Peter Rabbit was thinking of this as he sat at the edge of the dear Old Briar-patch, looking over to the Green Forest.  The Green Forest was no longer just green; it was of many colors, for Old Mother Nature had set Jack Frost to painting the leaves of the maple-trees and the beech-trees, and the birch-trees and the poplar-trees and the chestnut-trees, and he had done his work well.  Very, very lovely were the reds and yellows and browns against the dark green of the pines and the spruces and the hemlocks.  The Purple Hills were more softly purple than at any other season of the year.  It was all very, very beautiful.

But Peter had no thought for the beauty of it all, for the Spirit of Fear had visited even the dear Old Briar-patch, and Peter was afraid.  It wasn’t fear of Reddy Fox, or Redtail the Hawk, or Hooty the Owl, or Old Man Coyote.  They were forever trying to catch him, but they did not strike terror to his heart because he felt quite smart enough to keep out of their clutches.  To be sure, they gave him sudden frights sometimes, when they happened to surprise him, but these frights lasted only until he reached the nearest bramble-tangle or hollow log where they could not get at him.  But the fear that chilled his heart now never left him even for a moment.

And Peter knew that this same fear was clutching at the hearts of Bob White, hiding in the brown stubble; of Mrs. Grouse, squatting in the thickest bramble-tangle in the Green Forest; of Uncle Billy Possum and Bobby Coon in their hollow trees; of Jerry Muskrat in the Smiling Pool; of Happy Jack Squirrel, hiding in the tree tops; of Lightfoot the Deer, lying in the closest thicket he could find.  It was even clutching at the hearts of Granny and Reddy Fox and of great, big Buster Bear.  It seemed to Peter that no one was so big or so small that this terrible Spirit of Fear had not searched him out.

Far in the distance sounded a sudden bang.  Peter jumped and shivered.  He knew that every one else who had heard that bang had jumped and shivered just as he had.  It was the season of hunters with terrible guns.  It was man who had sent this terrible Spirit of Fear to chill the hearts of the little meadow and forest people at this very time when Old Mother Nature had made all things so beautiful and had intended that they should be happiest and most free from care and worry.  It was man who had made the autumn a sad time instead of a glad time, the very saddest time of all the year, when Old Mother Nature had done her best to make it the most beautiful.

“I don’t understand these men creatures,” said Peter to little Mrs. Peter, as they stared fearfully out from the dear Old Briar-patch.  “They seem to find pleasure, actually find pleasure, in trying to kill us.  I don’t understand them at all.  They haven’t any hearts.  That must be the reason; they haven’t any hearts.”

CHAPTER V:  Sammy Jay Brings Lightfoot Word