THE GREAT BIG TREASURY

BY BEATRIX POTTER

CONTENTS

THE TALE OF PETER RABBIT

THE TAILOR OF GLOUCESTER

THE TALE OF SQUIRREL NUTKIN

THE TALE OF BENJAMIN BUNNY

THE TALE OF TWO BAD MICE

THE TALE OF MRS. TIGGY-WINKLE

THE PIE AND THE PATTY-PAN

THE TALE OF MR. JEREMY FISHER

THE STORY OF A FIERCE BAD RABBIT

THE STORY OF MISS MOPPET

THE TALE OF TOM KITTEN

THE TALE OF JEMIMA PUDDLE-DUCK

THE ROLY-POLY PUDDING

THE TALE OF THE FLOPSY BUNNIES

THE TALE OF MRS. TITTLEMOUSE

THE TALE OF TIMMY TIPTOES

THE TALE OF MR. TOD

THE TALE OF PIGLING BLAND

GINGER AND PICKLES

THE TALE OF PETER RABBIT

Once upon a time there were

four little Rabbits, and their names

were—

Flopsy,

Mopsy,

Cotton-tail,

and Peter.

They lived with their Mother in a sand-bank, underneath the root of a very big fir-tree.

"Now, my dears," said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, "you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don't go into Mr. McGregor's garden: your Father had an accident there; he was

put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor."

"Now run along, and don't get into mischief. I am going out."

Then old Mrs. Rabbit took a basket and her umbrel a, and went through the wood to the

baker's. She bought a loaf of brown bread and five currant buns.

Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail, who were good little bunnies, went down the lane to gather

blackberries;

But Peter, who was very naughty, ran straight away to Mr. McGregor's garden, and

squeezed under the gate!

First he ate some lettuces and some French beans; and then he ate some radishes;

And then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some parsley.

But round the end of a cucumber frame, whom should he meet but Mr. McGregor!

Mr. McGregor was on his hands and knees planting out young cabbages, but he jumped up

and ran after Peter, waving a rake and cal ing out, "Stop thief."

Peter was most dreadful y frightened; he rushed al over the garden, for he had forgotten

the way back to the gate.

He lost one of his shoes among the cabbages, and the other shoe amongst the potatoes.

After losing them, he ran on four legs and went faster, so that I think he might have got

away altogether if he had not unfortunately run into a gooseberry net, and got caught by the

large buttons on his jacket. It was a blue jacket with brass buttons, quite new.

Peter gave himself up for lost, and shed big tears; but his sobs were overheard by some

friendly sparrows, who flew to him in great excitement, and implored him to exert himself.

Mr. McGregor came up with a sieve, which he intended to pop upon the top of Peter; but

Peter wriggled out just in time, leaving his jacket behind him.

And rushed into the toolshed, and jumped into a can. It would have been a beautiful thing to

hide in, if it had not had so much water in it.

Mr. McGregor was quite sure that Peter was somewhere in the toolshed, perhaps hidden

underneath a flower-pot. He began to turn them over careful y, looking under each.

Presently Peter sneezed—"Kertyschoo!" Mr. McGregor was after him in no time,

And tried to put his foot upon Peter, who jumped out of a window, upsetting three plants.

The window was too smal for Mr. McGregor, and he was tired of running after Peter. He

went back to his work.

Peter sat down to rest; he was out of breath and trembling with fright, and he had not the

least idea which way to go. Also he was very damp with sitting in that can.

After a time he began to wander about, going lippity—lippity—not very fast, and looking al

around.

He found a door in a wal ; but it was locked, and there was no room for a fat little rabbit to squeeze underneath.

An old mouse was running in and out over the stone doorstep, carrying peas and beans to

her family in the wood. Peter asked her the way to the gate, but she had such a large pea in

her mouth that she could not answer. She only shook her head at him. Peter began to cry.

Then he tried to find his way straight across the garden, but he became more and more

puzzled. Presently, he came to a pond where Mr. McGregor fil ed his water-cans. A white

cat was staring at some goldfish; she sat very, very stil , but now and then the tip of her tail twitched as if it were alive. Peter thought it best to go away without speaking to her; he has heard about cats from his cousin, little Benjamin Bunny.

He went back towards the toolshed, but suddenly, quite close to him, he heard the noise of

a hoe—scr-r-ritch, scratch, scratch, scritch. Peter scuttered underneath the bushes. But

presently, as nothing happened, he came out, and climbed upon a wheelbarrow, and

peeped over. The first thing he saw was Mr. McGregor hoeing onions. His back was turned

towards Peter, and beyond him was the gate!

Peter got down very quietly off the wheelbarrow, and started running as fast as he could go,

along a straight walk behind some black-currant bushes.

Mr. McGregor caught sight of him at the corner, but Peter did not care. He slipped

underneath the gate, and was safe at last in the wood outside the garden.

Mr. McGregor hung up the little jacket and the shoes for a scare-crow to frighten the

blackbirds.

Peter never stopped running or looked behind him til he got home to the big fir-tree.

He was so tired that he flopped down upon the nice soft sand on the floor of the rabbit-hole, and shut his eyes. His mother was busy cooking; she wondered what he had done with his

clothes. It was the second little jacket and pair of shoes that Peter had lost in a fortnight!

I am sorry to say that Peter was not very wel during the evening.

His mother put him to bed, and made some camomile tea; and she gave a dose of it to

Peter!

"One table-spoonful to be taken at bed-time."

But Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail had bread and milk and blackberries for supper.

THE TAILOR OF GLOUCESTER

"I'll be at charges for a looking-glass;

And entertain a score or two of tailors."

[Richard III]

My Dear Freda:

Because you are fond of fairytales, and have been il , I have made you a story al for

yourself—a new one that nobody has read before.

And the queerest thing about it is—that I heard it in Gloucestershire, and that it is true—at least about the tailor, the waistcoat, and the "No more twist!" Christmas

In the time of swords and peri wigs and ful -skirted coats with flowered lappets—when

gentlemen wore ruffles, and gold-laced waistcoats of paduasoy and taffeta—there lived a

tailor in Gloucester.

He sat in the window of a little shop in Westgate Street, cross-legged on a table from

morning til dark.

Al day long while the light lasted he sewed and snippetted, piecing out his satin, and

pompadour, and lutestring; stuffs had strange names, and were very expensive in the days

of the Tailor of Gloucester.

But although he sewed fine silk for his neighbours, he himself was very, very poor. He cut

his coats without waste; according to his embroidered cloth, they were very smal ends and

snippets that lay about upon the table—"Too narrow breadths for nought—except

waistcoats for mice," said the tailor.

One bitter cold day near Christmastime the tailor began to make a coat (a coat of cherry-

coloured corded silk embroidered with pansies and roses) and a cream-coloured satin

waistcoat for the Mayor of Gloucester.

The tailor worked and worked, and he talked to himself: "No breadth at al , and cut on the cross; it is no breadth at al ; tippets for mice and ribbons for mobs! for mice!" said the Tailor of Gloucester.

When the snow-flakes came down against the smal leaded window- panes and shut out

the light, the tailor had done his day's work; al the silk and satin lay cut out upon the table.

There were twelve pieces for the coat and four pieces for the waistcoat; and there were

pocket-flaps and cuffs and buttons, al in order. For the lining of the coat there was fine

yel ow taffeta, and for the button-holes of the waistcoat there was cherry-coloured twist.

And everything was ready to sew together in the morning, al measured and sufficient—

except that there was wanting just one single skein of cherry-coloured twisted silk.

The tailor came out of his shop at dark. No one lived there at nights but little brown mice,

and THEY ran in and out without any keys!

For behind the wooden wainscots of al the old houses in Gloucester, there are little mouse

staircases and secret trap-doors; and the mice run from house to house through those long,

narrow passages.

But the tailor came out of his shop and shuffled home through the snow. And although it

was not a big house, the tailor was so poor he only rented the kitchen.

He lived alone with his cat; it was cal ed Simpkin.

"Miaw?" said the cat when the tailor opened the door, "miaw?"

The tailor replied: "Simpkin, we shal make our fortune, but I am worn to a ravel ing. Take this groat (which is our last fourpence), and, Simpkin, take a china pipkin, but a penn'orth of bread, a penn'orth of milk, and a penn'orth of sausages. And oh, Simpkin, with the last

penny of our fourpence but me one penn'orth of cherry-coloured silk. But do not lose the

last penny of the fourpence, Simpkin, or I am undone and worn to a thread-paper, for I have

NO MORE TWIST."

Then Simpkin again said "Miaw!" and took the groat and the pipkin, and went out into the dark.

The tailor was very tired and beginning to be il . He sat down by the hearth and talked to

himself about that wonderful coat.

"I shal make my fortune—to be cut bias—the Mayor of Gloucester is to be married on

Christmas Day in the morning, and he hath ordered a coat and an embroidered waistcoat—

"

Then the tailor started; for suddenly, interrupting him, from the dresser at the other side of the kitchen came a number of little noises—

Tip tap, tip tap, tip tap tip!

"Now what can that be?" said the Tailor of Gloucester, jumping up from his chair. The tailor crossed the kitchen, and stood quite stil beside the dresser, listening, and peering through his spectacles.

"This is very peculiar," said the Tailor of Gloucester, and he lifted up the tea-cup which was upside down.

Out stepped a little live lady mouse, and made a courtesy to the tailor! Then she hopped

away down off the dresser, and under the wainscot.

The tailor sat down again by the fire, warming his poor cold hands. But al at once, from the dresser, there came other little noises—

Tip tap, tip tap, tip tap tip!

"This is passing extraordinary!" said the Tailor of Gloucester, and turned over another teacup, which was upside down.

Out stepped a little gentleman mouse, and made a bow to the tailor!

And out from under tea-cups and from under bowls and basins, stepped other and more

little mice, who hopped away down off the dresser and under the wainscot.

The tailor sat down, close over the fire, lamenting: "One-and-twenty buttonholes of cherry-coloured silk! To be finished by noon of Saturday: and this is Tuesday evening. Was it right

to let loose those mice, undoubtedly the property of Simpkin? Alack, I am undone, for I

have no more twist!"

The little mice came out again and listened to the tailor; they took notice of the pattern of that wonderful coat. They whispered to one another about the taffeta lining and about little

mouse tippets.

And then suddenly they al ran away together down the passage behind the wainscot,

squeaking and cal ing to one another as they ran from house to house.

Not one mouse was left in the tailor's kitchen when Simpkin came back. He set down the

pipkin of milk upon the dresser, and looked suspiciously at the tea-cups. He wanted his

supper of little fat mouse!

"Simpkin," said the tailor, "where is my TWIST?"

But Simpkin hid a little parcel privately in the tea-pot, and spit and growled at the tailor; and if Simpkin had been able to talk, he would have asked: "Where is my MOUSE?"

"Alack, I am undone!" said the Tailor of Gloucester, and went sadly to bed.

Al that night long Simpkin hunted and searched through the kitchen, peeping into

cupboards and under the wainscot, and into the tea-pot where he had hidden that twist; but

stil he found never a mouse!

The poor old tailor was very il with a fever, tossing and turning in his four-post bed; and stil in his dreams he mumbled: "No more twist! no more twist!"

What should become of the cherry-coloured coat? Who should come to sew it, when the

window was barred, and the door was fast locked?

Out-of-doors the market folks went trudging through the snow to buy their geese and

turkeys, and to bake their Christmas pies; but there would be no dinner for Simpkin and the

poor old tailor of Gloucester.

The tailor lay il for three days and nights; and then it was Christmas Eve, and very late at night. And stil Simpkin wanted his mice, and mewed as he stood beside the four-post bed.

But it is in the old story that al the beasts can talk in the night between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in the morning (though there are very few folk that can hear them, or know

what it is that they say).

When the Cathedral clock struck twelve there was an answer—like an echo of the chimes—

and Simpkin heard it, and came out of the tailor's door, and wandered about in the snow.

From al the roofs and gables and old wooden houses in Gloucester came a thousand

merry voices singing the old Christmas rhymes—al the old songs that ever I heard of, and

some that I don't know, like Whittington's bel s.

Under the wooden eaves the starlings and sparrows sang of Christmas pies; the jackdaws

woke up in the Cathedral tower; and although it was the middle of the night the throstles

and robins sang; and air was quite ful of little twittering tunes.

But it was al rather provoking to poor hungry Simpkin.

From the tailor's ship in Westgate came a glow of light; and when Simpkin crept up to peep

in at the window it was ful of candles. There was a snippeting of scissors, and snappeting

of thread; and little mouse voices sang loudly and gaily:

"Four-and-twenty tailors

Went to catch a snail,

The best man amongst them

Durst not touch her tail;

She put out her horns

Like a little kyloe cow.

Run, tailors, run!

Or she'll have you al e'en now!"

Then without a pause the little mouse voices went on again:

"Sieve my lady's oatmeal,

Grind my lady's flour,

Put it in a chestnut,

Let it stand an hour—"

"Mew! Mew!" interrupted Simpkin, and he scratched at the door. But the key was under the tailor's pil ow; he could not get in.

The little mice only laughed, and tried another tune—

"Three little mice sat down to spin,

Pussy passed by and she peeped in.

What are you at, my fine little men?

Making coats for gentlemen.

Shal I come in and cut off yours threads?

Oh, no, Miss Pussy,

You'd bite off our heads!"

"Mew! scratch! scratch!" scuffled Simpkin on the window-sil ; while the little mice inside sprang to their feet, and al began to shout al at once in little twittering voices: "No more twist! No more twist!" And they barred up the window-shutters and shut out Simpkin.

Simpkin came away from the shop and went home considering in his mind. He found the

poor old tailor without fever, sleeping peaceful y.

Then Simpkin went on tip-toe and took a little parcel of silk out of the tea-pot; and looked at it in the moonlight; and he felt quite ashamed of his badness compared with those good

little mice!

When the tailor awoke in the morning, the first thing which he saw, upon the patchwork

quilt, was a skein of cherry-coloured twisted silk, and beside his bed stood the repentant

Simpkin!

The sun was shining on the snow when the tailor got up and dressed, and came out into

the street with Simpkin running before him.

"Alack," said the tailor, "I have my twist; but no more strength—nor time—than wil serve to make me one single buttonhole; for this is Christmas Day in the Morning! The Mayor of

Gloucester shal be married by noon—and where is his cherry-coloured coat?"

He unlocked the door of the little shop in Westgate Street, and Simpkin ran in, like a cat that expects something.

But there was no one there! Not even one little brown mouse!

But upon the table—oh joy! the tailor gave a shout—there, where he had left plain cuttings

of silk—there lay the most beautiful coat and embroidered satin waistcoat that ever were

worn by a Mayor of Gloucester!

Everything was finished except just one single cherry-coloured buttonhole, and where that

buttonhole was wanting there was pinned a scrap of paper with these words—in little teeny

weeny writing—

NO MORE TWIST.

And from then began the luck of the Tailor of Gloucester; he grew quite stout, and he grew

quite rich.

He made the most wonderful waistcoats for al the rich merchants of Gloucester, and for al

the fine gentlemen of the country round.

Never were seen such ruffles, or such embroidered cuffs and lappets! But his buttonholes

were the greatest triumph of it al .

The stitches of those buttonholes were so neat—SO neat—I wonder how they could be

stitched by an old man in spectacles, with crooked old fingers, and a tailor's thimble.

The stitches of those buttonholes were so smal —SO smal —they looked as if they had

been made by little mice!

THE TALE OF SQUIRREL NUTKIN

[A Story for Norah]

This is a Tale about a tail—a tail that belonged to a little red squirrel, and his name was

Nutkin.

He had a brother cal ed Twinkleberry, and a great many cousins: they lived in a wood at the

edge of a lake.

In the middle of the lake there is an island covered with trees and nut bushes; and amongst

those trees stands a hol ow oak-tree, which is the house of an owl who is cal ed Old Brown.

One autumn when the nuts were ripe, and the leaves on the hazel bushes were golden and

green—Nutkin and Twinkleberry and al the other little squirrels came out of the wood, and

down to the edge of the lake.

They made little rafts out of twigs, and they paddled away over the water to Owl Island to

gather nuts.

Each squirrel had a little sack and a large oar, and spread out his tail for a sail.

They also took with them an offering of three fat mice as a present for Old Brown, and put

them down upon his door-step.

Then Twinkleberry and the other little squirrels each made a low bow, and said politely—

"Old Mr. Brown, wil you favour us with permission to gather nuts upon your island?"

But Nutkin was excessively impertinent in his manners. He bobbed up and down like a little

red CHERRY, singing—

"Riddle me, riddle me, rot-tot-tote!

A little wee man, in a red red coat!

A staff in his hand, and a stone in his throat;

If you'l tel me this riddle, I'll give you a groat."

Now this riddle is as old as the hil s; Mr. Brown paid no attention whatever to Nutkin.

He shut his eyes obstinately and went to sleep.

The squirrels fil ed their little sacks with nuts, and sailed away home in the evening.

But next morning they al came back again to Owl Island; and Twinkleberry and the others

brought a fine fat mole, and laid it on the stone in front of Old Brown's doorway, and said—

"Mr. Brown, wil you favour us with your gracious permission to gather some more nuts?"

But Nutkin, who had no respect, began to dance up and down, tickling old Mr. Brown with a

NETTLE and singing—

"Old Mr. B! Riddle-me-ree!

Hitty Pitty within the wal ,

Hitty Pitty without the wal ;

If you touch Hitty Pitty,

Hitty Pitty wil bite you!"

Mr. Brown woke up suddenly and carried the mole into his house.

He shut the door in Nutkin's face. Presently a little thread of blue SMOKE from a wood fire

came up from the top of the tree, and Nutkin peeped through the key-hole and sang—

"A house ful , a hole ful !

And you cannot gather a bowl-ful !"

The squirrels searched for nuts al over the island and fil ed their little sacks.

But Nutkin gathered oak-apples—yel ow and scarlet—and sat upon a beech-stump playing

marbles, and watching the door of old Mr. Brown.

On the third day the squirrels got up very early and went fishing; they caught seven fat

minnows as a present for Old Brown.

They paddled over the lake and landed under a crooked chestnut tree on Owl Island.

Twinkleberry and six other little squirrels each carried a fat minnow; but Nutkin, who had no nice manners, brought no present at al . He ran in front, singing—

"The man in the wilderness said to me,

`How may strawberries grow in the sea?'

I answered him as I thought good—

Às many red herrings as grow in the wood."'

But old Mr. Brown took no interest in riddles—not even when the answer was provided for

him.

On the fourth day the squirrels brought a present of six fat beetles, which were as good as

plums in PLUM-PUDDING for Old Brown. Each beetle was wrapped up careful y in a

dockleaf, fastened with a pine-needle-pin.

But Nutkin sang as rudely as ever—

"Old Mr. B! riddle-me-ree!

Flour of England, fruit of Spain,

Met together in a shower of rain;

Put in a bag tied round with a string,

If you'l tel me this riddle,

I'll give you a ring!"

Which was ridiculous of Nutkin, because he had not got any ring to give to Old Brown.

The other squirrels hunted up and down the nut bushes; but Nutkin gathered robin's pin-

cushions off a briar bush, and stuck them ful of pine-needle-pins.

On the fifth day the squirrels brought a present of wild honey; it was so sweet and sticky

that they licked their fingers as they put it down upon the stone. They had stolen it out of a bumble BEES' nest on the tippity top of the hil .

But Nutkin skipped up and down, singing—

"Hum-a-bum! buzz! buzz! Hum-a-bum buzz!

As I went over Tipple-tine

I met a flock of bonny swine;

Some yel ow-nacked, some yel ow backed!

They were the very bonniest swine

That e'er went over the Tipple-tine."

Old Mr. Brown turned up his eyes in disgust at the impertinence of Nutkin.

But he ate up the honey!

The squirrels fil ed their little sacks with nuts.

But Nutkin sat upon a big flat rock, and played ninepins with a crab apple and green fir-

cones.

On the sixth day, which was Saturday, the squirrels came again for the last time; they

brought a new-laid EGG in a little rush basket as a last parting present for Old Brown.

But Nutkin ran in front laughing, and shouting—

"Humpty Dumpty lies in the beck,

With a white counterpane round his neck,

Forty doctors and forty wrights,

Cannot put Humpty Dumpty to rights!"

Now old Mr. Brown took an interest in eggs; he opened one eye and shut it again. But stil

he did not speak.

Nutkin became more and more impertinent—

"Old Mr. B! Old Mr. B!

Hickamore, Hackamore, on the King's

kitchen door;

Al the King's horses, and al the King's men,

Couldn't drive Hickamore, Hackamore,

Off the King's kitchen door!"

Nutkin danced up and down like a SUNBEAM; but stil Old Brown said nothing at al .

Nutkin began again—

"Authur O'Bower has broken his band,

He comes roaring up the land!

The King of Scots with al his power,

Cannot turn Arthur of the Bower!"

Nutkin made a whirring noise to sound like the WIND, and he took a running jump right onto

the head of Old Brown! . . .

Then al at once there was a flutterment and a scufflement and a loud "Squeak!"

The other squirrels scuttered away into the bushes.

When they came back very cautiously, peeping round the tree— there was Old Brown

sitting on his door-step, quite stil , with his eyes closed, as if nothing had happened.

* * * * * * * *

BUT NUTKIN WAS IN HIS WAISTCOAT POCKET!

This looks like the end of the story; but it isn't.

Old Brown carried Nutkin into his house, and held him up by the tail, intending to skin him;

but Nutkin pul ed so very hard that his tail broke in two, and he dashed up the staircase,

and escaped out of the attic window.

And to this day, if you meet Nutkin up a tree and ask him a riddle, he wil throw sticks at

you, and stamp his feet and scold, and shout—

"Cuck-cuck-cuck-cur-r-r-cuck-k!"

THE TALE OF BENJAMIN BUNNY

[For the Children of Sawrey from Old Mr. Bunny]

One morning a little rabbit sat on a bank.

He pricked his ears and listened to the trit-trot, trit-trot of a pony.

A gig was coming along the road; it was driven by Mr. McGregor, and beside him sat Mrs.

McGregor in her best bonnet.

As soon as they had passed, little Benjamin Bunny slid down into the road, and set off—

with a hop, skip, and a jump—to cal upon his relations, who lived in the wood at the back of Mr. McGregor's garden.

That wood was ful of rabbit holes; and in the neatest, sandiest hole of al lived Benjamin's aunt and his cousins—Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter.

Old Mrs. Rabbit was a widow; she earned her living by knitting rabbit-wool mittens and

muffatees (I once bought a pair at a bazaar). She also sold herbs, and rosemary tea, and

rabbit-tobacco (which is what we cal lavender).

Little Benjamin did not very much want to see his Aunt.

He came round the back of the fir-tree, and nearly tumbled upon the top of his Cousin

Peter.

Peter was sitting by himself. He looked poorly, and was dressed in a red cotton pocket-

handkerchief.

"Peter," said little Benjamin, in a whisper, "who has got your clothes?"

Peter replied, "The scarecrow in Mr. McGregor's garden," and described how he had been chased about the garden, and had dropped his shoes and coat.

Little Benjamin sat down beside his cousin and assured him that Mr. McGregor had gone

out in a gig, and Mrs. McGregor also; and certainly for the day, because she was wearing

her best bonnet.

Peter said he hoped that it would rain.

At this point old Mrs. Rabbit's voice was heard inside the rabbit hole, cal ing: "Cotton-tail!

Cotton-tail! fetch some more camomile!"

Peter said he thought he might feel better if he went for a walk.

They went away hand in hand, and got upon the flat top of the wal at the bottom of the

wood. From here they looked down into Mr. McGregor's garden. Peter's coat and shoes

were plainly to be seen upon the scarecrow, topped with an old tam-o'-shanter of Mr.

McGregor's.

Little Benjamin said: "It spoils people's clothes to squeeze under a gate; the proper way to get in is to climb down a pear-tree."

Peter fel down head first; but it was of no consequence, as the bed below was newly raked

and quite soft.

It had been sown with lettuces.

They left a great many odd little footmarks al over the bed, especial y little Benjamin, who was wearing clogs.

Little Benjamin said that the first thing to be done was to get back Peter's clothes, in order that they might be able to use the pocket- handkerchief.

They took them off the scarecrow. There had been rain during the night; there was water in

the shoes, and the coat was somewhat shrunk.

Benjamin tried on the tam-o'-shanter, but it was too big for him.

Then he suggested that they should fil the pocket-handkerchief with onions, as a little

present for his Aunt.

Peter did not seem to be enjoying himself; he kept hearing noises.

Benjamin, on the contrary, was perfectly at home, and ate a lettuce leaf. He said that he

was in the habit of coming to the garden with his father to get lettuces for their Sunday

dinner.

(The name of little Benjamin's papa was old Mr. Benjamin Bunny.)

The lettuces certainly were very fine.

Peter did not eat anything; he said he should like to go home. Presently he dropped half the

onions.

Little Benjamin said that it was not possible to get back up the pear-tree with a load of

vegetables. He led the way boldly towards the other end of the garden. They went along a

little walk on planks, under a sunny, red brick wal .

The mice sat on their doorsteps cracking cherry-stones; they winked at Peter Rabbit and

little Benjamin Bunny.

Presently Peter let the pocket-handkerchief go again.

They got amongst flower-pots, and frames, and tubs. Peter heard noises worse than ever;

his eyes were as big as lol y-pops!

He was a step or two in front of his cousin when he suddenly stopped.

This is what those little rabbits saw round that corner!

Little Benjamin took one look, and then, in half a minute less than no time, he hid himself

and Peter and the onions underneath a large basket. . . .

The cat got up and stretched herself, and came and sniffed at the basket.

Perhaps she liked the smel of onions!

Anyway, she sat down upon the top of the basket.

She sat there for FIVE HOURS.

I cannot draw you a picture of Peter and Benjamin underneath the basket, because it was

quite dark, and because the smel of onions was fearful; it made Peter Rabbit and little

Benjamin cry.

The sun got round behind the wood, and it was quite late in the afternoon; but stil the cat

sat upon the basket.

At length there was a pitter-patter, pitter-patter, and some bits of mortar fel from the wal above.

The cat looked up and saw old Mr. Benjamin Bunny prancing along the top of the wal of

the upper terrace.

He was smoking a pipe of rabbit-tobacco, and had a little switch in his hand.

He was looking for his son.

Old Mr. Bunny had no opinion whatever of cats. He took a tremendous jump off the top of

the wal on to the top of the cat, and cuffed it off the basket, and kicked it into the

greenhouse, scratching off a handful of fur.

The cat was too much surprised to scratch back.

When old Mr. Bunny had driven the cat into the greenhouse, he locked the door.

Then he came back to the basket and took out his son Benjamin by the ears, and whipped

him with the little switch.

Then he took out his nephew Peter.

Then he took out the handkerchief of onions, and marched out of the garden.

When Mr. McGregor returned about half an hour later he observed several things which

perplexed him.

It looked as though some person had been walking al over the garden in a pair of clogs—

only the footmarks were too ridiculously little!

Also he could not understand how the cat could have managed to shut herself up INSIDE

the greenhouse, locking the door upon the OUTSIDE.

When Peter got home his mother forgave him, because she was so glad to see that he had

found his shoes and coat. Cotton-tail and Peter folded up the pocket-handkerchief, and old

Mrs. Rabbit strung up the onions and hung them from the kitchen ceiling, with the bunches

of herbs and the rabbit- tobacco.

THE TALE OF TWO BAD MICE

[For W.M.L.W., the Little Girl

Who Had the Dol 's House]

Once upon a time there was a very beautiful dol 's-house; it was red brick with white

windows, and it had real muslin curtains and a front door and a chimney.

It belonged to two Dol s cal ed Lucinda and Jane; at least it belonged to Lucinda, but she

never ordered meals.

Jane was the Cook; but she never did any cooking, because the dinner had been bought

ready-made, in a box ful of shavings.

There were two red lobsters and a ham, a fish, a pudding, and some pears and oranges.

They would not come off the plates, but they were extremely beautiful.

One morning Lucinda and Jane had gone out for a drive in the dol 's perambulator. There

was no one in the nursery, and it was very quiet. Presently there was a little scuffling,

scratching noise in a corner near the fireplace, where there was a hole under the skirting-

board.

Tom Thumb put out his head for a moment, and then popped it in again. Tom Thumb was a

mouse.

A minute afterwards, Hunca Munca, his wife, put her head out, too; and when she saw that

there was no one in the nursery, she ventured out on the oilcloth under the coal-box.

The dol 's-house stood at the other side of the fire-place. Tom Thumb and Hunca Munca

went cautiously across the hearthrug. They pushed the front door—it was not fast.

Tom Thumb and Hunca Munca went upstairs and peeped into the dining-room. Then they

squeaked with joy!

Such a lovely dinner was laid out upon the table! There were tin spoons, and lead knives

and forks, and two dol y-chairs—al SO convenient!

Tom Thumb set to work at once to carve the ham. It was a beautiful shiny yel ow, streaked

with red.

The knife crumpled up and hurt him; he put his finger in his mouth.

"It is not boiled enough; it is hard.

You have a try, Hunca Munca."

Hunca Munca stood up in her chair, and chopped at the ham with another lead knife.

"It's as hard as the hams at the cheesemonger's," said Hunca Munca.

The ham broke off the plate with a jerk, and rol ed under the table.

"Let it alone," said Tom Thumb; "give me some fish, Hunca Munca!"

Hunca Munca tried every tin spoon in turn; the fish was glued to the dish.

Then Tom Thumb lost his temper. He put the ham in the middle of the floor, and hit it with

the tongs and with the shovel—bang, bang, smash, smash!

The ham flew al into pieces, for underneath the shiny paint it was made of nothing but

plaster!

Then there was no end to the rage and disappointment of Tom Thumb and Hunca Munca.

They broke up the pudding, the lobsters, the pears and the oranges.

As the fish would not come off the plate, they put it into the red-hot crinkly paper fire in the kitchen; but it would not burn either.

Tom Thumb went up the kitchen chimney and looked out at the top—there was no soot.

While Tom Thumb was up the chimney, Hunca Munca had another disappointment. She

found some tiny canisters upon the dresser, label ed— Rice—Coffee—Sago—but when

she turned them upside down, there was nothing inside except red and blue beads.

Then those mice set to work to do al the mischief they could—especial y Tom Thumb! He

took Jane's clothes out of the chest of drawers in her bedroom, and he threw them out of

the top floor window.

But Hunca Munca had a frugal mind. After pul ing half the feathers out of Lucinda's bolster,

she remembered that she herself was in want of a feather bed.

With Tom Thumbs's assistance she carried the bolster downstairs, and across the hearth-

rug. It was difficult to squeeze the bolster into the mouse-hole; but they managed it

somehow.

Then Hunca Munca went back and fetched a chair, a book-case, a bird-cage, and several

smal odds and ends. The book-case and the bird-cage refused to go into the mousehole.

Hunca Munca left them behind the coal-box, and went to fetch a cradle.

Hunca Munca was just returning with another chair, when suddenly there was a noise of

talking outside upon the landing. The mice rushed back to their hole, and the dol s came

into the nursery.

What a sight met the eyes of Jane and Lucinda! Lucinda sat upon the upset kitchen stove

and stared; and Jane leant against the kitchen dresser and smiled—but neither of them

made any remark.

The book-case and the bird-cage were rescued from under the coal-box—but Hunca

Munca has got the cradle, and some of Lucinda's clothes.

She also has some useful pots and pans, and several other things.

The little girl that the dol 's-house belonged to, said,—"I wil get a dol dressed like a policeman!"

But the nurse said,—"I wil set a mouse-trap!"

So that is the story of the two Bad

Mice,—but they were not so very very

naughty after al , because Tom

Thumb paid for everything he broke.

He found a crooked sixpence under the hearth-rug; and upon Christmas Eve, he and

Hunca Munca stuffed it into one of the stockings of Lucinda and Jane.

And very early every morning—before anybody is awake—Hunca Munca comes with her

dust-pan and her broom to sweep the Dol ies' house!

THE TALE OF MRS. TIGGY-WINKLE

[For the Real

Little Lucie of Newlands]

Once upon a time there was a little girl cal ed Lucie, who lived at a farm cal ed Little-town.

She was a good little girl—only she was always losing her pocket-handkerchiefs!

One day little Lucie came into the farm-yard crying—oh, she did cry so! "I've lost my pocket-handkin! Three handkins and a pinny! Have YOU seen them, Tabby Kitten?"

The Kitten went on washing her white paws; so Lucie asked a speckled hen—

"Sal y Henny-penny, have YOU found three pocket-handkins?"

But the speckled hen ran into a barn, clucking—

"I go barefoot, barefoot, barefoot!"

And then Lucie asked Cock Robin sitting on a twig. Cock Robin looked sideways at Lucie

with his bright black eye, and he flew over a stile and away.

Lucie climbed upon the stile and looked up at the hil behind Little-town—a hil that goes

up—up—into the clouds as though it had no top!

And a great way up the hil side she thought she saw some white things spread upon the

grass.

Lucie scrambled up the hil as fast as her short legs would carry her; she ran along a steep

path-way—up and up—until Little-town was right away down below—she could have

dropped a pebble down the chimney!

Presently she came to a spring, bubbling out from the hil side.

Some one had stood a tin can upon a stone to catch the water—but the water was already

running over, for the can was no bigger than an egg-cup! And where the sand upon the

path was wet—there were footmarks of a VERY smal person.

Lucie ran on, and on.

The path ended under a big rock. The grass was short and green, and there were clothes-

props cut from bracken stems, with lines of plaited rushes, and a heap of tiny clothes pins—

but no pocket-handkerchiefs!

But there was something else—a door! straight into the hil ; and inside it some one was

singing—

"Lily-white and clean, oh!

With little fril s between, oh!

Smooth and hot-red rusty spot

Never here be seen, oh!"

Lucie knocked-once-twice, and interrupted the song. A little frightened voice cal ed out

"Who's that?"

Lucie opened the door: and what do you think there was inside the hil ?—a nice clean

kitchen with a flagged floor and wooden beams—just like any other farm kitchen. Only the

ceiling was so low that Lucie's head nearly touched it; and the pots and pans were smal ,

and so was everything there.

There was a nice hot singey smel ; and at the table, with an iron in her hand, stood a very

stout short person staring anxiously at Lucie.

Her print gown was tucked up, and she was wearing a large apron over her striped

petticoat. Her little black nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle, and her eyes went twinkle,

twinkle; and underneath her cap-where Lucie had yel ow curls-that little person had

PRICKLES!

"Who are you?" said Lucie. "Have you seen my pocket-handkins?"

The little person made a bob- curtsey—"Oh yes, if you please'm; my name is Mrs. Tiggy-

winkle; oh yes if you please'm, I'm an excel ent clear-starcher!" And she took something out of the clothesbasket, and spread it on the ironing-blanket.

"What's that thing?" said Lucie-"that's not my pocket-handkin?"

"Oh no, if you please'm; that's a little scarlet waist-coat belonging to Cock Robin!"

And she ironed it and folded it, and put it on one side.

Then she took something else off a clothes-horse—"That isn't my pinny?" said Lucie.

"Oh no, if you please'm; that's a damask table-cloth belonging to Jenny Wren; look how it's stained with currant wine! It's very bad to wash!" said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.

Mrs. Tiggy-winkle's nose went sniffle sniffle snuffle, and her eyes went twinkle twinkle; and she fetched another hot iron from the fire.

"There's one of my pocket-handkins!" cried Lucie—"and there's my pinny!"

Mrs. Tiggy-winkle ironed it, and goffered it, and shook out the fril s.

"Oh that IS lovely!" said Lucie.

"And what are those long yel ow things with fingers like gloves?"

"Oh that's a pair of stockings belonging to Sal y Henny-penny—look how she's worn the

heels out with scratching in the yard! She'll very soon go barefoot!" said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.

"Why, there's another hankersniff—but it isn't mine; it's red?"

"Oh no, if you please'm; that one belongs to old Mrs. Rabbit; and it DID so smel of onions!

I've had to wash it separately, I can't get out that smel ."

"There's another one of mine," said Lucie.

"What are those funny little white things?"

"That's a pair of mittens belonging to Tabby Kitten; I only have to iron them; she washes them herself."

"There's my last pocket-handkin!" said Lucie.

"And what are you dipping into the basin of starch?"

"They're little dicky shirt-fronts belonging to Tom Titmouse—most terrible particular!" said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle. "Now I've finished my ironing; I'm going to air some clothes."

"What are these dear soft fluffy things?" said Lucie.

"Oh those are wool y coats belonging to the little lambs at Skelghyl."

"Wil their jackets take off?" asked

Lucie.

"Oh yes, if you please'm; look at the sheep-mark on the shoulder. And here's one marked

for Gatesgarth, and three that come from Little-town. They're ALWAYS marked at washing!"

said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.

And she hung up al sorts and sizes of clothes—smal brown coats of mice; and one velvety

black moleskin waist-coat; and a red tail-coat with no tail belonging to Squirrel Nutkin; and a very much shrunk blue jacket belonging to Peter Rabbit; and a petticoat, not marked, that

had gone lost in the washing—and at last the basket was empty!

Then Mrs. Tiggy-winkle made tea—a cup for herself and a cup for Lucie. They sat before

the fire on a bench and looked sideways at one another. Mrs. Tiggy-winkle's hand, holding

the tea-cup, was very very brown, and very very wrinkly with the soap-suds; and al through

her gown and her cap, there were HAIRPINS sticking wrong end out; so that Lucie didn't

like to sit too near her.

When they had finished tea, they tied up the clothes in bundles; and Lucie's pocket-

handkerchiefs were folded up inside her clean pinny, and fastened with a silver safety-pin.

And then they made up the fire with turf, and came out and locked the door, and hid the key

under the door-sil .

Then away down the hil trotted Lucie and Mrs. Tiggy-winkle with the bundles of clothes!

Al the way down the path little animals came out of the fern to meet them; the very first that they met were Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny!

And she gave them their nice clean clothes; and al the little animals and birds were so very much obliged to dear Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.

So that at the bottom of the hil when they came to the stile, there was nothing left to carry except Lucie's one little bundle.

Lucie scrambled up the stile with the bundle in her hand; and then she turned to say "Good-night," and to thank the washer-woman.—But what a VERY odd thing! Mrs. Tiggy-winkle

had not waited either for thanks or for the washing bil !

She was running running running up the hil —and where was her white fril ed cap? and her

shawl? and her gown-and her petticoat?

And HOW smal she had grown—and HOW brown—and covered with PRICKLES!

Why! Mrs. Tiggy-winkle was nothing but a HEDGEHOG! * * * * * *

(Now some people say that little Lucie had been asleep upon the stile—but then how could

she have found three clean pocket-handkins and a pinny, pinned with a silver safety-pin?

And besides—I have seen that door into the back of the hil cal ed Cat Bel s—and besides I am very wel acquainted with dear Mrs. Tiggy-winkle!)

THE PIE AND THE PATTY-PAN

Pussy-cat sits by the fire—how should she be fair?

In walks the little dog—says "Pussy are you there?

How do you do Mistress Pussy? Mistress Pussy, how

do you do?"

"I thank you kindly, little dog, I fare as wel as you!"

[Old Rhyme]

Once upon a time there was a Pussy-cat cal ed Ribby, who invited a little dog cal ed

Duchess to tea.

"Come in good time, my dear Duchess," said Ribby's letter, "and we wil have something so very nice. I am baking it in a pie-dish—a pie-dish with a pink rim. You never tasted anything so good! And YOU shal eat it al ! I wil eat muffins, my dear Duchess!" wrote Ribby.

"I wil come very punctual y, my dear Ribby," wrote Duchess; and then at the end she added—"I hope it isn't mouse?"

And then she thought that did not look quite polite; so she scratched out "isn't mouse" and changed it to "I hope it wil be fine," and she gave her letter to the postman.

But she thought a great deal about Ribby's pie, and she read Ribby's letter over and over

again.

"I am dreadful y afraid it WILL be mouse!" said Duchess to herself—"I real y couldn't, COULDN'T eat mouse pie. And I shal have to eat it, because it is a party. And MY pie was

going to be veal and ham. A pink and white pie-dish! and so is mine; just like Ribby's

dishes; they were both bought at Tabitha Twitchit's."

Duchess went into her larder and took the pie off a shelf and looked at it.

"Oh what a good idea! Why shouldn't I rush along and put my pie into Ribby's oven when

Ribby isn't there?"

Ribby in the meantime had received Duchess's answer, and as soon as she was sure that

the little dog would come—she popped HER pie into the oven. There were two ovens, one

above the other; some other knobs and handles were only ornamental and not intended to

open. Ribby put the pie into the lower oven; the door was very stiff.

"The top oven bakes too quickly," said Ribby to herself.

Ribby put on some coal and swept up the hearth. Then she went out with a can to the wel ,

for water to fil up the kettle.

Then she began to set the room in order, for it was the sitting-room as wel as the kitchen.

When Ribby had laid the table she went out down the field to the farm, to fetch milk and

butter.

When she came back, she peeped into the bottom oven; the pie looked very comfortable.

Ribby put on her shawl and bonnet and went out again with a basket, to the vil age shop to

buy a packet of tea, a pound of lump sugar, and a pot of marmalade.

And just at the same time, Duchess came out of HER house, at the other end of the vil age.

Ribby met Duchess half-way down the street, also carrying a basket, covered with a cloth.

They only bowed to one another; they did not speak, because they were going to have a

party.

As soon as Duchess had got round the corner out of sight—she simply ran! Straight away

to Ribby's house!

Ribby went into the shop and bought what she required, and came out, after a pleasant

gossip with Cousin Tabitha Twitchit.

Ribby went on to Timothy Baker's and bought the muffins. Then she went home.

There seemed to be a sort of scuffling noise in the back passage, as she was coming in at

the front door. But there was nobody there.

Duchess in the meantime, had slipped out at the back door.

"It is a very odd thing that Ribby's pie was NOT in the oven when I put mine in! And I can't find it anywhere; I have looked al over the house. I put MY pie into a nice hot oven at the

top. I could not turn any of the other handles; I think that they are al shams," said Duchess,

"but I wish I could have removed the pie made of mouse! I cannot think what she has done with it? I heard Ribby coming and I had to run out by the back door!"

Duchess went home and brushed her beautiful black coat; and then she picked a bunch of

flowers in her garden as a present for Ribby; and passed the time until the clock struck four.

Ribby—having assured herself by careful search that there was real y no one hiding in the

cupboard or in the larder—went upstairs to change her dress.

She came downstairs again, and made the tea, and put the teapot on the hob. She peeped

again into the BOTTOM oven, the pie had become a lovely brown, and it was steaming hot.

She sat down before the fire to wait for the little dog. "I am glad I used the BOTTOM oven,"

said Ribby, "the top one would certainly have been very much too hot."

Very punctual y at four o'clock,

Duchess started to go to the party.

At a quarter past four to the minute, there came a most genteel little tap-tappity. "Is Mrs.

Ribston at home?" inquired Duchess in the porch.

"Come in! and how do you do, my dear Duchess?" cried Ribby. "I hope I see you wel ?"

"Quite wel , I thank you, and how do YOU do, my dear Ribby?" said Duchess. "I've brought you some flowers; what a delicious smel of pie!"

"Oh, what lovely flowers! Yes, it is mouse and bacon!"

"I think it wants another five minutes," said Ribby. "Just a shade longer; I wil pour out the tea, while we wait. Do you take sugar, my dear Duchess?"

"Oh yes, please! my dear Ribby; and may I have a lump upon my nose?"

"With pleasure, my dear Duchess."

Duchess sat up with the sugar on her nose and sniffed—

"How good that pie smel s! I do love veal and ham—I mean to say mouse and bacon—"

She dropped the sugar in confusion, and had to go hunting under the tea-table, so did not

see which oven Ribby opened in order to get out the pie.

Ribby set the pie upon the table; there was a very savoury smel .

Duchess came out from under the table-cloth munching sugar, and sat up on a chair.

"I wil first cut the pie for you; I am going to have muffin and marmalade," said Ribby.

"I think"—(thought Duchess to herself)—"I THINK it would be wiser if I helped myself to pie; though Ribby did not seem to notice anything when she was cutting it. What very smal fine

pieces it has cooked into! I did not remember that I had minced it up so fine; I suppose this is a quicker oven than my own."

The pie-dish was emptying rapidly! Duchess had had four helps already, and was fumbling

with the spoon.

"A little more bacon, my dear

Duchess?" said Ribby.

"Thank you, my dear Ribby; I was only feeling for the patty-pan."

"The patty-pan? my dear Duchess?"

"The patty pan that held up the pie-crust," said Duchess, blushing under her black coat.

"Oh, I didn't put one in, my dear Duchess," said Ribby; "I don't think that it is necessary in pies made of mouse."

Duchess fumbled with the spoon—

"I can't find it!" she said anxiously.

"There isn't a patty-pan," said

Ribby, looking perplexed.

"Yes, indeed, my dear Ribby; where can it have gone to?" said Duchess.

Duchess looked very much alarmed, and continued to scoop the inside of the pie-dish.

"I have only four patty-pans, and they are al in the cupboard."

Duchess set up a howl.

"I shal die! I shal die! I have swal owed a patty-pan! Oh, my dear Ribby, I do feel so il !"

"It is impossible, my dear Duchess; there was not a patty-pan."

"Yes there WAS, my dear Ribby, I am sure I have swal owed it!"

"Let me prop you up with a pil ow, my dear Duchess; where do you think you feel it?"

"Oh I do feel so il ALL OVER me, my dear Ribby."

"Shal I run for the doctor?"

"Oh yes, yes! fetch Dr. Maggotty, my dear Ribby: he is a Pie himself, he wil certainly

understand."

Ribby settled Duchess in an armchair before the fire, and went out and hurried to the vil age to look for the doctor.

She found him at the smithy.

Ribby explained that her guest had swal owed a patty-pan.

Dr. Maggotty hopped so fast that Ribby had to run. It was most conspicuous. Al the vil age

could see that Ribby was fetching the doctor.

But while Ribby had been hunting for the doctor—a curious thing had happened to

Duchess, who had been left by herself, sitting before the fire, sighing and groaning and

feeling very unhappy.

"How COULD I have swal owed it! such a large thing as a patty-pan!"

She sat down again, and stared mournful y at the grate. The fire crackled and danced, and

something sizz-z-zled!

Duchess started! She opened the door of the TOP oven;—out came a rich steamy flavour

of veal and ham, and there stood a fine brown pie,—and through a hole in the top of the

pie-crust there was a glimpse of a little tin patty-pan!

Duchess drew a long breath—

"Then I must have been eating MOUSE! . . . No wonder I feel il . . . . But perhaps I should feel worse if I had real y swal owed a patty-pan!" Duchess reflected—"What a very awkward thing to have to explain to Ribby! I think I wil put MY pie in the back-yard and say nothing about it. When I go home, I wil run round and take it away." She put it outside the back-door, and sat down again by the fire, and shut her eyes; when Ribby arrived with the doctor,

she seemed fast asleep.

"I am feeling very much better," said Duchess, waking up with a jump.

"I am truly glad to hear it! He has brought you a pil , my dear Duchess!"

"I think I should feel QUITE wel if he only felt my pulse," said Duchess, backing away from the magpie, who sidled up with something in his beak.

"It is only a bread pil , you had much better take it; drink a little milk, my dear Duchess!"

"I am feeling very much better, my dear Ribby," said Duchess. "Do you not think that I had better go home before it gets dark?"

"Perhaps it might be wise, my dear

Duchess."

Ribby and Duchess said good-bye affectionately, and Duchess started home. Half-way up

the lane she stopped and looked back; Ribby had gone in and shut her door. Duchess

slipped through the fence, and ran round to the back of Ribby's house, and peeped into the

yard.

Upon the roof of the pig-stye sat Dr. Maggotty and three jackdaws. The jackdaws were

eating piecrust, and the magpie was drinking gravy out of a patty-pan.

Duchess ran home feeling uncommonly sil y!

When Ribby came out for a pailful of water to wash up the tea-things, she found a pink and

white pie-dish lying smashed in the middle of the yard.

Ribby stared with amazement—"Did you ever see the like! so there real y WAS a patty-

pan? . . . But MY patty-pans are al in the kitchen cupboard. Wel I never did! . . . Next time I want to give a party—I wil invite Cousin Tabitha Twitchit!"

THE TALE OF MR. JEREMY FISHER

[For Stephanie from Cousin B.]

Once upon a time there was a frog cal ed Mr. Jeremy Fisher; he lived in a little damp house

amongst the buttercups at the edge of a pond.

The water was al slippy-sloppy in the larder and in the back passage.

But Mr. Jeremy liked getting his feet wet; nobody ever scolded him, and he never caught a

cold!

He was quite pleased when he looked out and saw large drops of rain, splashing in the

pond—

"I wil get some worms and go fishing and catch a dish of minnows for my dinner," said Mr.

Jeremy Fisher. "If I catch more than five fish, I wil invite my friends Mr. Alderman Ptolemy Tortoise and Sir Isaac Newton. The Alderman, however, eats salad."

Mr. Jeremy put on a mackintosh, and a pair of shiny galoshes; he took his rod and basket,

and set off with enormous hops to the place where he kept his boat.

The boat was round and green, and very like the other lily-leaves. It was tied to a water-

plant in the middle of the pond.

Mr. Jeremy took a reed pole, and pushed the boat out into open water. "I know a good

place for minnows," said Mr. Jeremy Fisher.

Mr. Jeremy stuck his pole into the mud and fastened the boat to it.

Then he settled himself cross-legged and arranged his fishing tackle. He had the dearest

little red float. His rod was a tough stalk of grass, his line was a fine long white horse-hair, and he tied a little wriggling worm at the end.

The rain trickled down his back, and for nearly an hour he stared at the float.

"This is getting tiresome, I think I should like some lunch," said Mr. Jeremy Fisher.

He punted back again amongst the water-plants, and took some lunch out of his basket.

"I wil eat a butterfly sandwich, and wait til the shower is over," said Mr. Jeremy Fisher.

A great big water-beetle came up underneath the lily leaf and tweaked the toe of one of his

galoshes.

Mr. Jeremy crossed his legs up shorter, out of reach, and went on eating his sandwich.

Once or twice something moved about with a rustle and a splash amongst the rushes at the

side of the pond.

"I trust that is not a rat," said Mr. Jeremy Fisher; "I think I had better get away from here."

Mr. Jeremy shoved the boat out again a little way, and dropped in the bait. There was a bite

almost directly; the float gave a tremendous bobbit!

"A minnow! a minnow! I have him by the nose!" cried Mr. Jeremy Fisher, jerking up his rod.

But what a horrible surprise!

Instead of a smooth fat minnow, Mr.

Jeremy landed little Jack Sharp, the

stickleback, covered with spines!

The stickleback floundered about the boat, pricking and snapping until he was quite out of

breath. Then he jumped back into the water.

And a shoal of other little fishes put their heads out, and laughed at Mr. Jeremy Fisher.

And while Mr. Jeremy sat disconsolately on the edge of his boat—sucking his sore fingers

and peering down into the water—a MUCH worse thing happened; a real y FRIGHTFUL

thing it would have been, if Mr. Jeremy had not been wearing a mackintosh!

A great big enormous trout came up—ker-pflop-p-p-p! with a splash—and it seized Mr.

Jeremy with a snap, "Ow! Ow! Ow!"—and then it turned and dived down to the bottom of the pond!

But the trout was so displeased with the taste of the mackintosh, that in less than half a

minute it spat him out again; and the only thing it swal owed was Mr. Jeremy's galoshes.

Mr. Jeremy bounced up to the surface of the water, like a cork and the bubbles out of a

soda water bottle; and he swam with al his might to the edge of the pond.

He scrambled out on the first bank he came to, and he hopped home across the meadow

with his mackintosh al in tatters.

"What a mercy that was not a pike!" said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. "I have lost my rod and basket; but it does not much matter, for I am sure I should never have dared to go fishing again!"

He put some sticking plaster on his fingers, and his friends both came to dinner. He could

not offer them fish, but he had something else in his larder.

Sir Isaac Newton wore his black and gold waistcoat.

And Mr. Alderman Ptolemy Tortoise brought a salad with him in a string bag.

And instead of a nice dish of minnows, they had a roasted grasshopper with lady-bird

sauce, which frogs consider a beautiful treat; but I think it must have been nasty!

THE STORY OF A FIERCE BAD RABBIT

This is a fierce bad Rabbit; look at his savage whiskers and his claws and his turned-up tail.

This is a nice gentle Rabbit. His mother has given him a carrot.

The bad Rabbit would like some carrot.

He doesn't say "Please." He takes it!

And he scratches the good Rabbit very badly.

The good Rabbit creeps away and hides in a hole. It feels sad.

This is a man with a gun.

He sees something sitting on a bench. He thinks it is a very funny bird!

He comes creeping up behind the trees.

And then he shoots—BANG!

This is what happens—

But this is al he finds on the bench when he rushes up with his gun.

The good Rabbit peeps out of its hole . . .

. . . and it sees the bad Rabbit tearing past—without any tail or whiskers!

THE STORY OF MISS MOPPET

This is a Pussy cal ed Miss Moppet; she thinks she has heard a mouse!

This is the Mouse peeping out behind the cupboard and making fun of Miss Moppet. He is

not afraid of a kitten.

This is Miss Moppet jumping just too late; she misses the Mouse and hits her own head.

She thinks it is a very hard cupboard!

The Mouse watches Miss Moppet from the top of the cupboard.

Miss Moppet ties up her head in a duster and sits before the fire.

The Mouse thinks she is looking very il . He comes sliding down the bel pul .

Miss Moppet looks worse and worse. The Mouse comes a little nearer.

Miss Moppet holds her poor head in her paws and looks at him through a hole in the duster.

The Mouse comes VERY close.

And then al of a sudden—Miss

Moppet jumps upon the Mouse!

And because the Mouse has teased Miss Moppet—Miss Moppet thinks she wil tease the

Mouse, which is not at al nice of Miss Moppet.

She ties him up in the duster and tosses it about like a bal .

But she forgot about that hole in the duster; and when she untied it—there was no Mouse!

He has wriggled out and run away; and he is dancing a jig on top of the cupboard!

THE TALE OF TOM KITTEN

[Dedicated to Al Pickles,

—Especial y to Those That Get upon My Garden Wal ]

Once upon a time there were three little kittens, and their names were Mittens, Tom Kitten,

and Moppet.

They had dear little fur coats of their own; and they tumbled about the doorstep and played

in the dust.

But one day their mother—Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit—expected friends to tea; so she fetched

the kittens indoors, to wash and dress them, before the fine company arrived.

First she scrubbed their faces (this one is Moppet).

Then she brushed their fur (this one is Mittens).

Then she combed their tails and whiskers (this is Tom Kitten).

Tom was very naughty, and he scratched.

Mrs. Tabitha dressed Moppet and Mittens in clean pinafores and tuckers; and then she took

al sorts of elegant uncomfortable clothes out of a chest of drawers, in order to dress up her son Thomas.

Tom Kitten was very fat, and he had grown; several buttons burst off. His mother sewed

them on again.

When the three kittens were ready, Mrs. Tabitha unwisely turned them out into the garden,

to be out of the way while she made hot buttered toast.

"Now keep your frocks clean, children! You must walk on your hind legs. Keep away from

the dirty ash-pit, and from Sal y Henny Penny, and from the pigsty and the Puddle-ducks."

Moppet and Mittens walked down the garden path unsteadily. Presently they trod upon their

pinafores and fel on their noses.

When they stood up there were several green smears!

"Let us climb up the rockery and sit on the garden wal ," said Moppet.

They turned their pinafores back to front and went up with a skip and a jump; Moppet's

white tucker fel down into the road.

Tom Kitten was quite unable to jump when walking upon his hind legs in trousers. He came

up the rockery by degrees, breaking the ferns and shedding buttons right and left.

He was al in pieces when he reached the top of the wal .

Moppet and Mittens tried to pul him together; his hat fel off, and the rest of his buttons

burst.

While they were in difficulties, there was a pit pat, paddle pat! and the three Puddle-ducks

came along the hard high road, marching one behind the other and doing the goose step—

pit pat, paddle pat! pit pat, waddle pat!

They stopped and stood in a row and stared up at the kittens. They had very smal eyes

and looked surprised. Then the two duck-birds, Rebeccah and Jemima Puddle-duck, picked

up the hat and tucker and put them on.

Mittens laughed so that she fel off the wal . Moppet and Tom descended after her; the

pinafores and al the rest of Tom's clothes came off on the way down.

"Come! Mr. Drake Puddle-duck," said Moppet. "Come and help us to dress him! Come and button up Tom!"

Mr. Drake Puddle-duck advanced in a slow sideways manner and picked up the various

articles.

But he put them on HIMSELF! They fitted him even worse than Tom Kitten.

"It's a very fine morning!" said Mr.

Drake Puddle-duck.

And he and Jemima and Rebeccah Puddle-duck set off up the road, keeping step—pit pat,

paddle pat! pit pat, waddle pat!

Then Tabitha Twitchit came down the garden and found her kittens on the wal with no

clothes on.

She pul ed them off the wal , smacked them, and took them back to the house.

"My friends wil arrive in a minute, and you are not fit to be seen; I am affronted," said Mrs.

Tabitha Twitchit.

She sent them upstairs; and I am sorry to say she told her friends that they were in bed with the measles—which was not true.

Quite the contrary; they were not in bed:

NOT in the least.

Somehow there were very extra—ordinary noises overhead, which disturbed the dignity

and repose of the tea party.

And I think that some day I shal have to make another, larger book, to tel you more about

Tom Kitten!

As for the Puddle-ducks—they went into a pond.

The clothes al came off directly, because there were no buttons.

And Mr. Drake Puddle-duck, and Jemima and Rebeccah, have been looking for them ever

since.

THE TALE OF JEMIMA PUDDLE-DUCK

[A Farmyard Tale for

Ralph and Betsy]

What a funny sight it is to see a brood of ducklings with a hen!

Listen to the story of Jemima Puddle-duck, who was annoyed because the farmer's wife

would not let her hatch her own eggs.

Her sister-in-law, Mrs. Rebeccah Puddle-duck, was perfectly wil ing to leave the hatching to

someone else—"I have not the patience to sit on a nest for twenty-eight days; and no more have you, Jemima. You would let them go cold; you know you would!"

"I wish to hatch my own eggs; I wil hatch them al by myself," quacked Jemima Puddle-duck.

She tried to hide her eggs; but they were always found and carried off.

Jemima Puddle-duck became quite desperate. She determined to make a nest right away

from the farm.

She set off on a fine spring afternoon along the cart road that leads over the hil .

She was wearing a shawl and a poke bonnet.

When she reached the top of the hil , she saw a wood in the distance.

She thought that it looked a safe quiet spot.

Jemima Puddle-duck was not much in the habit of flying. She ran downhil a few yards

flapping her shawl, and then she jumped off into the air.

She flew beautiful y when she had got a good start.

She skimmed along over the treetops until she saw an open place in the middle of the

wood, where the trees and brushwood had been cleared.

Jemima alighted rather heavily and began to waddle about in search of a convenient dry

nesting place. She rather fancied a tree stump amongst some tal foxgloves.

But—seated upon the stump, she was startled to find an elegantly dressed gentleman

reading a newspaper. He had black prick ears and sandy colored whiskers.

"Quack?" said Jemima Puddle-duck, with her head and her bonnet on the one side—

"Quack?"

The gentleman raised his eyes above his newspaper and looked curiously at Jemima—

"Madam, have you lost your way?" said he. He had a long bushy tail which he was sitting upon, as the stump was somewhat damp.

Jemima thought him mighty civil and handsome. She explained that she had not lost her

way, but that she was trying to find a convenient dry nesting place.

"Ah! is that so? Indeed!" said the gentleman with sandy whiskers, looking curiously at Jemima. He folded up the newspaper and put it in his coattail pocket.

Jemima complained of the superfluous hen.

"Indeed! How interesting! I wish I could meet with that fowl. I would teach it to mind its own business!

"But as to a nest—there is no difficulty: I have a sackful of feathers in my woodshed. No, my dear madam, you wil be in nobody's way. You may sit there as long as you like," said the bushy long-tailed gentleman.

He led the way to a very retired, dismal-looking house amongst the foxgloves.

It was built of faggots and turf, and there were two broken pails, one on top of another, by

way of a chimney.

"This is my summer residence; you would not find my earth—my winter house—so

convenient," said the hospitable gentleman.

There was a tumbledown shed at the back of the house, made of old soap boxes. The

gentleman opened the door and showed Jemima in.

The shed was almost quite ful of feathers—it was almost suffocating; but it was

comfortable and very soft.

Jemima Puddle-duck was rather surprised to find such a vast quantity of feathers. But it

was very comfortable; and she made a nest without any trouble at al .

When she came out, the sandy-whiskered gentleman was sitting on a log reading the

newspaper—at least he had it spread out, but he was looking over the top of it.

He was so polite that he seemed almost sorry to let Jemima go home for the night. He

promised to take great care of her nest until she came back again the next day.

He said he loved eggs and ducklings; he should be proud to see a fine nestful in his

woodshed.

Jemima Puddle-duck came every afternoon; she laid nine eggs in the nest. They were

greeny white and very large. The foxy gentleman admired them immensely. He used to turn

them over and count them when Jemima was not there.

At last Jemima told him that she intended to begin to sit next day—"and I wil bring a bag of corn with me, so that I need never leave my nest until the eggs are hatched. They might

catch cold," said the conscientious Jemima.

"Madam, I beg you not to trouble yourself with a bag; I wil provide oats. But before you commence your tedious sitting, I intend to give you a treat. Let us have a dinner party al to ourselves!

"May I ask you to bring up some herbs from the farm garden to make a savory omelet?

Sage and thyme, and mint and two onions, and some parsley. I wil provide lard for the

stuff—lard for the omelet," said the hospitable gentleman with sandy whiskers.

Jemima Puddle-duck was a simpleton: not even the mention of sage and onions made her

suspicious.

She went round the farm garden, nibbling off snippets of al the different sorts of herbs that are used for stuffing roast duck.

And she waddled into the kitchen and got two onions out of a basket.

The col ie dog Kep met her coming out, "What are you doing with those onions? Where do

you go every afternoon by yourself, Jemima Puddle-duck?"

Jemima was rather in awe of the col ie; she told him the whole story.

The col ie listened, with his wise head on one side; he grinned when she described the

polite gentleman with sandy whiskers.

He asked several questions about the wood and about the exact position of the house and

shed.

Then he went out, and trotted down the vil age. He went to look for two foxhound puppies

who were out at walk with the butcher.

Jemima Puddle-duck went up the cart road for the last time, on a sunny afternoon. She was

rather burdened with bunches of herbs and two onions in a bag.

She flew over the wood, and alighted opposite the house of the bushy long-tailed

gentleman.

He was sitting on a log; he sniffed the air and kept glancing uneasily round the wood. When

Jemima alighted he quite jumped.

"Come into the house as soon as you have looked at your eggs. Give me the herbs for the

omelet. Be sharp!"

He was rather abrupt. Jemima Puddle-duck had never heard him speak like that.

She felt surprised and uncomfortable.

While she was inside she heard pattering feet round the back of the shed. Someone with a

black nose sniffed at the bottom of the door, and them locked it.

Jemima became much alarmed.

A moment afterward there were most awful noises—barking, baying, growls and howls,

squealing and groans.

And nothing more was ever seen of that foxy-whiskered gentleman.

Presently Kep opened the door of the shed and let out Jemima Puddle-duck.

Unfortunately the puppies rushed in and gobbled up al the eggs before he could stop them.

He had a bite on his ear, and both the puppies were limping.

Jemima Puddle-duck was escorted home in tears on account of those eggs.

She laid some more in June, and she was permitted to keep them herself: but only four of

them hatched.

Jemima Puddle-duck said that it was because of her nerves; but she had always been a

bad sitter.

THE ROLY-POLY PUDDING

[In Remembrance of "Sammy," the Intel igent Pink-Eyed Representative of a Persecuted (But Irrepressible) Race. An Affectionate Little Friend, and Most Accomplished Thief!]

Once upon a time there was an old cat, cal ed Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit, who was an anxious

parent. She used to lose her kittens continual y, and whenever they were lost they were

always in mischief!

On baking day she determined to shut them up in a cupboard.

She caught Moppet and Mittens, but she could not find Tom.

Mrs. Tabitha went up and down al over the house, mewing for Tom Kitten. She looked in

the pantry under the staircase, and she searched the best spare bedroom that was al

covered up with dust sheets. She went right upstairs and looked into the attics, but she

could not find him anywhere.

It was an old, old house, ful of cupboards and passages. Some of the wal s were four feet

thick, and there used to be queer noises inside them, as if there might be a little secret

staircase. Certainly there were odd little jagged doorways in the wainscot, and things

disappeared at night— especial y cheese and bacon.

Mrs. Tabitha became more and more distracted and mewed dreadful y.

While their mother was searching the house, Moppet and Mittens had got into mischief.

The cupboard door was not locked, so they pushed it open and came out.

They went straight to the dough which was set to rise in a pan before the fire.

They patted it with their little soft paws—"Shal we make dear little muffins?" said Mittens to Moppet.

But just at that moment somebody knocked at the front door, and Moppet jumped into the

flour barrel in a fright.

Mittens ran away to the dairy and hid in an empty jar on the stone shelf where the milk pans

stand.

The visitor was a neighbor, Mrs. Ribby; she had cal ed to borrow some yeast.

Mr. Tabitha came downstairs mewing dreadful y—"Come in, Cousin Ribby, come in, and sit

ye down! I'm in sad trouble, Cousin Ribby," said Tabitha, shedding tears. "I've lost my dear son Thomas; I'm afraid the rats have got him." She wiped her eyes with her apron.

"He's a bad kitten, Cousin Tabitha; he made a cat's cradle of my best bonnet last time I came to tea. Where have you looked for him?"

"Al over the house! The rats are too many for me. What a thing it is to have an unruly

family!" said Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit.

"I'm not afraid of rats; I wil help you to find him; and whip him, too! What is al that soot in the fender?"

"The chimney wants sweeping—

Oh, dear me, Cousin Ribby—now

Moppet and Mittens are gone!

"They have both got out of the cupboard!"

Ribby and Tabitha set to work to search the house thoroughly again. They poked under the

beds with Ribby's umbrel a and they rummaged in cupboards. They even fetched a candle

and looked inside a clothes chest in one of the attics. They could not find anything, but

once they heard a door bang and somebody scuttered downstairs.

"Yes, it is infested with rats," said Tabitha tearful y. "I caught seven young ones out of one hole in the back kitchen, and we had them for dinner last Saturday. And once I saw the old

father rat—an enormous old rat— Cousin Ribby. I was just going to jump upon him, when

he showed his yel ow teeth at me and whisked down the hole.

"The rats get upon my nerves,

Cousin Ribby," said Tabitha.

Ribby and Tabitha searched and searched. They both heard a curious roly-poly noise

under the attic floor. But there was nothing to be seen.

They returned to the kitchen. "Here's one of your kittens at least," said Ribby, dragging Moppet out of the flour barrel.

They shook the flour off her and set her down on the kitchen floor. She seemed to be in a

terrible fright.

"Oh! Mother, Mother," said Moppet, "there's been an old woman rat in the kitchen, and she's stolen some of the dough!"

The two cats ran to look at the dough pan. Sure enough there were marks of little

scratching fingers, and a lump of dough was gone!

"Which way did she go, Moppet?"

But Moppet had been too much frightened to peep out of the barrel again.

Ribby and Tabitha took her with them to keep her safely in sight, while they went on with

their search.

They went into the dairy.

The first thing they found was

Mittens, hiding in an empty jar.

They tipped over the jar, and she scrambled out.

"Oh, Mother, Mother!" said

Mittens—

"Oh! Mother, Mother, there has been an old man rat in the dairy—a dreadful 'normous big

rat, Mother; and he's stolen a pat of butter and the rol ing pin."

Ribby and Tabitha looked at one another.

"A rol ing pin and butter! Oh, my poor son Thomas!" exclaimed Tabitha, wringing her paws.

"A rol ing pin?" said Ribby. "Did we not hear a roly-poly noise in the attic when we were looking into that chest?"

Ribby and Tabitha rushed upstairs again. Sure enough the roly-poly noise was stil going on

quite distinctly under the attic floor.

"This is serious, Cousin Tabitha," said Ribby. "We must send for John Joiner at once, with a saw."

Now, this is what had been happening to Tom Kitten, and it shows how very unwise it is to

go up a chimney in a very old house, where a person does not know his way, and where

there are enormous rats.

Tom Kitten did not want to be shut up in a cupboard. When he saw that his mother was

going to bake, he determined to hide.

He looked about for a nice convenient place, and he fixed upon the chimney.

The fire had only just been lighted, and it was not hot; but there was a white choky smoke

from the green sticks. Tom Kitten got upon the fender and looked up. It was a big old-

fashioned fireplace.

The chimney itself was wide enough inside for a man to stand up and walk about. So there

was plenty of room for a little Tom Cat.

He jumped right up into the fireplace, balancing himself upon the iron bar where the kettle

hangs.

Tom Kitten took another big jump off the bar and landed on a ledge high up inside the

chimney, knocking down some soot into the fender.

Tom Kitten coughed and choked with the smoke; he could hear the sticks beginning to

crackle and burn in the fireplace down below. He made up his mind to climb right to the top,

and get out on the slates, and try to catch sparrows.

"I cannot go back. If I slipped I might fal in the fire and singe my beautiful tail and my little blue jacket."

The chimney was a very big old- fashioned one. It was built in the days when people burnt

logs of wood upon the hearth.

The chimney stack stood up above the roof like a little stone tower, and the daylight shone

down from the top, under the slanting slates that kept out the rain.

Tom Kitten was getting very frightened! He climbed up, and up, and up.

Then he waded sideways through inches of soot. He was like a little sweep himself.

It was most confusing in the dark.

One flue seemed to lead into another.

There was less smoke, but Tom

Kitten felt quite lost.

He scrambled up and up; but before he reached the chimney top he came to a place where

somebody had loosened a stone in the wal . There were some mutton bones lying about.

"This seems funny," said Tom Kitten. "Who has been gnawing bones up here in the chimney? I wish I had never come! And what a funny smel ? It is something like mouse,

only dreadful y strong. It makes me sneeze," said Tom Kitten.

He squeezed through the hole in the wal and dragged himself along a most uncomfortably

tight passage where there was scarcely any light.

He groped his way careful y for several yards; he was at the back of the skirting board in

the attic, where there is a little mark * in the picture.

Al at once he fel head over heels in the dark, down a hole, and landed on a heap of very

dirty rags.

When Tom Kitten picked himself up and looked about him, he found himself in a place that

he had never seen before, although he had lived al his life in the house. It was a very smal stuffy fusty room, with boards, and rafters, and cobwebs, and lath and plaster.

Opposite to him—as far away as he could sit—was an enormous rat.

"What do you mean by tumbling into my bed al covered with smuts?" said the rat,

chattering his teeth.

"Please, sir, the chimney wants sweeping," said poor Tom Kitten.

"Anna Maria! Anna Maria!" squeaked the rat. There was a pattering noise and an old

woman rat poked her head round a rafter.

Al in a minute she rushed upon Tom Kitten, and before he knew what was happening. . .

. . . his coat was pul ed off, and he was rol ed up in a bundle, and tied with string in very hard knots.

Anna Maria did the tying. The old rat watched her and took snuff. When she had finished,

they both sat staring at him with their mouths open.

"Anna Maria," said the old man rat (whose name was Samuel Whiskers), "Anna Maria, make me a kitten dumpling roly-poly pudding for my dinner."

"It requires dough and a pat of butter and a rol ing pin," said Anna Maria, considering Tom Kitten with her head on one side.

"No," said Samuel Whiskers, "make it properly, Anna Maria, with breadcrumbs."

"Nonsense! Butter and dough," replied Anna Maria.

The two rats consulted together for a few minutes and then went away.

Samuel Whiskers got through a hole in the wainscot and went boldly down the front

staircase to the dairy to get the butter. He did not meet anybody.

He made a second journey for the rol ing pin. He pushed it in front of him with his paws, like a brewer's man trundling a barrel.

He could hear Ribby and Tabitha talking, but they were too busy lighting the candle to look

into the chest.

They did not see him.

Anna Maria went down by way of skirting board and a window shutter to the kitchen to steal

the dough.

She borrowed a smal saucer and scooped up the dough with her paws.

She did not observe Moppet.

While Tom Kitten was left alone under the floor of the attic, he wriggled about and tried to

mew for help.

But his mouth was ful of soot and cobwebs, and he was tied up in such very tight knots, he

could not make anybody hear him.

Except a spider who came out of a crack in the ceiling and examined the knots critical y,

from a safe distance.

It was a judge of knots because it had a habit of tying up unfortunate bluebottles. It did not offer to assist him.

Tom Kitten wriggled and squirmed until he was quite exhausted.

Presently the rats came back and set to work to make him into a dumpling. First they

smeared him with butter, and then they rol ed him in the dough.

"Wil not the string be very indigestible, Anna Maria?" inquired Samuel Whiskers.

Anna Maria said she thought that it was of no consequence; but she wished that Tom Kitten

would hold his head stil , as it disarranged the pastry. She laid hold of his ears.

Tom Kitten bit and spit, and mewed and wriggled; and the rol ing pin went roly-poly, roly;

roly-poly, roly. The rats each held an end.

"His tail is sticking out! You did not fetch enough dough, Anna Maria."

"I fetched as much as I could carry," replied Anna Maria.

"I do not think"—said Samuel

Whiskers, pausing to take a look at

Tom Kitten—"I do NOT think it wil be

a good pudding. It smel s sooty."

Anna Maria was about to argue the point when al at once there began to be other sounds

up above—the rasping noise of a saw, and the noise of a little dog, scratching and yelping!

The rats dropped the rol ing pin and listened attentively.

"We are discovered and interrupted, Anna Maria; let us col ect our property—and other

people's—and depart at once.

"I fear that we shal be obliged to leave this pudding.

"But I am persuaded that the knots would have proved indigestible, whatever you may urge to the contrary."

"Come away at once and help me to tie up some mutton bones in a counterpane," said

Anna Maria. "I have got half a smoked ham hidden in the chimney."

So it happened that by the time John Joiner had got the plank up—there was nobody here

under the floor except the rol ing pin and Tom Kitten in a very dirty dumpling!

But there was a strong smel of rats; and John Joiner spent the rest of the morning sniffing

and whining, and wagging his tail, and going round and round with his head in the hole like

a gimlet.

Then he nailed the plank down again and put his tools in his bag, and came downstairs.

The cat family had quite recovered.

They invited him to stay to dinner.

The dumpling had been peeled off Tom Kitten and made separately into a bag pudding,

with currants in it to hide the smuts.

They had been obliged to put Tom Kitten into a hot bath to get the butter off.

John Joiner smelt the pudding; but he regretted that he had not time to stay to dinner,

because he had just finished making a wheelbarrow for Miss Potter, and she had ordered

two hen coops.

And when I was going to the post late in the afternoon—I looked up the land from the

corner, and I saw Mr. Samuel Whiskers and his wife on the run, with big bundles on a little

wheelbarrow, which looked very much like mine.

They were just turning in at the gate to the barn of Farmer Potatoes.

Samuel Whiskers was puffing and out of breath. Anna Maria was stil arguing in shril tones.

She seemed to know her way, and she seemed to have a quantity of luggage.

I am sure I never gave her leave to borrow my wheelbarrow!

They went into the barn and hauled their parcels with a bit of string to the top of the

haymow.

After that, there were no more rats for a long time at Tabitha Twitchit's.

As for Farmer Potatoes, he has been driven nearly distracted. There are rats, and rats, and

rats in his barn! They eat up the chicken food, and steal the oats and bran, and make holes

in the meal bags.

And they are al descended from Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Whiskers— children and

grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren.

There is no end to them!

Moppet and Mittens have grown up into very good rat-catchers.

They go out rat-catching in the vil age, and they find plenty of employment. They charge so

much a dozen and earn their living very comfortably.

They hang up the rats' tails in a row on the barn door, to show how many they have

caught—dozens and dozens of them.

But Tom Kitten has always been afraid of a rat; he never durst face anything that is bigger

than—

A Mouse.

THE TALE OF THE FLOPSY BUNNIES

[For Al Little Friends of

Mr. McGregor and Peter and Benjamin]

It is said that the effect of eating too much lettuce is "soporific."

I have never felt sleepy after eating lettuces; but then I am not a rabbit.

They certainly had a very soporific effect upon the Flopsy Bunnies!

When Benjamin Bunny grew up, he married his Cousin Flopsy. They had a large family,

and they were very improvident and cheerful.

I do not remember the separate names of their children; they were general y cal ed the

"Flopsy Bunnies."

As there was not always quite enough to eat,—Benjamin used to borrow cabbages from

Flopsy's brother, Peter Rabbit, who kept a nursery garden.

Sometimes Peter Rabbit had no cabbages to spare.

When this happened, the Flopsy

Bunnies went across the field to a

rubbish heap, in the ditch outside

Mr. McGregor's garden.

Mr. McGregor's rubbish heap was a mixture. There were jam pots and paper bags, and

mountains of chopped grass from the mowing machine (which always tasted oily), and

some rotten vegetable marrows and an old boot or two. One day—oh joy!—there were a

quantity of overgrown lettuces, which had "shot" into flower.

The Flopsy Bunnies simply stuffed themselves with lettuces. By degrees, one after another,

they were overcome with slumber, and lay down in the mown grass.

Benjamin was not so much overcome as his children. Before going to sleep he was

sufficiently wide awake to put a paper bag over his head to keep off the flies.

The little Flopsy Bunnies slept delightful y in the warm sun. From the lawn beyond the

garden came the distant clacketty sound of the mowing machine. The blue-bottles buzzed

about the wal , and a little old mouse picked over the rubbish among the jam pots.

(I can tel you her name, she was cal ed Thomasina Tittle-mouse, a woodmouse with a long

tail.)

She rustled across the paper bag, and awakened Benjamin Bunny.

The mouse apologized profusely, and said that she knew Peter Rabbit.

While she and Benjamin were talking, close under the wal , they heard a heavy tread above

their heads; and suddenly Mr. McGregor emptied out a sackful of lawn mowings right upon

the top of the sleeping Flopsy Bunnies! Benjamin shrank down under his paper bag. The

mouse hid in a jam pot.

The little rabbits smiled sweetly in their sleep under the shower of grass; they did not awake because the lettuces had been so soporific.

They dreamt that their mother Flopsy was tucking them up in a hay bed.

Mr. McGregor looked down after emptying his sack. He saw some funny little brown tips of

ears sticking up through the lawn mowings. He stared at them for some time.

Presently a fly settled on one of them and it moved.

Mr. McGregor climbed down on to the rubbish heap—

"One, two, three, four! five! six leetle rabbits!" said he as he dropped them into his sack.

The Flopsy Bunnies dreamt that their mother was turning them over in bed. They stirred a

little in their sleep, but stil they did not wake up.

Mr. McGregor tied up the sack and left it on the wal .

He went to put away the mowing machine.

While he was gone, Mrs. Flopsy Bunny (who had remained at home) came across the field.

She looked suspiciously at the sack and wondered where everybody was?

Then the mouse came out of her jam pot, and Benjamin took the paper bag off his head,

and they told the doleful tale.

Benjamin and Flopsy were in despair, they could not undo the string.

But Mrs. Tittlemouse was a resourceful person. She nibbled a hole in the bottom corner of

the sack.

The little rabbits were pul ed out and pinched to wake them.

Their parents stuffed the empty sack with three rotten vegetable marrows, an old

blackingbrush and two decayed turnips.

Then they al hid under a bush and watched for Mr. McGregor.

Mr. McGregor came back and picked up the sack, and carried it off.

He carried it hanging down, as if it were rather heavy.

The Flopsy Bunnies fol owed at a safe distance.

They watched him go into his house.

And then they crept up to the window to listen.

Mr. McGregor threw down the sack on the stone floor in a way that would have been

extremely painful to the Flopsy Bunnies, if they had happened to have been inside it.

They could hear him drag his chair on the flags, and chuckle—

"One, two, three, four, five, six leetle rabbits!" said Mr. McGregor.

"Eh? What's that? What have they been spoiling now?" enquired Mrs. McGregor.

"One, two, three, four, five, six leetle fat rabbits!" repeated Mr. McGregor, counting on his fingers—"one, two, three—"

"Don't you be sil y: what do you mean, you sil y old man?"

"In the sack! one, two, three, four, five, six!" replied Mr. McGregor.

(The youngest Flopsy Bunny got upon the windowsil .)

Mrs. McGregor took hold of the sack and felt it. She said she could feel six, but they must

be OLD rabbits, because they were so hard and al different shapes.

"Not fit to eat; but the skins wil do fine to line my old cloak."

"Line your old cloak?" shouted Mr. McGregor—"I shal sel them and buy myself baccy!"

"Rabbit tobacco! I shal skin them and cut off their heads."

Mrs. McGregor untied the sack and put her hand inside.

When she felt the vegetables she became very very angry. She said that Mr. McGregor had

"done it a purpose."

And Mr. McGregor was very angry too. One of the rotten marrows came flying through the

kitchen window, and hit the youngest Flopsy Bunny.

It was rather hurt.

Then Benjamin and Flopsy thought that it was time to go home.

So Mr. McGregor did not get his tobacco, and Mrs. McGregor did not get her rabbit skins.

But next Christmas Thomasina Tittlemouse got a present of enough rabbit wool to make

herself a cloak and a hood, and a handsome muff and a pair of warm mittens.

THE TALE OF MRS. TITTLEMOUSE

[Nel ie's

Little Book]

Once upon a time there was a woodmouse, and her name was Mrs. Tittlemouse.

She lived in a bank under a hedge.

Such a funny house! There were yards and yards of sandy passages, leading to store-

rooms and nut cel ars and seed cel ars, al amongst the roots of the hedge.

There was a kitchen, a parlor, a pantry, and a larder.

Also, there was Mrs. Tittle-mouse's bedroom, where she slept in a little box bed!

Mrs. Tittlemouse was a most terribly tidy particular little mouse, always sweeping and

dusting the soft sandy floors.

Sometimes a beetle lost its way in the passages.

"Shuh! shuh! little dirty feet!" said Mrs. Tittlemouse, clattering her dustpan.

And one day a little old woman ran up and down in a red spotty cloak.

"Your house is on fire, Mother Ladybird! Fly away home to your children!"

Another day, a big fat spider came in to shelter from the rain.

"Beg pardon, is this not Miss

Muffet's?"

"Go away, you bold bad spider! Leaving ends of cobweb al over my nice clean house!"

She bundled the spider out at a window.

He let himself down the hedge with a long thin bit of string.

Mrs. Tittlemouse went on her way to a distant storeroom, to fetch cherrystones and thistle-

down seed for dinner.

Al along the passage she sniffed, and looked at the floor.

"I smel a smel of honey; is it the cowslips outside, in the hedge? I am sure I can see the marks of little dirty feet."

Suddenly round a corner, she met Babbitty Bumble—"Zizz, Bizz, Bizzz!" said the bumble bee.

Mrs. Tittlemouse looked at her severely. She wished that she had a broom.

"Good-day, Babbitty Bumble; I should be glad to buy some bees- wax. But what are you

doing down here? Why do you always come in at a window, and say, Zizz, Bizz, Bizzz?"

Mrs. Tittle-mouse began to get cross.

"Zizz, Wizz, Wizzz!" replied Babbitty Bumble in a peevish squeak. She sidled down a passage, and disappeared into a storeroom which had been used for acorns.

Mrs. Tittlemouse had eaten the acorns before Christmas; the storeroom ought to have been

empty.

But it was ful of untidy dry moss.

Mrs. Tittlemouse began to pul out the moss. Three or four other bees put their heads out,

and buzzed fiercely.

"I am not in the habit of letting lodgings; this is an intrusion!" said Mrs. Tittlemouse. "I wil have them turned out—" "Buzz! Buzz! Buzzz!"—"I wonder who would help me?" "Bizz, Wizz, Wizzz!"

—"I wil not have Mr. Jackson; he never wipes his feet."

Mrs. Tittlemouse decided to leave the bees til after dinner.

When she got back to the parlor, she heard some one coughing in a fat voice; and there sat

Mr. Jackson himself.

He was sitting al over a smal rocking chair, twiddling his thumbs and smiling, with his feet on the fender.

He lived in a drain below the hedge, in a very dirty wet ditch.

"How do you do, Mr. Jackson? Deary me, you have got very wet!"

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mrs. Tittlemouse! I'll sit awhile and dry myself," said Mr.

Jackson.

He sat and smiled, and the water dripped off his coat tails. Mrs. Tittlemouse went round

with a mop.

He sat such a while that he had to be asked if he would take some dinner?

First she offered him cherry-stones. "Thank you, thank you, Mrs. Tittlemouse! No teeth, no teeth, no teeth!" said Mr. Jackson.

He opened his mouth most unnecessarily wide; he certainly had not a tooth in his head.

Then she offered him thistle-down seed—"Tiddly, widdly, widdly! Pouff, pouff, puff." said Mr.

Jackson. He blew the thistle-down al over the room.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mrs. Tittlemouse! Now what I real y—REALLY should

like—would be a little dish of honey!"

"I am afraid I have not got any, Mr. Jackson!" said Mrs. Tittlemouse.

"Tiddly, widdly, widdly, Mrs. Tittlemouse!" said the smiling Mr. Jackson, "I can SMELL it; that is why I came to cal ."

Mr. Jackson rose ponderously from the table, and began to look into the cupboards.

Mrs. Tittlemouse fol owed him with a dishcloth, to wipe his large wet footmarks off the parlor floor.

When he had convinced himself that there was no honey in the cupboards, he began to

walk down the passage.

"Indeed, indeed, you wil stick fast, Mr. Jackson!"

"Tiddly, widdly, widdly, Mrs.

Tittlemouse!"

First he squeezed into the pantry.

"Tiddly, widdly, widdly? No honey? No honey, Mrs. Tittlemouse?"

There were three creepy-crawly people hiding in the plate rack. Two of them got away; but

the littlest one he caught.

Then he squeezed into the larder. Miss Butterfly was tasting the sugar; but she flew away

out of the window.

"Tiddly, widdly, widdly, Mrs. Tittlemouse; you seem to have plenty of visitors!"

"And without any invitation!" said Mrs. Thomasina Tittlemouse.

They went along the sandy passage—"Tiddly, widdly—" "Buzz! Wizz! Wizz!"

He met Babbitty round a corner, and snapped her up, and put her down again.

"I do not like bumble bees. They are al over bristles," said Mr. Jackson, wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve.

"Get out, you nasty old toad!" shrieked Babbitty Bumble.

"I shal go distracted!" scolded Mrs. Tittlemouse.

She shut herself up in the nut cel ar while Mr. Jackson pul ed out the bees-nest. He seemed

to have no objection to stings.

When Mrs. Tittlemouse ventured to come out—everybody had gone away.

But the untidiness was something dreadful—"Never did I see such a mess—smears of

honey; and moss, and thistledown—and marks of big and little dirty feet—al over my nice

clean house!"

She gathered up the moss and the remains of the bees-wax.

Then she went out and fetched some twigs, to partly close up the front door.

"I wil make it too smal for

Mr. Jackson!"

She fetched soft soap, and flannel, and a new scrubbing brush from the storeroom. But she

was too tired to do any more. First she fel asleep in her chair, and then she went to bed.

"Wil it ever be tidy again?" said poor Mrs. Tittlemouse.

Next morning she got up very early and began a spring cleaning which lasted a fort-night.

She swept, and scrubbed, and dusted; and she rubbed up the furniture with bees-wax, and

polished her little tin spoons.

When it was al beautiful y neat and clean, she gave a party to five other little mice, without Mr. Jackson.

He smelt the party and came up the bank, but he could not squeeze in at the door.

So they handed him out acorn cupfuls of honeydew through the window, and he was not at

al offended.

He sat outside in the sun, and said—"Tiddly, widdly, widdly! Your very good health, Mrs.

Tittlemouse!"

THE TALE OF TIMMY TIPTOES

[For Many Unknown Little Friends,

Including Monica]

Once upon a time there was a little fat comfortable grey squirrel, cal ed Timmy Tiptoes. He

had a nest thatched with leaves in the top of a tal tree; and he had a little squirrel wife

cal ed Goody.

Timmy Tiptoes sat out, enjoying the breeze; he whisked his tail and chuckled—"Little wife Goody, the nuts are ripe; we must lay up a store for winter and spring." Goody Tiptoes was busy pushing moss under the thatch—"The nest is so snug, we shal be sound asleep al

winter." "Then we shal wake up al the thinner, when there is nothing to eat in spring-time,"

replied prudent Timothy.

When Timmy and Goody Tiptoes came to the nut thicket, they found other squirrels were

there already.

Timmy took off his jacket and hung it on a twig; they worked away quietly by themselves.

Every day they made several journeys and picked quantities of nuts. They carried them

away in bags, and stored them in several hol ow stumps near the tree where they had built

their nest.

When these stumps were ful , they began to empty the bags into a hole high up a tree, that

had belonged to a woodpecker; the nuts rattled down—down—down inside.

"How shal you ever get them out again? It is like a money box!" said Goody.

"I shal be much thinner before springtime, my love," said Timmy Tiptoes, peeping into the hole.

They did col ect quantities—because they did not lose them! Squirrels who bury their nuts

in the ground lose more than half, because they cannot remember the place.

The most forgetful squirrel in the wood was cal ed Silvertail. He began to dig, and he could

not remember. And then he dug again and found some nuts that did not belong to him; and

there was a fight. And other squirrels began to dig,—the whole wood was in commotion!

Unfortunately, just at this time a flock of little birds flew by, from bush to bush, searching for green caterpil ars and spiders. There were several sorts of little birds, twittering different songs.

The first one sang—"Who's bin digging-up MY nuts? Who's-been- digging-up MY nuts?"

And another sang—"Little bita bread and-NO-cheese! Little bit-a- bread an'-NO-cheese!"

The squirrels fol owed and listened. The first little bird flew into the bush where Timmy and Goody Tiptoes were quietly tying up their bags, and it sang—"Who's-bin digging-up MY

nuts? Who's been digging-up MY-nuts?"

Timmy Tiptoes went on with his work without replying; indeed, the little bird did not expect

an answer. It was only singing its natural song, and it meant nothing at al .

But when the other squirrels heard that song, they rushed upon Timmy Tiptoes and cuffed

and scratched him, and upset his bag of nuts. The innocent little bird which had caused al

the mischief, flew away in a fright!

Timmy rol ed over and over, and then turned tail and fled towards his nest, fol owed by a

crowd of squirrels shouting—"Who's-been digging-up MY-nuts?"

They caught him and dragged him up the very same tree, where there was the little round

hole, and they pushed him in. The hole was much too smal for Timmy Tiptoes' figure. They

squeezed him dreadful y, it was a wonder they did not break his ribs. "We wil leave him here til he confesses," said Silvertail Squirrel and he shouted into the hole—"Who's-been-digging-up MY-nuts?"

Timmy Tiptoes made no reply; he had tumbled down inside the tree, upon half a peck of

nuts belonging to himself. He lay quite stunned and stil .

Goody Tiptoes picked up the nut bags and went home. She made a cup of tea for Timmy;

but he didn't come and didn't come.

Goody Tiptoes passed a lonely and unhappy night. Next morning she ventured back to the

nut bushes to look for him; but the other unkind squirrels drove her away.

She wandered al over the wood, cal ing—

"Timmy Tiptoes! Timmy Tip-toes! Oh, where is Timmy Tiptoes?"

In the meantime Timmy Tiptoes came to his senses. He found himself tucked up in a little

moss bed, very much in the dark, feeling sore; it seemed to be under ground. Timmy

coughed and groaned, because his ribs hurted him. There was a chirpy noise, and a smal

striped Chipmunk appeared with a night light, and hoped he felt better?

It was most kind to Timmy Tiptoes; it lent him its nightcap; and the house was ful of

provisions.

The Chipmunk explained that it had rained nuts through the top of the tree—"Besides, I

found a few buried!" It laughed and chuckled when it heard Timmy's story. While Timmy

was confined to bed, it 'ticed him to eat quantities—"But how shal I ever get out through that hole unless I thin myself? My wife wil be anxious!" "Just another nut—or two nuts; let me crack them for you," said the Chipmunk. Timmy Tiptoes grew fatter and fatter!

Now Goody Tiptoes had set to work again by herself. She did not put any more nuts into

the woodpecker's hole, because she had always doubted how they could be got out again.

She hid them under a tree root; they rattled down, down, down. Once when Goody emptied

an extra big bagful, there was a decided squeak; and next time Goody brought another

bagful, a little striped Chipmunk scrambled out in a hurry.

"It is getting perfectly ful -up downstairs; the sitting room is ful , and they are rol ing along the passage; and my husband, Chippy Hackee, has run away and left me. What is the

explanation of these showers of nuts?"

"I am sure I beg your pardon; I did not know that anybody lived here," said Mrs. Goody Tiptoes; "but where is Chippy Hackee? My husband, Timmy Tiptoes, has run away too." "I know where Chippy is; a little bird told me," said Mrs. Chippy Hackee.

She led the way to the woodpecker's tree, and they listened at the hole.

Down below there was a noise of nutcrackers, and a fat squirrel voice and a thin squirrel

voice were singing together—

"My little old man and I fel out,

How shal we bring this matter about?

Bring it about as wel as you can,

And get you gone, you little old man!"

"You could squeeze in, through

that little round hole," said Goody

Tiptoes. "Yes, I could," said the

Chipmunk, "but my husband,

Chippy Hackee, bites!"

Down below there was a noise of cracking nuts and nibbling; and then the fat squirrel voice

and the thin squirrel voice sang—

"For the diddlum day

Day diddle durn di!

Day diddle diddle dum day!"

Then Goody peeped in at the

hole, and cal ed down—"Timmy

Tiptoes! Oh fie, Timmy Tiptoes!"

And Timmy replied, "Is that you,

Goody Tiptoes? Why, certainly!"

He came up and kissed Goody through the hole; but he was so fat that he could not get out.

Chippy Hackee was not too fat, but he did not want to come; he stayed down below and

chuckled.

And so it went on for a fort-night; til a big wind blew off the top of the tree, and opened up the hole and let in the rain.

Then Timmy Tiptoes came out, and went home with an umbrel a.

But Chippy Hackee continued to camp out for another week, although it was uncomfortable.

At last a large bear came walking through the wood. Perhaps he also was looking for nuts;

he seemed to be sniffing around.

Chippy Hackee went home in a hurry!

And when Chippy Hackee got home, he found he had caught a cold in his head; and he

was more uncomfortable stil .

And now Timmy and Goody Tiptoes keep their nut store fastened up with a little padlock.

And whenever that little bird sees the Chipmunks, he sings—"Who's-been-digging-up MY-

nuts? Who's been dig-ging-up MY-nuts?" But nobody ever answers!

THE TALE OF MR. TOD

[For Wil iam Francis of Ulva—Someday!]

I have made many books about wel -behaved people. Now, for a change, I am going to

make a story about two disagreeable people, cal ed Tommy Brock and Mr. Tod.

Nobody could cal Mr. Tod "nice." The rabbits could not bear him; they could smel him half a mile off. He was of a wandering habit and he had foxy whiskers; they never knew where

he would be next.

One day he was living in a stick-house in the coppice [grove], causing terror to the family of old Mr. Benjamin Bouncer. Next day he moved into a pol ard wil ow near the lake,

frightening the wild ducks and the water rats.

In winter and early spring he might general y be found in an earth amongst the rocks at the

top of Bul Banks, under Oatmeal Crag.

He had half a dozen houses, but he was seldom at home.

The houses were not always empty when Mr. Tod moved OUT; because sometimes

Tommy Brock moved IN; (without asking leave).

Tommy Brock was a short bristly fat waddling person with a grin; he grinned al over his

face. He was not nice in his habits. He ate wasp nests and frogs and worms; and he

waddled about by moonlight, digging things up.

His clothes were very dirty; and as he slept in the daytime, he always went to bed in his

boots. And the bed which he went to bed in was general y Mr. Tod's.

Now Tommy Brock did occasional y eat rabbit pie; but it was only very little young ones

occasional y, when other food was real y scarce. He was friendly with old Mr. Bouncer; they

agreed in disliking the wicked otters and Mr. Tod; they often talked over that painful subject.

Old Mr. Bouncer was stricken in years. He sat in the spring sunshine outside the burrow, in

a muffler; smoking a pipe of rabbit tobacco.

He lived with his son Benjamin

Bunny and his daughter-in-law

Flopsy, who had a young family.

Old Mr. Bouncer was in charge of

the family that afternoon, because

Benjamin and Flopsy had gone out.

The little rabbit babies were just old enough to open their blue eyes and kick. They lay in a fluffy bed of rabbit wool and hay, in a shal ow burrow, separate from the main rabbit hole.

To tel the truth—old Mr. Bouncer had forgotten them.

He sat in the sun, and conversed cordial y with Tommy Brock, who was passing through the

wood with a sack and a little spud which he used for digging, and some mole traps. He

complained bitterly about the scarcity of pheasants' eggs, and accused Mr. Tod of poaching

them. And the otters had cleared off al the frogs while he was asleep in winter—"I have not had a good square meal for a fort-night, I am living on pig-nuts. I shal have to turn

vegetarian and eat my own tail!" said Tommy Brock.

It was not much of a joke, but it tickled old Mr. Bouncer; because Tommy Brock was so fat

and stumpy and grinning.

So old Mr. Bouncer laughed; and pressed Tommy Brock to come inside, to taste a slice of

seed cake and "a glass of my daughter Flopsy's cowslip wine." Tommy Brock squeezed

himself into the rabbit hole with alacrity.

Then old Mr. Bouncer smoked another pipe, and gave Tommy Brock a cabbage leaf cigar

which was so very strong that it made Tommy Brock grin more than ever; and the smoke

fil ed the burrow. Old Mr. Bouncer coughed and laughed; and Tommy Brock puffed and

grinned.

And Mr. Bouncer laughed and coughed, and shut his eyes because of the cabbage smoke

……….

When Flopsy and Benjamin came back old Mr. Bouncer woke up. Tommy Brock and al the

young rabbit babies had disappeared!

Mr. Bouncer would not confess that he had admitted anybody into the rabbit hole. But the

smel of badger was undeniable; and there were round heavy footmarks in the sand. He

was in disgrace; Flopsy wrung her ears, and slapped him.

Benjamin Bunny set off at once after Tommy Brock.

There was not much difficulty in tracking him; he had left his foot-mark and gone slowly up

the winding footpath through the wood. Here he had rooted up the moss and wood sorrel.

There he had dug quite a deep hole for dog darnel; and had set a mole trap. A little stream

crossed the way. Benjamin skipped lightly over dry-foot; the badger's heavy steps showed

plainly in the mud.

The path led to a part of the thicket where the trees had been cleared; there were leafy oak

stumps, and a sea of blue hyacinths—but the smel that made Benjamin stop was NOT the

smel of flowers!

Mr. Tod's stick house was before him; and, for once, Mr. Tod was at home. There was not

only a foxy flavor in proof of it—there was smoke coming out of the broken pail that served

as a chimney.

Benjamin Bunny sat up, staring, his whiskers twitched. Inside the stick house somebody

dropped a plate, and said something. Benjamin stamped his foot, and bolted.

He never stopped til he came to the other side of the wood. Apparently Tommy Brock had

turned the same way. Upon the top of the wal there were again the marks of

badger; and some ravel ings of a sack had caught on a briar.

Benjamin climbed over the wal , into a meadow. He found another mole trap newly set; he

was stil upon the track of Tommy Brock. It was getting late in the afternoon. Other rabbits

were coming out to enjoy the evening air. One of them in a blue coat, by himself, was busily

hunting for dandelions.— "Cousin Peter! Peter Rabbit, Peter Rabbit!" shouted Benjamin Bunny.

The blue coated rabbit sat up with pricked ears—"Whatever is the matter, Cousin

Benjamin? Is it a cat? or John Stoat Ferret?"

"No, no, no! He's bagged my family—Tommy Brock—in a sack—have you seen him?"

"Tommy Brock? how many,

Cousin Benjamin?"

"Seven, Cousin Peter, and al of them twins! Did he come this way? Please tel me quick!"

"Yes, yes; not ten minutes since… he said they were CATERPILLARS; I did think they were

kicking rather hard, for caterpil ars."

"Which way? which way has he gone, Cousin Peter?"

"He had a sack with something live in it; I watched him set a mole trap. Let me use my

mind, Cousin Benjamin; tel me from the beginning," Benjamin did so.

"My Uncle Bouncer has displayed a lamentable want of discretion for his years;" said Peter reflectively, "but there are two hopeful circumstances. Your family is alive and kicking; and Tommy Brock has had refreshments. He wil probably go to sleep, and keep them for

breakfast." "Which way?" "Cousin Benjamin, compose yourself. I know very wel which way.

Because Mr. Tod was at home in the stick house he has gone to Mr. Tod's other house, at

the top of Bul Banks. I partly know, because he offered to leave any message at Sister

Cottontail's; he said he would be passing." (Cottontail had married a black rabbit, and gone to live on the hil .)

Peter hid his dandelions, and accompanied the afflicted parent, who was al of atwitter.

They crossed several fields and began to climb the hil ; the tracks of Tommy Brock were

plainly to be seen. He seemed to have put down the sack every dozen yards, to rest.

"He must be very puffed; we are close behind him, by the scent. What a nasty person!" said Peter.

The sunshine was stil warm and slanting on the hil pastures. Half way up, Cottontail was

sitting in her doorway, with four or five half-grown little rabbits playing about her; one black and the others brown.

Cottontail had seen Tommy Brock passing in the distance. Asked whether her husband was

at home she replied that Tommy Brock had rested twice while she watched him.

He had nodded, and pointed to the sack, and seemed doubled up with laughing.—"Come

away, Peter; he wil be cooking them; come quicker!" said Benjamin Bunny.

They climbed up and up;—"He was at home; I saw his black ears peeping out of the hole."

"They live too near the rocks to quarrel with their neighbors. Come on, Cousin Benjamin!"

When they came near the wood at the top of Bul Banks, they went cautiously. The trees

grew amongst heaped up rocks; and there, beneath a crag, Mr. Tod had made one of his

homes. It was at the top of a steep bank; the rocks and bushes overhung it. The rabbits

crept up careful y, listening and peeping.

This house was something between a cave, a prison, and a tumbledown pigsty. There was

a strong door, which was shut and locked.

The setting sun made the window panes glow like red flame; but the kitchen fire was not

alight. It was neatly laid with dry sticks, as the rabbits could see, when they peeped through the window.

Benjamin sighed with relief.

But there were preparations upon the kitchen table which made him shudder. There was an

immense empty pie dish of blue wil ow pattern, and a large carving knife and fork, and a

chopper.

At the other end of the table was a partly unfolded tablecloth, a plate, a tumbler, a knife and fork, salt cel ar, mustard and a chair—in short, preparations for one person's supper.

No person was to be seen, and no young rabbits. The kitchen was empty and silent; the

clock had run down. Peter and Benjamin flattened their noses against the window, and

stared into the dusk.

Then they scrambled round the rocks to the other side of the house. It was damp and

smel y, and over-grown with thorns and briars.

The rabbits shivered in their shoes.

"Oh my poor rabbit babies! What a dreadful place; I shal never see them again!" sighed Benjamin.

They crept up to the bedroom window. It was closed and bolted like the kitchen. But there

were signs that this window had been recently open; the cobwebs were disturbed, and

there were fresh dirty footmarks upon the windowsil .

The room inside was so dark that at first they could make out nothing; but they could hear a

noise—a slow deep regular snoring grunt. And as their eyes became accustomed to the

darkness, they perceived that somebody was asleep on Mr. Tod's bed, curled up under the

blanket.—"He has gone to bed in his boots," whispered Peter.

Benjamin, who was al of atwitter, pul ed Peter off the windowsil .

Tommy Brock's snores continued, grunty and regular from Mr. Tod's bed. Nothing could be

seen of the young family.

The sun had set; an owl began to hoot in the wood. There were many unpleasant things

lying about that had much better have been buried; rabbit bones and skul s, and chickens'

legs and other horrors. It was a shocking place, and very dark.

They went back to the front of the house, and tried in every way to move the bolt of the

kitchen window. They tried to push up a rusty nail between the window sashes; but it was of

no use, especial y without a light.

They sat side by side outside the window, whispering and listening.

In half an hour the moon rose over the wood. It shone ful and clear and cold, upon the

house, amongst the rocks, and in at the kitchen window. But alas, no little rabbit babies

were to be seen! The moonbeams twinkled on the carving knife and the pie dish, and made

a path of brightness across the dirty floor.

The light showed a little door in a wal beside the kitchen fireplace—a little iron door

belonging to a brick oven of that old-fashioned sort that used to be heated with faggots of

wood.

And presently at the same moment Peter and Benjamin noticed that whenever they shook

the window the little door opposite shook in answer. The young family were alive; shut up in

the oven!

Benjamin was so excited that it was a mercy he did not awake Tommy Brock, whose

snores continued solemnly in Mr. Tod's bed.

But there real y was not very much comfort in the discovery. They could not open the

window; and although the young family was alive the little rabbits were quite incapable of

letting themselves out; they were not old enough to crawl.

After much whispering, Peter and Benjamin decided to dig a tunnel. They began to burrow

a yard or two lower down the bank. They hoped that they might be able to work between

the large stones under the house; the kitchen floor was so dirty that it was impossible to say whether it was made of earth or flags.

They dug and dug for hours. They could not tunnel straight on account of stones; but by the

end of the night they were under the kitchen floor. Benjamin was on his back scratching

upwards. Peter's claws were worn down; he was outside the tunnel, shuffling sand away.

He cal ed out that it was morning—sunrise; and that the jays were making a noise down

below in the woods.

Benjamin Bunny came out of the dark tunnel shaking the sand from his ears; he cleaned his

face with his paws. Every minute the sun shone warmer on the top of the hil . In the val ey

there was a sea of white mist, with golden tops of trees showing through.

Again from the fields down below in the mist there came the angry cry of a jay, fol owed by

the sharp yelping bark of a fox!

Then those two rabbits lost their heads completely. They did the most foolish thing that they could have done. They rushed into their short new tunnel, and hid themselves at the top

end of it, under Mr. Tod's kitchen floor.

Mr. Tod was coming up Bul Banks, and he was in the very worst of tempers. First he had

been upset by breaking the plate. It was his own fault; but it was a china plate, the last of the dinner service that had belonged to his grandmother, old Vixen Tod. Then the midges

had been very bad. And he had failed to catch a hen pheasant on her nest; and it had

contained only five eggs, two of them addled. Mr. Tod had had an unsatisfactory night.

As usual, when out of humor, he determined to move house. First he tried the pol ard

wil ow, but it was damp; and the otters had left a dead fish near it. Mr. Tod likes nobody's

leavings but his own.

He made his way up the hil ; his temper was not improved by noticing unmistakable marks

of badger. No one else grubs up the moss so wantonly as Tommy Brock.

Mr. Tod slapped his stick upon the earth and fumed; he guessed where Tommy Brock had

gone to. He was further annoyed by the jay bird which fol owed him persistently. It flew from tree to tree and scolded, warning every rabbit within hearing that either a cat or a fox was

coming up the plantation. Once when it flew screaming over his head Mr. Tod snapped at it,

and barked.

He approached his house very careful y, with a large rusty key. He sniffed and his whiskers

bristled.

The house was locked up, but Mr. Tod had his doubts whether it was empty. He turned the

rusty key in the lock; the rabbits below could hear it. Mr. Tod opened the door cautiously

and went in.

The sight that met Mr. Tod's eyes in Mr. Tod's kitchen made Mr. Tod furious. There was Mr.

Tod's chair, and Mr. Tod's pie dish, and his knife and fork and mustard and salt cel ar, and

his tablecloth, that he had left folded up in the dresser—al set out for supper (or

breakfast)—without doubt for that odious Tommy Brock.

There was a smel of fresh earth and dirty badger, which fortunately overpowered al smel

of rabbit.

But what absorbed Mr. Tod's attention was a noise, a deep slow regular snoring grunting

noise, coming from his own bed.

He peeped through the hinges of the half-open bedroom door. Then he turned and came

out of the house in a hurry. His whiskers bristled and his coat col ar stood on end with rage.

For the next twenty minutes Mr. Tod kept creeping cautiously into the house, and retreating

hurriedly out again. By degrees he ventured further in—right into the bed-room. When he

was outside the house, he scratched up the earth with fury. But when he was inside—he

did not like the look of Tommy Brock's teeth.

He was lying on his back with his mouth open, grinning from ear to ear. He snored

peaceful y and regularly; but one eye was not perfectly shut.

Mr. Tod came in and out of the bedroom. Twice he brought in his walking stick, and once

he brought in the coal scuttle. But he thought better of it, and took them away.

When he came back after removing the coal scuttle, Tommy Brock was lying a little more

sideways; but he seemed even sounder asleep. He was an incurably indolent person; he

was not in the least afraid of Mr. Tod; he was simply too lazy and comfortable to move.

Mr. Tod came back yet again into the bedroom with a clothes line. He stood a minute

watching Tommy Brock and listening attentively to the snores. They were very loud indeed,

but seemed quite natural.

Mr. Tod turned his back towards the bed, and undid the window. It creaked; he turned

round with a jump. Tommy Brock, who had opened one eye—shut it hastily. The snores

continued.

Mr. Tod's proceedings were peculiar, and rather difficult (because the bed was between the

window and the door of the bedroom). He opened the window a little way, and pushed out

the greater part of the clothes line on to the window-sil . The rest of the line, with a hook at the end, remained in his hand.

Tommy Brock snored conscientiously. Mr. Tod stood and looked at him for a minute; then

he left the room again.

Tommy Brock opened both eyes, and looked at the rope and grinned. There was a noise

outside the window. Tommy Brock shut his eyes in a hurry.

Mr. Tod had gone out at the front door, and round to the back of the house. On the way, he

stumbled over the rabbit burrow. If he had had any idea who was inside it he would have

pul ed them out quickly.

His foot went through the tunnel nearly upon the top of Peter Rabbit and Benjamin; but,

fortunately, he thought that it was some more of Tommy Brock's work.

He took up the coil of line from the sil , listened for a moment, and then tied the rope to a tree.

Tommy Brock watched him with one eye, through the window. He was puzzled.

Mr. Tod fetched a large heavy pailful of water from the spring, and staggered with it through the kitchen into his bedroom.

Tommy Brock snored industriously, with rather a snort.

Mr. Tod put down the pail beside the bed, took up the end of rope with the hook—hesitated,

and looked at Tommy Brock. The snores were almost apoplectic; but the grin was not quite

so big.

Mr. Tod gingerly mounted a

chair by the head of the bedstead.

His legs were dangerously near to

Tommy Brock's teeth.

He reached up and put the end of rope, with the hook, over the head of the tester bed,

where the curtains ought to hang.

(Mr. Tod's curtains were folded up, and put away, owing to the house being unoccupied. So

was the counterpane. Tommy Brock was covered with a blanket only.) Mr. Tod standing on

the unsteady chair looked down upon him attentively; he real y was a first prize sound

sleeper!

It seemed as though nothing would waken him—not even the flapping rope across the bed.

Mr. Tod descended safely from the chair, and endeavored to get up again with the pail of

water. He intended to hang it from the hook, dangling over the head of Tommy Brock, in

order to make a sort of shower-bath, worked by a string, through the window.

But, natural y, being a thin-legged person (though vindictive and sandy whiskered)—he was

quite unable to lift the heavy weight to the level of the hook and rope. He very nearly

overbalanced himself.

The snores became more and more apoplectic. One of Tommy Brock's hind legs twitched

under the blanket, but stil he slept on peaceful y.

Mr. Tod and the pail descended from the chair without accident. After considerable thought,

he emptied the water into a wash basin and jug. The empty pail was not too heavy for him;

he slung it up wobbling over the head of Tommy Brock.

Surely there never was such a sleeper! Mr. Tod got up and down, down and up on the

chair.

As he could not lift the whole pailful of water at once he fetched a milk jug and ladled quarts of water into the pail by degrees. The pail got ful er and ful er, and swung like a pendulum.

Occasional y a drop splashed over; but stil Tommy Brock snored regularly and never

moved,—except in one eye.

At last Mr. Tod's preparations were complete. The pail was ful of water; the rope was tightly strained over the top of the bed, and across the windowsil to the tree outside.

"It wil make a great mess in my bedroom; but I could never sleep in that bed again without a spring cleaning of some sort," said Mr. Tod.

Mr. Tod took a last look at the badger and softly left the room. He went out of the house,

shutting the front door. The rabbits heard his footsteps over the tunnel.

He ran round behind the house, intending to undo the rope in order to let fal the pailful of water upon Tommy Brock—

"I wil wake him up with an unpleasant surprise," said Mr. Tod.

The moment he had gone, Tommy Brock got up in a hurry; he rol ed Mr. Tod's dressing-

gown into a bundle, put it into the bed beneath the pail of water instead of himself, and left the room also—grinning immensely.

He went into the kitchen, lighted the fire and boiled the kettle; for the moment he did not

trouble himself to cook the baby rabbits.

When Mr. Tod got to the tree, he found that the weight and strain had dragged the knot so

tight that it was past untying. He was obliged to gnaw it with his teeth. He chewed and

gnawed for more than twenty minutes. At last the rope gave way with such a sudden jerk

that it nearly pul ed his teeth out, and quite knocked him over backwards.

Inside the house there was a great crash and splash, and the noise of a pail rol ing over

and over.

But no screams. Mr. Tod was mystified; he sat quite stil , and listened attentively. Then he

peeped in at the window. The water was dripping from the bed, the pail had rol ed into a

corner.

In the middle of the bed, under the blanket, was a wet SOMETHING —much flattened in

the middle, where the pail had caught it (as it were across the tummy). Its head was

covered by the wet blanket, and it was NOT SNORING ANY LONGER.

There was nothing stirring, and no sound except the drip, drop, drop, drip, of water trickling from the mattress.

Mr. Tod watched it for half an hour; his eyes glistened.

Then he cut a caper, and became so bold that he even tapped at the window; but the

bundle never moved.

Yes—there was no doubt about it—it had turned out even better than he had planned; the

pail had hit poor old Tommy Brock, and kil ed him dead!

"I wil bury that nasty person in the hole which he has dug. I wil bring my bedding out, and dry it in the sun," said Mr. Tod.

"I wil wash the tablecloth and spread it on the grass in the sun to bleach. And the blanket must be hung up in the wind; and the bed must be thoroughly disinfected, and aired with a

warming-pan; and warmed with a hot water bottle."

"I wil get soft soap, and monkey soap, and al sorts of soap; and soda and scrubbing

brushes; and persian powder; and carbolic to remove the smel . I must have a disinfecting.

Perhaps I may have to burn sulphur."

He hurried round the house to get a shovel from the kitchen— "First I wil arrange the

hole—then I wil drag out that person in the blanket. . . ."

He opened the door. . . .

Tommy Brock was sitting at Mr. Tod's kitchen table, pouring out tea from Mr. Tod's teapot

into Mr. Tod's teacup. He was quite dry himself and grinning; and he threw the cup of

scalding tea al over Mr. Tod.

Then Mr. Tod rushed upon Tommy Brock, and Tommy Brock grappled with Mr. Tod

amongst the broken crockery, and there was a terrific battle al over the kitchen. To the

rabbits underneath it sounded as if the floor would give way at each crash of fal ing

furniture.

They crept out of their tunnel, and hung about amongst the rocks and bushes, listening

anxiously.

Inside the house the racket was fearful. The rabbit babies in the oven woke up trembling;

perhaps it was fortunate they were shut up inside.

Everything was upset except the kitchen table.

And everything was broken, except the mantelpiece and the kitchen fender. The crockery

was smashed to atoms.

The chairs were broken, and the window, and the clock fel with a crash, and there were

handfuls of Mr. Tod's sandy whiskers.

The vases fel off the mantelpiece, the cannisters fel off the shelf; the kettle fel off the hob.

Tommy Brock put his foot in a jar of raspberry jam.

And the boiling water out of the kettle fel upon the tail of Mr. Tod.

When the kettle fel , Tommy Brock, who was stil grinning, happened to be uppermost; and

he rol ed Mr. Tod over and over like a log, out at the door.

Then the snarling and worrying went on outside; and they rol ed over the bank, and down

hil , bumping over the rocks. There wil never be any love lost between Tommy Brock and

Mr. Tod.

As soon as the coast was clear, Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny came out of the bushes.

"Now for it! Run in, Cousin

Benjamin! Run in and get them! while

I watch the door."

But Benjamin was frightened—

"Oh; oh! they are coming back!"

"No they are not."

"Yes they are!"

"What dreadful bad language! I think they have fal en down the stone quarry."

Stil Benjamin hesitated, and

Peter kept pushing him—

"Be quick, it's al right. Shut the oven door, Cousin Benjamin, so that he won't miss them."

Decidedly there were lively doings in Mr. Tod's kitchen!

At home in the rabbit hole, things had not been quite comfortable.

After quarreling at supper, Flopsy and old Mr. Bouncer had passed a sleepless night, and

quarrel ed again at breakfast. Old Mr. Bouncer could no longer deny that he had invited

company into the rabbit hole; but he refused to reply to the questions and reproaches of

Flopsy. The day passed heavily.

Old Mr. Bouncer, very sulky, was huddled up in a corner, barricaded with a chair. Flopsy

had taken away his pipe and hidden the tobacco. She had been having a complete turn out

and spring cleaning, to relieve her feelings. She had just finished. Old Mr. Bouncer, behind

his chair, was wondering anxiously what she would do next.

In Mr. Tod's kitchen, amidst the wreckage, Benjamin Bunny picked his way to the oven

nervously, through a thick cloud of dust. He opened the oven door, felt inside, and found

something warm and wriggling. He lifted it out careful y, and rejoined Peter Rabbit.

"I've got them! Can we get away?

Shal we hide, Cousin Peter?"

Peter pricked his ears; distant sounds of fighting stil echoed in the wood.

Five minutes afterwards two breathless rabbits came scuttering away down Bul Banks, half

carrying, half dragging a sack between them, bumpetty bump over the grass. They reached

home safely, and burst into the rabbit hole.

Great was old Mr. Bouncer's relief and Flopsy's joy when Peter and Benjamin arrived in

triumph with the young family. The rabbit babies were rather tumbled and very hungry; they

were fed and put to bed. They soon recovered.

A new long pipe and a fresh supply of rabbit tobacco was presented to Mr. Bouncer. He

was rather upon his dignity; but he accepted.

Old Mr. Bouncer was forgiven, and they al had dinner. Then Peter and Benjamin told their

story—but they had not waited long enough to be able to tel the end of the battle between

Tommy Brock and Mr. Tod.

THE TALE OF PIGLING BLAND

[For Cicily and Charlie, a Tale of the Christmas Pig]

Once upon a time there was an old pig cal ed Aunt Pettitoes. She had eight of a family: four

little girl pigs, cal ed Cross-patch, Suck-suck, Yock-yock and Spot; and four little boy pigs, cal ed Alexander, Pigling Bland, Chin-Chin and Stumpy. Stumpy had had an accident to his

tail.

The eight little pigs had very fine appetites—"Yus, yus, yus! they eat and indeed they DO

eat!" said Aunt Pettitoes, looking at her family with pride. Suddenly there were fearful squeals; Alexander had squeezed inside the hoops of the pig trough and stuck.

Aunt Pettitoes and I dragged him out by the hind legs.

Chin-chin was already in disgrace; it was washing day, and he had eaten a piece of soap.

And presently in a basket of clean clothes, we found another dirty little pig—"Tchut, tut, tut!

whichever is this?" grunted Aunt Pettitoes. Now al the pig family are pink, or pink with black spots, but this pig child was smutty black al over; when it had been popped into a tub, it

proved to be Yock-yock.

I went into the garden; there I found Cross-patch and Suck-suck rooting up carrots. I

whipped them myself and led them out by the ears. Cross-patch tried to bite me.

"Aunt Pettitoes, Aunt Pettitoes! you are a worthy person, but your family is not wel brought up. Every one of them has been in mischief except Spot and Pigling Bland."

"Yus, yus!" sighed Aunt Pettitoes. "And they drink bucketfuls of milk; I shal have to get another cow! Good little Spot shal stay at home to do the housework; but the others must

go. Four little boy pigs and four little girl pigs are too many altogether." "Yus, yus, yus," said Aunt Pettitoes, "there wil be more to eat without them."

So Chin-chin and Suck-suck went away in a wheel-barrow, and Stumpy, Yock-yock and

Cross-patch rode away in a cart.

And the other two little boy pigs, Pigling Bland and Alexander went to market. We brushed

their coats, we curled their tails and washed their little faces, and wished them good bye in the yard.

Aunt Pettitoes wiped her eyes with a large pocket handkerchief, then she wiped Pigling

Bland's nose and shed tears; then she wiped Alexander's nose and shed tears; then she

passed the handkerchief to Spot. Aunt Pettitoes sighed and grunted, and addressed those

little pigs as fol ows—

"Now Pigling Bland, son Pigling Bland, you must go to market. Take your brother Alexander by the hand. Mind your Sunday clothes, and remember to blow your nose"—(Aunt Pettitoes

passed round the handkerchief again)—"beware of traps, hen roosts, bacon and eggs;

always walk upon your hind legs." Pigling Bland who was a sedate little pig, looked

solemnly at his mother, a tear trickled down his cheek.

Aunt Pettitoes turned to the other—"Now son Alexander take the hand"—"Wee, wee, wee!"

giggled Alexander—"take the hand of your brother Pigling Bland, you must go to market.

Mind—" "Wee, wee, wee!" interrupted Alexander again. "You put me out," said Aunt Pettitoes—"Observe signposts and milestones; do not gobble herring bones—" "And remember," said I impressively, "if you once cross the county boundary you cannot come back. Alexander, you are not attending. Here are two licenses permitting two pigs to go to

market in Lancashire. Attend Alexander. I have had no end of trouble in getting these

papers from the policeman." Pigling Bland listened gravely; Alexander was hopelessly

volatile.

I pinned the papers, for safety, inside their waistcoat pockets; Aunt Pettitoes gave to each a little bundle, and eight conversation peppermints with appropriate moral sentiments in

screws of paper. Then they started.

Pigling Bland and Alexander trotted along steadily for a mile; at least Pigling Bland did.

Alexander made the road half as long again by skipping from side to side. He danced about

and pinched his brother, singing—

"This pig went to market, this pig stayed

at home,

"This pig had a bit of meat—

let's see what they have given US for dinner, Pigling?"

Pigling Bland and Alexander sat down and untied their bundles. Alexander gobbled up his

dinner in no time; he had already eaten al his own peppermints—"Give me one of yours,

please, Pigling?" "But I wish to preserve them for emergencies," said Pigling Bland doubtful y. Alexander went into squeals of laughter. Then he pricked Pigling with the pin

that had fastened his pig paper; and when Pigling slapped him he dropped the pin, and

tried to take Pigling's pin, and the papers got mixed up. Pigling Bland reproved Alexander.

But presently they made it up again, and trotted away together, singing—

"Tom, Tom the piper's son, stole a pig

and away he ran!

"But al the tune that he could play, was

Òver the hil s and far away!'"

"What's that, young Sirs? Stole a pig? Where are your licenses?" said the policeman. They had nearly run against him round a corner. Pigling Bland pul ed out his paper; Alexander,

after fumbling, handed over something scrumply—

"To 2 1/2 oz. conversation sweeties at three farthings"—"What's this? this ain't a license?"

Alexander's nose lengthened visibly, he had lost it. "I had one, indeed I had, Mr.

Policeman!"

"It's not likely they let you start without. I am passing the farm. You may walk with me."

"Can I come back too?" inquired Pigling Bland. "I see no reason, young Sir; your paper is al right." Pigling Bland did not like going on alone, and it was beginning to rain. But it is unwise to argue with the police; he gave his brother a peppermint, and watched him out of

sight.

To conclude the adventures of Alexander—the policeman sauntered up to the house about

tea time, fol owed by a damp subdued little pig. I disposed of Alexander in the

neighborhood; he did fairly wel when he had settled down.

Pigling Bland went on alone dejectedly; he came to cross roads and a sign-post—"To

Market-town 5 miles," "Over the Hil s, 4 miles," "To Pettitoes Farm, 3 miles."

Pigling Bland was shocked, there was little hope of sleeping in Market Town, and tomorrow

was the hiring fair; it was deplorable to think how much time had been wasted by the

frivolity of Alexander.

He glanced wistful y along the road towards the hil s, and then set off walking obediently the other way, buttoning up his coat against the rain. He had never wanted to go; and the idea

of standing al by himself in a crowded market, to be stared at, pushed, and hired by some

big strange farmer was very disagreeable—

"I wish I could have a little garden and grow potatoes," said Pigling Bland.

He put his cold hand in his pocket and felt his paper, he put his other hand in his other

pocket and felt another paper—Alexander's! Pigling squealed; then ran back frantical y,

hoping to overtake Alexander and the policeman.

He took a wrong turn—several wrong turns, and was quite lost.

It grew dark, the wind whistled, the trees creaked and groaned.

Pigling Bland became frightened and cried "Wee, wee, wee! I can't find my way home!"

After an hour's wandering he got out of the wood; the moon shone through the clouds, and

Pigling Bland saw a country that was new to him.

The road crossed a moor; below was a wide val ey with a river twinkling in the moonlight,

and beyond—in misty distance—lay the hil s.

He saw a smal wooden hut, made his way to it, and crept inside —"I am afraid it IS a hen house, but what can I do?" said Pigling Bland, wet and cold and quite tired out.

"Bacon and eggs, bacon and eggs!" clucked a hen on a perch.

"Trap, trap, trap! cackle, cackle, cackle!" scolded the disturbed cockerel. "To market, to market! jiggettyjig!" clucked a broody white hen roosting next to him. Pigling Bland, much alarmed, determined to leave at daybreak. In the meantime, he and the hens fel asleep.

In less than an hour they were al awakened. The owner, Mr. Peter Thomas Piperson, came

with a lantern and a hamper to catch six fowls to take to market in the morning.

He grabbed the white hen roosting next to the cock; then his eye fel upon Pigling Bland,

squeezed up in a corner. He made a singular remark—"Hal o, here's another!"—seized

Pigling by the scruff of the neck, and dropped him into the hamper. Then he dropped in five

more dirty, kicking, cackling hens upon the top of Pigling Bland.

The hamper containing six fowls and a young pig was no light weight; it was taken down

hil , unsteadily, with jerks. Pigling, although nearly scratched to pieces, contrived to hide the papers and peppermints inside his clothes.

At last the hamper was bumped down upon a kitchen floor, the lid was opened, and Pigling

was lifted out. He looked up, blinking, and saw an offensively ugly elderly man, grinning

from ear to ear.

"This one's come of himself, whatever," said Mr. Piperson, turning Pigling's pockets inside out. He pushed the hamper into a corner, threw a sack over it to keep the hens quiet, put a

pot on the fire, and unlaced his boots.

Pigling Bland drew forward a coppy stool, and sat on the edge of it, shyly warming his

hands. Mr. Piperson pul ed off a boot and threw it against the wainscot at the further end of the kitchen. There was a smothered noise—"Shut up!" said Mr. Piperson. Pigling Bland warmed his hands, and eyed him.

Mr. Piperson pul ed off the other boot and flung it after the first, there was again a curious noise—"Be quiet, wil ye?" said Mr. Piperson. Pigling Bland sat on the very edge of the coppy stool.

Mr. Piperson fetched meal from a chest and made porridge, it seemed to Pigling that

something at the further end of the kitchen was taking a suppressed interest in the cooking;

but he was too hungry to be troubled by noises.

Mr. Piperson poured out three platefuls: for himself, for Pigling, and a third-after glaring at Pigling—he put away with much scuffling, and locked up. Pigling Bland ate his supper

discreetly.

After supper Mr. Piperson consulted an almanac, and felt Pigling's ribs; it was too late in the season for curing bacon, and he grudged his meal. Besides, the hens had seen this pig.

He looked at the smal remains of a flitch [side of bacon], and then looked undecidedly at

Pigling. "You may sleep on the rug," said Mr. Peter Thomas Piperson.

Pigling Bland slept like a top. In the morning Mr. Piperson made more porridge; the weather

was warmer. He looked how much meal was left in the chest, and seemed dissatisfied—

"You'll likely be moving on again?" said he to Pigling Bland.

Before Pigling could reply, a neighbor, who was giving Mr. Piperson and the hens a lift,

whistled from the gate. Mr. Piperson hurried out with the hamper, enjoining Pigling to shut

the door behind him and not meddle with nought; or "I'll come back and skin ye!" said Mr.

Piperson.

It crossed Pigling's mind that if HE had asked for a lift, too, he might stil have been in time for market.

But he distrusted Peter Thomas.

After finishing breakfast at his leisure, Pigling had a look round the cottage; everything was locked up. He found some potato peelings in a bucket in the back kitchen. Pigling ate the

peel, and washed up the porridge plates in the bucket. He sang while he worked—

"Tom with his pipe made such a noise,

He cal ed up al the girls and boys—

"And they al ran to hear him play,

"Over the hil s and far away!—"

Suddenly a little smothered voice chimed in—

"Over the hil s and a great way off,

The wind shal blow my top knot

off."

Pigling Bland put down a plate which he was wiping, and listened.

After a long pause, Pigling went on tiptoe and peeped round the door into the front kitchen;

there was nobody there.

After another pause, Pigling approached the door of the locked cupboard, and snuffed at

the keyhole. It was quite quiet.

After another long pause, Pigling pushed a peppermint under the door. It was sucked in

immediately.

In the course of the day Pigling pushed in al his remaining six peppermints.

When Mr. Piperson returned, he found Pigling sitting before the fire; he had brushed up the

hearth and put on the pot to boil; the meal was not get-at-able.

Mr. Piperson was very affable; he slapped Pigling on the back, made lots of porridge and

forgot to lock the meal chest. He did lock the cupboard door; but without properly shutting it.

He went to bed early, and told Pigling upon no account to disturb him next day before

twelve o'clock.

Pigling Bland sat by the fire, eating his supper.

Al at once at his elbow, a little voice spoke—"My name is Pig-wig. Make me more porridge, please!" Pigling Bland jumped, and looked round.

A perfectly lovely little black Berkshire pig stood smiling beside him. She had twinkly little screwed up eyes, a double chin, and a short turned up nose.

She pointed at Pigling's plate; he hastily gave it to her, and fled to the meal chest—"How did you come here?" asked Pigling Bland.

"Stolen," replied Pig-wig, with her mouth ful . Pigling helped himself to meal without scruple.

"What for?" "Bacon, hams," replied Pig-wig cheerful y. "Why on earth don't you run away?"

exclaimed the horrified Pigling.

"I shal after supper," said Pig-wig decidedly.

Pigling Bland made more porridge and watched her shyly.

She finished a second plate, got up, and looked about her, as though she were going to

start.

"You can't go in the dark," said

Pigling Bland.

Pig-wig looked anxious.

"Do you know your way by day-light?"

"I know we can see this little white house from the hil s across the river. Which way are you going, Mr. Pig?"

"To market—I have two pig papers. I might take you to the bridge; if you have no objection,"

said Pigling much confused and sitting on the edge of his coppy stool. Pig-wig's gratitude

was such and she asked so many questions that it became embarrassing to Pigling Bland.

He was obliged to shut his eyes and pretend to sleep. She became quiet, and there was a

smel of peppermint.

"I thought you had eaten them?" said Pigling, waking suddenly.

"Only the corners," replied Pig-wig, studying the sentiments with much interest by the firelight.

"I wish you wouldn't; he might smel them through the ceiling," said the alarmed Pigling.

Pig-wig put back the sticky peppermints into her pocket; "Sing something," she demanded.

"I am sorry. . . I have tooth-ache," said Pigling much dismayed.

"Then I wil sing," replied Pig-wig, "You wil not mind if I say iddy tidditty? I have forgotten some of the words."

Pigling Bland made no objection; he sat with his eyes half shut, and watched her.

She wagged her head and rocked about, clapping time and singing in a sweet little grunty

voice—

"A funny old mother pig lived in a stye,

and three little piggies had she;

"(Ti idditty idditty) umph, umph,

umph! and the little pigs said wee,

wee!"

She sang successful y through three or four verses, only at every verse her head nodded a

little lower, and her little twinkly eyes closed up—

"Those three little piggies grew peaky

and lean, and lean they might very

wel be;

"For somehow they couldn't say umph,

umph, umph! and they wouldn't

say wee, wee, wee!

"For somehow they couldn't say—

Pig-wig's head bobbed lower and lower, until she rol ed over, a little round bal , fast asleep on the hearth-rug.

Pigling Bland, on tiptoe, covered her up with an antimacassar.

He was afraid to go to sleep himself; for the rest of the night he sat listening to the chirping of the crickets and to the snores of Mr. Piperson overhead.

Early in the morning, between dark and daylight, Pigling tied up his little bundle and woke

up Pig-wig. She was excited and half-frightened. "But it's dark! How can we find our way?"

"The cock has crowed; we must start before the hens come out; they might shout to Mr.

Piperson."

Pig-wig sat down again, and commenced to cry.

"Come away Pig-wig; we can see when we get used to it. Come! I can hear them clucking!"

Pigling had never said shuh! to a hen in his life, being peaceable; also he remembered the

hamper.

He opened the house door quietly and shut it after them. There was no garden; the

neighborhood of Mr. Piperson's was al scratched up by fowls. They slipped away hand in

hand across an untidy field to the road. "Tom, Tom the piper's son, stole a pig and away he ran! "But al the tune that he could play, was Òver the hil s and far away!'"

"Come Pig-wig, we must get to the bridge before folks are stirring."

"Why do you want to go to market, Pigling?" inquired Pig-wig.

The sun rose while they were crossing the moor, a dazzle of light over the tops of the hil s.

The sunshine crept down the slopes into the peaceful green val eys, where little white

cottages nestled in gardens and orchards.

"That's Westmorland," said Pig-wig. She dropped Pigling's hand and commenced to dance, singing—presently. "I don't want; I want to grow potatoes." "Have a peppermint?" said Pig-wig. Pigling Bland refused quite crossly. "Does your poor toothy hurt?" inquired Pig-wig.

Pigling Bland grunted.

Pig-wig ate the peppermint herself, and fol owed the opposite side of the road. "Pig-wig!

keep under the wal , there's a man ploughing." Pig-wig crossed over, they hurried down hil towards the county boundary.

Suddenly Pigling stopped; he heard wheels.

Slowly jogging up the road below them came a tradesman's cart. The reins flapped on the

horse's back, the grocer was reading a newspaper.

"Take that peppermint out of your mouth, Pig-wig, we may have to run. Don't say one word.

Leave it to me. And in sight of the bridge!" said poor Pigling, nearly crying. He began to walk frightful y lame, holding Pig-wig's arm.

The grocer, intent upon his newspaper, might have passed them, if his horse had not shied

and snorted. He pul ed the cart crossways, and held down his whip. "Hal o? Where are you going to?"—Pigling Bland stared at him vacantly.

"Are you deaf? Are you going to market?" Pigling nodded slowly.

"I thought as much. It was yesterday. Show me your license?"

Pigling stared at the off hind shoe of the grocer's horse which had picked up a stone.

The grocer flicked his whip—"Papers? Pig license?" Pigling fumbled in al his pockets, and handed up the papers. The grocer read them, but stil seemed dissatisfied. "This here pig is a young lady; is her name Alexander?" Pig-wig opened her mouth and shut it again; Pigling coughed asthmatical y.

The grocer ran his finger down the advertisement column of his newspaper—"Lost, stolen

or strayed, 10S. reward;" he looked suspiciously at Pig-wig. Then he stood up in the trap, and whistled for the ploughman.

"You wait here while I drive on and speak to him," said the grocer, gathering up the reins.

He knew that pigs are slippery; but surely, such a VERY lame pig could never run!

"Not yet, Pig-wig, he wil look back." The grocer did so; he saw the two pigs stock-stil in the middle of the road. Then he looked over at his horse's heels; it was lame also; the stone

took some time to knock out, after he got to the ploughman.

"Now, Pig-wig, NOW!" said

Pigling Bland.

Never did any pigs run as these pigs ran! They raced and squealed and pelted down the

long white hil towards the bridge. Little fat Pig- wig's petticoats fluttered, and her feet went pitter, patter, pitter, as she bounded and jumped.

They ran, and they ran, and they ran down the hil , and across a short cut on level green

turf at the bottom, between pebble beds and rushes.

They came to the river, they came to the bridge—they crossed it hand in hand—then over

the hil s and far away she danced with Pigling Bland!

GINGER AND PICKLES

[Dedicated

With very kind regards to old Mr. John Taylor,

Who "thinks he might pass as a dormouse,"

(Three years in bed and never a grumble!).]

Once upon a time there was a vil age shop. The name over the window was "Ginger and

Pickles."

It was a little smal shop just the right size for Dol s—Lucinda and Jane Dol -cook always

bought their groceries at Ginger and Pickles.

The counter inside was a convenient height for rabbits. Ginger and Pickles sold red spotty

pocket handkerchiefs at a penny three farthings.

They also sold sugar, and snuff and galoshes.

In fact, although it was such a smal shop it sold nearly everything—except a few things that you want in a hurry—like bootlaces, hair- pins and mutton chops.

Ginger and Pickles were the people who kept the shop. Ginger was a yel ow tomcat, and

Pickles was a terrier.

The rabbits were always a little bit afraid of Pickles.

The shop was also patronized by mice—only the mice were rather afraid of Ginger.

Ginger usual y requested Pickles to serve them, because he said it made his mouth water.

"I cannot bear," said he, "to see them going out at the door carrying their little parcels."

"I have the same feeling about rats," replied Pickles, "but it would never do to eat our customers; they would leave us and go to Tabitha Twitchit's."

"On the contrary, they would go nowhere," replied Ginger gloomily.

(Tabitha Twitchit kept the only other shop in the vil age. She did not give credit.)

But there is no money in what is cal ed the "til ."

Ginger and Pickles gave unlimited credit.

Now the meaning of "credit" is this—when a customer buys a bar of soap, instead of the customer pul ing out a purse and paying for it—she says she wil pay another time.

And Pickles makes a low bow and says, "With pleasure, madam," and it is written down in a book.

The customers come again and again, and buy quantities, in spite of being afraid of Ginger

and Pickles.

The customers came in crowds every day and bought quantities, especial y the toffee

customers. But there was always no money; they never paid for as much as a penny-worth

of peppermints.

But the sales were enormous, ten times as large as Tabitha Twitchit's.

As there was always no money, Ginger and Pickles were obliged to eat their own goods.

Pickles ate biscuits and Ginger ate a dried haddock.

They ate them by candle-light after the shop was closed.

"It is very uncomfortable, I am afraid I shal be summoned. I have tried in vain to get a license upon credit at the Post Office;" said Pickles. "The place is ful of policemen. I met one as I was coming home.

"Let us send in the bil again to Samuel Whiskers, Ginger, he owes 22/9 for bacon."

"I do not believe that he intends to pay at al ," replied Ginger.

When it came to Jan. 1st there was stil no money, and Pickles was unable to buy a dog

license.

"It is very unpleasant, I am afraid of the police," said Pickles.

"It is your own fault for being a terrier; I do not require a license, and neither does Kep, the Col ie dog."

"And I feel sure that Anna

Maria pockets things—

"Where are al the cream crackers?"

"You have eaten them yourself." replied Ginger.

Ginger and Pickles retired into the back parlor.

They did accounts. They added up sums and sums, and sums.

"Samuel Whiskers has run up a bil as long as his tail; he has had an ounce and three-

quarters of snuff since October.

"What is seven pounds of butter at 1/3, and a stick of sealing wax and four matches?"

"Send in al the bil s again to everybody `with compliments,'" replied Ginger.

Pickles nearly had a fit, he barked and he barked and made little rushes.

"Bite him, Pickles! bite him!" spluttered Ginger behind a sugar barrel, "he's only a German dol !"

The policeman went on writing in his notebook; twice he put his pencil in his mouth, and

once he dipped it in the treacle.

Pickles barked til he was hoarse. But stil the policeman took no notice. He had bead eyes,

and his helmet was sewed on with stitches.

After a time they heard a noise in the shop, as if something had been pushed in at the door.

They came out of the back parlor. There was an envelope lying on the counter, and a

policeman writing in a notebook!

At length on his last little rush—Pickles found that the shop was empty. The policeman had

disappeared.

But the envelope remained.

"Do you think that he has gone to fetch a real live policeman? I am afraid it is a summons,"

said Pickles.

"No," replied Ginger, who had opened the envelope, "it is the rates and taxes, 3 pounds 19

11 3/4." [pounds are British money, the 19 is schil ings, and then pence]

"This is the last straw," said

Pickles, "let us close the shop."

They put up the shutters, and left. But they have not removed from the neighborhood. In

fact some people wish they had gone further.

Ginger is living in the warren [game preserve for rabbits]. I do not know what occupation he

pursues; he looks stout and comfortable.

Pickles is at present a game-keeper.

After a time Mr. John Dormouse and his daughter began to sel peppermints and candles.

But they did not keep "self-fitting sixes"; and it takes five mice to carry one seven inch candle.

The closing of the shop caused great inconvenience. Tabitha Twitchit immediately raised

the price of everything a halfpenny; and she continued to refuse to give credit.

Of course there are the tradesmen's carts—the butcher, the fishman and Timothy Baker.

But a person cannot live on "seed wigs" and sponge cake and butter buns—not even when the sponge cake is as good as Timothy's!

And Miss Dormouse refused to take back the ends when they were brought back to her

with complaints.

And when Mr. John Dormouse was complained to, he stayed in bed, and would say nothing

but "very snug;" which is not the way to carry on a retail business.

Besides—the candles which they sel behave very strangely in warm weather.

So everybody was pleased when Sal y Henny Penny sent out a printed poster to say that

she was going to reopen the shop—"Henny's Opening Sale! Grand cooperative Jumble!

Penny's penny prices! Come buy, come try, come buy!"

The poster real y was most 'ticing.

There was a rush upon the opening day. The shop was crammed with customers, and there

were crowds of mice upon the biscuit cannisters.

Sal y Henny Penny gets rather flustered when she tries to count out change, and she insists

on being paid cash; but she is quite harmless.

And she has laid in a remarkable assortment of bargains.

There is something to please everybody.