“More likely a bad fox took the butter,” spoke the old gentleman beaver.  “But we can soon tell.  I’ll look in the dirt around the stump and see whose footprints are there.  A fox makes different tracks from a muskrat.”

So Grandpa Whackum looked and he said: 

“Why, this is queer.  I can only see beaver tracks and rabbit tracks near the stump.  Only you and I were here and we didn’t take anything.”

“But where is my butter?” asked Uncle Wiggily.

Just then, off in the woods, near the beaver house, came the sound of laughter and voices cailed: 

“Oh, it’s my turn now, Toodle.”

“Yes, Noodle, and then it’s mine.  Oh, what fun we are having, aren’t we?”

“It’s Toodle and Noodle—­my two beaver grandsons,” said Grandpa Whackum.  “I wonder if they could have taken your butter?  Come; we’ll find out.”

They went softly over behind a clump of bushes and there they saw Toodle and Noodle sliding down the slanting log of a tree, that was like a little hill, only there was no snow on it.

“Why, they’re coasting!” cried Grandpa Whackum.  “And how they can do it without snow I don’t see.”

“But I see!” said Uncle Wiggily.  “Those two little beaver boys have taken my butter that I left outside of your house and with the butter they have greased the slanting log until it is slippery as ice.  That’s how they slide down—­on Nurse Jane’s butter.”

“Oh, the little rascals!” cried Grandpa Whackum.

“Well, they didn’t mean anything wrong,” Uncle Wiggily kindly said.  Then he called; “Toodle!  Noodle!  Is any of my butter left?”

“Your butter?” cried Noodle, surprised like.

“Was that your butter?” asked Toodle.  “Oh, please forgive us!  We thought no one wanted it, and we took it to grease the log so we could slide down.  It was as good as sliding down a muddy, slippery bank of mud into the lake.”

“We used all your butter,” spoke Noodle.  “Every bit.”

“Oh, dear!  That’s too bad!” Uncle Wiggily said.  “It is now after 6 o’clock and all the stores will be closed.  How can I get more?” And he looked at the butter the beaver boys had spread on the tree.  It could not be used for bread, as it was all full of bark.

“Oh, how can I get some good butter for Nurse Jane?” asked the bunny uncle sadly.

“Ha!  I will give you some,” spoke a voice high in the air.

“Who are you?” asked Uncle Wiggily, startled.

“I am the butternut tree,” was the answer.  “I’ll drop some nuts down and all you will have to do will be to crack them, pick out the meats and squeeze out the butter.  It is almost as good as that which you buy in the store.”

“Good!” cried Uncle Wiggily, “and thank you.”

Then the butter tree rattled down some butternuts, which Uncle Wiggily took home, and Nurse Jane said the butter squeezed from them was very good.  And Toodle and Noodle were sorry for having taken Uncle Wiggily’s other butter to make a slippery tree slide, but they meant no harm.