Mr. Wilbur

     Oh, sometimes that Mr. Wilbur really gets on my nerves! Why, just the other day, he—what’s that? You haven’t met Mr. Wilbur? Well, consider yourself lucky! Mr. Wilbur is a beaver. And not a normal beaver; not a beaver who just goes about his business, making a dam for his family like a good little beaver. No, Mr. Wilbur is a nosy sort of beaver. He always has to know who’s doing what and why. As I was saying, just the other day he walked in my front door, without even knocking, and snuck up behind me in the kitchen.

     “Well, hello there, Miss Patty! My good rabbit friend! Aren’t you looking fine today!” I nearly jumped out of my skin! My pan of biscuits, which I had just pulled out of the oven, clamored to the floor.

     “Mr. Wilbur! Why, you nearly scared me to death! I didn’t hear you knock.”

     “Oh, I didn’t,” he said casually. “But enough of this trivial talk. I’ve got more important things on my mind. Now, Miss Patty, while I was sipping my tea by the window this morning, as I always do, I happened to notice you dash out of the house, so quickly that you forgot your bonnet.”

     “Well, yes, I did run out this morning to the market,” I answered as I scooped up the biscuits from the floor. “We were fresh out of jam, and you know how my boy Arthur loves to have jam on his bread in the morning!”

     “Jam? Was it Old Man Miller’s jam? Oh dear. Have you heard what he— but I don’t want to worry you. Say, what kind of jam did you buy?” Mr. Wilbur inquired.

     “I bought a jar of boysenberry,” I said, motioning to the purple jar on the counter. “It’s Arthur’s favorite, and I’m rather fond of it myself,” I answered.

     “Boysenberry, huh? Well, I’ll be darned if that isn’t my favorite flavor as well! Say, mighty I try a smidgen?” he asked. I don’t know why he bothered asking, though, because he immediately snatched a roll off of the pan and grabbed the jar of jam. “Say, do you have a spoon?” he asked. I handed one to him, glad that he wasn’t just using his fingers to scoop it out.

     Mr. Wilbur spread the jam on his biscuit and took a large bite. “Boy, Miss Patty, these biscuits taste a little funny! Did you do something different to them?”

     “Why, I dropped them on the floor! Didn’t you see when you came in?” I asked. He was beginning to annoy me.

     “The floor? How clumsy of you! Really, Miss Patty, you should be more careful. Well, I’ve got to run,” he said, shoving the last of the biscuit in his mouth. “Toodle-oo!”

     So now you can understand why I’m not too fond of Mr. Wilbur. And I must say, I was a bit glad that the biscuit he ate had fallen on the floor.