Bumper, The White Rabbit | Page 5

them see?"
Mother rabbit laughed until her fat sides wobbled like a fur muff filled with playful kittens. "Dear, dear," she exclaimed, with tears in her eyes. "I thought you would understand. It's because the people don't have the money to give."
"Why don't they?" he asked, a little peeved. "Don't they have all the money they want?"
"No, dear, not all of them. Some are nearly as poor as we are, and they have to be careful of the pennies. That's why they don't buy you. The old woman asks too much for you."
This didn't improve Bumper's temper any; but right away he thought of the little girl with the red hair. "Do you think she has plenty of money?" he asked. "She was beautifully dressed, and had a rose in her hair."
"I don't know. Some people put all their money on their backs, and starve their stomachs. It may be this girl was that kind."
Bumper was sure she was wrong, for the red-haired girl didn't look starved; but she didn't have any of her birthday money left, and she confessed she'd spent it all for cakes and candies. Bumper wondered if she'd had anything to eat since, or if she was saving up her money to buy him.
That night he had another dream in which the red-haired girl appeared; but in the morning the old woman took him out of the box, and said: "It's your turn, Bumper. I must sell you to-day. I need the money badly."

STORY III
BUMPER IS SOLD
Bumper was taken to the street corner with Fluffy, Dimples and Pickles. It was a cloudy day, and the old woman limped as she walked along with her basket on her arm. Damp weather always brought out her rheumatism, and sometimes made her very cross.
Dimples and Fluffy began playing they were on a ship in a storm, and when a drop of rain hit Pickles on the nose he squealed with delight, and joined them in the game. They scampered around so lively inside that the old woman stopped and opened the cover of the basket.
"Stop that!" she said quite angrily, "or I'll dump you all in the gutter!"
The threat was enough to send each to a corner of the basket, where they eyed each other and tried to think up some less boisterous game. It was beginning to rain steadily outside, and the water trickled through the top of the basket. Every time a drop hit one, he squealed, but no one dared to jump and run around.
Now rabbits don't sell very well on rainy days, especially white rabbits. Their fur gets all wet and roughened up, and they look more like half-drowned rats than pretty, fluffy bunnies. Fluffy was taken out of the basket first, but nobody took any notice of her, and when she came back she was all wet and shivery.
"B-r-r-r, it's awfully wet outside," she said, shaking with the cold. "I'm glad nobody bought me, for I'd rather be in here safe and warm than in somebody's arms."
Pickles's turn came next. He had an ingrowing toe nail, which sometimes made him grouchy and sour, so he was dubbed Pickles. He looked and acted like his name now. He squealed when the old woman picked him up in her hand, and when a splash of rain landed on the back of his neck he kicked both hind legs and wriggled his body free and fell plump back into the basket.
The old woman was very angry. "You, Pickles," she growled, "you'll go to bed to-night without any supper."
Somebody passed just then, a lady with an umbrella over her head, and the woman with rabbits to sell turned to her in her most beguiling way. "Rabbits, lady! Nice, pretty rabbits for sale!"
The lady stopped long enough to let her umbrella drip all over the basket, and then she asked: "Are they white rabbits? I don't want any other kind."
"Yes, ma'm, pure white bunnies, with pink eyes, and long, fluffy ears--the dearest and cutest little things you ever saw. Let me show you."
With that she made a grab in the basket. It was a blind-man's bluff grab, for she couldn't see one of the rabbits huddling in the corners. Bumper was the nearest, and her hand closed over him.
"That's the prettiest one I have, ma'm," she said. "He's my pet, an' I hate to sell him, but I need the money an' you can have him."
It was raining pitchforks outside, or something like that, and, for a moment, Bumper couldn't see anything but the big drops of water splashing in his eyes. Then the lady held the umbrella over his head, and he looked up into her face. She was a sweet, womanly lady, but not exactly the kind of mistress Bumper had pictured belonging to.
"He is a dear little