Rabbit with whiskers

⏱ ~5 min reading

In a green forest, where birch trunks stood white among the pines, and sweet clover grew in the clearings, there lived a young rabbit. His fur was as white as fresh snow, his nose was pink, and his paws were as soft as fluffy pillows.

But the best thing about that rabbit was his whiskers. Long, long. The longest in the whole forest. They stuck out on either side of his nose like two silver rays, and when he walked they swayed in time with his steps.

The rabbit was called "Mustard." He had been called that since childhood, because even as a baby, his whiskers were longer than those of adult rabbits.

Mustache was terribly proud of his mustache.

Every morning he would go to the small puddle near the old stump—it was his mirror—and spend a long, long time admiring himself.

"What kind of antennae do I have," he said. "Silver. Straight. The longest in the whole forest.".

Then he would step out onto the path and walk proudly, his mustache sticking out like two flags. He would hold his head high, his chest like a wheel.

If someone he knew was walking towards him, Wusan would definitely stop.

"Good morning! Do you see what a mustache I have?" he said to the squirrel that was jumping on the trunk. "The longest in the forest. No one has them.".

The squirrel nodded politely.

"Beautiful, beautiful." And she slid faster up the branch.

"Oh, my hedgehog!" shouted Wusan, seeing the hedgehog rustling in the grass. "Look at those whiskers! Isn't that amazing?"

The hedgehog squinted his little eyes.

"Yes, yes. Very long.".

And he went on about his business, quietly thinking that this rabbit should keep quiet for a while.

Behind Whiskers, the forest animals laughed quietly and moved away a little. Because when someone is constantly bragging around you, you yourself become somewhat embarrassed - and bored.

But Wusan didn't notice this. It seemed to him that he was welcomed everywhere.

One day he was racing through the forest, hurrying to a clearing where a special kind of clover grew. The path was lined with thick bushes: intertwined rosehip branches, tangled brushwood, and thorny thorn branches.

"Well, I'll slip through these thickets," said Wusan confidently.

He raised his head, stuck out his mustache, and darted into the bushes.

Step. Second. Third.

And suddenly — a tug! Something jerked his muzzle sharply. Vusan stopped, blinked his eyes. He tried to take a step — he couldn't. His head felt like it was chained.

- What is this?..

He turned his head to the left - pain. To the right - pain. His antennae, beautiful, the longest, were tangled in the thorny branches of the rosehip. Tangled tightly, like threads in a child's knitting.

The mustache began to twitch. Pull the head. Turn it.

"Oh! Oh-oh-oh!" he squeaked. "That hurts!"

The more he moved, the more the tendrils stuck. The thorns pricked. Tears welled up in his eyes. He sat down right there, in the middle of the bushes, and cried—loud, rabbit-like, low whimpers.

An old hare was walking along the path. He was called Sivenky because his fur had turned completely gray with fine silver hairs over the years. He was known to everyone for his calm disposition and kind heart.

“Who is crying here?” Sivenky called out quietly, stopping near a bush.

"It's me..." squeaked Wusan. "I'm stuck. Help.".

The gray rabbit came closer, saw what a mess the young rabbit was in, and shook his head affectionately.

"Well, well, don't cry. We'll untangle it now.".

He crouched down and began to carefully, twig by twig, free Whiskers' antennae. He did it slowly, patiently, without tugging. A thorn clung to him, and Sivenkyi carefully bent it aside. Another one pressed him to the ground. Another one twisted him until he let go.

It took time. The sun had already moved to the other side of the sky. And Wusan still sat quietly and looked at the old hare.

Finally, the last thorn came loose, and Whiskers' head was free. He carefully moved away from the bush, looked at his antennae. They were intact. Only a little disheveled and wrinkled.

"Thank you, Sivenky," whispered Vusan. He was ashamed. He no longer raised his head.

Sivenky sat down next to him on a stump. He stretched out his hind leg.

"You know, little one," he said quietly, looking somewhere into the distance, "pride - it stings like these thorns. It looks beautiful - but if you get caught - you can't get out. And modesty - it's soft like grass. It's easier to walk on it, and you're not afraid to fall.".

Mustache nodded. He thought. He looked at his long silver mustache.

"And my mustache... is it too long?"

"Your mustache is beautiful," replied Sivenky softly. "Is it just that you are comfortable with them? Do you wear them for beauty, or to show them off?"

The mustache didn't answer anything. He quietly thanked the old hare and went home.

In the hut he went to his puddle-mirror. He looked at himself carefully. He raised his paw. And carefully, very carefully, with his little nails he cut off the tips of his whiskers — only the tips, the part that reached the bushes. The whiskers remained beautiful. Just exactly as they should be.

Mustache looked at his reflection. He looked no worse than before. Just without that arrogant front.

From that day on, he began to call himself simply Rabbit. Without any prefixes.

When he met a squirrel, he no longer started with a mustache. He would ask: «How are you? Are there many nuts this autumn?» The squirrel smiled and willingly talked to him. When he met a hedgehog, he asked about the hedgehogs. The hedgehog was glad that finally someone was asking not about the thorns.

The forest animals began to approach Rabbit more often. It became easy with him. Simple. Warm.

And the long silver whiskers, the very ones, the longest, he no longer had. But for some reason Rabbit felt better without them. Modesty, as Sivenky said, was easier. And he kept his whiskers in a pile.