Well, that afternoon, Mamma Twistytail got the two boys ready, and off they went with Uncle Wiggily to Raccoon Island in Lake Hopatcong, which is a very nice place.  It was beginning to get dark when they arrived, and, after they had eaten some candy, and Uncle Wiggily had opened the bungalow, he looked around and said: 

“Now, boys, you will have to go to the store for something for supper.”

“What shall we get?” asked Flop.

“Well, see if you can get a cabbage or a turnip for me,” spoke the old gentleman rabbit, “and for yourselves whatever you like.  Here is the money.”

“I want some sour milk,” spoke Curly, for you know piggie boys like sour milk as well as you do sweet.

“And I want a corncob cake,” went on Flop.

“Very well, go down to Pop Goes the Weasel’s store and get it,” said Uncle Wiggily, and the two boys started off to the other end of the island, where Pop Goes the Weasel kept a grocery store.  Flop got his corncob cakes first, and as Curly had to wait for the milk to get sour he said to his brother: 

“Now, Flop, you hurry back with Uncle Wiggily’s cabbage and carrots, and I’ll soon come with my sour milk.”

“Won’t you be afraid?” asked Flop, for the woods were now quite dark.

“Afraid!  Nonsensicalness no!” exclaimed Curly, “and a bouquet of wild flowers besides.  Run along.”

So Flop ran back toward the bungalow, and pretty soon Pop Goes the Weasel said the milk was sour enough, and he gave it to Curly in a pail.

Through the dark woods went the little piggie boy, and he had not gone very far before he heard some one crying, and a voice saying: 

“Oh, dear!  I’m lost!  I can’t find my bungalow, and I can’t find my motorboat, and I’m afraid—­dreadfully afraid!”

“Ha!  I wonder who that can be?” thought Curly Tail.  “Perhaps it may be the bad alligator trying to scare Cora Janet.  No, that can’t be,” he went on, “for Cora Janet is down in Montclair, making funny music tunes on the piano.”

Then he heard the gentle little crying voice again, and he knew it was somebody in trouble, Curly did, and he called out: 

“Who is there?”

“I am,” sobbed a voice.

“And who are you?”

“My name is Ethel Rose,” went on the voice, “and I am lost.  Oh, please help me.  I’m so afraid!”

“Of course, I’ll help you,” spoke Curly bravely.  “But why is your name Ethel Rose?—­that is two names.”

“I don’t know,” answered the little girl, and then she stepped out from the bushes where she had been crying, and the moon shone down on her face and her ear-rings and dark hair, and Curly said: 

“Now I know why they call you Ethel Rose.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because you are as pretty as a rose,” and at that Ethel laughed.  “But come,” went on Curly, “I’ll show you the way to our bungalow, and then Uncle Wiggily will take care of you.”