The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter, by Beatrix Potter

Published：2026-07-31 03:56:10 Source: electronic learning toys for 7 year olds under 30 dollars Author: Games

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,remote control robots for 8 year olds 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 Iam 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! Iwill 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 Ithink 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 Inever 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 yougoing,               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; Ido 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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