Simon Turtle, whenever he had to feel depressed, always tried to do it on a pleasant day, so he could get some sun at least. Walter Water Snake usually worked off his worry by doing figure eights on the water. He zigzagged there for about an hour—then Chester asked him please to stop. He was getting on the cricket’s nerves, and also splashing him every time he closed a loop. As for Chester himself, in the past, if his mood turned bad—which wasn’t too often—he’d jump his blues up onto the stump and sleep them off or wait for them to evaporate. But now—why, now there was no stump, no place to have a fit or a funk, alone, and then hop out into daylight again. Chester lay half in and half out of the crack at the top of Simon’s log, with his head resting on his bell, and wondered if either he or it would ever ring with pleasure again. “Yoo—” “—hoo!” Two “yoo-hoos,” spoken almost together in piping soft voices, rose up to Chester. On the bank across the pool sat Henry Chipmunk and his sister, Emily.
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