Katherine was hard to please, and half an hour at least was consumed before the furniture was arranged to her satisfaction. Peter in consequence became more and more ill-tempered, and when she paused in the midst of her directions to tell him that his hands were not particularly clean and that his collar was frayed at the edge, he lost all patience. “Who cares whether my hands are clean or not for moving your old furniture,” said he; “and if the collar is frayed at the edge, what made you put it in my drawer when it came out of the wash? It’s your own fault, and speaking of washing hands, I wash mine of this old sofa.” And he departed, leaving the sofa in the middle of the room for Katherine to move alone as best she could. Peter and Sirius took their way across the woody pasture beyond the barn and the garden. It was indeed good to be out of doors on such a day as this, and there was no knowing what of interest might be in store for them. Katherine’s criticisms were soon forgotten, and master and dog were happy in each other’s company and in the indefinable something which pervaded the atmosphere this afternoon of the first of May and which filled the hearts of both with a sense of elation. It was an ideal May day, warm and balmy. The songs of the lately arrived birds filled the air; active little chipmunks, awakened from their winter’s sleep, darted here and there with amazing fleetness, while the frogs croaked loudly on the river bank, rejoicing that spring had come. Suddenly Sirius darted forward in swift pursuit of a little creature which had ventured forth from its home shortly before and had been unmindful of the approach of two such hereditary enemies as a boy and a dog. Quickly though Sirius ran, however, the little animal, having the start, and becoming conscious at once that it was being pursued, darted away and was lost to sight. “It was a weasel, I verily believe,” exclaimed Peter aloud, running in great excitement to the spot where it had disappeared. “Sirius, why didn’t you catch him? It is the one that has been killing our chickens.” Sirius was beside himself with rage and disappointment. There was enough of the terrier in his nature to make him feel that a weasel was his lawful prey, and he jumped madly about the stump where the weasel had disappeared, barking, digging in the ground, and nosing in every direction. “Yes, I do believe it lives here, Sirius,” said Peter. “We’ll get him yet. Here’s a little passage-way among the roots of the stump. We’ll dig out the nest as soon as we get a chance, Sirius. I saw a weasel’s nest once, dug it out, and it was as cosy as possible, lined with dead leaves and grass and feathers and a snake’s skin. We don’t want any more dead chickens lying with holes in their necks, indeed we don’t. Come on now, sir! We’re going to the woods.”