The Tale of Old Mr. Crow

XIX

THE SHOE-​STORE

“Dear me!” old Mr. Crow ex­claimed one day. “I see I shall have to get some new shoes. I've had these on­ly about ten years and they're worn through al­ready. The trou­ble is, I don't know where to buy any more.” He was talk­ing to his cousin, Jasper Jay.

“I can tell you,” said Jasper. “That Rab­bit boy--the one they call Jim­my--has a shoe-​store. You know he's al­ways try­ing some­thing new. He has had a bar­ber's shop; and he's been a tooth-​puller. And now he has opened a shoe-​store over in the mead­ow.”

“I'm glad to know it,” Mr. Crow replied, “though I must say I wish it was some­body else. There's some­thing about that Rab­bit boy that I don't like. Maybe it's the way he wags his ears and wrig­gles his nose. And he's al­ways jump­ing.”

“He's a bright young fel­low,” said Jasper Jay.

Old Mr. Crow coughed.

“A lit­tle too bright, some­times,” he ven­tured. “But he'll have to be a good deal brighter to play any of his tricks on me.”

“You think you're enough for him?” Jasper in­quired.

“Think?” cried Mr. Crow. “I _know_ I am. And though I hate to get any shoes in his shop, I'm afraid I shall have to just this once.”

Lat­er that day Mr. Crow went to the shoe-​shop in the mead­ow. And Jim­my Rab­bit was de­light­ed to see him.

“Come right in!” he in­vit­ed Mr. Crow. “I see you need some new shoes. And you've made no mis­take in com­ing here for them.”

“I hope not,” Mr. Crow re­spond­ed gruffly. He went in­side the store and sat down. And Jim­my Rab­bit knelt be­fore him and mea­sured one of his feet.

Now, Mr. Crow had enor­mous feet. Big feet had al­ways run--or walked--in his fam­ily. And though he couldn't any more help the size of his feet than the size of his bill, old Mr. Crow was very touchy in re­spect to them. He grew an­gry at once.

“What do you mean by mea­sur­ing my feet?” he croaked. “I didn't come here to be in­sult­ed, you know.”

Jim­my Rab­bit looked up at him mild­ly.

“I just want­ed to find out how _small_ your feet are,” he ex­plained po­lite­ly enough. “Some­times peo­ple come here with feet so small that I can't fit them. And when I looked at yours I was afraid that might be the case.”

“Oh!” said Mr. Crow. The an­swer pleased him. “Show me the best pair of shoes you have,” he or­dered.

So Jim­my Rab­bit be­gan to search his shelves. To tell the truth, he was puz­zled. He had no shoes big enough for Mr. Crow. But he did not dare tell the old gen­tle­man that, be­cause he knew Mr. Crow would be very an­gry.

At last Jim­my Rab­bit found the biggest shoes in the place. And he showed them to Mr. Crow, who seemed much pleased.

“I'll try them on,” Mr. Crow said.

Jim­my Rab­bit held out the shoes, hop­ing that Mr. Crow would take them. But Mr. Crow had no such no­tion in his head.

“I mean, _you_ may try them on _me_” he added.

“You didn't say that,” Jim­my Rab­bit re­mind­ed him.

“No fur­ther re­marks are nec­es­sary,” Mr. Crow screamed in a shrill voice.

And at that Jim­my Rab­bit knelt be­fore him once more and be­gan to crowd one of Mr. Crow's feet in­to one of the shoes.

Jim­my strug­gled for a long time with­out say­ing a word. But Mr. Crow said sev­er­al words un­der his breath, for Jim­my was hurt­ing him dread­ful­ly.

There were two rea­sons for that. In the first place, the shoe was much too small for Mr. Crow. And in the sec­ond, Jim­my Rab­bit was putting the left shoe on Mr. Crow's right foot.

But nei­ther of them knew that sec­ond rea­son.