The Affairs of White-Tip the Weasel

How Sophistication Finally Came to Our Furred and Feathered Cousins

IN VANITY FAIR

A SLIM black form glided silently beneath the dark covert, his glossy coat shining the moonlight, and his tail carried at a rakish angle, while his bright little eyes glittered with some secret known only to the wood-folk. Now and again he paused, paw in air, and sniffed the air cautiously.

It was White-Tip the Weasel, and he was off on a Date.

Now, from the depths of a bush, came a low clucking sound; and a second dark form picked its way carefully between the conifers, its brown wings folded demurely.

In an instant he was at its side. "My dear . . ." he whispered, burying his face deep in her thick plumage, as the dark form enfolded him with her wings.

Rita, the Ruffed Grouse, clucked sadly as she lent herself to his powerful embrace, drinking deep the wine of love. "White-Tip," she ventured at last, "White-Tip, I have a little . . . secret . . ."

White-Tip the Weasel paused suddenly and eyed her closclv. "You mean . . . ?"

Rita nodded.

"Rut . . ." He loosened the fur about his neck. Confound it all, th,is was awkward . . .

Rita clucked tenderly; and suddenly from a dark bush came a solitary little grouse— with a white tip. "Papa . . . papa . . . peeped the little one, stumbling forward.

"It's a lie," hurled White-Tip, raising his paw to strike the child, as Rita interposed her soft body . . . But stay! He was forgetting himself! The humour of the situation struck him; his lip curled. He twirled the end of his black whiskers to hide a smile; then he bowed politely, and pattered off into the night . . .

CHAPTER TWO

ONCE out in the air, White-Tip felt better. He swung his tail jauntily; a full moon certainly inspired one. Ah, well, there were other feathered wenches . . .

He knocked softly at the hollow-tree home of Matilda the Bat; but there was no answer. He knocked again, and whistled three times; perhaps she could solace him, tonight . . .

"I guess Matilda is out hunting," he concluded sadly; and, carving his name on the door, he glided on into the fastness of the night . . .

"Cheerio," he thought, "the night is young . . ."

Again the patter of soft feet upon the forest floor. This time his path led to the Lone Pine Inn . . . wine . . . music ... a woman ... a private room. . . . White Tip smiled. He thought of Rita, and smiled again. Perhaps he was a fool; well, he was young—like the night.

White-Tip paused before the rustic hostelry, made of a single pine. Here an old toad inspected him through a grilled window, smiled, and ushered him through a small knot hole into a room hung with purple moss and wild oat seeds. Brilliant young Canaries danced in and out among the tables, their shingled yellow feathers gleaming in the brilliant lights as they Hashed their black eyes at him. He gazed at them all, coldly, calculating]}-; his eye traveled over their fair young forms without passion. They did not attract him tonight . . . they lacked something . . .

"White-Tip," sobbed a maudlin Canary, flinging her wings about his neck, as she sought to press her beak against his lips. "Take me . . . somewhere ... to a gilded cage . . ."

He unlocked her wings and Hung her aside. His lips curled as he straightened his tie and backed away . . .

Rapidly he climbed the stairs to the room above. Here perhaps he could find what he •sought. Reclined upon her divan Olive the famous Oriole raised her wing and softly rippled seductive notes. P'rom the floor below came the sobbing strains of The Song of India, played by a blind cricket and a bull-frog . . . strange . . . maddening . . .

"You are late," she ventured.

"I was sitting up with a sick friend," he replied glibly.

"White-Tip," she said slowly, curling his long black fur in her claws, and smoothing his brow, "you must leave me. You are too good for me, White-Tip; there is something big and fine about you." And she gazed thoughtfully into his softening eyes. "There is another . . . your duty lies with her . . ."

"You are right, my love. . . " White-Tip hung his head.

"I have heard about Rita!" Olive choked a sob, then Hung back her head bravely. "Forget me—my weasel."

"You're a good sport, Olive," he said huskily. "A dashed good sport. And you're right—I've been a cad!" He turned quickly and rushed from the room, as Olive buried her head in the pillows and shook with silent emotion.

From below came the maddening strains of The Song of India . . . strange . . . bitter longing ...

"Has he goner" asked Rover, the Bird-Dog, creeping forth stealthily from beneath the sofa.

CHAPTER THREE

BACK down the forest path sped White-Tip the weasel. Olive was right; he had forgotten. On he flung, as if eager to make up for the time he had lost. Pray God lie was not too late!

Lillian Miller, an innocent young moth, stretched her hand to him as he passed. I le halted and stared at her pure white wings and for a moment the light of desire flickered in his eyes. To be the first—but no! Only one thing could satisfy him now. Flinging Lillian aside, he rushed on . . . on . . .

And in the shadow of the conifers a Salvation Army group of doves sang lustily: Abide With Me, beating their wings together with eyes upraised. Virtue had triumphed . . .

Now, before the fleeing White-Tip, rose abruptly the familiar brownstone front of a ramshackle sycamore. Without a moment's hesitation he climbed to the topmost apartment and took out hjs key at last!

Bertha, the dowdy old Buzzard, lurched tipsily toward him. "Well, for the crying out loud," she croaked. "Whitcv . . ."

White-Tip carefully locked the door.

"Where ya been, Whitey? " she chided. "Thought maybe ye'd forgot us fer one of them young birds . . ."

"Never," replied White-Tip the Weasel, seizing her in his arms and feeling her strange charm overpower him as of yore. "For you alone of all my chickens buy VANITY FAIR."

COREY FORD