crumbs you have given him.

No wonder Tookhees is so timid, for there is no place in earth or
air or water, outside his own little doorway under the mossy
stone, where he is safe. Above him the owls watch by night and
the hawks by day; around him not a prowler of the wilderness,
from Mooween the bear down through a score of gradations, to
Kagax the bloodthirsty little weasel, but will sniff under every
old log in the hope of finding a wood mouse; and if he takes a
swim, as he is fond of doing, not a big trout in the river but
leaves his eddy to rush at the tiny ripple holding bravely across
the current. So, with all these enemies waiting to catch him the
moment he ventures out, Tookhees must needs make one or two false
starts in order to find out where the coast is clear.

That is why he always dodges back after his first appearance; why
he gives you two or three swift glimpses of himself, now here,
now there, before coming out into the light. He knows his enemies
are so hungry, so afraid he will get away or that somebody else
will catch him, that they jump for him the moment he shows a
whisker. So eager are they for his flesh, and so sure, after
missing him, that the swoop of wings or the snap of red jaws has
scared him into permanent hiding, that they pass on to other
trails. And when a prowler, watching from behind a stump, sees
Tookhees flash out of sight and hears his startled squeak, he
thinks naturally that the keen little eyes have seen the tail,
which he forgot to curl close enough, and so sneaks away as if
ashamed of himself. Not even the fox, whose patience is without
end, has learned the wisdom of waiting for Tookhees' second
appearance. And that is the salvation of the little 'Fraid One.