not time, but moved away as cautiously as possible. He went a bit faster than he should have done, to maintain a noiseless movement, however, for he stepped on a fallen branch, which broke with a cracking sound, and the very next step he stumbled over a log, and fell into a brushpile, making considerable noise. "A spy!" he heard one of the redcoats cry.
That was right behind him at the very edge of the old brushpile, and every hair on Peter stood on end with fright. "Bow, wow, wow!" It seemed to Peter that the great voice was right in his very ears. It frightened him so that he just had to jump. He didn't have time to think. And so he jumped right out from under the pile of brush and of course right into plain sight.
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