Bartholomew Beaver hurried toward the lopsided, sod hut that servedas a store for all the forest's creatures.

"Good morning, Ezra."

Bartholomew tried to make himself flat against the door frame so Ezra Q. Porcupine could pass through the narrow opening with the big, bulky bag he carried.

"Must ya' take up the whole doorway, Bartholomew?"

"Oh my, no - no," sputtered Bartholomew squeezing by. "Please excuse me."

The ever-present scowl on Ezra's face seemed to grow deeper.

Bartholomew entered the store, adjusting his glasses and moving cautiously through the stacks of things piled here and the stacks piled there. Colorful things that might be touched and sniffed, but he did not disturb them. He ducked below a sign that read, "Pearl buttons, three for ten acorns." How wonderful. Only ten acorns, but Bartholomew did not have ten acorns or even two acorns.

"Hello . . . h-hello," he said to the long, pointy snouts of Phineas and Percival Fox.

"Can you imagine that foolish Ezra?" asked Phineas, ignoring Bartholomew's greeting. "For only a few seeds and some spoiled fruit we have Ezra Porcupine go out in the hot sun and dig up rocks. We dip them in a can of paint and sell them for ten times what we pay him."

"We surely out foxed him," said Percival. "We're so clever, brother dear."

They rested on the counter, knees crossed, arms under their heads and they clearly did not wish to be disturbed. The sun, filtering through the thatch roof, made shadowy patterns that danced across their dangling, bare feet.

"Um-mmm, um-mmm," Bartholomew cleared his throat, "Excuse me Percival. Phineas. I'd like to speak with you, if I may . . . if I may, that is."

"Barty, old friend," replied Phineas, shifting his eyes without moving his head, "What can we sell you?"

"Oh, no. No, my, my, no. I need a job. I do, I do. I thought you might want a helper in the store. I did, I did."

"A job? You? Here? In our father's store?" Phineas nudged Percival with his elbow and winked at him.

"Wait a minute, Phineas," whispered his brother, "why not? We wouldn't have to work and Father would never know the difference." Phineas sat up, smoothing the wrinkles from his vest.

"Can you count and add?"

"Oh, my yes. I had to count twigs all day when Father and I built the winter dam. I can count and add, oh yes, I can, I can."

"You're hired. Percival will show you what to do."

"Thank you, thank you," exclaimed Bartholomew, slapping his wide tail on the floor.

Percival put his arm around Bartholomew's shoulder. "We'll give you all the sweet seeds and roots you can eat if you sell these pearl buttons."

Percival pointed to a basket and inside were cream-colored, rough, round objects.

"And if you run out," added Phineas, "Just shove those rocks in this bucket of paint and throw them in the basket."

"Oh my, oh my," said Bartholomew, wringing his tiny hands. His wire-rimmed glasses slid down his nose with each move of his head as he looked from the sign to the brothers.

"Is that fair?" he asked. "Is that right?"

"Fair? Right?" The Fox brothers looked at each other and laughed. "We're here to make money, Barty ol' boy, not friends."

With that, the two brothers tumbled out the store's front door, doubled over in laughter.

Bartholomew stood thoughtfully in the middle store. I might as well work until I get a customer, he said to himself. I might as well. He dusted, cleaned and put canned goods on the shelves. An hour passed and still no customers came.

Bartholomew waddled over to the basket of "pearls." Looking first at the

sticky paint can, then at the painted rocks, he shook his furry head. This won't do at all, he thought. Won't do at all. He went outside and stood beside the stream that ran beside the store. He scooped up a handful of small, flat stones that had been smoothed by the running water.

Taking them into the store, he plucked three whiskers from his chin and tied them to a tiny twig. Then he found cans of paint. Gold, silver, black, green, blue and red. With his little brush, he began painting tiny pictures on the stones. He painted scenes of the beautiful forest he lived in. He even painted his friends' pictures on some.

Suddenly, Gilda Goose came bustling through the door. "Three buttons for ten acorns!" she honked, pointing to the sign. "I need buttons for my husband's velvet vest," she said, her wings resting on her hips. "I won't spend ten acorns for only three buttons even if they are pearl," she said scooping up a few buttons with her feathered wings.

"Why these don't even look like pearls," Gilda complained. She squinted and looked closely at the buttons. "The color is coming off on my feathers. "These aren't pearls, Bartholomew. You're trying to cheat me."

Her feathers flew everywhere as she tried to shake the sticky stones from her wings.

Bartholomew's face burned red.

"Oh, dear me. You certainly are right, Mrs. Goose "You are certainly right, Mrs. Goose. I knew it wasn't right. I just knew it."

The door opened and a dark shadow filled the room while a deep voice boomed out, "What isn't right, Mrs. Goose?"

Mrs. Goose stuck her bill deep into the dark shadow. "Why Mr. Fox," she honked, "Just look at what your clerk tried to sell me."

She thrust out a wing still covered with sticky, white stones.

"Bartholomew, where are my sons? What are you doing here? Who made this sign?"

"Mr. Fox," he started. "Your sons hired me to work here. I wouldn't cheat Mrs. Goose, No sir. No, no. Of course not. Never."

Gilda Goose had looked for thread while Bartholmew talked to Mr. Fox. She honked in delight when she spotted the stones Bartholomew had been painting. "Bartholomew, do you know where these painted buttons came from?"

"Oh, my yes," Bartholomew said, his glasses bobbing up and down on his nose. "I thought I'd try to make good buttons. These pearls wouldn't do at all. Not at all." He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose.

"Why look. These picture buttons are beautiful. Even Mrs. Squirrel the dressmaker would pay ten acorns for these. I'm going to get her right now."

Mrs. Goose sashayed out the door, her tail feathers swishing with happiness.

"Somebody was trying to cheat my customers," said Mr. Fox.

Oh, dear, oh dear, thought Bartholomew. I've said the wrong thing. I'm in trouble now and he hung his head as he walked toward the door.

"Where are you going, Bartholomew?"

Bartholomew jumped at the sound of Mr. Fox's rumbling voice. "Well, Mr. Fox, I thought I was fired, I did, I did. I 'm going to look for another job, I am, I am."

"You're going to stay right here and work," Mr. Fox said. "You've pleased a good customer, and found a better product from something that was right under our noses."

"Well . . . Mr. Fox," Bartholomew started shyly.

Just then, Percival and Phineas swaggered through the door, picking their teeth and looking sassy.

"Pearl buttons, bah-humbug." said Mr. Fox when he saw his two sons. Wide-eyed, the brothers looked at each other.

"Well," Phineas said running his finger under his tight, starched collar.

"That's what we get when we hire a common beaver. Barty, ol' boy," he said spinning on his heels and facing Bartholomew. "I guess we're going to have to let you go."

"Oh my. My, my," Bartholomew said walking in tight little circles.

Mr. Fox's voice boomed, "Bartholomew isn't going anywhere."

Phineas and Percival looked at each other. Mr. Fox could see the question mark form over his sons' heads. "Phineas . . . Percival," said Mr. Fox. "Meet the new store manager, Bartholomew."

"What!" yelled Percival.

"Relax," said Phineas, smiling. "Father just means we've been promoted.

"I don't think so," said Mr. Fox. But you can talk to Bartholomew. Maybe he needs a clerk or two. What do you say, Barty?"

Bartholomew smiled as big as a beaver can smile. "Yes, sir. I think I have a need for a couple of really hard-working clerks who can dust and clean and put cans on shelves while I paint beautiful buttons."

"Hey, wait a minute, Barty, ol' pal . . ." the brothers protested.

"And sweep and count and add . . ."

-End-