"There is something wrong, something wrong," he would say
over and over to himself.
"It must be with me, because everybody else is happy, and this is
the happiest time of all the year. I wish some one would tell me
what ails me. I want to be happy, but somehow I just can't be."
One evening he wandered a little farther from home than usual.
He wasn't going anywhere in particular. He had nothing in
particular to do. He was just wandering about because somehow he
couldn't remain at home. Not far away Melody the Wood Thrush was
pouring out his beautiful evening song. Whitefoot stopped to
listen. Somehow it made him more unhappy than ever. Melody stopped
singing for a few moments. It was just then that Whitefoot heard a
faint sound. It was a gentle drumming. Whitefoot pricked up his
ears and listened. There it was again. He knew instantly how that
sound was made. It was made by dainty little feet beating very fast
on an old log. Whitefoot had drummed that way himself many times.
It was soft, but clear, and it lasted only a moment.
Right then something very strange happened to Whitefoot.
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