Day by day he
grew more and more unhappy. He no longer took pleasure in his
fine home. He began to wander about for no particular reason.
He wandered much farther from home than he had ever been in the
habit of doing. At times he would sit and listen, but what he was
listening for he didn't know. "There is something the matter with
me, and I don't know what it is," said Whitefoot to himself forlornly.
"It can't be anything I have eaten. I have nothing to worry about.
Yet there is something wrong with me. I'm losing my appetite.
Nothing tastes good any more. I want something, but I don't know
what it is I want."
He tried to tell his troubles to his nearest neighbor, Timmy the
Flying Squirrel, but Timmy was too busy to listen. When Peter
Rabbit happened along, Whitefoot tried to tell him. But Peter
himself was too happy and too eager to learn all the news in the
Green Forest to listen. No one had any interest in Whitefoot's
troubles. Every one was too busy with his own affairs.
So day by day Whitefoot the Wood Mouse grew more and more unhappy,
and when the dusk of early evening came creeping through the Green
Forest, he sat about and moped instead of running about and playing
as he had been in the habit of doing.
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