The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter

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Title: The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter

Author: Beatrix Potter

Release date: June 1, 1996 [eBook #572]

Most recently updated: February 9, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Charles Keller for Tina using OmniPage Professional OCR software donated by Caere Corporation

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GREAT BIG TREASURY OF BEATRIX POTTER ***

THE GREAT BIG TREASURY OF BEATRIX POTTER

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 umbrella, 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 calling

out, "Stop thief."

Peter was most dreadfully

frightened; he rushed all 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

carefully, 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 small 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 all around.

He found a door in a wall; 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 filled his water-cans. A

white cat was staring at some

goldfish; she sat very, very still, 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 till 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 well 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 ill, I

have made you a story all 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 full-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 till dark.

All 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 small 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

all, and cut on the cross; it is no

breadth at all; tippets for mice and

ribbons for mobs! for mice!" said the

Tailor of Gloucester.

When the snow-flakes came down

against the small leaded window-

panes and shut out the light, the tailor

had done his day's work; all 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, all in order. For the

lining of the coat there was fine

yellow taffeta, and for the button-

holes of the waistcoat there was

cherry-coloured twist. And everything

was ready to sew together in the

morning, all 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 all 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

called Simpkin.

"Miaw?" said the cat when the

tailor opened the door, "miaw?"

The tailor replied: "Simpkin, we

shall make our fortune, but I am

worn to a ravelling. 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 ill. He sat down by the

hearth and talked to himself about

that wonderful coat.

"I shall 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 still 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 all 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 tea-cup, 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 all ran

away together down the passage

behind the wainscot, squeaking and

calling 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.

All 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 still he

found never a mouse!

The poor old tailor was very ill with

a fever, tossing and turning in his

four-post bed; and still 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 ill for three days and

nights; and then it was Christmas Eve,

and very late at night. And still

Simpkin wanted his mice, and mewed

as he stood beside the four-post bed.

But it is in the old story that all 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 all the roofs and gables and

old wooden houses in Gloucester

came a thousand merry voices singing

the old Christmas rhymes—all the old

songs that ever I heard of, and some

that I don't know, like Whittington's

bells.

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 full of little twittering tunes.

But it was all 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 full 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 all 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 pillow; 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.

Shall 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-sill; while the

little mice inside sprang to their feet,

and all began to shout all 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 peacefully.

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 will serve to make me one

single buttonhole; for this is

Christmas Day in the Morning! The

Mayor of Gloucester shall 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 all the rich merchants

of Gloucester, and for all 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 all.

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 small—SO small—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 called

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 hollow oak-tree, which is the

house of an owl who is called Old

Brown.

One autumn when the nuts were

ripe, and the leaves on the hazel

bushes were golden and green—

Nutkin and Twinkleberry and all 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, will 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'll tell me this riddle, I'll give you a groat."

Now this riddle is as old as the hills;

Mr. Brown paid no attention whatever

to Nutkin.

He shut his eyes obstinately and

went to sleep.

The squirrels filled their little sacks

with nuts, and sailed away home in

the evening.

But next morning they all 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, will 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 wall,

Hitty Pitty without the wall;

If you touch Hitty Pitty,

Hitty Pitty will 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 full, a hole full!

And you cannot gather a bowl-full!"

The squirrels searched for nuts all

over the island and filled their little

sacks.

But Nutkin gathered oak-apples—

yellow 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 all.

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—

`As 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 carefully 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'll tell 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 full 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 hill.

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 yellow-nacked, some yellow 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 filled 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 still he did not speak.

Nutkin became more and more

impertinent—

"Old Mr. B! Old Mr. B!

Hickamore, Hackamore, on the King's

kitchen door;

All the King's horses, and all the King's men,

Couldn't drive Hickamore, Hackamore,

Off the King's kitchen door!"

Nutkin danced up and down like a

SUNBEAM; but still Old Brown said

nothing at all.

Nutkin began again—

"Authur O'Bower has broken his band,

He comes roaring up the land!

The King of Scots with all 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 all 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 still, 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

pulled 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 will

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 call upon his

relations, who lived in the wood at the

back of Mr. McGregor's garden.

That wood was full of rabbit holes;

and in the neatest, sandiest hole of all

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 call 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,

calling: "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 wall 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 fell 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 all over the bed, especially

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

fill 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 wall.

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 lolly-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 smell 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 smell 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 still the cat sat upon

the basket.

At length there was a pitter-patter,

pitter-patter, and some bits of mortar

fell from the wall above.

The cat looked up and saw old Mr.

Benjamin Bunny prancing along the

top of the wall 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

wall 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 all 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 Doll's House]

Once upon a time there was a very

beautiful doll'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 Dolls called

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 full 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 doll'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 doll'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 dolly-chairs—all SO

convenient!

Tom Thumb set to work at once to

carve the ham. It was a beautiful

shiny yellow, 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 rolled 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 all 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, labelled—

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

all the mischief they could—especially

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 pulling 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 small 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 dolls 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 doll's-house

belonged to, said,—"I will get a doll

dressed like a policeman!"

But the nurse said,—"I will set a

mouse-trap!"

So that is the story of the two Bad

Mice,—but they were not so very very

naughty after all, 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 Dollies' house!

THE TALE OF MRS. TIGGY-WINKLE

[For the Real

Little Lucie of Newlands]

Once upon a time there was a little

girl called Lucie, who lived at a farm

called 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—

"Sally 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 hill behind Little-

town—a hill that goes up—up—into

the clouds as though it had no top!

And a great way up the hillside she

thought she saw some white things

spread upon the grass.

Lucie scrambled up the hill 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 hillside.

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 small 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 hill; and inside

it some one was singing—

"Lily-white and clean, oh!

With little frills 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 called out "Who's

that?"

Lucie opened the door: and what

do you think there was inside the

hill?—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 small, and so was

everything there.

There was a nice hot singey smell;

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 yellow 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 excellent 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 frills.

"Oh that IS lovely!" said Lucie.

"And what are those long yellow

things with fingers like gloves?"

"Oh that's a pair of stockings

belonging to Sally 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 smell of onions! I've had to wash it

separately, I can't get out that smell."

"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 woolly coats

belonging to the little lambs at

Skelghyl."

"Will 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 all sorts and sizes

of clothes—small 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 all 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-sill.

Then away down the hill trotted

Lucie and Mrs. Tiggy-winkle with the

bundles of clothes!

All 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 all the little animals and

birds were so very much obliged to

dear Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.

So that at the bottom of the hill

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 bill!

She was running running running

up the hill—and where was her white

frilled cap? and her shawl? and her

gown-and her petticoat?

And HOW small 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 hill called Cat Bells—and

besides I am very well 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 well as you!"

[Old Rhyme]

Once upon a time there was a

Pussy-cat called Ribby, who invited a

little dog called Duchess to tea.

"Come in good time, my dear

Duchess," said Ribby's letter, "and we

will 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 shall eat it

all! I will eat muffins, my dear

Duchess!" wrote Ribby.

"I will come very punctually, 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 will 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 dreadfully afraid it WILL be

mouse!" said Duchess to herself—"I

really couldn't, COULDN'T eat mouse

pie. And I shall 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 well, for water to fill

up the kettle.

Then she began to set the room in

order, for it was the sitting-room as

well 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 village 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 village.

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 all 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 all

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 really 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 punctually 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 well?"

"Quite well, I thank you, and how

do YOU do, my dear Ribby?" said

Duchess. "I've brought you some

flowers; what a delicious smell 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 will

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 smells! 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 smell.

Duchess came out from under the

table-cloth munching sugar, and sat

up on a chair.

"I will 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 small

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 all in the cupboard."

Duchess set up a howl.

"I shall die! I shall die! I have

swallowed a patty-pan! Oh, my dear

Ribby, I do feel so ill!"

"It is impossible, my dear Duchess;

there was not a patty-pan."

"Yes there WAS, my dear Ribby, I am

sure I have swallowed it!"

"Let me prop you up with a pillow,

my dear Duchess; where do you think

you feel it?"

"Oh I do feel so ill ALL OVER me, my

dear Ribby."

"Shall I run for the doctor?"

"Oh yes, yes! fetch Dr. Maggotty,

my dear Ribby: he is a Pie himself, he

will certainly understand."

Ribby settled Duchess in an

armchair before the fire, and went

out and hurried to the village to look

for the doctor.

She found him at the smithy.

Ribby explained that her guest had

swallowed a patty-pan.

Dr. Maggotty hopped so fast that

Ribby had to run. It was most

conspicuous. All the village 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 swallowed it!

such a large thing as a patty-pan!"

She sat down again, and stared

mournfully 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 ill. . . .

But perhaps I should feel worse if I

had really swallowed a patty-pan!"

Duchess reflected—"What a very

awkward thing to have to explain to

Ribby! I think I will put MY pie in the

back-yard and say nothing about it.

When I go home, I will 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 pill, my dear Duchess!"

"I think I should feel QUITE well 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 pill, 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 silly!

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

really WAS a patty-pan? . . . But MY

patty-pans are all in the kitchen

cupboard. Well I never did! . . . Next

time I want to give a party—I will

invite Cousin Tabitha Twitchit!"

THE TALE OF MR. JEREMY FISHER

[For Stephanie

from Cousin B.]

Once upon a time there was a frog

called Mr. Jeremy Fisher; he lived in a

little damp house amongst the

buttercups at the edge of a pond.

The water was all 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 will 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

will 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 will eat a butterfly sandwich,

and wait till 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 really

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

swallowed 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 all 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 all 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 all 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 called 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 ill. He comes sliding down the

bellpull.

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 all of a sudden—Miss

Moppet jumps upon the Mouse!

And because the Mouse has teased

Miss Moppet—Miss Moppet thinks she

will tease the Mouse, which is not at

all nice of Miss Moppet.

She ties him up in the duster and

tosses it about like a ball.

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 All Pickles,

—Especially to Those That Get upon My Garden Wall]

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 all 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 Sally 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 fell

on their noses.

When they stood up there were

several green smears!

"Let us climb up the rockery and sit

on the garden wall," said Moppet.

They turned their pinafores back to

front and went up with a skip and a

jump; Moppet's white tucker fell

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 all in pieces when he

reached the top of the wall.

Moppet and Mittens tried to pull

him together; his hat fell 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 small 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 fell off

the wall. Moppet and Tom descended

after her; the pinafores and all 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 wall with no clothes on.

She pulled them off the wall,

smacked them, and took them back

to the house.

"My friends will 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 shall

have to make another, larger book, to

tell you more about Tom Kitten!

As for the Puddle-ducks—they

went into a pond.

The clothes all 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 willing 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 will

hatch them all 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 hill.

She was wearing a shawl and a

poke bonnet.

When she reached the top of the

hill, 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 downhill

a few yards flapping her shawl, and

then she jumped off into the air.

She flew beautifully 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 tall 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 will 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 full 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 all.

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 will 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 will provide

oats. But before you commence your

tedious sitting, I intend to give you a

treat. Let us have a dinner party all 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 will 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 all 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 collie 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

collie; she told him the whole story.

The collie 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 village. 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 all 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 Intelligent 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, called Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit, who

was an anxious parent. She used to

lose her kittens continually, 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 all

over the house, mewing for Tom

Kitten. She looked in the pantry under

the staircase, and she searched the

best spare bedroom that was all

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, full of

cupboards and passages. Some of the

walls 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—

especially cheese and bacon.

Mrs. Tabitha became more and

more distracted and mewed

dreadfully.

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—"Shall 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 called to borrow some

yeast.

Mr. Tabitha came downstairs

mewing dreadfully—"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?"

"All 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 will help

you to find him; and whip him, too!

What is all 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 umbrella 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 tearfully. "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 yellow

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

rolling pin."

Ribby and Tabitha looked at one

another.

"A rolling pin and butter! Oh, my

poor son Thomas!" exclaimed

Tabitha, wringing her paws.

"A rolling 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 still 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 fall 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 wall. 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 smell?

It is something like mouse, only

dreadfully strong. It makes me

sneeze," said Tom Kitten.

He squeezed through the hole in

the wall and dragged himself along a

most uncomfortably tight passage

where there was scarcely any light.

He groped his way carefully for

several yards; he was at the back of

the skirting board in the attic, where

there is a little mark * in the picture.

All at once he fell 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 all

his life in the house. It was a very

small 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 all 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.

All in a minute she rushed upon

Tom Kitten, and before he knew what

was happening. . .

. . . his coat was pulled off, and he

was rolled 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 rolling 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

rolling 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 small 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 full 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 critically, 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 rolled him

in the dough.

"Will 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 still, as it disarranged the

pastry. She laid hold of his ears.

Tom Kitten bit and spit, and

mewed and wriggled; and the rolling

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 will be

a good pudding. It smells sooty."

Anna Maria was about to argue the

point when all 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 rolling pin

and listened attentively.

"We are discovered and interrupted,

Anna Maria; let us collect our

property—and other people's—and

depart at once.

"I fear that we shall 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 rolling pin and Tom Kitten

in a very dirty dumpling!

But there was a strong smell 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 still

arguing in shrill 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 all 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

village, 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 All 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

generally called 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

delightfully 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 wall,

and a little old mouse picked over

the rubbish among the jam pots.

(I can tell you her name, she

was called 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 wall, 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 still they did not wake

up.

Mr. McGregor tied up the sack

and left it on the wall.

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 pulled

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 all 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 followed 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 silly: what do you

mean, you silly old man?"

"In the sack! one, two, three,

four, five, six!" replied Mr. McGregor.

(The youngest Flopsy Bunny got

upon the windowsill.)

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 all different shapes.

"Not fit to eat; but the skins will

do fine to line my old cloak."

"Line your old cloak?" shouted

Mr. McGregor—"I shall sell them

and buy myself baccy!"

"Rabbit tobacco! I shall 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

[Nellie'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 cellars and

seed cellars, all 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 all 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.

All along the passage she

sniffed, and looked at the floor.

"I smell a smell 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 full of untidy dry

moss.

Mrs. Tittlemouse began to pull 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 will have them turned out

—" "Buzz! Buzz! Buzzz!"—"I

wonder who would help me?"

"Bizz, Wizz, Wizzz!"

—"I will not have Mr. Jackson;

he never wipes his feet."

Mrs. Tittlemouse decided to

leave the bees till 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 all over a

small 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 all over the room.

"Thank you, thank you, thank

you, Mrs. Tittlemouse! Now what

I really—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 call."

Mr. Jackson rose ponderously

from the table, and began

to look into the cupboards.

Mrs. Tittlemouse followed 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 will 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 all over bristles," said Mr.

Jackson, wiping his mouth with

his coat sleeve.

"Get out, you nasty old toad!" shrieked Babbitty Bumble.

"I shall go distracted!" scolded Mrs. Tittlemouse.

She shut herself up in the nut

cellar while Mr. Jackson pulled 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—

all 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 will make it too small 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 fell asleep in

her chair, and then she went

to bed.

"Will 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 all beautifully

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 all 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,

called Timmy Tiptoes. He had a

nest thatched with leaves in the

top of a tall tree; and he had a

little squirrel wife called 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 shall be sound

asleep all winter." "Then we shall

wake up all 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 hollow

stumps near the tree where

they had built their nest.

When these stumps were full,

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 shall you ever get them

out again? It is like a money box!"

said Goody.

"I shall be much thinner before

springtime, my love," said Timmy

Tiptoes, peeping into the hole.

They did collect 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 called 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

caterpillars 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 followed 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 all.

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 all the mischief,

flew away in a fright!

Timmy rolled over and over,

and then turned tail and fled

towards his nest, followed 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 small for Timmy

Tiptoes' figure. They squeezed

him dreadfully, it was a wonder

they did not break his ribs. "We

will leave him here till 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

still.

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 all over the

wood, calling—

"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 small 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 full 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 shall I ever get out

through that hole unless I thin

myself? My wife will 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 full-up

downstairs; the sitting room is

full, and they are rolling 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 fell out,

How shall we bring this matter about?

Bring it about as well 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 called 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; till 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

umbrella.

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

still.

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 William Francis of Ulva—Someday!]

I have made many books about

well-behaved people. Now, for a

change, I am going to make a story

about two disagreeable people,

called Tommy Brock and Mr. Tod.

Nobody could call Mr. Tod

"nice." The rabbits could not bear

him; they could smell 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 pollard willow near

the lake, frightening the wild ducks

and the water rats.

In winter and early spring he

might generally be found in an

earth amongst the rocks at the top

of Bull 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 all 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 generally Mr. Tod's.

Now Tommy Brock did occasionally

eat rabbit pie; but it was only

very little young ones occasionally,

when other food was really 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 shallow

burrow, separate from the main

rabbit hole. To tell the truth—old

Mr. Bouncer had forgotten them.

He sat in the sun, and conversed

cordially 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 all 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

shall 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 filled 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 all the young

rabbit babies had disappeared!

Mr. Bouncer would not confess

that he had admitted anybody into

the rabbit hole. But the smell 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 smell that made Benjamin

stop was NOT the smell 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 till he came to

the other side of the wood. Apparently

Tommy Brock had turned the

same way. Upon the top of the wall

there were again the marks of

badger; and some ravellings of a

sack had caught on a briar.

Benjamin climbed over the wall,

into a meadow. He found another

mole trap newly set; he was still

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 all of

them twins! Did he come this way?

Please tell me quick!"

"Yes, yes; not ten minutes since

... he said they were CATERPILLARS;

I did think they were kicking rather

hard, for caterpillars."

"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; tell 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 will probably go

to sleep, and keep them for breakfast."

"Which way?" "Cousin Benjamin,

compose yourself. I know

very well 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 Bull 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 hill.)

Peter hid his dandelions, and

accompanied the afflicted parent,

who was all of atwitter. They

crossed several fields and began to

climb the hill; 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 still warm and

slanting on the hill 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 will 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 Bull 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 carefully, 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 willow

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 cellar, 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 smelly, and over-

grown with thorns and briars.

The rabbits shivered in their

shoes.

"Oh my poor rabbit babies!

What a dreadful place; I shall 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 windowsill.

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 all of atwitter,

pulled Peter off the windowsill.

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 skulls, 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, especially

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 full 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 wall 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 really 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 called 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

hill. In the valley 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, followed 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 Bull

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 pollard willow, 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 hill; 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 followed 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

carefully, 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 cellar, and his tablecloth, that

he had left folded up in the dresser

—all set out for supper (or breakfast)

—without doubt for that

odious Tommy Brock.

There was a smell of fresh earth

and dirty badger, which fortunately

overpowered all smell 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 collar 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 peacefully 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-

sill. 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 pulled 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 sill, 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 really 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, naturally, 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 still he slept on

peacefully.

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 fuller and fuller, and

swung like a pendulum. Occasionally

a drop splashed over; but still

Tommy Brock snored regularly and

never moved,—except in one eye.

At last Mr. Tod's preparations

were complete. The pail was full of

water; the rope was tightly strained

over the top of the bed, and across

the windowsill to the tree outside.

"It will 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 fall the pailful of water upon

Tommy Brock—

"I will wake him up with an

unpleasant surprise," said Mr. Tod.

The moment he had gone,

Tommy Brock got up in a hurry; he

rolled 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 pulled 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 rolling over and over.

But no screams. Mr. Tod was

mystified; he sat quite still, and

listened attentively. Then he peeped

in at the window. The water was

dripping from the bed, the pail had

rolled 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

killed him dead!

"I will bury that nasty person in

the hole which he has dug. I will

bring my bedding out, and dry it in

the sun," said Mr. Tod.

"I will 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 will get soft soap, and monkey

soap, and all sorts of soap; and

soda and scrubbing brushes; and

persian powder; and carbolic to

remove the smell. 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 will arrange the hole—then

I will 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 all 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 all over the

kitchen. To the rabbits underneath

it sounded as if the floor would give

way at each crash of falling 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 fell with a

crash, and there were handfuls of

Mr. Tod's sandy whiskers.

The vases fell off the mantelpiece,

the cannisters fell off the

shelf; the kettle fell off the hob.

Tommy Brock put his foot in a jar

of raspberry jam.

And the boiling water out of the

kettle fell upon the tail of Mr. Tod.

When the kettle fell, Tommy

Brock, who was still grinning,

happened to be uppermost; and he

rolled Mr. Tod over and over like a

log, out at the door.

Then the snarling and worrying

went on outside; and they rolled

over the bank, and down hill,

bumping over the rocks. There will

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 fallen down the

stone quarry."

Still Benjamin hesitated, and

Peter kept pushing him—

"Be quick, it's all 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

quarrelled 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 carefully,

and rejoined Peter Rabbit.

"I've got them! Can we get away?

Shall we hide, Cousin Peter?"

Peter pricked his ears; distant

sounds of fighting still echoed in

the wood.

Five minutes afterwards two

breathless rabbits came scuttering

away down Bull 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 all had dinner. Then Peter

and Benjamin told their story—but

they had not waited long enough to

be able to tell 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 called Aunt Pettitoes. She

had eight of a family: four little girl

pigs, called Cross-patch, Suck-suck,

Yock-yock and Spot; and four little

boy pigs, called 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 all the pig family are pink, or

pink with black spots, but this pig

child was smutty black all 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 well 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 shall have to get another cow!

Good little Spot shall 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 will 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 follows—

"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 all

his own peppermints—"Give me

one of yours, please, Pigling?" "But

I wish to preserve them for

emergencies," said Pigling Bland

doubtfully. 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 all the tune that he could play, was

`Over the hills 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 pulled 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 all 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, followed by a damp subdued

little pig. I disposed of Alexander in

the neighborhood; he did fairly

well 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 Hills, 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 wistfully along the

road towards the hills, 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 all 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

frantically, 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 valley with a river twinkling

in the moonlight, and beyond

—in misty distance—lay the hills.

He saw a small 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 fell asleep.

In less than an hour they were all

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

fell upon Pigling Bland, squeezed

up in a corner. He made a singular

remark—"Hallo, 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 hill,

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 pulled 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 pulled off the other

boot and flung it after the first,

there was again a curious noise—

"Be quiet, will 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 small 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 still 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 called up all the girls and boys—

"And they all ran to hear him play,

"Over the hills and far away!—"

Suddenly a little smothered voice

chimed in—

"Over the hills and a great way off,

The wind shall 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 all 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.

All 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 full. Pigling helped himself

to meal without scruple. "What

for?" "Bacon, hams," replied Pig-

wig cheerfully. "Why on earth don't

you run away?" exclaimed the

horrified Pigling.

"I shall 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 hills 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 smell 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

smell 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 will sing," replied Pig-

wig, "You will 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 successfully 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

well 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 rolled over, a little

round ball, 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 all 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 all the tune that he could play, was

`Over the hills 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 hills. The sunshine

crept down the slopes into

the peaceful green valleys, 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 followed the opposite side

of the road. "Pig-wig! keep under

the wall, there's a man ploughing."

Pig-wig crossed over, they hurried

down hill 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 frightfully 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 pulled the cart

crossways, and held down his

whip. "Hallo? 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 all his pockets, and handed

up the papers. The grocer read

them, but still seemed dissatisfied.

"This here pig is a young lady; is

her name Alexander?" Pig-wig

opened her mouth and shut it

again; Pigling coughed asthmatically.

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 will look

back." The grocer did so; he saw the

two pigs stock-still 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 hill

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 hill, 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 hills

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 village shop. The name over

the window was "Ginger and

Pickles."

It was a little small shop

just the right size for Dolls—

Lucinda and Jane Doll-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 small 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 yellow 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 usually 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 village.

She did not give credit.)

But there is no money in

what is called the "till."

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 pulling

out a purse and paying for it

—she says she will 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, especially 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 shall be summoned.

I have tried in vain to

get a license upon credit at the

Post Office;" said Pickles.

"The place is full of policemen.

I met one as I was coming

home.

"Let us send in the bill

again to Samuel Whiskers,

Ginger, he owes 22/9 for

bacon."

"I do not believe that he

intends to pay at all," replied

Ginger.

When it came to Jan. 1st

there was still 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 Collie dog."

"And I feel sure that Anna

Maria pockets things—

"Where are all 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 bill 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 all the bills 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 doll!"

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 till he was

hoarse. But still 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 schillings, 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 sell 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 sell behave very strangely

in warm weather.

So everybody was pleased

when Sally 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 really 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.

Sally 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.

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Table of Contents

THE GREAT BIG TREASURY OF BEATRIX POTTER

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 FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE