ently another
little ray of light crept down between the sticks.

It was then that Whitefoot began to grow anxious. It was then he
realized that that pile of wood was growing smaller and smaller, and if
it kept on growing smaller, by and by there wouldn't be any pile of
wood and his little home wouldn't be hidden at all. Of course Whitefoot
didn't understand why that wood was slipping away. In spite of himself
he began to grow suspicious. He couldn't think of any reason why that
wood should be taken away, unless it was to look for his little home.
Farmer Brown's boy was just as kind and friendly as ever, but all the
time more and more light crept in, as the wood vanished.

"Oh dear, what does it mean?" cried Whitefoot to himself. "They must be
looking for my home, yet they have been so good to me that it is hard
to believe they mean any harm. I do hope they will stop taking this wood
away. I won't have any hiding-place at all, and then I will have to
go outside back to my old home in the hollow stump. I don't want to do
that. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I was so happy and now I am so worried! Why
can't happy times last always?"

CHAPTER V: The End Of Whitefoot's Worries

You never can tell! You never can tell!
Things going wrong will often end well.
--Whitefoot.

The next time you meet him just ask Whitefoot if this isn't so. Things
had been going very wrong for Whitefoot. It had begun to look to
Whitefoot as if he would no longer have a snug, hidden little home in
Farmer Brown's sugar-house. The pile of wood under which he had made
that snug little home was disappearing so fast that it began to look as
if in a little while there would be no wood at all.

Whitefoot quite lost his appetite. He no longer came out to take food
from Farmer Brown's boy's hand. He stayed right in his snug little home
and worried.

Now Farmer Brown's boy had not once thought of the trouble he was
making. He wondered what had become of Whitefoot, and in his turn he
began to worry. He was afraid that something had happened to his little
friend. He was thinking of this as he fed the sticks of wood to the fire
for boiling the sap to make syrup and sugar. Finally, as he pulled away
two big sticks, he saw something that made him whistle with surprise. It
was Whitefoot's nest which he had so cleverly hidden way down underneath
that pile of wood when he had first moved into the sugar-house. With a
frightened little squeak, Whitefoot