The Purple Hills were more softly purple than at any
other season of the year. It was all very, very beautiful.

But Peter had no thought for the beauty of it all, for the Spirit
of Fear had visited even the dear Old Briar-patch, and Peter was
afraid. It wasn't fear of Reddy Fox, or Redtail the Hawk, or
Hooty the Owl, or Old Man Coyote. They were forever trying to
catch him, but they did not strike terror to his heart because he
felt quite smart enough to keep out of their clutches. To be
sure, they gave him sudden frights sometimes, when they happened
to surprise him, but these frights lasted only until he reached
the nearest bramble-tangle or hollow log where they could not get
at him. But the fear that chilled his heart now never left him
even for a moment.

And Peter knew that this same fear was clutching at the hearts of
Bob White, hiding in the brown stubble; of Mrs. Grouse, squatting
in the thickest bramble-tangle in the Green Forest; of Uncle
Billy Possum and Bobby Coon in their hollow trees; of Jerry
Muskrat in the Smiling Pool; of Happy Jack Squirrel, hiding in
the tree tops; of Lightfoot the Deer, lying in the closest
thicket he could find. It was even clutching at the hearts of
Granny and Reddy Fox and of great, big Buster Bear. It seemed to
Peter that no one was so big or so small that this terrible
Spirit of Fear had not searched him out.

Far in the distance sounded a sudden bang. Peter jumped and
shivered. He knew that every one else who had heard that bang
had jumped and shivered just as he had. It was the season of
hunters with terrible guns. It was man who had sent this