when little jack rabbit finally reached home with the stamps and the rabbitville gazette, he found his uncle john singing at the piano this lovely song:

the autumn leaves are falling

along the woodland ways,

in scarlet, brown and yellow coats

these cool november days.

they rustle by the old rail fence,

they whisper in the lane,

or from the shivering half-clad trees

they sing a sad refrain.

but mrs. rabbit was too busy putting up carrot preserves and lettuce pickles to even listen. all the little people of the shady forest and sunny meadow were getting ready for winter.

the little feathered people were pruning their wings for a long flight to the warm southland, and the four-footed folk were gathering nuts and grain for their storehouses.

the squirrel brothers had a bushel of nuts, and maybe more, laid away carefully in the old chestnut tree, and chippy chipmunk had filled his underground storeroom with nuts and corn.

granddaddy bullfrog was almost ready to dive into the old duck pond to hide in the soft warm mud. teddy turtle, too, would soon find for himself a nice warm spot on the mud bottom of the mill pond before jack frost touched the water with his icy fingers.

and mr. john hare had telephoned to the old red rooster to come over and put up mrs. rabbit’s storm-door and bank the cellar windows with dry leaves.

“mother,” said little jack rabbit, as he polished the brass doorknob, “i guess jack frost will soon be around.”

“shouldn’t wonder,” she replied, “but who’s afraid of jack frost? danny fox and mr. wicked weasel, to say nothing of hungry hawk, are more to be feared.” and that good lady rabbit began her ironing, for it was tuesday, the day when all rabbitville irons monday’s wash, i’m told.

just then bobbie redvest began to sing:

the summer time is over,

and all the golden hours,

no more the roses crimson bloom

amid the garden bowers.

the little birds have left their nests

and now are strong of wing,

they will not build themselves a home

until the lovely spring,

but fly away to southern lands,

where warmth and sunshine reign,

they cannot brave the winter wind,

the snow drifts in the lane.

and little four-foot furry folks

will safely hide away,

and sleep until the winter’s past

and spring has come to stay.