class="cap">"WHY do we always have rabbits at Easter?" asked the Little Lady. "Is that a story, too?"

The Story Teller lit his pipe, thinking all the time, and pretty soon he said: "Why, yes, there is a story about that, and it goes this way":—

One afternoon in the early spring Mr. Jack Rabbit and his friends were out for an airing. The Hollow Tree people were along, and Mr. Turtle, as usual. By and by they came to a log under a big tree and sat down for a smoke and talk. They talked about the weather at first and other things, till somebody mentioned Easter. Then they all had something to say about that.

"What I object to," says Mr. Rabbit, when it came his time to talk, "is this thing of people always saying that the Easter eggs belong to me."

"Oh, but that's just a joke," says Mr. 'Coon, laughing.

"I know it's just a joke, of course, but it's a pretty old joke, and I'm tired of it," says Jack Rabbit.

"How did it get started anyway?" asked Mr. 'Possum.

Then Mr. Rabbit took his pipe out of his mouth and leaned forward a little, so he could talk better.

"I tell you how it got started," he says, "and after that I don't want to hear any more of it. This is how it happened:—

THEY CAME TO A LOG UNDER A BIG TREE AND SAT DOWN FOR A SMOKE AND TALK

"Once upon a time, as much as twenty grandmothers back, I should think, there was a very nice family of Rabbits that lived in a grassy place on a hillside back of a big farmyard. There was quite a hole in the ground there, and they had a cozy home in it, and a soft bed for their little folk.

"Now, every bright morning, Father and Mother Rabbit used to take the children out for a walk, and for a few lessons in running and hiding from Mr. Dog, who bothered about a good deal, and one day as they were coming home they heard a great cackling, and when they got to their house there was a nice fresh egg lying right in the children's bed. Some old hen from the farmyard had slipped in and laid it while they were gone. A good many hens, especially old hens, like to hide their nests that way, and this was one of that kind.

"Well, of course all the young Rabbits claimed it, and Mother Rabbit at last gave it to the smallest and weakest one of the children, a little girl, who was always painting things with the juice of flower petals. And the very first thing that little girl did was to stain that egg all over with violet juice, not thinking what trouble it was going to cause our family forever after.

THEY HAD A COZY HOME AND A SOFT BED FOR THEIR LITTLE FOLK

"It was a nice blue egg when she got through with it, and the next day, when they all came back from their walk again there was another white egg right by it. The old hen had been there again and laid another while they were gone. The second little girl claimed that egg, of course, and she painted it a bright yellow with buttercup juice. Then the next day there was another egg, and the next day there was another egg, and the next day there was another egg, until there was one apiece for every one of the children, and some over.

"And they all painted them. Some painted theirs pink or red with rose leaves or japonica, some painted them yellow with buttercups, and some blue or purple with violets, as the first little girl had done. They had so many at last that it crowded them out of their bed and they had to sleep on the floor.

A FEW LESSONS IN RUNNING AND HIDING

"And then, one Sunday, and it must have been Easter Sunday, they all went out walking again, and when they came back every one of those beautiful colored eggs was gone. The children cried and made a great fuss, but it was no use. Some of Mr. Man's boys out hunting hens' nests had found them and taken them all home with them.

"And of course all those colored eggs set Mr. Man to wondering, and he came with his boys to the place where they had found them; and when they looked in out jumped the whole Rabbit family, helter skelter in every direction.

"And right then," said Mr. Rabbit, leaning over to light his pipe from Mr. 'Possum's, "right then Mr. Man declared those colored eggs were rabbit eggs, and he's kept on saying so ever since, though he knows better, and he knows I don't like it. He takes eggs and colors them himself now, and makes believe they're mine, and he puts my picture all over things about Easter time. I suppose he thinks I don't care, but I do, and I wish that little Miss Rabbit twenty grandmothers back had left that old hen's egg white as she found it."

IT WAS A NICE BLUE EGG WHEN SHE GOT THROUGH WITH IT

"It's too bad," says Mr. Crow. "It's like that story they tell about the fox making me drop the cheese."

"Or like Mr. Man making believe that the combs he uses are really made out of my shell," says Mr. Turtle.

Mr. 'Coon and Mr. 'Possum shook their heads. They had their troubles, too.

THE HOLLOW TREE POETRY CLUB

All at once he happened to remember that Jack Rabbit, who was the big man of the party, was also a first rate poet, and liked to read his own poetry better than anything. So, when he thought of that, he said:—

"I'll tell you. We'll have a poetry club."

And of course that made Mr. Rabbit wake up right away.

"What's that?" he said. "What kind of a thing is a poetry club?"

"Why," said Mr. Crow, "it's a place where the members each write a poem and read it at the next meeting. You're the only real, sure enough poet, of course, and will be president, and write the best poem, but the rest of us can try, and you can tell us our mistakes. I've heard that Mr. Man has clubs, and they're ever so much fun."