So Nibble limped off past the log, turned back on his trail and dragged himself up on it. My but he was tired. He almost fell asleep once more out in that cold wind. But Bob’s whistle waked him again. He jumped and found his legs all tangled in a wild grape vine.
That set Bob laughing softly. “It’s too bad,” he said, “but you see I forgot you couldn’t perch like a bird.”
But Nibble didn’t mind. He just kicked and wriggled until he tumbled to the ground and the blanket of little quail closed around him again.
Early in the morning a soft order woke him. “Hold your scent! Hold your scent!” He didn’t know exactly what it meant, but all the quail stopped ruffling their feathers to keep warm and closed them tight about their bodies. So he sleeked his fur and listened with all his ears. And he just caught the faintest sniffing—from the top of the log, not ten feet away. It wasn’t any bird. It was—Slyfoot! And, oh! how Nibble trembled. But the quail didn’t; they were only very still. And then Nibble heard another tiny sound—the sound of twigs scraping together. That was Bob White slipping through the branches. He was walking along an overhead pathway, so as not to make a whir with his wings.
Soon Nibble heard Bob beating and flapping over behind the log. “Oh,” he cried. “My wing—my poor wing! Oh, it’s broken! Help, Oh-h-h!” Nibble wanted to go, but the other quail held him still.
Plump! went Slyfoot, all feet at once, as he jumped for the crippled bird. “Har-r-r!” he snarled as he just missed a mouthful of feathers. He jumped again. “Oh-h! Help!” wailed Bob as he flapped off. And the sounds died in the distance.
But just as Nibble was beginning to scold the Quail because they wouldn’t let him go and lead Slyfoot away, Bob came sailing into the thicket with his wing as good as ever. He was laughing. “Topknots and Tail-feathers!” he exclaimed, “but I gave Slyfoot a merry chase! He’s over in the Briers by the Pasture fence with his feet as prickery as a set of thistle-burs.” He limped over the dry leaves to show how Slyfoot walked with prickers in his paws.
Nibble laughed with him. “Won’t he be angrier than ever?” he asked.
“He’s never anything else,” chuckled Bob cheerfully. “But he won’t bother us again until he thinks we’ve forgotten about him. So we’ll get our breakfast before we move.” And all the birds began scuttling about, making as much noise as they pleased. When Nibble dug himself a root they all crowded around for a taste of it, so there was very little left for himself. But they shook off some fresh thorn-apples for him and when he wanted to try the sumach they thought was so nice they perched on a branch until they weighed it down within his reach.