My! How his legs did
twist in and out.
"Come on! Come!" barked the first dog to the second one.
"I'm coming! I'm coming! Woof! Woof! Bow-w-w Bow-wow!" barked the second
dog.
Poor Uncle Wiggily's heart beat faster and faster, and he didn't know
which way to run. Every way he turned the dogs were after him, and soon
more of the savage animals came to join the first two, until all the dogs
in that Gypsy camp were chasing the poor old gentleman rabbit.
"I guess I'll have to drop my satchel or my crutch," thought Uncle
Wiggily. "I can't carry them much farther. Still, I don't want to lose
them." So he held on to them a little longer, took a good breath and ran
on some more.
He thought he saw a chance to escape by running across in front of the
fortune-telling tent, and he started that way, but a Gypsy man, with a
gun, saw him and fired at him. I'm glad to say, however, that he didn't
shoot Uncle Wiggily, or else I couldn't tell any more stories about him.
Uncle Wiggily got safely past the tent, but the dogs were almost up to him
now. One of them was just going to catch him by his left hind leg, when
one of the Gypsy men cried out:
"Grab him, Biter! Grab him! We'll have rabbit potpie for dinner; that's
what we'll have!"
Wasn't that a perfectly dreadful way to talk about our Uncle Wiggily? But
just wait, if you please.
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