Besides this, though, her bottom was wet inside and out. It was sloppy and wiggly on the inside by her underpants where the familiar brown, warm, smelly stuff came out. It squashed when she plopped down on the ground, and she could feel it squishing between her legs. But the wet outside her bottom stuck to the snow, and when she sat in the snow, it was cold and hard. Her face burned with the sunlight and burned—cold, too, and still she sat there, in the snow, where suddenly she’d fallen.

She didn’t hurt, but she stung. She started to wonder exactly where she stung, and whether or not it was worthwhile to start crying about it, but she kept getting fascinated by the yellow-white, shining snow sparkles that flew out of the snowbank, glittering in the sun. She stared at them, feeling dreamy, but then the cat caught her eye: He was rounding the shedhouse. Then she remembered that she’d just fallen down, and that she wanted to follow the cat.

“Get up, me,” she said to herself mentally, because physically she couldn’t get the words out right, though they sounded all right inside. Getting the outside like the inside was hard. The cat dashed out into the sunlight again, a blur of activity. Impatient, Tweety tried to get up again, but nothing happened. There was something that the “other her” told her to do at such times. But what?

Then it happened all by itself.

She saw herself get up quite clearly and chase the cat. This picture of herself flashed right out in front of her eyes, and before she realized what had happened, she was up on her feet, following the image of herself. Only then it disappeared, and there was only the cat. For one instant, before it vanished, she was the image of the self she followed … and she saw it, herself, in her brown leggings and coat, and bundled up in the hateful orange scarf; running.

But she wasn’t running really, just plodding. She couldn’t go fast enough yet, and the snow kept rushing up to meet her, and it hurt when it hit her on the bottom. No, she thought, the snow didn’t come up at her after all; she kept falling down to meet it. Then she was down again, harder than ever, plopped on her wet bottom, which really stung. She yowled.

Nobody came to get her up; no inside people or outside people. She got scared.

A wind came up and whipped about her. She flailed back at it, but it didn’t stop. The sun became brighter so that the snow sparkles glittered all over and she could hardly see. Tweety shouted angrily at the wind, which now was blowing snow in her face. “Up, me,” she said to herself.