There was a little striped chipmunk running up and down the sugar-pine tree over his head, pursing his little mouth and throwing himself into pretty attitudes, as though he were the centre of an admiring audience, and Old Rattler kept a steady eye on him.  But he was in no hurry about it all.  He must first get the kinks out of his neck, and the cold cramps from his tail.  There was an old curse on his family, so the other beasts had heard, that kept him always cold, and his tail was the coldest part of all.  So he shook it a little, just to show that it was growing limber, and the bone clappers on the end rustled with a sharp, angry noise.  Fifteen rattles he had in all—­fifteen and a button—­and to have so many showed that he was no common member of his hated family.  Then he shook his tail again, and more sharply.  This was to show all the world that he, Old Rattler, was wide awake, and whoever stepped on him would better look out.  Then all the big beasts and little beasts who heard the noise fled away just as fast as ever they could; and to run away was the best thing they could do, for when Old Rattler struck one of them with his fangs all was over with him.  So there were many in the canon, beasts and birds and snakes too, who hated Old Rattler, but only a few dared face him.  And one of these was Glittershield, whom men call the King of Snakes, and in a minute I shall tell you why.

And when Old Rattler was doing all that I have said, the King Snake lay low on a bed of pine needles, behind a bunch of fern, and watched him with keen, sharp eye.  The angry buzz of Rattler’s tail, which scared the chipmunks and the bullfrogs and all the rest of the beast folk, was music for Glittershield.  He was a snake, too, and snakes understand some things better than any of the rest of us.

Glittershield was slim and wiry in his body, as long as Old Rattler himself, but not so large around.  His coat was smooth and glossy, not rough and wrinkly like Old Rattler’s, and his upraised head was small and pretty—­for a snake.  He was the best dressed of all his kind, and he looked his finest as he faced Old Rattler.  His head was shiny black, his throat and neck as white as milk while all down his body to the end of his tail he was painted with rings, first white, then black, then crimson, and every ring was bright as if it had just been freshly polished that very day.

So the King Snake passed the sheltering fern and came right up to Old Rattler.  Rattler opened his sleepy eyes, threw himself on guard with a snap and a buzz, and shook his bony clappers savagely.  But the King of Snakes was not afraid.  Every snake has a weak spot somewhere, and that is the place to strike him.  If he hadn’t a weak spot no one else could live about him, and then, perhaps he would starve to death at last.  If he had not some strong points, where no one could harm him, he couldn’t live himself.

As the black crest rose, Old Rattler’s tail grew cold, his head dropped, his mouth closed, he straightened out his coil, and staggered helplessly toward his hole.