He
couldn't think of anything else. He flew straight to a certain tall
pine-tree in a lonely part of the Green Forest. Whenever Blacky
wants to think or to plan mischief, he seeks that particular tree,
and in the shelter of its broad branches he keeps out of sight of
curious eyes, and there he sits as still as still can be.
"I want one of those eggs," muttered Blacky, as he settled himself
in comfort on a certain particular spot on a certain particular
branch of that tall pine-tree. Indeed, that particular branch might
well be called the "mischief branch," for on it Blacky has thought
out and planned most of the mischief he is so famous for. "Yes,
sir," he continued, "I want one of those eggs, and what is more, I
am going to have one."
He half closed his eyes and tipped his head back and swallowed a
couple of times, as if he already tasted one of those eggs.
"There is more in one of those eggs than in a whole nestful of
Welcome Robin's eggs. It is a very long time since I have been lucky
enough to taste a hen's egg, and now is my chance. I don't like
having to go inside that henhouse, even though it is barely inside
the door. I'm suspicious of doors. They have a way of closing most
unexpectedly.
I might see if I cannot get Unc' Billy Possum to bring one of those
eggs out for me. But that plan won't do, come to think of it,
because I can't trust Unc' Billy. The old sinner is too fond of eggs
himself.
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