Child could hear the sound of its going and perceived that it was
making a circle. A couple of seconds later came the weasel, running
with its nose in the air, as if catching the scent from the air rather
than from the fugitive's tracks.

The weasel did not seem to be in any hurry at all. It was the picture
of cool, deadly, implacable determination. And the Child hated it
savagely. Just opposite the poplar sapling it paused, seeming to
listen. Then it bounded into the bushes on a short circle, saving
itself unnecessary effort, as if it had accurately estimated the
tactics of its panic-stricken quarry. A few moments later the rabbit
reappeared, running frantically. Just as it came once more before the
poplar sapling--not more than a couple of yards from the Child's feet,
out from under a neighboring bush sprang the weasel, confronting it
fairly. With a scream the rabbit stopped short and crouched in its
tracks, quivering, to receive its doom.

The weasel leaped straight at its victim's throat. But it never
arrived. For at that moment the Child gave vent to a shrill yell of
indignation and jumped at the slayer with hands, eyes and mouth wide
open. He made such a picture that Uncle Andy exploded. The astonished
weasel vanished. The rabbit, shocked back into its senses, vanished
also, but in another direction. And the Child, pulling himself
together, turned to his uncle with a very red face.

"I'm sorry!" he said sheepishly. "I'm so sorry, Uncle Andy. But I
just _couldn't_ help it. I didn't think."

"Oh, well!" said Uncle Andy, getting up and stretching, and rubbing his
stiffened legs tenderly. "I can't say that I blame you I came mighty