the soft mud. Yes, Sir, it was a footprint.

For a long time Lightfoot stood staring at that footprint. In his
great, soft eyes was a look of wonder and surprise. You see, that
footprint was exactly like one of his own, only smaller.
To Lightfoot it was a very wonderful footprint. He was quite sure
that never had he seen such a dainty footprint. He forgot to drink.
Instead, he began to search for other footprints, and presently
he found them. Each was as dainty as that first one.

Who could have made them? That is what Lightfoot wanted to know
and what he meant to find out. It was clear to him that there was
a stranger in the Green Forest, and somehow he didn't resent it
in the least. In fact, he was glad. He couldn't have told why,
but it was true.

Lightfoot put his nose to the footprints and sniffed of them.
Even had he not known by looking at those prints that they
had been made by a stranger, his nose would have told him this.
A great longing to find the maker of those footprints took
possession of him. He lifted his handsome head and listened for
some slight sound which might show that the stranger was near.
With his delicate nostrils he tested the wandering little Night
Breezes for a stray whiff of scent to tell him which way to go.
But there was no sound and the wandering little Night Breezes told
him nothing. Lightfoot followed the dainty footprints up the bank.
There they disappeared, for the ground was hard. Lightfoot paused,
undecided which way to go.