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Updated: May 13, 2025
"I'll start right now," he said, "and I'll reach Grumpy Weasel's hunting ground before you're out of the swamp." "I wish you'd wait a bit, till I can get there myself," Tommy Fox told him. Mr. Snowy Owl agreed to that. And after lingering until he thought Tommy must have had time to run and find Grumpy Weasel he rose above the tops of the cedars and sailed off to join them himself.
She seemed to be waiting for some chance meeting, the advent it might be of some charitably disposed wayfarer. And her impatience was manifest, for while keeping close to the fence like some animal lying in wait, she continually peered through the breach, thrusting out her tapering weasel's head and watching yonder, in the direction of the Champ de Mars.
Instinct of self-defense like the turtle's shell or the porcupine's quills or the mephitic weasel's extravasations." But she never quarreled with Morty, and to have shared with him her opinion of his endowments would have been to deprive herself of a good deal of secret amusement. "Oh, you're all alike," she said lightly, and added: "Don't be too sure that Alexina hasn't intellect-the real thing.
The third night, as he was going home from a ramble, the Owl hooted at him. "Why do you hoot at me, Big Moth?" said the Fox stopping in his trot. "Why do you hoot at me, Big Moth?" said he. "The Weasel's going to have your bones for his stepping-stones and your blood for his morning dram," said the Owl balefully as she went amongst the dark, dark trees. The Fox stopped long to consider.
A man with a face like a weasel's called to a man with a face like a devil's he was leaving the court something about an ambassador. The other stopped, turned, and deposited his bag again. I heard the deep voice of Sir Robert Gifford say: "What!... Never!... too infamous..." and then the interest and the light seemed to flicker out together. I could hardly see.
Old Kashtanka and Eel, so-called on account of his dark colour and his long body like a weasel's, followed him with hanging heads. This Eel was exceptionally polite and affectionate, and looked with equal kindness on strangers and his own masters, but had not a very good reputation. Under his politeness and meekness was hidden the most Jesuitical cunning.
Watching his opportunity, he caught the tomahawk from The Weasel's belt, and by a single blow, felled him dead at his feet. Not content with this, the old soldier now bounded forward, striking right and left, inflicting six or eight wounds on others, before he could be again arrested, disarmed, and bound. While the last was doing, Peter withdrew, unobserved.
There never was a man so happily named and so eminently fitted to fulfil the destinies of a gamekeeper. Who loves to trap the wily stoat? Who loves the plover's piping note? Who loves to wring the weasel's throat? Tom Peregrine. What time the wintry woods we walk, No need have we of lure or hawk; Have we not Tom to tower and talk? Tom Peregrine?
They knew Solomon Owl's voice too well to mistake his odd laughter. "What's your hurry, gentlemen?" Solomon called to them. Mild Mr. Meadow Mouse made no reply. But from Grumpy Weasel's hiding place an angry hiss told Solomon Owl that one of them, at least, had heard his question. "Come out!" said Solomon Owl. "Don't be shy! I've dined already."
Presently Lancy stepped out into the light, and said, with a hoarse laugh, "Blood of Peter, it was a sight to-day! She has a constant fancy for the English filibuster. 'Robert! my husband! she bleated like a pretty lamb, and Doltaire grinned at her." "But Doltaire will have her yet." "He has her pinched like a mouse in a weasel's teeth."
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