The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter

Author: Beatrix PotterThe Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter

BY BEATRIX POTTER

CONTENTS

THE TALE OF PETER RABBITTHE TAILOR OF GLOUCESTERTHE TALE OF SQUIRREL NUTKINTHE TALE OF BENJAMIN BUNNYTHE TALE OF TWO BAD MICETHE TALE OF MRS. TIGGY-WINKLETHE PIE AND THE PATTY-PANTHE TALE OF MR. JEREMY FISHERTHE STORY OF A FIERCE BAD RABBITTHE STORY OF MISS MOPPETTHE TALE OF TOM KITTENTHE TALE OF JEMIMA PUDDLE-DUCKTHE ROLY-POLY PUDDINGTHE TALE OF THE FLOPSY BUNNIESTHE TALE OF MRS. TITTLEMOUSETHE TALE OF TIMMY TIPTOESTHE TALE OF MR. TODTHE TALE OF PIGLING BLANDGINGER AND PICKLES

THE TALE OF

PETER RABBITOnce upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were—

Flopsy,

Mopsy,

Cotton-tail,

and Peter.

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

“Now, my dears,” said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, “you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don’t go into Mr. McGregor’s garden: your Father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor.”

“Now run along, and don’t get into mischief. I am going out.”

Then old Mrs. Rabbit took a basketand her umbrella, and went throughthe wood to the baker’s. She bought aloaf of brown bread and five currantbuns.

Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail, whowere good little bunnies, went downthe lane to gather blackberries;

But Peter, who was very naughty,ran straight away to Mr. McGregor’sgarden, and squeezed under the gate!

First he ate some lettuces and someFrench beans; and then he ate someradishes;And then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some parsley.

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

Mr. McGregor was on his handsand knees planting out youngcabbages, but he jumped up and ranafter Peter, waving a rake and callingout, “Stop thief.”

Peter was most dreadfullyfrightened; he rushed all over thegarden, for he had forgotten the wayback to the gate.

He lost one of his shoes among thecabbages, and the other shoeamongst the potatoes.

After losing them, he ran on fourlegs and went faster, so that I think hemight have got away altogether if hehad not unfortunately run into agooseberry net, and got caught by thelarge buttons on his jacket. It was ablue jacket with brass buttons, quite new.

Peter gave himself up for lost, andshed big tears; but his sobs wereoverheard 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 thetop of Peter; but Peter wriggled outjust in time, leaving his jacket behind him.

And rushed into the toolshed, andjumped into a can. It would have beena beautiful thing to hide in, if it hadnot had so much water in it.

Mr. McGregor was quite sure thatPeter was somewhere in the toolshed,perhaps hidden underneath a flower-pot. He began to turn them overcarefully, looking under each.

Presently Peter sneezed—“Kertyschoo!” Mr. McGregor was afterhim in no time,

And tried to put his foot uponPeter, who jumped out of a window,upsetting three plants. The windowwas too small for Mr. McGregor, andhe was tired of running after Peter. Hewent back to his work.

Peter sat down to rest; he was outof breath and trembling with fright,and he had not the least idea whichway to go. Also he was very dampwith sitting in that can.

After a time he began to wanderabout, going lippity—lippity—notvery fast, and looking all around.

He found a door in a wall; but itwas locked, and there was no roomfor a fat little rabbit to squeezeunderneath.

An old mouse was running in andout over the stone doorstep, carryingpeas and beans to her family in thewood. Peter asked her the way to thegate, but she had such a large pea inher mouth that she could not answer.She only shook her head at him. Peterbegan to cry.

Then he tried to find his waystraight across the garden, but hebecame more and more puzzled.Presently, he came to a pond whereMr. McGregor filled his water-cans. Awhite cat was staring at somegoldfish; she sat very, very still, butnow and then the tip of her tailtwitched as if it were alive. Peterthought it best to go away withoutspeaking to her; he has heard aboutcats 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, hecame out, and climbed upon awheelbarrow, and peeped over. Thefirst thing he saw was Mr. McGregorhoeing onions. His back was turnedtowards Peter, and beyond him wasthe gate!

Peter got down very quietly off thewheelbarrow, and started running asfast as he could go, along a straightwalk behind some black-currant bushes.

Mr. McGregor caught sight of himat the corner, but Peter did not care.He slipped underneath the gate, andwas safe at last in the wood outsidethe garden.

Mr. McGregor hung up the littlejacket and the shoes for a scare-crowto frighten the blackbirds.

Peter never stopped running orlooked behind him till he got home tothe big fir-tree.

He was so tired that he floppeddown upon the nice soft sand on thefloor of the rabbit-hole, and shut hiseyes. His mother was busy cooking;she wondered what he had done withhis clothes. It was the second littlejacket and pair of shoes that Peterhad lost in a fortnight!

I am sorry to say that Peter was notvery well during the evening.

His mother put him to bed, andmade some camomile tea; and shegave a dose of it to Peter!

“One table-spoonful to be taken atbed-time.”

But Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tailhad bread and milk and blackberriesfor 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 inGloucestershire, and that it is true—at least about thetailor, the waistcoat, and the

“No more twist!”Christmas

In the time of swords and peri wigs

and full-skirted coats with floweredlappets—when gentlemen woreruffles, and gold-laced waistcoats ofpaduasoy and taffeta—there lived atailor in Gloucester.

He sat in the window of a littleshop in Westgate Street, cross-leggedon a table from morning till dark.

All day long while the light lastedhe sewed and snippetted, piecing outhis satin, and pompadour, andlutestring; stuffs had strange names,and were very expensive in the days ofthe Tailor of Gloucester.

But although he sewed fine silk forhis neighbours, he himself was very,very poor. He cut his coats withoutwaste; according to his embroideredcloth, they were very small ends andsnippets that lay about upon thetable—“Too narrow breadths fornought—except waistcoats for mice,”said the tailor.

One bitter cold day nearChristmastime the tailor began tomake a coat (a coat of cherry-coloured corded silk embroideredwith pansies and roses) and a cream-coloured satin waistcoat for theMayor of Gloucester.

The tailor worked and worked, andhe talked to himself: “No breadth atall, and cut on the cross; it is nobreadth at all; tippets for mice andribbons for mobs! for mice!” said theTailor of Gloucester.

When the snow-flakes came downagainst the small leaded window-panes and shut out the light, the tailorhad done his day’s work; all the silkand 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 cuffsand buttons, all in order. For thelining of the coat there was fineyellow taffeta, and for the button-holes of the waistcoat there wascherry-coloured twist. And everythingwas ready to sew together in themorning, all measured andsufficient—except that there waswanting just one single skein ofcherry-coloured twisted silk.

The tailor came out of his shop atdark. No one lived there at nights butlittle brown mice, and THEY ran in andout without any keys!

For behind the wooden wainscotsof all the old houses in Gloucester,there are little mouse staircases andsecret trap-doors; and the mice runfrom house to house through thoselong, narrow passages.

But the tailor came out of his shopand shuffled home through the snow.And although it was not a big house,the tailor was so poor he only rentedthe kitchen.

He lived alone with his cat; it wascalled Simpkin.

“Miaw?” said the cat when thetailor opened the door, “miaw?”

The tailor replied: “Simpkin, weshall make our fortune, but I amworn to a ravelling. Take this groat(which is our last fourpence), and,Simpkin, take a china pipkin, but apenn’orth of bread, a penn’orth ofmilk, and a penn’orth of sausages.And oh, Simpkin, with the last pennyof our fourpence but me onepenn’orth of cherry-coloured silk. Butdo not lose the last penny of thefourpence, Simpkin, or I am undone

and worn to a thread-paper, for Ihave 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 andbeginning to be ill. He sat down by thehearth and talked to himself aboutthat wonderful coat.

“I shall make my fortune—to becut bias—the Mayor of Gloucester isto be married on Christmas Day in themorning, and he hath ordered a coatand an embroidered waistcoat—“

Then the tailor started; forsuddenly, interrupting him, from thedresser at the other side of the kitchencame a number of little noises—

Tip tap, tip tap, tip tap tip!“Now what can that be?” said theTailor of Gloucester, jumping up fromhis chair. The tailor crossed thekitchen, and stood quite still besidethe dresser, listening, and peeringthrough his spectacles.

“This is very peculiar,” said theTailor of Gloucester, and he lifted upthe 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 thedresser, and under the wainscot.

The tailor sat down again by thefire, warming his poor cold hands.But all at once, from the dresser, therecame 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, whichwas upside down.

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

And out from under tea-cups andfrom under bowls and basins, steppedother and more little mice, whohopped away down off the dresserand under the wainscot.

The tailor sat down, close over thefire, lamenting: “One-and-twentybuttonholes of cherry-coloured silk!To be finished by noon of Saturday:

and this is Tuesday evening. Was itright to let loose those mice,undoubtedly the property of Simpkin?Alack, I am undone, for I have nomore twist!”

The little mice came out again andlistened to the tailor; they took noticeof the pattern of that wonderful coat.They whispered to one another aboutthe taffeta lining and about littlemouse tippets.

And then suddenly they all ranaway together down the passagebehind the wainscot, squeaking andcalling to one another as they ranfrom house to house.

Not one mouse was left in thetailor’s kitchen when Simpkin cameback. He set down the pipkin of milkupon the dresser, and lookedsuspiciously at the tea-cups. Hewanted his supper of little fat mouse!

“Simpkin,” said the tailor, “where ismy TWIST?”

But Simpkin hid a little parcelprivately in the tea-pot, and spit andgrowled at the tailor; and if Simpkin

had been able to talk, he would haveasked: “Where is my MOUSE?”

“Alack, I am undone!” said theTailor of Gloucester, and went sadlyto bed.

All that night long Simpkin huntedand searched through the kitchen,peeping into cupboards and under thewainscot, and into the tea-pot wherehe had hidden that twist; but still hefound never a mouse!

The poor old tailor was very ill witha fever, tossing and turning in hisfour-post bed; and still in his dreamshe mumbled: “No more twist! nomore twist!”

What should become of the cherry-coloured coat? Who should come tosew it, when the window was barred,and the door was fast locked?

Out-of-doors the market folks wenttrudging through the snow to buytheir geese and turkeys, and to baketheir Christmas pies; but there wouldbe no dinner for Simpkin and the poorold tailor of Gloucester.

The tailor lay ill for three days andnights; and then it was Christmas Eve,and very late at night. And stillSimpkin wanted his mice, and mewedas he stood beside the four-post bed.

But it is in the old story that all thebeasts can talk in the night betweenChristmas Eve and Christmas Day inthe morning (though there are veryfew folk that can hear them, or knowwhat it is that they say).

When the Cathedral clock strucktwelve there was an answer—like anecho of the chimes—and Simpkinheard it, and came out of the tailor’s

door, and wandered about in thesnow.

From all the roofs and gables andold wooden houses in Gloucestercame a thousand merry voices singingthe old Christmas rhymes—all the oldsongs that ever I heard of, and somethat I don’t know, like Whittington’sbells.

Under the wooden eaves thestarlings and sparrows sang ofChristmas pies; the jackdaws woke upin the Cathedral tower; and althoughit was the middle of the night thethrostles and robins sang; and air wasquite full of little twittering tunes.

But it was all rather provoking topoor hungry Simpkin.

From the tailor’s ship in Westgatecame a glow of light; and whenSimpkin crept up to peep in at thewindow it was full of candles. Therewas a snippeting of scissors, andsnappeting of thread; and little mousevoices sang loudly and gaily:

“Four-and-twenty tailorsWent to catch a snail,The best man amongst themDurst not touch her tail;She put out her hornsLike a little kyloe cow.Run, tailors, run!Or she’ll have you all e’en now!”

Then without a pause the littlemouse 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 thekey was under the tailor’s pillow; hecould not get in.

The little mice only laughed, andtried 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!” scuffledSimpkin on the window-sill; while thelittle mice inside sprang to their feet,and all began to shout all at once inlittle twittering voices: “No moretwist! No more twist!” And theybarred up the window-shutters andshut out Simpkin.

Simpkin came away from the shopand went home considering in hismind. He found the poor old tailorwithout fever, sleeping peacefully.

Then Simpkin went on tip-toe andtook a little parcel of silk out of thetea-pot; and looked at it in themoonlight; and he felt quite ashamedof his badness compared with thosegood little mice!

When the tailor awoke in themorning, the first thing which he saw,upon the patchwork quilt, was a skeinof cherry-coloured twisted silk, andbeside his bed stood the repentantSimpkin!

The sun was shining on the snowwhen the tailor got up and dressed,and came out into the street with

Simpkin running before him.

“Alack,” said the tailor, “I have mytwist; but no more strength—nortime—than will serve to make me onesingle buttonhole; for this isChristmas Day in the Morning! TheMayor of Gloucester shall be marriedby noon—and where is his cherry-coloured coat?”

He unlocked the door of the littleshop in Westgate Street, and Simpkinran in, like a cat that expectssomething.

But there was no one there! Noteven one little brown mouse!

But upon the table—oh joy! thetailor gave a shout—there, where hehad left plain cuttings of silk—therelay the most beautiful coat andembroidered satin waistcoat that everwere worn by a Mayor of Gloucester!

Everything was finished except justone single cherry-coloured buttonhole,and where that buttonhole waswanting there was pinned a scrap ofpaper with these words—in littleteeny weeny writing—

NO MORE TWIST.

And from then began the luck ofthe Tailor of Gloucester; he grew quitestout, and he grew quite rich.

He made the most wonderfulwaistcoats for all the rich merchantsof Gloucester, and for all the finegentlemen of the country round.

Never were seen such ruffles, orsuch embroidered cuffs and lappets!But his buttonholes were the greatesttriumph of it all.

The stitches of those buttonholes

were so neat—SO neat—I wonderhow they could be stitched by an oldman in spectacles, with crooked oldfingers, and a tailor’s thimble.

The stitches of those buttonholeswere so small—SO small—they lookedas if they had been made by littlemice!

THE TALE OFSQUIRREL NUTKIN[A Story for Norah]This is a Tale about a tail—a tailthat belonged to a little red squirrel,and his name was Nutkin.

He had a brother calledTwinkleberry, and a great manycousins: they lived in a wood at theedge of a lake.

In the middle of the lake there is anisland covered with trees and nutbushes; and amongst those treesstands a hollow oak-tree, which is thehouse of an owl who is called OldBrown.

One autumn when the nuts wereripe, and the leaves on the hazelbushes were golden and green—Nutkin and Twinkleberry and all theother little squirrels came out of thewood, and down to the edge of thelake.

They made little rafts out of twigs,and they paddled away over thewater to Owl Island to gather nuts.

Each squirrel had a little sack and alarge oar, and spread out his tail for asail.

They also took with them an

offering of three fat mice as a presentfor Old Brown, and put them downupon his door-step.

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

“Old Mr. Brown, will youfavour us with permission togather nuts upon your island?”

But Nutkin was excessivelyimpertinent in his manners. Hebobbed up and down like a littlered 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 whateverto Nutkin.

He shut his eyes obstinately andwent to sleep.

The squirrels filled their little sackswith nuts, and sailed away home inthe evening.

But next morning they all cameback again to Owl Island; andTwinkleberry and the others broughta fine fat mole, and laid it on thestone in front of Old Brown’sdoorway, and said—

“Mr. Brown, will you favour us withyour gracious permission to gathersome more nuts?”

But Nutkin, who had no respect,began to dance up and down, ticklingold Mr. Brown with a NETTLE andsinging—

“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 andcarried the mole into his house.

He shut the door in Nutkin’s face.Presently a little thread of blue SMOKEfrom a wood fire came up from thetop of the tree, and Nutkin peepedthrough the key-hole and sang—

“A house full, a hole full!And you cannot gather a bowl-full!”

The squirrels searched for nuts allover the island and filled their littlesacks.

But Nutkin gathered oak-apples—yellow and scarlet—and sat upon abeech-stump playing marbles, andwatching the door of old Mr. Brown.

On the third day the squirrels gotup very early and went fishing; theycaught seven fat minnows as apresent for Old Brown.

They paddled over the lake andlanded under a crooked chestnut treeon Owl Island.

Twinkleberry and six other littlesquirrels each carried a fat minnow;but Nutkin, who had no nicemanners, 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 interestin riddles—not even when the answerwas provided for him.

On the fourth day the squirrelsbrought a present of six fat beetles,which were as good as plums inPLUM-PUDDING for Old Brown. Eachbeetle was wrapped up carefully in adockleaf, 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 togive to Old Brown.

The other squirrels hunted up anddown the nut bushes; but Nutkingathered robin’s pin-cushions off abriar bush, and stuck them full ofpine-needle-pins.

On the fifth day the squirrelsbrought a present of wild honey; itwas so sweet and sticky that theylicked their fingers as they put it downupon the stone. They had stolen it outof a bumble BEES’ nest on the tippitytop of the hill.

But Nutkin skipped up and down,singing—

“Hum-a-bum! buzz! buzz! Hum-a-bum buzz!

As I went over Tipple-tineI met a flock of bonny swine;

Some yellow-nacked, some yellow backed!

They were the very bonniest swineThat e’er went over the Tipple-tine.”

Old Mr. Brown turned up his eyesin disgust at the impertinence ofNutkin.

But he ate up the honey!The squirrels filled their little sackswith nuts.

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

On the sixth day, which wasSaturday, the squirrels came again forthe last time; they brought a new-laidEGG in a little rush basket as a lastparting 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 interestin eggs; he opened one eye and shut itagain. But still he did not speak.

Nutkin became more and moreimpertinent—

“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 aSUNBEAM; but still Old Brown saidnothing 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 tosound like the WIND, and he took arunning jump right onto the head ofOld Brown! . . .

Then all at once there was aflutterment and a scufflement and aloud “Squeak!”

The other squirrels scuttered awayinto the bushes.

When they came back verycautiously, peeping round the tree—there was Old Brown sitting on hisdoor-step, quite still, with his eyesclosed, 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 hishouse, and held him up by the tail,intending to skin him; but Nutkinpulled so very hard that his tail brokein two, and he dashed up thestaircase, and escaped out of the atticwindow.

And to this day, if you meet Nutkinup a tree and ask him a riddle, he willthrow sticks at you, and stamp hisfeet and scold, and shout—

“Cuck-cuck-cuck-cur-r-r-cuck-k!”THE TALE OFBENJAMIN BUNNY[For the Children of Sawreyfrom Old Mr. Bunny]

One morning a little rabbit sat on abank.

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

A gig was coming along the road; itwas driven by Mr. McGregor, andbeside him sat Mrs. McGregor in herbest bonnet.

As soon as they had passed, littleBenjamin Bunny slid down into theroad, and set off—with a hop, skip,and a jump—to call upon hisrelations, who lived in the wood at theback of Mr. McGregor’s garden.

That wood was full of rabbit holes;and in the neatest, sandiest hole of alllived Benjamin’s aunt and hiscousins—Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail,and Peter.

Old Mrs. Rabbit was a widow; sheearned her living by knittingrabbit-wool mittens and muffatees (Ionce bought a pair at a bazaar). Shealso sold herbs, and rosemary tea,and rabbit-tobacco (which is whatwe call lavender).

Little Benjamin did not very muchwant to see his Aunt.

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

Peter was sitting by himself. Helooked poorly, and was dressed in ared cotton pocket-handkerchief.

“Peter,” said little Benjamin, in awhisper, “who has got your clothes?”

Peter replied, “The scarecrow in Mr.McGregor’s garden,” and describedhow he had been chased about the

garden, and had dropped his shoesand coat.

Little Benjamin sat down beside hiscousin and assured him that Mr.McGregor had gone out in a gig, andMrs. McGregor also; and certainly forthe day, because she was wearing herbest bonnet.

Peter said he hoped that it wouldrain.

At this point old Mrs. Rabbit’s voicewas heard inside the rabbit hole,calling: “Cotton-tail! Cotton-tail! fetchsome more camomile!”

Peter said he thought he might feelbetter if he went for a walk.

They went away hand in hand, andgot upon the flat top of the wall at thebottom of the wood. From here theylooked down into Mr. McGregor’sgarden. Peter’s coat and shoes wereplainly to be seen upon the scarecrow,topped with an old tam-o’-shanter ofMr. McGregor’s.

Little Benjamin said: “It spoilspeople’s clothes to squeeze under agate; the proper way to get in is toclimb down a pear-tree.”

Peter fell down head first; but itwas of no consequence, as the bedbelow was newly raked and quitesoft.

It had been sown with lettuces.They left a great many odd littlefootmarks all over the bed, especiallylittle Benjamin, who was wearingclogs.

Little Benjamin said that the firstthing to be done was to get backPeter’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 thecoat was somewhat shrunk.

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

Then he suggested that they shouldfill the pocket-handkerchief withonions, as a little present for his Aunt.

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

Benjamin, on the contrary, wasperfectly at home, and ate a lettuceleaf. He said that he was in the habitof coming to the garden with hisfather to get lettuces for their Sundaydinner.

(The name of little Benjamin’s papawas old Mr. Benjamin Bunny.)

The lettuces certainly were veryfine.

Peter did not eat anything; he saidhe should like to go home. Presentlyhe dropped half the onions.

Little Benjamin said that it was notpossible to get back up the pear-treewith a load of vegetables. He led theway boldly towards the other end ofthe garden. They went along a littlewalk on planks, under a sunny, redbrick wall.

The mice sat on their doorstepscracking cherry-stones; they winkedat Peter Rabbit and little BenjaminBunny.

Presently Peter let the pocket-handkerchief go again.

They got amongst flower-pots, andframes, and tubs. Peter heard noisesworse than ever; his eyes were as bigas lolly-pops!

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

This is what those little rabbits sawround that corner!

Little Benjamin took one look, andthen, in half a minute less than notime, he hid himself and Peter and theonions underneath a large basket. . . .

The cat got up and stretchedherself, and came and sniffed at thebasket.

Perhaps she liked the smell of onions!Anyway, she sat down upon the topof the basket.

She sat there for FIVE HOURS.I cannot draw you a picture ofPeter and Benjamin underneath thebasket, because it was quite dark, andbecause the smell of onions wasfearful; it made Peter Rabbit and littleBenjamin cry.

The sun got round behind thewood, and it was quite late in theafternoon; but still the cat sat uponthe basket.

At length there was a pitter-patter,pitter-patter, and some bits of mortarfell from the wall above.

The cat looked up and saw old Mr.Benjamin Bunny prancing along thetop of the wall of the upper terrace.

He was smoking a pipe of rabbit-

tobacco, and had a little switch in hishand.

He was looking for his son.Old Mr. Bunny had no opinionwhatever of cats. He took atremendous jump off the top of thewall on to the top of the cat, andcuffed it off the basket, and kicked itinto the greenhouse, scratching off ahandful of fur.

The cat was too much surprised toscratch back.

When old Mr. Bunny had driven thecat into the greenhouse, he locked thedoor.

Then he came back to the basketand took out his son Benjamin by theears, and whipped him with the littleswitch.

Then he took out his nephew Peter.Then he took out the handkerchiefof onions, and marched out of thegarden.

When Mr. McGregor returnedabout half an hour later he observedseveral things which perplexed him.

It looked as though some personhad been walking all over the gardenin a pair of clogs—only the footmarkswere too ridiculously little!

Also he could not understand howthe cat could have managed to shutherself up INSIDE the greenhouse,locking the door upon the OUTSIDE.

When Peter got home his motherforgave him, because she was so gladto see that he had found his shoes andcoat. Cotton-tail and Peter folded upthe pocket-handkerchief, and old Mrs.Rabbit strung up the onions and hung

them from the kitchen ceiling, withthe bunches of herbs and the rabbit-tobacco.

THE TALE OFTWO BAD MICE[For W.M.L.W., the Little GirlWho Had the Doll’s House]Once upon a time there was a verybeautiful doll’s-house; it was redbrick with white windows, and it hadreal muslin curtains and a front doorand a chimney.

It belonged to two Dolls calledLucinda and Jane; at least it belongedto Lucinda, but she never orderedmeals.

Jane was the Cook; but she neverdid any cooking, because the dinnerhad been bought ready-made, in abox full of shavings.

There were two red lobsters and aham, a fish, a pudding, and somepears and oranges.

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

One morning Lucinda and Jane hadgone out for a drive in the doll’sperambulator. There was no one inthe nursery, and it was very quiet.Presently there was a little scuffling,scratching noise in a corner near thefireplace, where there was a holeunder the skirting-board.

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

A minute afterwards, HuncaMunca, his wife, put her head out,

too; and when she saw that there wasno one in the nursery, she venturedout on the oilcloth under the coal-box.

The doll’s-house stood at the otherside of the fire-place. Tom Thumband Hunca Munca went cautiouslyacross the hearthrug. They pushedthe front door—it was not fast.

Tom Thumb and Hunca Muncawent upstairs and peeped into thedining-room. Then they squeakedwith joy!

Such a lovely dinner was laid outupon the table! There were tinspoons, and lead knives and forks,and two dolly-chairs—all SOconvenient!

Tom Thumb set to work at once tocarve the ham. It was a beautifulshiny yellow, streaked with red.

The knife crumpled up and hurthim; 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 herchair, and chopped at the ham withanother lead knife.

“It’s as hard as the hams at thecheesemonger’s,” said Hunca Munca.

The ham broke off the plate with ajerk, and rolled under the table.

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

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

Then Tom Thumb lost his temper.

He put the ham in the middle of thefloor, and hit it with the tongs andwith the shovel—bang, bang, smash,smash!

The ham flew all into pieces, forunderneath the shiny paint it wasmade of nothing but plaster!

Then there was no end to the rageand disappointment of Tom Thumband Hunca Munca. They broke up thepudding, the lobsters, the pears andthe oranges.

As the fish would not come off theplate, they put it into the red-hotcrinkly paper fire in the kitchen; but itwould not burn either.

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

While Tom Thumb was up thechimney, Hunca Munca had anotherdisappointment. She found some tinycanisters upon the dresser, labelled—Rice—Coffee—Sago—but when sheturned them upside down, there wasnothing inside except red and bluebeads.

Then those mice set to work to doall the mischief they could—especiallyTom Thumb! He took Jane’s clothesout of the chest of drawers in herbedroom, and he threw them out ofthe top floor window.

But Hunca Munca had a frugalmind. After pulling half the feathersout of Lucinda’s bolster, sheremembered that she herself was inwant of a feather bed.

With Tom Thumbs’s assistance shecarried the bolster downstairs, and

across the hearth-rug. It was difficultto squeeze the bolster into the mouse-hole; but they managed it somehow.

Then Hunca Munca went back andfetched a chair, a book-case, a bird-cage, and several small odds andends. The book-case and the bird-cage refused to go into the mousehole.

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

Hunca Munca was just returningwith another chair, when suddenlythere was a noise of talking outsideupon the landing. The mice rushedback to their hole, and the dolls cameinto the nursery.

What a sight met the eyes of Janeand Lucinda! Lucinda sat upon theupset kitchen stove and stared; andJane leant against the kitchen dresserand smiled—but neither of themmade any remark.

The book-case and the bird-cagewere rescued from under the coal-box—but Hunca Munca has got thecradle, and some of Lucinda’sclothes.

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

The little girl that the doll’s-housebelonged to, said,--“I will get a dolldressed like a policeman!”

But the nurse said,--“I will set amouse-trap!”

So that is the story of the two BadMice,--but they were not so very verynaughty after all, because TomThumb paid for everything he broke.

He found a crooked sixpence underthe hearth-rug; and upon ChristmasEve, he and Hunca Munca stuffed itinto one of the stockings of Lucindaand Jane.

And very early every morning—before anybody is awake—HuncaMunca comes with her dust-pan andher broom to sweep the Dollies’ house!

THE TALE OF

MRS. TIGGY-WINKLE

[For the RealLittle Lucie of Newlands]Once upon a time there was a littlegirl called Lucie, who lived at a farmcalled Little-town. She was a goodlittle girl—only she was always losingher pocket-handkerchiefs!

One day little Lucie came into thefarm-yard crying—oh, she did cry so!“I’ve lost my pocket-handkin! Threehandkins and a pinny! Have YOU seenthem, Tabby Kitten?”

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

“Sally Henny-penny, have YOUfound three pocket-handkins?”

But the speckled hen ran into abarn, clucking—

“I go barefoot, barefoot, barefoot!”And then Lucie asked Cock Robinsitting on a twig. Cock Robin lookedsideways at Lucie with his brightblack eye, and he flew over a stile andaway.

Lucie climbed upon the stile andlooked 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 shethought she saw some white thingsspread upon the grass.

Lucie scrambled up the hill as fastas her short legs would carry her; sheran along a steep path-way—up andup—until Little-town was right awaydown below—she could havedropped a pebble down the chimney!

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

Some one had stood a tin can upona stone to catch the water—but thewater was already running over, forthe can was no bigger than an egg-cup! And where the sand upon thepath was wet—there were footmarksof a VERY small person.

Lucie ran on, and on.The path ended under a big rock.The grass was short and green, andthere were clothes-props cut frombracken stems, with lines of plaitedrushes, and a heap of tiny clothespins—but no pocket-handkerchiefs!

But there was something else—adoor! straight into the hill; and insideit some one was singing—

“Lily-white and clean, oh!With little frills between, oh!Smooth and hot-red rusty spotNever here be seen, oh!”

Lucie knocked-once-twice, andinterrupted the song. A littlefrightened voice called out “Who’sthat?”

Lucie opened the door: and what

do you think there was inside thehill?--a nice clean kitchen with aflagged floor and wooden beams—just like any other farm kitchen. Onlythe ceiling was so low that Lucie’shead nearly touched it; and the potsand pans were small, and so waseverything there.

There was a nice hot singey smell;and at the table, with an iron in herhand, stood a very stout short personstaring anxiously at Lucie.

Her print gown was tucked up, andshe was wearing a large apron overher striped petticoat. Her little blacknose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle, andher eyes went twinkle, twinkle; andunderneath her cap-where Luciehad yellow curls-that little personhad PRICKLES!

“Who are you?” said Lucie. “Haveyou seen my pocket-handkins?”

The little person made a bob-curtsey—“Oh yes, if you please’m; myname is Mrs. Tiggy-winkle; oh yes ifyou please’m, I’m an excellent clear-starcher!” And she took somethingout of the clothesbasket, and spread iton the ironing-blanket.

“What’s that thing?” said Lucie-“that’s not my pocket-handkin?”

“Oh no, if you please’m; that’s alittle scarlet waist-coat belonging toCock Robin!”

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

Then she took something else off aclothes-horse—“That isn’t my pinny?”said Lucie.

“Oh no, if you please’m; that’s a

damask table-cloth belonging toJenny Wren; look how it’s stained withcurrant wine! It’s very bad to wash!”said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.

Mrs. Tiggy-winkle’s nose wentsniffle sniffle snuffle, and her eyeswent twinkle twinkle; and she fetchedanother hot iron from the fire.

“There’s one of my pocket-handkins!” cried Lucie—“and there’smy pinny!”

Mrs. Tiggy-winkle ironed it, andgoffered it, and shook out the frills.

“Oh that IS lovely!” said Lucie.“And what are those long yellowthings with fingers like gloves?”

“Oh that’s a pair of stockingsbelonging to Sally Henny-penny—lookhow she’s worn the heels out withscratching in the yard! She’ll very soongo 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 onebelongs to old Mrs. Rabbit; and it DIDso smell of onions! I’ve had to wash itseparately, 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 belongingto Tabby Kitten; I only have to ironthem; she washes them herself.”

“There’s my last pocket-handkin!”said Lucie.

“And what are you dipping into thebasin of starch?”

“They’re little dicky shirt-frontsbelonging 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 fluffythings?” said Lucie.

“Oh those are woolly coatsbelonging to the little lambs atSkelghyl.”

“Will their jackets take off?” askedLucie.

“Oh yes, if you please’m; look at thesheep-mark on the shoulder. Andhere’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 sizesof clothes—small brown coats ofmice; and one velvety black moleskinwaist-coat; and a red tail-coat withno tail belonging to Squirrel Nutkin;and a very much shrunk blue jacketbelonging to Peter Rabbit; and apetticoat, not marked, that had gonelost in the washing—and at last thebasket was empty!

Then Mrs. Tiggy-winkle madetea—a cup for herself and a cup forLucie. They sat before the fire on abench and looked sideways at oneanother. Mrs. Tiggy-winkle’s hand,holding the tea-cup, was very verybrown, and very very wrinkly with thesoap-suds; and all through her gownand her cap, there were HAIRPINSsticking wrong end out; so that Luciedidn’t like to sit too near her.

When they had finished tea, theytied up the clothes in bundles; andLucie’s pocket-handkerchiefs werefolded up inside her clean pinny, andfastened with a silver safety-pin.

And then they made up the firewith turf, and came out and lockedthe door, and hid the key under thedoor-sill.

Then away down the hill trottedLucie and Mrs. Tiggy-winkle with thebundles of clothes!

All the way down the path littleanimals came out of the fern to meetthem; the very first that they metwere Peter Rabbit and BenjaminBunny!

And she gave them their nice cleanclothes; and all the little animals andbirds were so very much obliged todear Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.

So that at the bottom of the hillwhen they came to the stile, there wasnothing left to carry except Lucie’sone little bundle.

Lucie scrambled up the stile withthe bundle in her hand; and then sheturned to say “Good-night,” and tothank the washer-woman.—But whata VERY odd thing! Mrs. Tiggy-winklehad not waited either for thanks orfor the washing bill!

She was running running runningup the hill—and where was her whitefrilled cap? and her shawl? and hergown-and her petticoat?

And HOW small she had grown—and HOW brown—and covered withPRICKLES!

Why! Mrs. Tiggy-winkle wasnothing but a HEDGEHOG! * * * * * *

(Now some people say that little Lucie

had been asleep upon the stile—but thenhow could she have found three cleanpocket-handkins and a pinny, pinned with asilver safety-pin?

And besides—I have seen that door intothe back of the hill called Cat Bells—andbesides I am very well acquainted with dearMrs. 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 aPussy-cat called Ribby, who invited alittle dog called Duchess to tea.

“Come in good time, my dearDuchess,” said Ribby’s letter, “and wewill have something so very nice. I ambaking it in a pie-dish—a pie-dishwith a pink rim. You never tastedanything so good! And YOU shall eat itall! I will eat muffins, my dearDuchess!” wrote Ribby.

“I will come very punctually, mydear Ribby,” wrote Duchess; and thenat the end she added—“I hope it isn’tmouse?”

And then she thought that did notlook quite polite; so she scratched out“isn’t mouse” and changed it to “Ihope it will be fine,” and she gave herletter to the postman.

But she thought a great deal aboutRibby’s pie, and she read Ribby’s letterover and over again.

“I am dreadfully afraid it WILL bemouse!” said Duchess to herself—“Ireally couldn’t, COULDN’T eat mousepie. And I shall have to eat it, becauseit is a party. And MY pie was going tobe veal and ham. A pink and whitepie-dish! and so is mine; just likeRibby’s dishes; they were both boughtat Tabitha Twitchit’s.”

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

“Oh what a good idea! Whyshouldn’t I rush along and put my pieinto Ribby’s oven when Ribby isn’tthere?”

Ribby in the meantime had receivedDuchess’s answer, and as soon as shewas sure that the little dog wouldcome—she popped HER pie into theoven. There were two ovens, oneabove the other; some other knobsand handles were only ornamentaland not intended to open. Ribby putthe pie into the lower oven; the doorwas very stiff.

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

Ribby put on some coal and sweptup the hearth. Then she went outwith a can to the well, for water to fillup the kettle.

Then she began to set the room inorder, for it was the sitting-room aswell as the kitchen.

When Ribby had laid the table shewent out down the field to the farm,to fetch milk and butter.

When she came back, she peepedinto the bottom oven; the pie lookedvery comfortable.

Ribby put on her shawl and bonnetand went out again with a basket, tothe village shop to buy a packet of tea,a pound of lump sugar, and a pot ofmarmalade.

And just at the same time, Duchesscame out of HER house, at the otherend of the village.

Ribby met Duchess half-way downthe street, also carrying a basket,covered with a cloth. They onlybowed to one another; they did notspeak, because they were going tohave a party.

As soon as Duchess had got roundthe corner out of sight—she simplyran! Straight away to Ribby’s house!

Ribby went into the shop andbought what she required, and cameout, after a pleasant gossip withCousin Tabitha Twitchit.

Ribby went on to Timothy Baker’sand bought the muffins. Then shewent home.

There seemed to be a sort ofscuffling noise in the back passage, asshe was coming in at the front door.But there was nobody there.

Duchess in the meantime, hadslipped out at the back door.

“It is a very odd thing that Ribby’spie was NOT in the oven when I putmine in! And I can’t find it anywhere;I have looked all over the house. I putMY pie into a nice hot oven at the top.I could not turn any of the otherhandles; I think that they are allshams,” said Duchess, “but I wish Icould have removed the pie made ofmouse! I cannot think what she has

done with it? I heard Ribby comingand I had to run out by the backdoor!”

Duchess went home and brushedher beautiful black coat; and then shepicked a bunch of flowers in hergarden as a present for Ribby; andpassed the time until the clock struck four.

Ribby—having assured herself bycareful search that there was really noone hiding in the cupboard or in thelarder—went upstairs to change her dress.

She came downstairs again, andmade the tea, and put the teapot onthe hob. She peeped again into theBOTTOM oven, the pie had become alovely brown, and it was steaming hot.

She sat down before the fire to waitfor the little dog. “I am glad I used theBOTTOM oven,” said Ribby, “the topone would certainly have been verymuch 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 Duchessin the porch.

“Come in! and how do you do, mydear Duchess?” cried Ribby. “I hope Isee you well?”

“Quite well, I thank you, and howdo YOU do, my dear Ribby?” saidDuchess. “I’ve brought you someflowers; what a delicious smell of pie!”

“Oh, what lovely flowers! Yes, it ismouse and bacon!”

“I think it wants another five minutes,”

said Ribby. “Just a shade longer; I willpour out the tea, while we wait.Do you take sugar, my dear Duchess?”

“Oh yes, please! my dear Ribby; andmay I have a lump upon my nose?”

“With pleasure, my dear Duchess.”Duchess sat up with the sugar onher nose and sniffed—

“How good that pie smells! I dolove veal and ham—I mean to saymouse and bacon—“

She dropped the sugar in confusion,and had to go hunting under the tea-table, so did not see which oven Ribbyopened 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 thetable-cloth munching sugar, and satup on a chair.

“I will first cut the pie for you; I amgoing to have muffin andmarmalade,” said Ribby.

“I think”--(thought Duchess toherself)--“I THINK it would be wiser ifI helped myself to pie; though Ribbydid not seem to notice anything whenshe was cutting it. What very smallfine pieces it has cooked into! I did notremember that I had minced it up sofine; I suppose this is a quicker oventhan 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 dearDuchess?” 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 thepie-crust,” said Duchess, blushingunder her black coat.

“Oh, I didn’t put one in, my dearDuchess,” said Ribby; “I don’t thinkthat it is necessary in pies made ofmouse.”

Duchess fumbled with the spoon—“I can’t find it!” she said anxiously.

“There isn’t a patty-pan,” saidRibby, looking perplexed.

“Yes, indeed, my dear Ribby; wherecan it have gone to?” said Duchess.

Duchess looked very muchalarmed, and continued to scoop theinside of the pie-dish.

“I have only four patty-pans, andthey are all in the cupboard.”

Duchess set up a howl.“I shall die! I shall die! I haveswallowed a patty-pan! Oh, my dearRibby, I do feel so ill!”

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

“Yes there WAS, my dear Ribby, I amsure I have swallowed it!”

“Let me prop you up with a pillow,my dear Duchess; where do you thinkyou feel it?”

“Oh I do feel so ill ALL OVER me, mydear 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 anarmchair before the fire, and wentout and hurried to the village to lookfor the doctor.

She found him at the smithy.Ribby explained that her guest hadswallowed a patty-pan.

Dr. Maggotty hopped so fast thatRibby had to run. It was mostconspicuous. All the village could seethat Ribby was fetching the doctor.

But while Ribby had been huntingfor the doctor—a curious thing hadhappened to Duchess, who had beenleft by herself, sitting before the fire,sighing and groaning and feeling veryunhappy.

“How COULD I have swallowed it!such a large thing as a patty-pan!”

She sat down again, and staredmournfully at the grate. The firecrackled and danced, and somethingsizz-z-zled!

Duchess started! She opened thedoor of the TOP oven;--out came arich steamy flavour of veal and ham,and there stood a fine brown pie,--and through a hole in the top of thepie-crust there was a glimpse of alittle tin patty-pan!

Duchess drew a long breath—“Then I must have been eatingMOUSE! . . . No wonder I feel ill. . . .But perhaps I should feel worse if Ihad really swallowed a patty-pan!”Duchess reflected—“What a veryawkward thing to have to explain toRibby! I think I will put MY pie in theback-yard and say nothing about it.When I go home, I will run round andtake it away.” She put it outside the

back-door, and sat down again bythe fire, and shut her eyes; whenRibby arrived with the doctor, sheseemed fast asleep.

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

“I am truly glad to hear it! He hasbrought you a pill, my dear Duchess!”

“I think I should feel QUITE well if heonly felt my pulse,” said Duchess,backing away from the magpie, whosidled up with something in his beak.

“It is only a bread pill, you hadmuch better take it; drink a little milk,my dear Duchess!”

“I am feeling very much better, mydear Ribby,” said Duchess. “Do younot think that I had better go homebefore it gets dark?”

“Perhaps it might be wise, my dearDuchess.”

Ribby and Duchess said good-byeaffectionately, and Duchess startedhome. Half-way up the lane shestopped and looked back; Ribby hadgone in and shut her door. Duchessslipped through the fence, and ranround 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. Thejackdaws were eating piecrust, andthe magpie was drinking gravy out ofa patty-pan.

Duchess ran home feelinguncommonly silly!

When Ribby came out for a pailfulof water to wash up the tea-things,she found a pink and white pie-dish

lying smashed in the middle of theyard.

Ribby stared with amazement—“Did you ever see the like! so therereally WAS a patty-pan? . . . But MYpatty-pans are all in the kitchencupboard. Well I never did! . . . Nexttime I want to give a party—I willinvite Cousin Tabitha Twitchit!”

THE TALE OFMR. JEREMY FISHER[For Stephaniefrom Cousin B.]Once upon a time there was a frogcalled Mr. Jeremy Fisher; he lived in alittle damp house amongst thebuttercups at the edge of a pond.

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

But Mr. Jeremy liked getting his feetwet; nobody ever scolded him, and henever caught a cold!

He was quite pleased when helooked out and saw large drops ofrain, splashing in the pond—

“I will get some worms and gofishing and catch a dish of minnowsfor my dinner,” said Mr. JeremyFisher. “If I catch more than five fish, Iwill invite my friends Mr. AldermanPtolemy Tortoise and Sir IsaacNewton. The Alderman, however,eats salad.”

Mr. Jeremy put on a mackintosh,and a pair of shiny galoshes; he tookhis rod and basket, and set off withenormous hops to the place where hekept his boat.

The boat was round and green, andvery like the other lily-leaves. It wastied to a water-plant in the middle ofthe pond.

Mr. Jeremy took a reed pole, andpushed the boat out into open water.“I know a good place for minnows,”said Mr. Jeremy Fisher.

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

Then he settled himself cross-legged and arranged his fishingtackle. He had the dearest little redfloat. His rod was a tough stalk ofgrass, his line was a fine long whitehorse-hair, and he tied a littlewriggling worm at the end.

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

“This is getting tiresome, I think Ishould like some lunch,” said Mr.Jeremy Fisher.

He punted back again amongst thewater-plants, and took some lunchout of his basket.

“I will eat a butterfly sandwich,and wait till the shower is over,” saidMr. Jeremy Fisher.

A great big water-beetle came upunderneath the lily leaf and tweakedthe toe of one of his galoshes.

Mr. Jeremy crossed his legs upshorter, out of reach, and went oneating his sandwich.

Once or twice something movedabout with a rustle and a splashamongst the rushes at the side of the

pond.

“I trust that is not a rat,” said Mr.Jeremy Fisher; “I think I had better getaway from here.”

Mr. Jeremy shoved the boat outagain a little way, and dropped in thebait. There was a bite almost directly;the float gave a tremendous bobbit!

“A minnow! a minnow! I have himby 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, thestickleback, covered with spines!

The stickleback floundered aboutthe boat, pricking and snapping untilhe was quite out of breath. Then hejumped back into the water.

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

And while Mr. Jeremy satdisconsolately on the edge of hisboat—sucking his sore fingers andpeering down into the water—a MUCHworse thing happened; a reallyFRIGHTFUL thing it would have been, ifMr. Jeremy had not been wearing amackintosh!

A great big enormous trout cameup—ker-pflop-p-p-p! with a splash—and it seized Mr. Jeremy with a snap,“Ow! Ow! Ow!”—and then it turnedand dived down to the bottom of thepond!

But the trout was so displeasedwith the taste of the mackintosh, that

in less than half a minute it spat himout again; and the only thing itswallowed was Mr. Jeremy’s galoshes.

Mr. Jeremy bounced up to thesurface of the water, like a cork andthe bubbles out of a soda waterbottle; and he swam with all hismight to the edge of the pond.

He scrambled out on the first bankhe came to, and he hopped homeacross the meadow with hismackintosh all in tatters.

“What a mercy that was not apike!” said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. “I havelost my rod and basket; but it doesnot much matter, for I am sure Ishould never have dared to go fishingagain!”

He put some sticking plaster on hisfingers, and his friends both came todinner. He could not offer them fish,but he had something else in hislarder.

Sir Isaac Newton wore his blackand gold waistcoat.

And Mr. Alderman PtolemyTortoise brought a salad with him in astring bag.

And instead of a nice dish ofminnows, they had a roastedgrasshopper with lady-bird sauce,which frogs consider a beautiful treat;but I think it must have been nasty!

THE STORY OFA FIERCE BAD RABBITThis is a fierce bad Rabbit; look athis savage whiskers and his claws andhis turned-up tail.

This is a nice gentle Rabbit. Hismother has given him a carrot.

The bad Rabbit would like somecarrot.

He doesn’t say “Please.” He takes it!And he scratches the good Rabbitvery badly.

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

This is a man with a gun.He sees something sitting on abench. He thinks it is a very funnybird!

He comes creeping up behind thetrees.

And then he shoots—BANG!This is what happens—But this is all he finds on the benchwhen he rushes up with his gun.

The good Rabbit peeps out of itshole . . .

. . . and it sees the bad Rabbittearing past—without any tail orwhiskers!

THE STORY OFMISS MOPPETThis is a Pussy called Miss Moppet;she thinks she has heard a mouse!This is the Mouse peeping outbehind the cupboard and makingfun of Miss Moppet. He is not afraidof a kitten.

This is Miss Moppet jumping just

too late; she misses the Mouse andhits her own head.

She thinks it is a very hardcupboard!

The Mouse watches Miss Moppetfrom the top of the cupboard.

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

The Mouse thinks she is lookingvery ill. He comes sliding down thebellpull.

Miss Moppet looks worse andworse. The Mouse comes a littlenearer.

Miss Moppet holds her poor head inher paws and looks at him through ahole in the duster. The Mouse comesVERY close.

And then all of a sudden—MissMoppet jumps upon the Mouse!

And because the Mouse has teasedMiss Moppet—Miss Moppet thinks shewill tease the Mouse, which is not atall nice of Miss Moppet.

She ties him up in the duster andtosses it about like a ball.

But she forgot about that hole inthe 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 thecupboard!

THE TALE OFTOM KITTEN[Dedicated to All Pickles, Especially to Those That Get upon My Garden Wall]

Once upon a time there were threelittle kittens, and their names wereMittens, Tom Kitten, and Moppet.

They had dear little fur coats oftheir own; and they tumbled aboutthe doorstep and played in the dust.

But one day their mother—Mrs.Tabitha Twitchit—expected friends totea; so she fetched the kittens indoors,to wash and dress them, before thefine company arrived.

First she scrubbed their faces (thisone is Moppet).

Then she brushed their fur (thisone is Mittens).

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

Tom was very naughty, and hescratched.

Mrs. Tabitha dressed Moppet andMittens in clean pinafores andtuckers; and then she took all sorts ofelegant uncomfortable clothes out ofa chest of drawers, in order to dressup her son Thomas.

Tom Kitten was very fat, and hehad grown; several buttons burst off.His mother sewed them on again.

When the three kittens were ready,Mrs. Tabitha unwisely turned themout into the garden, to be out of the

way while she made hot butteredtoast.

“Now keep your frocks clean,children! You must walk on your hindlegs. Keep away from the dirty ash-pit, and from Sally Henny Penny, andfrom the pigsty and the Puddle-ducks.”

Moppet and Mittens walked downthe garden path unsteadily. Presentlythey trod upon their pinafores and fellon their noses.

When they stood up there wereseveral green smears!

“Let us climb up the rockery and siton the garden wall,” said Moppet.

They turned their pinafores back tofront and went up with a skip and ajump; Moppet’s white tucker felldown into the road.

Tom Kitten was quite unable tojump when walking upon his hindlegs in trousers. He came up therockery by degrees, breaking the fernsand shedding buttons right and left.

He was all in pieces when hereached the top of the wall.

Moppet and Mittens tried to pullhim together; his hat fell off, and therest of his buttons burst.

While they were in difficulties, therewas a pit pat, paddle pat! and thethree Puddle-ducks came along thehard high road, marching one behindthe other and doing the goose step—pit pat, paddle pat! pit pat, waddlepat!

They stopped and stood in a row

and stared up at the kittens. They hadvery small eyes and looked surprised.Then the two duck-birds, Rebeccahand Jemima Puddle-duck, picked upthe hat and tucker and put them on.

Mittens laughed so that she fell offthe wall. Moppet and Tom descendedafter her; the pinafores and all therest of Tom’s clothes came off on theway down.

“Come! Mr. Drake Puddle-duck,”said Moppet. “Come and help us todress him! Come and button upTom!”

Mr. Drake Puddle-duck advancedin a slow sideways manner andpicked up the various articles.

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

“It’s a very fine morning!” said Mr.Drake Puddle-duck.

And he and Jemima and RebeccahPuddle-duck set off up the road,keeping step—pit pat, paddle pat! pitpat, waddle pat!

Then Tabitha Twitchit came downthe garden and found her kittens onthe wall with no clothes on.

She pulled them off the wall,smacked them, and took them backto the house.

“My friends will arrive in a minute,and you are not fit to be seen; I amaffronted,” said Mrs. TabithaTwitchit.

She sent them upstairs; and I amsorry 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, whichdisturbed the dignity and repose ofthe tea party.

And I think that some day I shallhave to make another, larger book, totell you more about Tom Kitten!

As for the Puddle-ducks—theywent into a pond.

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

And Mr. Drake Puddle-duck, andJemima and Rebeccah, have beenlooking for them ever since.

THE TALE OFJEMIMA PUDDLE-DUCK[A Farmyard Tale forRalph and Betsy]What a funny sight it is to see abrood of ducklings with a hen!

Listen to the story of JemimaPuddle-duck, who was annoyedbecause the farmer’s wife would notlet her hatch her own eggs.

Her sister-in-law, Mrs. RebeccahPuddle-duck, was perfectly willing toleave the hatching to someone else—“I have not the patience to sit on anest for twenty-eight days; and nomore have you, Jemima. You wouldlet them go cold; you know youwould!”

“I wish to hatch my own eggs; I willhatch them all by myself,” quacked

Jemima Puddle-duck.

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

Jemima Puddle-duck became quitedesperate. She determined to make anest right away from the farm.

She set off on a fine springafternoon along the cart road thatleads over the hill.

She was wearing a shawl and apoke bonnet.

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

She thought that it looked a safequiet spot.

Jemima Puddle-duck was not muchin the habit of flying. She ran downhilla few yards flapping her shawl, andthen she jumped off into the air.

She flew beautifully when she hadgot a good start.

She skimmed along over thetreetops until she saw an open placein the middle of the wood, where thetrees and brushwood had beencleared.

Jemima alighted rather heavily andbegan to waddle about in search of aconvenient dry nesting place. Sherather fancied a tree stump amongstsome tall foxgloves.

But—seated upon the stump, shewas startled to find an elegantlydressed gentleman reading anewspaper. He had black prick earsand sandy colored whiskers.

“Quack?” said Jemima Puddle-duck, with her head and her bonneton the one side—“Quack?”

The gentleman raised his eyesabove his newspaper and lookedcuriously at Jemima—

“Madam, have you lost your way?”said he. He had a long bushy tailwhich he was sitting upon, as thestump was somewhat damp.

Jemima thought him mighty civiland handsome. She explained that shehad not lost her way, but that she wastrying to find a convenient dry nestingplace.

“Ah! is that so? Indeed!” said thegentleman with sandy whiskers,looking curiously at Jemima. Hefolded up the newspaper and put it inhis coattail pocket.

Jemima complained of thesuperfluous hen.

“Indeed! How interesting! I wish Icould meet with that fowl. I wouldteach it to mind its own business!

“But as to a nest—there is nodifficulty: I have a sackful of feathersin my woodshed. No, my dearmadam, 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 thefoxgloves.

It was built of faggots and turf, andthere were two broken pails, one ontop of another, by way of a chimney.

“This is my summer residence; youwould not find my earth—my winter

house—so convenient,” said thehospitable gentleman.

There was a tumbledown shed atthe back of the house, made of oldsoap boxes. The gentleman openedthe door and showed Jemima in.

The shed was almost quite full offeathers—it was almost suffocating;but it was comfortable and very soft.

Jemima Puddle-duck was rathersurprised to find such a vast quantityof feathers. But it was verycomfortable; and she made a nestwithout any trouble at all.

When she came out, the sandy-whiskered gentleman was sitting on alog reading the newspaper—at leasthe had it spread out, but he waslooking over the top of it.

He was so polite that he seemedalmost sorry to let Jemima go homefor the night. He promised to takegreat care of her nest until she cameback again the next day.

He said he loved eggs andducklings; he should be proud to see afine nestful in his woodshed.

Jemima Puddle-duck came everyafternoon; she laid nine eggs in thenest. They were greeny white and verylarge. The foxy gentleman admiredthem immensely. He used to turnthem over and count them whenJemima was not there.

At last Jemima told him that sheintended to begin to sit next day—“andI will bring a bag of corn with me, sothat I need never leave my nest untilthe eggs are hatched. They might catchcold,” said the conscientious Jemima.

“Madam, I beg you not to troubleyourself with a bag; I will provideoats. But before you commence yourtedious sitting, I intend to give you atreat. Let us have a dinner party all toourselves!

“May I ask you to bring up someherbs from the farm garden to makea savory omelet? Sage and thyme, andmint and two onions, and someparsley. I will provide lard for thestuff—lard for the omelet,” said thehospitable gentleman with sandywhiskers.

Jemima Puddle-duck was asimpleton: not even the mention ofsage and onions made her suspicious.

She went round the farm garden,nibbling off snippets of all thedifferent sorts of herbs that are usedfor stuffing roast duck.

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

The collie dog Kep met her comingout, “What are you doing with thoseonions? Where do you go everyafternoon by yourself, JemimaPuddle-duck?”

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

The collie listened, with his wisehead on one side; he grinned whenshe described the polite gentlemanwith sandy whiskers.

He asked several questions aboutthe wood and about the exact positionof the house and shed.

Then he went out, and trotteddown the village. He went to look for

two foxhound puppies who were outat walk with the butcher.

Jemima Puddle-duck went up thecart road for the last time, on a sunnyafternoon. She was rather burdenedwith bunches of herbs and two onionsin a bag.

She flew over the wood, andalighted opposite the house of thebushy long-tailed gentleman.

He was sitting on a log; he sniffedthe air and kept glancing uneasilyround the wood. When Jemimaalighted he quite jumped.

“Come into the house as soon asyou have looked at your eggs. Give methe herbs for the omelet. Be sharp!”

He was rather abrupt. JemimaPuddle-duck had never heard himspeak like that.

She felt surprised and uncomfortable.While she was inside she heardpattering feet round the back of theshed. Someone with a black nosesniffed at the bottom of the door, andthem locked it.

Jemima became much alarmed.A moment afterward there weremost awful noises—barking, baying,growls and howls, squealing andgroans.

And nothing more was ever seen ofthat foxy-whiskered gentleman.

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

Unfortunately the puppies rushedin and gobbled up all the eggs beforehe could stop them.

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

Jemima Puddle-duck was escortedhome in tears on account of thoseeggs.

She laid some more in June, and shewas permitted to keep them herself:but only four of them hatched.

Jemima Puddle-duck said that itwas because of her nerves; but shehad always been a bad sitter.

THEROLY-POLY PUDDING[In Remembrance of “Sammy,”the Intelligent Pink-Eyed Representative ofa Persecuted (But Irrepressible) Race.An Affectionate Little Friend,and Most Accomplished Thief!]

Once upon a time there was an oldcat, called Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit, whowas an anxious parent. She used tolose her kittens continually, andwhenever they were lost they werealways in mischief!

On baking day she determined toshut them up in a cupboard.

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

Mrs. Tabitha went up and down allover the house, mewing for TomKitten. She looked in the pantry underthe staircase, and she searched thebest spare bedroom that was allcovered up with dust sheets. She wentright upstairs and looked into the

attics, but she could not find himanywhere.

It was an old, old house, full ofcupboards and passages. Some of thewalls were four feet thick, and thereused to be queer noises inside them,as if there might be a little secretstaircase. Certainly there were oddlittle jagged doorways in the wainscot,and things disappeared at night—especially cheese and bacon.

Mrs. Tabitha became more andmore distracted and meweddreadfully.

While their mother was searchingthe house, Moppet and Mittens hadgot into mischief.

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

They went straight to the doughwhich was set to rise in a pan beforethe fire.

They patted it with their little softpaws—“Shall we make dear littlemuffins?” said Mittens to Moppet.

But just at that moment somebodyknocked at the front door, andMoppet jumped into the flour barrelin a fright.

Mittens ran away to the dairy andhid in an empty jar on the stone shelfwhere the milk pans stand.

The visitor was a neighbor, Mrs.Ribby; she had called to borrow someyeast.

Mr. Tabitha came downstairsmewing dreadfully—“Come in,Cousin Ribby, come in, and sit ye

down! I’m in sad trouble, CousinRibby,” said Tabitha, shedding tears.“I’ve lost my dear son Thomas; I’mafraid the rats have got him.” Shewiped her eyes with her apron.

“He’s a bad kitten, Cousin Tabitha;he made a cat’s cradle of my bestbonnet last time I came to tea. Wherehave you looked for him?”

“All over the house! The rats are toomany for me. What a thing it is tohave an unruly family!” said Mrs.Tabitha Twitchit.

“I’m not afraid of rats; I will helpyou to find him; and whip him, too!What is all that soot in the fender?”

“The chimney wants sweeping—Oh, dear me, Cousin Ribby—nowMoppet and Mittens are gone!

“They have both got out of thecupboard!”

Ribby and Tabitha set to work tosearch the house thoroughly again.They poked under the beds withRibby’s umbrella and they rummagedin cupboards. They even fetched acandle and looked inside a clotheschest in one of the attics. They couldnot find anything, but once theyheard a door bang and somebodyscuttered downstairs.

“Yes, it is infested with rats,” saidTabitha tearfully. “I caught sevenyoung ones out of one hole in the backkitchen, and we had them for dinnerlast Saturday. And once I saw the oldfather rat—an enormous old rat—Cousin Ribby. I was just going to jumpupon him, when he showed his yellowteeth at me and whisked down thehole.

“The rats get upon my nerves,Cousin Ribby,” said Tabitha.

Ribby and Tabitha searched andsearched. They both heard a curiousroly-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 ofthe flour barrel.

They shook the flour off her and sether down on the kitchen floor. Sheseemed to be in a terrible fright.

“Oh! Mother, Mother,” saidMoppet, “there’s been an old womanrat in the kitchen, and she’s stolensome of the dough!”

The two cats ran to look at thedough pan. Sure enough there weremarks of little scratching fingers, anda lump of dough was gone!

“Which way did she go, Moppet?”But Moppet had been too muchfrightened to peep out of the barrelagain.

Ribby and Tabitha took her withthem to keep her safely in sight, whilethey went on with their search.

They went into the dairy.The first thing they found wasMittens, hiding in an empty jar.

They tipped over the jar, and shescrambled out.

“Oh, Mother, Mother!” saidMittens—

“Oh! Mother, Mother, there hasbeen an old man rat in the dairy—a

dreadful ‘normous big rat, Mother;and he’s stolen a pat of butter and therolling pin.”

Ribby and Tabitha looked at oneanother.

“A rolling pin and butter! Oh, mypoor son Thomas!” exclaimedTabitha, wringing her paws.

“A rolling pin?” said Ribby. “Did wenot hear a roly-poly noise in the atticwhen we were looking into thatchest?”

Ribby and Tabitha rushed upstairsagain. Sure enough the roly-poly noisewas still going on quite distinctlyunder the attic floor.

“This is serious, Cousin Tabitha,”said Ribby. “We must send for JohnJoiner at once, with a saw.”

Now, this is what had beenhappening to Tom Kitten, and itshows how very unwise it is to go up achimney in a very old house, where aperson does not know his way, andwhere there are enormous rats.

Tom Kitten did not want to be shutup in a cupboard. When he saw thathis mother was going to bake, hedetermined to hide.

He looked about for a niceconvenient place, and he fixed uponthe chimney.

The fire had only just been lighted,and it was not hot; but there was awhite choky smoke from the greensticks. Tom Kitten got upon the fenderand looked up. It was a big old-fashioned fireplace.

The chimney itself was wide

enough inside for a man to stand upand walk about. So there was plentyof room for a little Tom Cat.

He jumped right up into thefireplace, balancing himself upon theiron bar where the kettle hangs.

Tom Kitten took another big jumpoff the bar and landed on a ledge highup inside the chimney, knocking downsome soot into the fender.

Tom Kitten coughed and chokedwith the smoke; he could hear thesticks beginning to crackle and burnin the fireplace down below. He madeup his mind to climb right to the top,and get out on the slates, and try tocatch sparrows.

“I cannot go back. If I slipped Imight fall in the fire and singe mybeautiful tail and my little bluejacket.”

The chimney was a very big old-fashioned one. It was built in the dayswhen people burnt logs of wood uponthe hearth.

The chimney stack stood up abovethe roof like a little stone tower, andthe daylight shone down from the top,under the slanting slates that kept outthe rain.

Tom Kitten was getting veryfrightened! He climbed up, and up,and up.

Then he waded sideways throughinches of soot. He was like a littlesweep himself.

It was most confusing in the dark.One flue seemed to lead into another.

There was less smoke, but TomKitten felt quite lost.

He scrambled up and up; butbefore he reached the chimney top hecame to a place where somebody hadloosened a stone in the wall. Therewere some mutton bones lying about.

“This seems funny,” said TomKitten. “Who has been gnawing bonesup here in the chimney? I wish I hadnever come! And what a funny smell?It is something like mouse, onlydreadfully strong. It makes mesneeze,” said Tom Kitten.

He squeezed through the hole inthe wall and dragged himself along amost uncomfortably tight passagewhere there was scarcely any light.

He groped his way carefully forseveral yards; he was at the back ofthe skirting board in the attic, wherethere is a little mark * in the picture.

All at once he fell head over heels inthe dark, down a hole, and landed ona heap of very dirty rags.

When Tom Kitten picked himself upand looked about him, he foundhimself in a place that he had neverseen before, although he had lived allhis life in the house. It was a verysmall stuffy fusty room, with boards,and rafters, and cobwebs, and lathand plaster.

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

“What do you mean by tumblinginto my bed all covered with smuts?”said the rat, chattering his teeth.

“Please, sir, the chimney wantssweeping,” said poor Tom Kitten.

“Anna Maria! Anna Maria!”squeaked the rat. There was apattering noise and an old woman ratpoked her head round a rafter.

All in a minute she rushed uponTom Kitten, and before he knew whatwas happening. . .

. . . his coat was pulled off, and hewas rolled up in a bundle, and tiedwith string in very hard knots.

Anna Maria did the tying. The oldrat watched her and took snuff. Whenshe had finished, they both sat staringat him with their mouths open.

“Anna Maria,” said the old man rat(whose name was Samuel Whiskers),“Anna Maria, make me a kittendumpling roly-poly pudding for mydinner.”

“It requires dough and a pat ofbutter and a rolling pin,” said AnnaMaria, considering Tom Kitten withher head on one side.

“No,” said Samuel Whiskers, “makeit properly, Anna Maria, withbreadcrumbs.”

“Nonsense! Butter and dough,”replied Anna Maria.

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

Samuel Whiskers got through ahole in the wainscot and went boldlydown the front staircase to the dairyto get the butter. He did not meetanybody.

He made a second journey for therolling pin. He pushed it in front of

him with his paws, like a brewer’sman trundling a barrel.

He could hear Ribby and Tabithatalking, but they were too busylighting the candle to look into thechest.

They did not see him.Anna Maria went down by way ofskirting board and a window shutterto the kitchen to steal the dough.

She borrowed a small saucer andscooped up the dough with her paws.

She did not observe Moppet.While Tom Kitten was left aloneunder the floor of the attic, hewriggled about and tried to mew forhelp.

But his mouth was full of soot andcobwebs, and he was tied up in suchvery tight knots, he could not makeanybody hear him.

Except a spider who came out of acrack in the ceiling and examined theknots critically, from a safe distance.

It was a judge of knots because ithad a habit of tying up unfortunatebluebottles. It did not offer to assisthim.

Tom Kitten wriggled and squirmeduntil he was quite exhausted.

Presently the rats came back andset to work to make him into adumpling. First they smeared himwith butter, and then they rolled himin the dough.

“Will not the string be veryindigestible, Anna Maria?” inquiredSamuel Whiskers.

Anna Maria said she thought that it

was of no consequence; but shewished that Tom Kitten would holdhis head still, as it disarranged thepastry. She laid hold of his ears.

Tom Kitten bit and spit, andmewed and wriggled; and the rollingpin went roly-poly, roly; roly-poly,roly. The rats each held an end.

“His tail is sticking out! You did notfetch enough dough, Anna Maria.”

“I fetched as much as I couldcarry,” replied Anna Maria.

“I do not think”—said SamuelWhiskers, pausing to take a look atTom Kitten—“I do NOT think it will bea good pudding. It smells sooty.”

Anna Maria was about to argue thepoint when all at once there began tobe other sounds up above—therasping noise of a saw, and the noiseof a little dog, scratching and yelping!

The rats dropped the rolling pinand listened attentively.

“We are discovered and interrupted,Anna Maria; let us collect ourproperty—and other people’s—anddepart at once.

“I fear that we shall be obliged toleave this pudding.

“But I am persuaded that the knotswould have proved indigestible,whatever you may urge to thecontrary.”

“Come away at once and help meto tie up some mutton bones in acounterpane,” said Anna Maria. “Ihave got half a smoked ham hidden inthe chimney.”

So it happened that by the timeJohn Joiner had got the plank up—there was nobody here under the floorexcept the rolling pin and Tom Kittenin a very dirty dumpling!

But there was a strong smell ofrats; and John Joiner spent the rest ofthe morning sniffing and whining,and wagging his tail, and going roundand round with his head in the holelike a gimlet.

Then he nailed the plank downagain and put his tools in his bag, andcame downstairs.

The cat family had quite recovered.They invited him to stay to dinner.

The dumpling had been peeled offTom Kitten and made separately intoa bag pudding, with currants in it tohide the smuts.

They had been obliged to put TomKitten into a hot bath to get the butteroff.

John Joiner smelt the pudding; buthe regretted that he had not time tostay to dinner, because he had justfinished making a wheelbarrow forMiss Potter, and she had ordered twohen coops.

And when I was going to the postlate in the afternoon—I looked up theland from the corner, and I saw Mr.Samuel Whiskers and his wife on therun, with big bundles on a littlewheelbarrow, which looked verymuch like mine.

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

Samuel Whiskers was puffing and

out of breath. Anna Maria was stillarguing in shrill tones.

She seemed to know her way, andshe seemed to have a quantity ofluggage.

I am sure I never gave her leave toborrow my wheelbarrow!

They went into the barn andhauled their parcels with a bit ofstring to the top of the haymow.

After that, there were no more ratsfor a long time at Tabitha Twitchit’s.

As for Farmer Potatoes, he has beendriven nearly distracted. There arerats, and rats, and rats in his barn!They eat up the chicken food, andsteal the oats and bran, and makeholes in the meal bags.

And they are all descended fromMr. and Mrs. Samuel Whiskers—children and grandchildren andgreat-great-grandchildren.

There is no end to them!Moppet and Mittens have grown upinto very good rat-catchers.

They go out rat-catching in thevillage, and they find plenty ofemployment. They charge so much adozen and earn their living verycomfortably.

They hang up the rats’ tails in arow on the barn door, to show howmany they have caught—dozens anddozens of them.

But Tom Kitten has always beenafraid of a rat; he never durst faceanything that is bigger than—

A Mouse.THE TALE OFTHE FLOPSY BUNNIES[For All Little Friends ofMr. McGregor and Peter and Benjamin]It is said that the effect of eatingtoo much lettuce is “soporific.”

I have never felt sleepy after eatinglettuces; but then I am not arabbit.

They certainly had a very soporificeffect upon the Flopsy Bunnies!

When Benjamin Bunny grew up,he married his Cousin Flopsy.They had a large family, and theywere very improvident and cheerful.

I do not remember the separatenames of their children; they weregenerally called the “Flopsy Bunnies.”

As there was not always quiteenough to eat,--Benjamin used toborrow cabbages from Flopsy’sbrother, Peter Rabbit, who kept anursery garden.

Sometimes Peter Rabbit had nocabbages to spare.

When this happened, the FlopsyBunnies went across the field to arubbish heap, in the ditch outsideMr. McGregor’s garden.

Mr. McGregor’s rubbish heapwas a mixture. There were jampots and paper bags, and mountainsof chopped grass from themowing machine (which alwaystasted oily), and some rottenvegetable marrows and an old bootor two. One day—oh joy!--therewere a quantity of overgrownlettuces, which had “shot” intoflower.

The Flopsy Bunnies simply stuffedthemselves with lettuces. By degrees,one after another, they were overcomewith slumber, and lay down in themown grass.

Benjamin was not so muchovercome as his children. Beforegoing to sleep he was sufficientlywide awake to put a paper bagover his head to keep off the flies.

The little Flopsy Bunnies sleptdelightfully in the warm sun.From the lawn beyond the gardencame the distant clacketty soundof the mowing machine. The blue-bottles buzzed about the wall,and a little old mouse picked overthe rubbish among the jam pots.

(I can tell you her name, shewas called Thomasina Tittle-mouse, a woodmouse with a longtail.)

She rustled across the paperbag, and awakened BenjaminBunny.

The mouse apologized profusely,and said that she knewPeter Rabbit.

While she and Benjamin weretalking, close under the wall, theyheard a heavy tread above theirheads; and suddenly Mr. McGregoremptied out a sackful oflawn mowings right upon the topof the sleeping Flopsy Bunnies!Benjamin shrank down under hispaper bag. The mouse hid in ajam pot.

The little rabbits smiled sweetly

in their sleep under the shower ofgrass; they did not awake becausethe lettuces had been so soporific.

They dreamt that their motherFlopsy was tucking them up in ahay bed.

Mr. McGregor looked downafter emptying his sack. He sawsome funny little brown tips ofears sticking up through the lawnmowings. He stared at them forsome time.

Presently a fly settled on one ofthem and it moved.

Mr. McGregor climbed down onto the rubbish heap—

“One, two, three, four! five! sixleetle rabbits!” said he as hedropped them into his sack. TheFlopsy Bunnies dreamt that theirmother was turning them over inbed. They stirred a little in theirsleep, but still they did not wakeup.

Mr. McGregor tied up the sackand left it on the wall.

He went to put away the mowingmachine.

While he was gone, Mrs. FlopsyBunny (who had remained athome) came across the field.

She looked suspiciously at thesack and wondered where everybodywas?

Then the mouse came out of herjam pot, and Benjamin took thepaper bag off his head, and theytold the doleful tale.

Benjamin and Flopsy were indespair, they could not undo thestring.

But Mrs. Tittlemouse was aresourceful person. She nibbled ahole in the bottom corner of thesack.

The little rabbits were pulledout and pinched to wake them.

Their parents stuffed the emptysack with three rotten vegetablemarrows, an old blackingbrushand two decayed turnips.

Then they all hid under a bushand watched for Mr. McGregor.

Mr. McGregor came back andpicked up the sack, and carried itoff.

He carried it hanging down, asif it were rather heavy.

The Flopsy Bunnies followed ata safe distance.

They watched him go intohis house.

And then they crept up tothe window to listen.

Mr. McGregor threw down thesack on the stone floor in a waythat would have been extremelypainful to the Flopsy Bunnies, ifthey had happened to have beeninside it.

They could hear him drag hischair on the flags, and chuckle—

“One, two, three, four, five, sixleetle rabbits!” said Mr. McGregor.

“Eh? What’s that? What havethey been spoiling now?” enquiredMrs. McGregor.

“One, two, three, four, five, sixleetle fat rabbits!” repeated Mr.McGregor, counting on his fingers

“one, two, three—“

“Don’t you be silly: what do youmean, you silly old man?”

“In the sack! one, two, three,four, five, six!” replied Mr. McGregor.

(The youngest Flopsy Bunny gotupon the windowsill.)

Mrs. McGregor took hold of thesack and felt it. She said she couldfeel six, but they must be OLD rabbits,because they were so hardand all different shapes.

“Not fit to eat; but the skins willdo fine to line my old cloak.”

“Line your old cloak?” shoutedMr. McGregor—“I shall sell themand buy myself baccy!”

“Rabbit tobacco! I shall skinthem and cut off their heads.”

Mrs. McGregor untied thesack and put her hand inside.

When she felt the vegetablesshe became very very angry.She said that Mr. McGregorhad “done it a purpose.”

And Mr. McGregor was veryangry too. One of the rottenmarrows came flying throughthe kitchen window, and hitthe youngest Flopsy Bunny.

It was rather hurt.Then Benjamin and Flopsythought that it was time to gohome.

So Mr. McGregor did not get histobacco, and Mrs. McGregor didnot get her rabbit skins.

But next Christmas ThomasinaTittlemouse got a present ofenough rabbit wool to make herselfa cloak and a hood, and ahandsome muff and a pair ofwarm mittens.

THE TALE OFMRS. TITTLEMOUSE[Nellie’sLittle Book]Once upon a time there wasa woodmouse, and her namewas Mrs. Tittlemouse.

She lived in a bank under a hedge.Such a funny house! Therewere yards and yards of sandypassages, leading to store-rooms and nut cellars andseed cellars, all amongst theroots of the hedge.

There was a kitchen, a parlor,a pantry, and a larder.

Also, there was Mrs. Tittle-mouse’s bedroom, where sheslept in a little box bed!

Mrs. Tittlemouse was a mostterribly tidy particular littlemouse, always sweeping anddusting the soft sandy floors.

Sometimes a beetle lost its way

in the passages.

“Shuh! shuh! little dirty feet!”said Mrs. Tittlemouse, clatteringher dustpan.

And one day a little old womanran up and down in a red spottycloak.

“Your house is on fire, MotherLadybird! Fly away home to yourchildren!”

Another day, a big fat spidercame in to shelter from the rain.

“Beg pardon, is this not MissMuffet’s?”

“Go away, you bold bad spider!Leaving ends of cobweb all overmy nice clean house!”

She bundled the spider out at awindow.

He let himself down the hedgewith a long thin bit of string.

Mrs. Tittlemouse went on herway to a distant storeroom, tofetch cherrystones and thistle-down seed for dinner.

All along the passage shesniffed, and looked at the floor.

“I smell a smell of honey; is itthe cowslips outside, in the hedge?I am sure I can see the marks oflittle dirty feet.”

Suddenly round a corner, shemet Babbitty Bumble—“Zizz,Bizz, Bizzz!” said the bumble bee.

Mrs. Tittlemouse looked at her

severely. She wished that she hada broom.

“Good-day, Babbitty Bumble; Ishould be glad to buy some bees-wax. But what are you doingdown here? Why do you alwayscome in at a window, and say,Zizz, Bizz, Bizzz?” Mrs. Tittle-mouse began to get cross.

“Zizz, Wizz, Wizzz!” repliedBabbitty Bumble in a peevishsqueak. She sidled down a passage,and disappeared into astoreroom which had been usedfor acorns.

Mrs. Tittlemouse had eaten theacorns before Christmas; thestoreroom ought to have beenempty.

But it was full of untidy drymoss.

Mrs. Tittlemouse began to pull out themoss. Three or four other bees puttheir heads out, and buzzed fiercely.

“I am not in the habit of lettinglodgings; 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 toleave the bees till after dinner.

When she got back to the parlor,she heard some one coughingin a fat voice; and there sat Mr.Jackson himself.

He was sitting all over asmall rocking chair, twiddling histhumbs and smiling, with his feet

on the fender.

He lived in a drain below thehedge, in a very dirty wet ditch.

“How do you do, Mr. Jackson?Deary me, you have gotvery wet!”

“Thank you, thank you,thank you, Mrs. Tittlemouse!I’ll sit awhile and dry myself,”said Mr. Jackson.

He sat and smiled, and thewater dripped off his coattails. Mrs. Tittlemouse wentround with a mop.

He sat such a while that he hadto be asked if he would take somedinner?

First she offered him cherry-stones. “Thank you, thank you,Mrs. Tittlemouse! No teeth, noteeth, no teeth!” said Mr. Jackson.

He opened his mouth mostunnecessarily wide; he certainly hadnot a tooth in his head.

Then she offered him thistle-down seed—“Tiddly, widdly,widdly! Pouff, pouff, puff.” saidMr. Jackson. He blew the thistle-down all over the room.

“Thank you, thank you, thankyou, Mrs. Tittlemouse! Now whatI really—REALLY should like—would be a little dish of honey!”

“I am afraid I have not gotany, Mr. Jackson!” said Mrs.Tittlemouse.

“Tiddly, widdly, widdly,

Mrs. Tittlemouse!” said thesmiling Mr. Jackson, “I can SMELL it;that is why I came to call.”

Mr. Jackson rose ponderouslyfrom the table, and beganto look into the cupboards.

Mrs. Tittlemouse followed him witha dishcloth, to wipe his largewet footmarks off the parlor floor.

When he had convinced himselfthat there was no honey in thecupboards, he began to walkdown the passage.

“Indeed, indeed, you will stickfast, Mr. Jackson!”

“Tiddly, widdly, widdly, Mrs.Tittlemouse!”

First he squeezed into the pantry.“Tiddly, widdly, widdly? Nohoney? No honey, Mrs. Tittlemouse?”

There were three creepy-crawlypeople hiding in the plate rack.Two of them got away; but thelittlest one he caught.

Then he squeezed into the larder.Miss Butterfly was tasting thesugar; but she flew away out ofthe window.

“Tiddly, widdly, widdly, Mrs.Tittlemouse; you seem to haveplenty of visitors!”

“And without any invitation!”said Mrs. Thomasina Tittlemouse.

They went along the sandypassage—“Tiddly, widdly—“ “Buzz!Wizz! Wizz!”

He met Babbitty round a corner,and snapped her up, and puther down again.

“I do not like bumble bees. Theyare all over bristles,” said Mr.Jackson, wiping his mouth withhis coat sleeve.

“Get out, you nasty old toad!” shrieked Babbitty Bumble.“I shall go distracted!” scolded Mrs. Tittlemouse.She shut herself up in the nutcellar while Mr. Jackson pulled outthe bees-nest. He seemed to haveno objection to stings.

When Mrs. Tittlemouse venturedto come out—everybodyhad gone away.

But the untidiness was somethingdreadful—“Never did I seesuch a mess—smears of honey;and moss, and thistledown—andmarks of big and little dirty feet—all over my nice clean house!”

She gathered up the mossand the remains of the bees-wax.

Then she went out andfetched some twigs, to partlyclose up the front door.

“I will make it too small forMr. Jackson!”

She fetched soft soap, andflannel, and a new scrubbingbrush from the storeroom.But she was too tired to do anymore. First she fell asleep inher chair, and then she wentto bed.

“Will it ever be tidy again?”said poor Mrs. Tittlemouse.

Next morning she got upvery early and began a springcleaning which lasted a fort-night.

She swept, and scrubbed,and dusted; and she rubbedup the furniture with bees-wax, and polished her little tinspoons.

When it was all beautifullyneat and clean, she gave aparty to five other little mice,without Mr. Jackson.

He smelt the party andcame up the bank, but hecould not squeeze in at thedoor.

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 OFTIMMY TIPTOES[For Many Unknown Little Friends,Including Monica]Once upon a time there was alittle fat comfortable grey squirrel,called Timmy Tiptoes. He had anest thatched with leaves in thetop of a tall tree; and he had alittle squirrel wife called Goody.

Timmy Tiptoes sat out, enjoyingthe breeze; he whisked his tail andchuckled—“Little wife Goody, thenuts are ripe; we must lay up astore for winter and spring.”Goody Tiptoes was busy pushingmoss under the thatch—“The nestis so snug, we shall be soundasleep all winter.” “Then we shallwake up all the thinner, whenthere is nothing to eat in spring-

time,” replied prudent Timothy.

When Timmy and GoodyTiptoes came to the nutthicket, they found othersquirrels were there already.

Timmy took off his jacketand hung it on a twig; theyworked away quietly by themselves.

Every day they made severaljourneys and picked quantitiesof nuts. They carried themaway in bags, and storedthem in several hollowstumps near the tree wherethey had built their nest.

When these stumps were full,they began to empty the bags intoa hole high up a tree, that hadbelonged to a woodpecker; the nutsrattled down—down—down inside.

“How shall you ever get themout again? It is like a money box!”said Goody.

“I shall be much thinner beforespringtime, my love,” said TimmyTiptoes, peeping into the hole.

They did collect quantities—because they did not lose them!Squirrels who bury their nuts inthe ground lose more than half,because they cannot rememberthe place.

The most forgetful squirrel inthe wood was called Silvertail. Hebegan to dig, and he could notremember. And then he dug againand found some nuts that did notbelong to him; and there was afight. And other squirrels began todig,--the whole wood was in

commotion!

Unfortunately, just at this timea flock of little birds flew by, frombush to bush, searching for greencaterpillars and spiders. Therewere several sorts of little birds,twittering different songs.

The first one sang—“Who’s bindigging-up MY nuts? Who’s-been-digging-up MY nuts?”

And another sang—“Little bitabread and-NO-cheese! Little bit-a-bread an’-NO-cheese!”

The squirrels followed and listened.The first little bird flew intothe bush where Timmy and GoodyTiptoes were quietly tying up theirbags, and it sang—“Who’s-bindigging-up MY nuts? Who’s beendigging-up MY-nuts?”

Timmy Tiptoes went on withhis work without replying; indeed,the little bird did not expect ananswer. It was only singing itsnatural song, and it meant nothingat all.

But when the other squirrelsheard that song, they rushed uponTimmy Tiptoes and cuffed andscratched him, and upset his bagof nuts. The innocent little birdwhich had caused all the mischief,flew away in a fright!

Timmy rolled over and over,and then turned tail and fledtowards his nest, followed bya crowd of squirrels shouting—“Who’s-been digging-up MY-nuts?”

They caught him and draggedhim up the very same tree, where

there was the little round hole,and they pushed him in. The holewas much too small for TimmyTiptoes’ figure. They squeezedhim dreadfully, it was a wonderthey did not break his ribs. “Wewill leave him here till he confesses,”said Silvertail Squirrel andhe shouted into the hole—“Who’s-been-digging-up MY-nuts?”

Timmy Tiptoes made noreply; he had tumbled downinside the tree, upon half apeck of nuts belonging tohimself. He lay quite stunned andstill.

Goody Tiptoes picked up thenut bags and went home. Shemade a cup of tea for Timmy; buthe didn’t come and didn’t come.

Goody Tiptoes passed a lonelyand unhappy night. Next morningshe ventured back to the nutbushes to look for him; but theother unkind squirrels drove heraway.

She wandered all over thewood, calling—

“Timmy Tiptoes! Timmy Tip-toes! Oh, where is Timmy Tiptoes?”

In the meantime Timmy Tiptoescame to his senses. He foundhimself tucked up in a little mossbed, very much in the dark, feelingsore; it seemed to be underground. Timmy coughed andgroaned, because his ribs hurtedhim. There was a chirpy noise,and a small striped Chipmunkappeared with a night light, andhoped he felt better?

It was most kind to Timmy Tiptoes;it lent him its nightcap; andthe house was full of provisions.

The Chipmunk explained that ithad rained nuts through the top ofthe tree—“Besides, I found a fewburied!” It laughed and chuckledwhen it heard Timmy’s story.While Timmy was confined tobed, it ‘ticed him to eat quantities

“But how shall I ever get outthrough that hole unless I thinmyself? My wife will be anxious!”“Just another nut—or two nuts;let me crack them for you,” saidthe Chipmunk. Timmy Tiptoesgrew fatter and fatter!

Now Goody Tiptoes had set towork again by herself. She did notput any more nuts into the woodpecker’shole, because she had alwaysdoubted how they could begot out again. She hid them undera tree root; they rattled down,down, down. Once when Goodyemptied an extra big bagful, therewas a decided squeak; and nexttime Goody brought another bagful,a little striped Chipmunkscrambled out in a hurry.

“It is getting perfectly full-updownstairs; the sitting room isfull, and they are rolling along thepassage; and my husband, ChippyHackee, has run away and left me.What is the explanation of theseshowers of nuts?”

“I am sure I beg your pardon; Idid not know that anybody livedhere,” said Mrs. Goody Tiptoes;“but where is Chippy Hackee? Myhusband, Timmy Tiptoes, has runaway too.” “I know where Chippyis; a little bird told me,” said Mrs.Chippy Hackee.

She led the way to the woodpecker’stree, and they listened atthe hole.

Down below there was a noiseof nutcrackers, and a fat squirrelvoice and a thin squirrel voicewere 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, throughthat little round hole,” said GoodyTiptoes. “Yes, I could,” said theChipmunk, “but my husband,Chippy Hackee, bites!”

Down below there was a noiseof cracking nuts and nibbling; andthen the fat squirrel voice and thethin squirrel voice sang—

“For the diddlum dayDay diddle durn di!Day diddle diddle dum day!”

Then Goody peeped in at thehole, and called down—“TimmyTiptoes! Oh fie, Timmy Tiptoes!”And Timmy replied, “Is that you,Goody Tiptoes? Why, certainly!”

He came up and kissed Goodythrough the hole; but he was so fatthat he could not get out.

Chippy Hackee was not too fat,but he did not want to come; hestayed down below and chuckled.

And so it went on for a fort-night; till a big wind blew offthe top of the tree, and opened

up the hole and let in the rain.

Then Timmy Tiptoes cameout, and went home with anumbrella.

But Chippy Hackee continuedto camp out for anotherweek, although it wasuncomfortable.

At last a large bear camewalking through the wood.Perhaps he also was lookingfor nuts; he seemed to besniffing around.

Chippy Hackee went homein a hurry!

And when Chippy Hackeegot home, he found he hadcaught a cold in his head; andhe was more uncomfortablestill.

And now Timmy andGoody Tiptoes keep their nutstore fastened up with a littlepadlock.

And whenever that littlebird sees the Chipmunks, hesings—“Who’s-been-digging-up MY-nuts? Who’s been dig-ging-up MY-nuts?” But nobodyever answers!

THE TALE OF MR. TOD [For William Francis of Ulva—Someday!]I have made many books aboutwell-behaved people. Now, for achange, I am going to make a storyabout two disagreeable people,called Tommy Brock and Mr. Tod.

Nobody could call Mr. Tod“nice.” The rabbits could not bearhim; they could smell him half amile off. He was of a wanderinghabit and he had foxy whiskers;they never knew where he would benext.

One day he was living in a stick-house in the coppice [grove], causingterror to the family of old Mr.Benjamin Bouncer. Next day hemoved into a pollard willow nearthe lake, frightening the wild ducksand the water rats.

In winter and early spring hemight generally be found in anearth amongst the rocks at the topof Bull Banks, under Oatmeal Crag.

He had half a dozen houses, buthe was seldom at home.

The houses were not alwaysempty when Mr. Tod moved OUT;because sometimes Tommy Brockmoved IN; (without asking leave).

Tommy Brock was a short bristlyfat waddling person with a grin; hegrinned all over his face. He wasnot nice in his habits. He ate waspnests and frogs and worms; and hewaddled about by moonlight, diggingthings up.

His clothes were very dirty; andas he slept in the daytime, healways went to bed in his boots.And the bed which he went to bedin was generally Mr. Tod’s.

Now Tommy Brock did occasionallyeat rabbit pie; but it was onlyvery 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; theyoften talked over that painful subject.

Old Mr. Bouncer was stricken inyears. He sat in the spring sunshineoutside the burrow, in a muffler;smoking a pipe of rabbit tobacco.

He lived with his son BenjaminBunny and his daughter-in-lawFlopsy, who had a young family.Old Mr. Bouncer was in charge ofthe family that afternoon, becauseBenjamin and Flopsy had gone out.

The little rabbit babies were justold enough to open their blue eyesand kick. They lay in a fluffy bed ofrabbit wool and hay, in a shallowburrow, separate from the mainrabbit hole. To tell the truth—oldMr. Bouncer had forgotten them.

He sat in the sun, and conversedcordially with Tommy Brock, whowas passing through the wood witha sack and a little spud which heused for digging, and some moletraps. He complained bitterlyabout the scarcity of pheasants’eggs, and accused Mr. Tod ofpoaching them. And the otters hadcleared off all the frogs while hewas asleep in winter—“I have nothad a good square meal for a fort-night, I am living on pig-nuts. Ishall have to turn vegetarian andeat my own tail!” said TommyBrock.

It was not much of a joke, but ittickled old Mr. Bouncer; becauseTommy Brock was so fat andstumpy and grinning.

So old Mr. Bouncer laughed; andpressed Tommy Brock to come inside,to taste a slice of seed cakeand “a glass of my daughter Flopsy’scowslip wine.” Tommy Brock

squeezed himself into the rabbithole with alacrity.

Then old Mr. Bouncer smokedanother pipe, and gave TommyBrock a cabbage leaf cigar whichwas so very strong that it madeTommy Brock grin more than ever;and the smoke filled the burrow.Old Mr. Bouncer coughed andlaughed; and Tommy Brock puffedand grinned.

And Mr. Bouncer laughed andcoughed, and shut his eyes becauseof the cabbage smoke ..........

When Flopsy and Benjamin cameback old Mr. Bouncer woke up.Tommy Brock and all the youngrabbit babies had disappeared!

Mr. Bouncer would not confessthat he had admitted anybody intothe rabbit hole. But the smell ofbadger was undeniable; and therewere round heavy footmarks in thesand. He was in disgrace; Flopsywrung her ears, and slapped him.

Benjamin Bunny set off at onceafter Tommy Brock.

There was not much difficulty intracking him; he had left his foot-mark and gone slowly up the windingfootpath through the wood. Here hehad rooted up the moss and woodsorrel. There he had dug quite adeep hole for dog darnel; and hadset a mole trap. A little streamcrossed the way. Benjamin skippedlightly over dry-foot; the badger’sheavy steps showed plainly in the mud.

The path led to a part of thethicket where the trees had beencleared; there were leafy oakstumps, 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 beforehim; and, for once, Mr. Tod was athome. There was not only a foxyflavor in proof of it—there wassmoke coming out of the brokenpail that served as a chimney.

Benjamin Bunny sat up, staring,his whiskers twitched. Inside thestick house somebody dropped aplate, and said something. Benjaminstamped his foot, and bolted.

He never stopped till he came tothe other side of the wood. ApparentlyTommy Brock had turned thesame way. Upon the top of the wallthere were again the marks of

badger; and some ravellings of asack had caught on a briar.

Benjamin climbed over the wall,into a meadow. He found anothermole trap newly set; he was stillupon the track of Tommy Brock. Itwas getting late in the afternoon.Other rabbits were coming out toenjoy the evening air. One of themin a blue coat, by himself, was busilyhunting for dandelions.—“Cousin Peter! Peter Rabbit, PeterRabbit!” shouted Benjamin Bunny.

The blue coated rabbit sat upwith pricked ears—“Whatever isthe matter, Cousin Benjamin? Is ita cat? or John Stoat Ferret?”

“No, no, no! He’s bagged myfamily—Tommy Brock—in a sack

have you seen him?”

“Tommy Brock? how many,Cousin Benjamin?”

“Seven, Cousin Peter, and all ofthem 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 ratherhard, for caterpillars.”

“Which way? which way has hegone, Cousin Peter?”

“He had a sack with somethinglive in it; I watched him set a moletrap. Let me use my mind, CousinBenjamin; tell me from the beginning,”Benjamin did so.

“My Uncle Bouncer has displayeda lamentable want of discretion forhis years;” said Peter reflectively,“but there are two hopefulcircumstances. Your family is alive andkicking; and Tommy Brock has hadrefreshments. He will probably goto sleep, and keep them for breakfast.”“Which way?” “Cousin Benjamin,compose yourself. I knowvery well which way. Because Mr.Tod was at home in the stick househe has gone to Mr. Tod’s otherhouse, at the top of Bull Banks. Ipartly know, because he offered toleave any message at Sister Cottontail’s;he said he would be passing.”(Cottontail had married a blackrabbit, and gone to live on the hill.)

Peter hid his dandelions, andaccompanied the afflicted parent,who was all of atwitter. Theycrossed several fields and began toclimb the hill; the tracks of TommyBrock were plainly to be seen. Heseemed to have put down the sackevery dozen yards, to rest.

“He must be very puffed; we areclose behind him, by the scent.What a nasty person!” said Peter.

The sunshine was still warm andslanting on the hill pastures. Half

way up, Cottontail was sitting inher doorway, with four or five half-grown little rabbits playing abouther; one black and the othersbrown.

Cottontail had seen TommyBrock passing in the distance.Asked whether her husband was athome she replied that TommyBrock had rested twice while shewatched him.

He had nodded, and pointed tothe sack, and seemed doubled upwith laughing.—“Come away,Peter; he will be cooking them;come quicker!” said BenjaminBunny.

They climbed up and up;--“Hewas at home; I saw his black earspeeping out of the hole.” “They livetoo near the rocks to quarrel withtheir neighbors. Come on, CousinBenjamin!”

When they came near the woodat the top of Bull Banks, they wentcautiously. The trees grew amongstheaped up rocks; and there,beneath a crag, Mr. Tod had madeone of his homes. It was at the topof a steep bank; the rocks andbushes overhung it. The rabbitscrept up carefully, listening andpeeping.

This house was something betweena cave, a prison, and a tumbledownpigsty. There was a strongdoor, which was shut and locked.

The setting sun made the windowpanes glow like red flame; butthe kitchen fire was not alight. Itwas neatly laid with dry sticks, asthe rabbits could see, when theypeeped through the window.

Benjamin sighed with relief.But there were preparationsupon the kitchen table which madehim shudder. There was an immenseempty pie dish of blue willowpattern, and a large carvingknife and fork, and a chopper.

At the other end of the table wasa partly unfolded tablecloth, aplate, a tumbler, a knife and fork,salt cellar, mustard and a chair—in short, preparations for oneperson’s supper.

No person was to be seen, andno young rabbits. The kitchen wasempty and silent; the clock had rundown. Peter and Benjamin flattenedtheir noses against the window,and stared into the dusk.

Then they scrambled round therocks to the other side of the house.It was damp and smelly, and over-grown with thorns and briars.

The rabbits shivered in theirshoes.

“Oh my poor rabbit babies!What a dreadful place; I shall neversee them again!” sighed Benjamin.

They crept up to the bedroomwindow. It was closed and boltedlike the kitchen. But there weresigns that this window had beenrecently open; the cobwebs weredisturbed, and there were fresh dirtyfootmarks upon the windowsill.

The room inside was so dark thatat first they could make out nothing;but they could hear a noise—aslow deep regular snoring grunt.And as their eyes became accustomedto the darkness, they perceivedthat somebody was asleepon Mr. Tod’s bed, curled up under

the blanket.—“He has gone to bedin 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 ofthe young family.

The sun had set; an owl began tohoot in the wood. There were manyunpleasant things lying about thathad much better have been buried;rabbit bones and skulls, and chickens’legs and other horrors. It wasa shocking place, and very dark.

They went back to the front ofthe house, and tried in every way tomove the bolt of the kitchen window.They tried to push up a rustynail between the window sashes;but it was of no use, especiallywithout a light.

They sat side by side outside thewindow, whispering and listening.

In half an hour the moon roseover the wood. It shone full andclear and cold, upon the house,amongst the rocks, and in at thekitchen window. But alas, no littlerabbit babies were to be seen! Themoonbeams twinkled on the carvingknife and the pie dish, andmade a path of brightness acrossthe dirty floor.

The light showed a little door ina wall beside the kitchen fireplace

a little iron door belonging to abrick oven of that old-fashionedsort that used to be heated withfaggots of wood.

And presently at the same moment

Peter and Benjamin noticedthat whenever they shook the windowthe little door opposite shookin answer. The young family werealive; shut up in the oven!

Benjamin was so excited that itwas a mercy he did not awakeTommy Brock, whose snores continuedsolemnly in Mr. Tod’s bed.

But there really was not verymuch comfort in the discovery.They could not open the window;and although the young family wasalive the little rabbits were quiteincapable of letting themselves out;they were not old enough to crawl.

After much whispering, Peterand Benjamin decided to dig a tunnel.They began to burrow a yardor two lower down the bank. Theyhoped that they might be able towork between the large stonesunder the house; the kitchen floorwas so dirty that it was impossibleto say whether it was made of earthor flags.

They dug and dug for hours.They could not tunnel straight onaccount of stones; but by the end ofthe night they were under thekitchen floor. Benjamin was on hisback scratching upwards. Peter’sclaws were worn down; he wasoutside the tunnel, shuffling sandaway. He called out that it wasmorning—sunrise; and that thejays were making a noise downbelow in the woods.

Benjamin Bunny came out of thedark tunnel shaking the sand fromhis ears; he cleaned his face withhis paws. Every minute the sunshone warmer on the top of thehill. In the valley there was a sea ofwhite mist, with golden tops of

trees showing through.

Again from the fields downbelow in the mist there came theangry cry of a jay, followed by thesharp yelping bark of a fox!

Then those two rabbits lost theirheads completely. They did themost foolish thing that they couldhave done. They rushed into theirshort new tunnel, and hid themselvesat the top end of it, underMr. Tod’s kitchen floor.

Mr. Tod was coming up BullBanks, and he was in the very worstof tempers. First he had been upsetby breaking the plate. It was hisown fault; but it was a china plate,the last of the dinner service thathad belonged to his grandmother,old Vixen Tod. Then the midgeshad been very bad. And he hadfailed to catch a hen pheasant onher nest; and it had contained onlyfive eggs, two of them addled. Mr.Tod had had an unsatisfactorynight.

As usual, when out of humor, hedetermined to move house. First hetried the pollard willow, but it wasdamp; and the otters had left adead fish near it. Mr. Tod likesnobody’s leavings but his own.

He made his way up the hill; histemper was not improved by noticingunmistakable marks of badger.No one else grubs up the moss sowantonly as Tommy Brock.

Mr. Tod slapped his stick uponthe earth and fumed; he guessedwhere Tommy Brock had gone to.He was further annoyed by the jaybird which followed him persistently.It flew from tree to tree andscolded, warning every rabbit

within hearing that either a cat ora fox was coming up the plantation.Once when it flew screamingover his head Mr. Tod snapped atit, and barked.

He approached his house verycarefully, with a large rusty key. Hesniffed and his whiskers bristled.

The house was locked up, but Mr.Tod had his doubts whether it wasempty. He turned the rusty key inthe lock; the rabbits below couldhear it. Mr. Tod opened the doorcautiously and went in.

The sight that met Mr. Tod’s eyesin Mr. Tod’s kitchen made Mr. Todfurious. There was Mr. Tod’s chair,and Mr. Tod’s pie dish, and hisknife and fork and mustard andsalt cellar, and his tablecloth, thathe 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 earthand dirty badger, which fortunatelyoverpowered all smell ofrabbit.

But what absorbed Mr. Tod’sattention was a noise, a deep slowregular snoring grunting noise,coming from his own bed.

He peeped through the hinges ofthe half-open bedroom door. Thenhe turned and came out of thehouse in a hurry. His whiskers bristledand his coat collar stood onend with rage.

For the next twenty minutes Mr.Tod kept creeping cautiously intothe house, and retreating hurriedlyout again. By degrees he venturedfurther in—right into the bed-room. When he was outside the

house, he scratched up the earthwith fury. But when he was inside

he did not like the look ofTommy Brock’s teeth.He was lying on his back with hismouth open, grinning from ear toear. He snored peacefully andregularly; but one eye was notperfectly shut.

Mr. Tod came in and out of thebedroom. Twice he brought in hiswalking stick, and once he broughtin the coal scuttle. But he thoughtbetter of it, and took them away.

When he came back after removingthe coal scuttle, Tommy Brockwas lying a little more sideways;but he seemed even sounder asleep.He was an incurably indolent person;he was not in the least afraidof Mr. Tod; he was simply too lazyand comfortable to move.

Mr. Tod came back yet againinto the bedroom with a clothesline. He stood a minute watchingTommy Brock and listening attentivelyto the snores. They were veryloud indeed, but seemed quite natural.

Mr. Tod turned his back towardsthe bed, and undid the window. Itcreaked; he turned round with ajump. Tommy Brock, who hadopened one eye—shut it hastily.The snores continued.

Mr. Tod’s proceedings werepeculiar, and rather difficult (becausethe bed was between the windowand the door of the bedroom). Heopened the window a little way,and pushed out the greater part ofthe clothes line on to the window-sill. The rest of the line, with a hookat the end, remained in his hand.

Tommy Brock snored conscientiously.

Mr. Tod stood and lookedat him for a minute; then he leftthe 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 ina hurry.

Mr. Tod had gone out at thefront door, and round to the backof the house. On the way, he stumbledover the rabbit burrow. If hehad had any idea who was inside ithe would have pulled them outquickly.

His foot went through the tunnelnearly upon the top of Peter Rabbitand Benjamin; but, fortunately, hethought that it was some more ofTommy Brock’s work.

He took up the coil of line fromthe sill, listened for a moment, andthen tied the rope to a tree.

Tommy Brock watched him withone eye, through the window. Hewas puzzled.

Mr. Tod fetched a large heavypailful of water from the spring,and staggered with it through thekitchen into his bedroom.

Tommy Brock snored industriously,with rather a snort.

Mr. Tod put down the pail besidethe bed, took up the end of ropewith the hook—hesitated, andlooked at Tommy Brock. Thesnores were almost apoplectic; butthe grin was not quite so big.

Mr. Tod gingerly mounted achair by the head of the bedstead.His legs were dangerously near to

Tommy Brock’s teeth.

He reached up and put the endof rope, with the hook, over thehead of the tester bed, where thecurtains ought to hang.

(Mr. Tod’s curtains were foldedup, and put away, owing to thehouse being unoccupied. So wasthe counterpane. Tommy Brockwas covered with a blanket only.)Mr. Tod standing on the unsteadychair looked down upon him attentively;he really was a first prizesound sleeper!

It seemed as though nothingwould waken him—not even theflapping rope across the bed.

Mr. Tod descended safely fromthe chair, and endeavored to get upagain with the pail of water. Heintended to hang it from the hook,dangling over the head of TommyBrock, in order to make a sort ofshower-bath, worked by a string,through the window.

But, naturally, being a thin-legged person (though vindictiveand sandy whiskered)--he wasquite unable to lift the heavyweight to the level of the hook andrope. He very nearly overbalancedhimself.

The snores became more andmore apoplectic. One of TommyBrock’s hind legs twitched underthe blanket, but still he slept onpeacefully.

Mr. Tod and the pail descendedfrom the chair without accident.After considerable thought, heemptied the water into a washbasin and jug. The empty pail wasnot too heavy for him; he slung it

up wobbling over the head ofTommy Brock.

Surely there never was such asleeper! Mr. Tod got up and down,down and up on the chair.

As he could not lift the wholepailful of water at once he fetcheda milk jug and ladled quarts ofwater into the pail by degrees. Thepail got fuller and fuller, andswung like a pendulum. Occasionallya drop splashed over; but stillTommy Brock snored regularly andnever moved,--except in one eye.

At last Mr. Tod’s preparationswere complete. The pail was full ofwater; the rope was tightly strainedover the top of the bed, and acrossthe windowsill to the tree outside.

“It will make a great mess in mybedroom; but I could never sleep inthat bed again without a springcleaning of some sort,” said Mr.Tod.

Mr. Tod took a last look at thebadger and softly left the room. Hewent out of the house, shutting thefront door. The rabbits heard hisfootsteps over the tunnel.

He ran round behind the house,intending to undo the rope in orderto let fall the pailful of water uponTommy Brock—

“I will wake him up with anunpleasant surprise,” said Mr. Tod.

The moment he had gone,Tommy Brock got up in a hurry; herolled Mr. Tod’s dressing-gown intoa bundle, put it into the bed beneaththe pail of water instead ofhimself, and left the room also—

grinning immensely.

He went into the kitchen, lightedthe fire and boiled the kettle; forthe moment he did not troublehimself to cook the baby rabbits.

When Mr. Tod got to the tree, hefound that the weight and strainhad dragged the knot so tight thatit was past untying. He was obligedto gnaw it with his teeth. Hechewed and gnawed for more thantwenty minutes. At last the ropegave way with such a sudden jerkthat it nearly pulled his teeth out,and quite knocked him over backwards.

Inside the house there was agreat crash and splash, and thenoise of a pail rolling over and over.

But no screams. Mr. Tod wasmystified; he sat quite still, andlistened attentively. Then he peepedin at the window. The water wasdripping from the bed, the pail hadrolled into a corner.

In the middle of the bed, underthe blanket, was a wet SOMETHING

much flattened in the middle,where the pail had caught it (as itwere across the tummy). Its headwas covered by the wet blanket,and it was NOT SNORING ANY LONGER.

There was nothing stirring, andno sound except the drip, drop,drop, drip, of water trickling fromthe mattress.

Mr. Tod watched it for half anhour; his eyes glistened.

Then he cut a caper, and becameso bold that he even tapped at thewindow; but the bundle never

moved.

Yes—there was no doubt aboutit—it had turned out even betterthan he had planned; the pail hadhit poor old Tommy Brock, andkilled him dead!

“I will bury that nasty person inthe hole which he has dug. I willbring my bedding out, and dry it inthe sun,” said Mr. Tod.

“I will wash the tablecloth andspread it on the grass in the sun tobleach. And the blanket must behung up in the wind; and the bedmust be thoroughly disinfected,and aired with a warming-pan;and warmed with a hot water bottle.”

“I will get soft soap, and monkeysoap, and all sorts of soap; andsoda and scrubbing brushes; andpersian powder; and carbolic toremove the smell. I must have adisinfecting. Perhaps I may have toburn sulphur.”

He hurried round the house toget a shovel from the kitchen—“First I will arrange the hole—thenI will drag out that person in theblanket. . . .”

He opened the door. . . .Tommy Brock was sitting at Mr.Tod’s kitchen table, pouring out teafrom Mr. Tod’s teapot into Mr.Tod’s teacup. He was quite dryhimself and grinning; and he threwthe cup of scalding tea all over Mr.Tod.

Then Mr. Tod rushed uponTommy Brock, and Tommy Brockgrappled with Mr. Tod amongstthe broken crockery, and therewas a terrific battle all over thekitchen. To the rabbits underneath

it sounded as if the floor would giveway at each crash of falling furniture.

They crept out of their tunnel,and hung about amongst the rocksand bushes, listening anxiously.

Inside the house the racket wasfearful. The rabbit babies in theoven woke up trembling; perhaps itwas fortunate they were shut up inside.

Everything was upset except thekitchen table.

And everything was broken,except the mantelpiece and thekitchen fender. The crockery wassmashed to atoms.

The chairs were broken, and thewindow, and the clock fell with acrash, and there were handfuls ofMr. Tod’s sandy whiskers.

The vases fell off the mantelpiece,the cannisters fell off theshelf; the kettle fell off the hob.Tommy Brock put his foot in a jarof raspberry jam.

And the boiling water out of thekettle fell upon the tail of Mr. Tod.

When the kettle fell, TommyBrock, who was still grinning,happened to be uppermost; and herolled Mr. Tod over and over like alog, out at the door.

Then the snarling and worryingwent on outside; and they rolledover the bank, and down hill,bumping over the rocks. There willnever be any love lost betweenTommy 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, CousinBenjamin! Run in and get them! whileI watch the door.”

But Benjamin was frightened—“Oh; oh! they are coming back!”“No they are not.”“Yes they are!”“What dreadful bad language! Ithink they have fallen down thestone quarry.”

Still Benjamin hesitated, andPeter kept pushing him—

“Be quick, it’s all right. Shut theoven door, Cousin Benjamin, sothat he won’t miss them.”

Decidedly there were livelydoings 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 hadpassed a sleepless night, andquarrelled again at breakfast. Old Mr.Bouncer could no longer deny thathe had invited company into therabbit hole; but he refused to replyto the questions and reproaches ofFlopsy. The day passed heavily.

Old Mr. Bouncer, very sulky, washuddled up in a corner, barricadedwith a chair. Flopsy had takenaway his pipe and hidden the tobacco.She had been having a completeturn out and spring cleaning,to relieve her feelings. She had justfinished. Old Mr. Bouncer, behindhis chair, was wondering anxiouslywhat she would do next.

In Mr. Tod’s kitchen, amidst thewreckage, Benjamin Bunny picked

his way to the oven nervously,through a thick cloud of dust. Heopened the oven door, felt inside,and found something warm andwriggling. 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; distantsounds of fighting still echoed inthe wood.

Five minutes afterwards twobreathless rabbits came scutteringaway down Bull Banks, half carrying,half dragging a sack betweenthem, bumpetty bump over thegrass. They reached home safely,and burst into the rabbit hole.

Great was old Mr. Bouncer’s reliefand Flopsy’s joy when Peter andBenjamin arrived in triumph withthe young family. The rabbit babieswere rather tumbled and very hungry;they were fed and put to bed.They soon recovered.

A new long pipe and a fresh supplyof rabbit tobacco was presentedto Mr. Bouncer. He was ratherupon his dignity; but he accepted.

Old Mr. Bouncer was forgiven,and they all had dinner. Then Peterand Benjamin told their story—butthey had not waited long enough tobe able to tell the end of the battlebetween Tommy Brock and Mr.Tod.

THE TALE OFPIGLING BLAND [For Cicily and Charlie, a Tale of the Christmas Pig]Once upon a time there was anold pig called Aunt Pettitoes. She

had eight of a family: four little girlpigs, called Cross-patch, Suck-suck,Yock-yock and Spot; and four littleboy pigs, called Alexander, PiglingBland, Chin-Chin and Stumpy.Stumpy had had an accident to histail.

The eight little pigs had very fineappetites—“Yus, yus, yus! they eatand indeed they DO eat!” said AuntPettitoes, looking at her familywith pride. Suddenly there werefearful squeals; Alexander hadsqueezed inside the hoops of thepig trough and stuck.

Aunt Pettitoes and I dragged himout by the hind legs.

Chin-chin was already in disgrace;it was washing day, and hehad eaten a piece of soap. Andpresently in a basket of cleanclothes, we found another dirtylittle pig—“Tchut, tut, tut! whicheveris this?” grunted Aunt Pettitoes.Now all the pig family are pink, orpink with black spots, but this pigchild was smutty black all over;when it had been popped into atub, it proved to be Yock-yock.

I went into the garden; there Ifound Cross-patch and Suck-suckrooting up carrots. I whipped themmyself and led them out by theears. Cross-patch tried to bite me.

“Aunt Pettitoes, Aunt Pettitoes!you are a worthy person, but yourfamily is not well brought up.Every one of them has been inmischief except Spot and PiglingBland.”

“Yus, yus!” sighed Aunt Pettitoes.“And they drink bucketfuls of milk;I shall have to get another cow!

Good little Spot shall stay at hometo do the housework; but the othersmust go. Four little boy pigs andfour little girl pigs are too manyaltogether.” “Yus, yus, yus,” saidAunt Pettitoes, “there will be moreto eat without them.”

So Chin-chin and Suck-suck wentaway in a wheel-barrow, andStumpy, Yock-yock and Cross-patch rode away in a cart.

And the other two little boy pigs,Pigling Bland and Alexander wentto market. We brushed their coats,we curled their tails and washedtheir little faces, and wished themgood bye in the yard.

Aunt Pettitoes wiped her eyeswith a large pocket handkerchief,then she wiped Pigling Bland’s noseand shed tears; then she wipedAlexander’s nose and shed tears;then she passed the handkerchief toSpot. Aunt Pettitoes sighed andgrunted, and addressed those littlepigs as follows—

“Now Pigling Bland, son PiglingBland, you must go to market. Takeyour brother Alexander by thehand. Mind your Sunday clothes,and remember to blow your nose”--(Aunt Pettitoes passed round thehandkerchief again)--“beware oftraps, hen roosts, bacon and eggs;always walk upon your hind legs.”Pigling Bland who was a sedatelittle pig, looked solemnly at hismother, a tear trickled down hischeek.

Aunt Pettitoes turned to theother—“Now son Alexander takethe hand”—“Wee, wee, wee!”giggled Alexander—“take the hand ofyour brother Pigling Bland, youmust go to market. Mind—“ “Wee,

wee, wee!” interrupted Alexanderagain. “You put me out,” said AuntPettitoes—“Observe signposts andmilestones; do not gobble herringbones—“ “And remember,” said Iimpressively, “if you once cross thecounty boundary you cannot comeback. Alexander, you are notattending. Here are two licensespermitting two pigs to go to market inLancashire. Attend Alexander. Ihave had no end of trouble in gettingthese papers from the policeman.”Pigling Bland listenedgravely; Alexander was hopelesslyvolatile.

I pinned the papers, for safety,inside their waistcoat pockets;Aunt Pettitoes gave to each a littlebundle, and eight conversationpeppermints with appropriatemoral sentiments in screws ofpaper. Then they started.

Pigling Bland and Alexandertrotted along steadily for a mile; atleast Pigling Bland did. Alexandermade the road half as long againby skipping from side to side. Hedanced about and pinched hisbrother, 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 fordinner, Pigling?”

Pigling Bland and Alexander satdown and untied their bundles.Alexander gobbled up his dinner inno time; he had already eaten allhis own peppermints—“Give meone of yours, please, Pigling?” “ButI wish to preserve them foremergencies,” said Pigling Blanddoubtfully. Alexander went into squealsof laughter. Then he pricked Pigling

with the pin that had fastenedhis pig paper; and when Piglingslapped him he dropped the pin,and tried to take Pigling’s pin, andthe papers got mixed up. PiglingBland reproved Alexander.

But presently they made it upagain, 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 apig? Where are your licenses?” saidthe policeman. They had nearly runagainst him round a corner. PiglingBland pulled out his paper; Alexander,after fumbling, handed oversomething scrumply—

“To 2 ½ oz. conversation sweetiesat three farthings”—“What’s this?this ain’t a license?” Alexander’snose lengthened visibly, he had lostit. “I had one, indeed I had, Mr.Policeman!”

“It’s not likely they let you startwithout. I am passing the farm.You may walk with me.” “Can Icome back too?” inquired PiglingBland. “I see no reason, young Sir;your paper is all right.” PiglingBland did not like going on alone,and it was beginning to rain. But itis unwise to argue with the police;he gave his brother a peppermint,and watched him out of sight.

To conclude the adventures ofAlexander—the policeman saunteredup to the house about teatime, followed by a damp subduedlittle pig. I disposed of Alexander in

the neighborhood; he did fairlywell when he had settled down.

Pigling Bland went on alonedejectedly; he came to cross roads anda sign-post—“To Market-town 5miles,” “Over the Hills, 4 miles,”“To Pettitoes Farm, 3 miles.”

Pigling Bland was shocked, therewas little hope of sleeping in MarketTown, and tomorrow was thehiring fair; it was deplorable tothink how much time had beenwasted by the frivolity of Alexander.

He glanced wistfully along theroad towards the hills, and then setoff walking obediently the otherway, buttoning up his coat againstthe rain. He had never wanted togo; and the idea of standing all byhimself in a crowded market, to bestared at, pushed, and hired bysome big strange farmer was verydisagreeable—

“I wish I could have a little gardenand grow potatoes,” said PiglingBland.

He put his cold hand in hispocket and felt his paper, he put hisother hand in his other pocket andfelt another paper—Alexander’s!Pigling squealed; then ran backfrantically, hoping to overtakeAlexander and the policeman.

He took a wrong turn—severalwrong turns, and was quite lost.

It grew dark, the wind whistled,the trees creaked and groaned.

Pigling Bland became frightenedand cried “Wee, wee, wee! I can’tfind my way home!”

After an hour’s wandering he got

out of the wood; the moon shonethrough the clouds, and PiglingBland saw a country that was newto him.

The road crossed a moor; belowwas a wide valley with a river twinklingin 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 PiglingBland, wet and cold and quite tiredout.

“Bacon and eggs, bacon andeggs!” clucked a hen on a perch.

“Trap, trap, trap! cackle, cackle,cackle!” scolded the disturbedcockerel. “To market, to market!jiggettyjig!” clucked a broody whitehen roosting next to him. PiglingBland, much alarmed, determinedto leave at daybreak. In the meantime,he and the hens fell asleep.

In less than an hour they were allawakened. The owner, Mr. PeterThomas Piperson, came with a lanternand a hamper to catch sixfowls to take to market in themorning.

He grabbed the white hen roostingnext to the cock; then his eyefell upon Pigling Bland, squeezedup in a corner. He made a singularremark—“Hallo, here’s another!”

seized Pigling by the scruff of theneck, and dropped him into thehamper. Then he dropped in fivemore dirty, kicking, cackling hensupon the top of Pigling Bland.

The hamper containing six fowlsand 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 andpeppermints inside his clothes.

At last the hamper was bumpeddown upon a kitchen floor, the lidwas opened, and Pigling was liftedout. He looked up, blinking, andsaw an offensively ugly elderlyman, grinning from ear to ear.

“This one’s come of himself,whatever,” said Mr. Piperson, turningPigling’s pockets inside out. Hepushed the hamper into a corner,threw a sack over it to keep thehens quiet, put a pot on the fire,and unlaced his boots.

Pigling Bland drew forward acoppy stool, and sat on the edge ofit, shyly warming his hands. Mr.Piperson pulled off a boot andthrew it against the wainscot at thefurther end of the kitchen. Therewas a smothered noise—“Shutup!” said Mr. Piperson. PiglingBland warmed his hands, and eyedhim.

Mr. Piperson pulled off the otherboot and flung it after the first,there was again a curious noise—“Be quiet, will ye?” said Mr. Piperson.Pigling Bland sat on the veryedge of the coppy stool.

Mr. Piperson fetched meal froma chest and made porridge, itseemed to Pigling that somethingat the further end of the kitchenwas taking a suppressed interest inthe cooking; but he was too hungryto be troubled by noises.

Mr. Piperson poured out threeplatefuls: for himself, for Pigling,and a third-after glaring at Pigling—

he put away with much scuffling,and locked up. Pigling Blandate his supper discreetly.

After supper Mr. Piperson consultedan almanac, and felt Pigling’sribs; it was too late in theseason for curing bacon, and hegrudged his meal. Besides, the henshad seen this pig.

He looked at the small remainsof a flitch [side of bacon], and thenlooked undecidedly at Pigling. “Youmay sleep on the rug,” said Mr.Peter Thomas Piperson.

Pigling Bland slept like a top. Inthe morning Mr. Piperson mademore porridge; the weather waswarmer. He looked how muchmeal was left in the chest, andseemed dissatisfied—“You’ll likelybe moving on again?” said he toPigling Bland.

Before Pigling could reply, aneighbor, who was giving Mr. Pipersonand the hens a lift, whistledfrom the gate. Mr. Piperson hurriedout with the hamper, enjoiningPigling to shut the door behind himand not meddle with nought; or“I’ll come back and skin ye!” saidMr. Piperson.

It crossed Pigling’s mind that ifHE had asked for a lift, too, hemight still have been in time formarket.

But he distrusted Peter Thomas.After finishing breakfast at hisleisure, Pigling had a look roundthe cottage; everything was lockedup. He found some potato peelingsin a bucket in the back kitchen.Pigling ate the peel, and washed upthe 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 platewhich he was wiping, and listened.

After a long pause, Pigling wenton tiptoe and peeped round thedoor into the front kitchen; therewas nobody there.

After another pause, Piglingapproached the door of the lockedcupboard, and snuffed at the keyhole.It was quite quiet.

After another long pause, Piglingpushed a peppermint under thedoor. It was sucked in immediately.

In the course of the day Piglingpushed in all his remaining sixpeppermints.

When Mr. Piperson returned, hefound Pigling sitting before the fire;he had brushed up the hearth andput on the pot to boil; the meal wasnot get-at-able.

Mr. Piperson was very affable; heslapped Pigling on the back, madelots of porridge and forgot to lockthe meal chest. He did lock thecupboard door; but without properlyshutting it. He went to bed early,and told Pigling upon no accountto disturb him next day beforetwelve 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 lookedround.

A perfectly lovely little blackBerkshire pig stood smiling besidehim. She had twinkly little screwedup eyes, a double chin, and a shortturned up nose.

She pointed at Pigling’s plate; hehastily gave it to her, and fled tothe meal chest—“How did youcome here?” asked Pigling Bland.

“Stolen,” replied Pig-wig, withher mouth full. Pigling helped himselfto meal without scruple. “Whatfor?” “Bacon, hams,” replied Pig-wig cheerfully. “Why on earth don’tyou run away?” exclaimed thehorrified Pigling.

“I shall after supper,” said Pig-wig decidedly.

Pigling Bland made more porridgeand watched her shyly.

She finished a second plate, gotup, and looked about her, asthough she were going to start.

“You can’t go in the dark,” saidPigling Bland.

Pig-wig looked anxious.“Do you know your way by day-light?”

“I know we can see this littlewhite house from the hills acrossthe river. Which way are you going,Mr. Pig?”

“To market—I have two pigpapers. I might take you to the bridge;if you have no objection,” saidPigling much confused and sitting

on the edge of his coppy stool. Pig-wig’s gratitude was such and sheasked so many questions that itbecame embarrassing to PiglingBland.

He was obliged to shut his eyesand pretend to sleep. She becamequiet, and there was a smell ofpeppermint.

“I thought you had eaten them?”said Pigling, waking suddenly.

“Only the corners,” replied Pig-wig, studying the sentiments withmuch interest by the firelight.

“I wish you wouldn’t; he mightsmell them through the ceiling,”said the alarmed Pigling.

Pig-wig put back the stickypeppermints into her pocket; “Singsomething,” 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 sayiddy tidditty? I have forgotten someof the words.”

Pigling Bland made no objection;he sat with his eyes half shut, andwatched her.

She wagged her head and rockedabout, clapping time and singing ina 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 throughthree or four verses, only at everyverse her head nodded a littlelower, and her little twinkly eyesclosed up—

“Those three little piggies grew peaky

and lean, and lean they might verywell be;

“For somehow they couldn’t say umph,

umph, umph! and they wouldn’tsay wee, wee, wee!

“For somehow they couldn’t say—Pig-wig’s head bobbed lower andlower, until she rolled over, a littleround ball, fast asleep on thehearth-rug.

Pigling Bland, on tiptoe, coveredher up with an antimacassar.

He was afraid to go to sleep himself;for the rest of the night he satlistening to the chirping of thecrickets and to the snores of Mr.Piperson overhead.

Early in the morning, betweendark and daylight, Pigling tied uphis little bundle and woke up Pig-wig. She was excited and half-frightened. “But it’s dark! How canwe find our way?”

“The cock has crowed; we muststart before the hens come out; theymight shout to Mr. Piperson.”

Pig-wig sat down again, andcommenced to cry.

“Come away Pig-wig; we can seewhen we get used to it. Come! I canhear them clucking!”

Pigling had never said shuh! to ahen in his life, being peaceable;also he remembered the hamper.

He opened the house door quietlyand shut it after them. There wasno garden; the neighborhood ofMr. Piperson’s was all scratched upby fowls. They slipped away handin hand across an untidy field tothe 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 tothe bridge before folks are stirring.”

“Why do you want to go tomarket, Pigling?” inquired Pig-wig.

The sun rose while they werecrossing the moor, a dazzle of lightover the tops of the hills. The sunshinecrept down the slopes intothe peaceful green valleys, wherelittle white cottages nestled ingardens and orchards.

“That’s Westmorland,” said Pig-wig. She dropped Pigling’s handand commenced to dance, singing—presently. “I don’t want; I want togrow potatoes.” “Have a peppermint?”said Pig-wig. Pigling Blandrefused quite crossly. “Does yourpoor toothy hurt?” inquired Pig-wig. Pigling Bland grunted.

Pig-wig ate the peppermint herself,and followed the opposite sideof the road. “Pig-wig! keep underthe wall, there’s a man ploughing.”Pig-wig crossed over, they hurrieddown hill towards the countyboundary.

Suddenly Pigling stopped; heheard wheels.

Slowly jogging up the road belowthem came a tradesman’s cart. The

reins flapped on the horse’s back,the grocer was reading a newspaper.

“Take that peppermint out ofyour mouth, Pig-wig, we may haveto run. Don’t say one word. Leave itto 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 hisnewspaper, might have passedthem, if his horse had not shiedand snorted. He pulled the cartcrossways, and held down hiswhip. “Hallo? Where are you goingto?”—Pigling Bland stared at himvacantly.

“Are you deaf? Are you going tomarket?” Pigling nodded slowly.

“I thought as much. It wasyesterday. Show me your license?”

Pigling stared at the off hindshoe of the grocer’s horse whichhad picked up a stone.

The grocer flicked his whip—“Papers? Pig license?” Pigling fumbledin all his pockets, and handedup the papers. The grocer readthem, but still seemed dissatisfied.“This here pig is a young lady; isher name Alexander?” Pig-wigopened her mouth and shut itagain; Pigling coughed asthmatically.

The grocer ran his finger downthe advertisement column of hisnewspaper—“Lost, stolen orstrayed, 10S. reward;” he lookedsuspiciously at Pig-wig. Then hestood up in the trap, and whistledfor the ploughman.

“You wait here while I drive onand speak to him,” said the grocer,

gathering up the reins. He knewthat pigs are slippery; but surely,such a VERY lame pig could neverrun!

“Not yet, Pig-wig, he will lookback.” The grocer did so; he saw thetwo pigs stock-still in the middleof the road. Then he looked over athis horse’s heels; it was lame also;the stone took some time to knockout, after he got to the ploughman.

“Now, Pig-wig, NOW!” saidPigling Bland.

Never did any pigs run as thesepigs ran! They raced and squealedand pelted down the long white hilltowards the bridge. Little fat Pig-wig’s petticoats fluttered, and herfeet went pitter, patter, pitter, asshe bounded and jumped.

They ran, and they ran, and theyran down the hill, and across ashort cut on level green turf at thebottom, between pebble beds andrushes.

They came to the river, theycame to the bridge—they crossed ithand in hand—then over the hillsand far away she danced with PiglingBland!

GINGER AND PICKLES[DedicatedWith 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 wasa village shop. The name overthe window was “Ginger and

Pickles.”

It was a little small shopjust the right size for Dolls—Lucinda and Jane Doll-cookalways bought their groceriesat Ginger and Pickles.

The counter inside was aconvenient height for rabbits.Ginger and Pickles sold redspotty pocket handkerchiefs ata penny three farthings.

They also sold sugar, andsnuff and galoshes.

In fact, although it wassuch a small shop it soldnearly everything—except afew things that you want ina hurry—like bootlaces, hair-pins and mutton chops.

Ginger and Pickles were thepeople who kept the shop.Ginger was a yellow tomcat,and Pickles was a terrier.

The rabbits were always alittle bit afraid of Pickles.

The shop was also patronizedby mice—only the micewere rather afraid of Ginger.

Ginger usually requestedPickles to serve them, becausehe said it made his mouthwater.

“I cannot bear,” said he, “tosee them going out at the doorcarrying their little parcels.”

“I have the same feelingabout rats,” replied Pickles,“but it would never do to eatour customers; they would

leave us and go to TabithaTwitchit’s.”

“On the contrary, theywould go nowhere,” repliedGinger gloomily.

(Tabitha Twitchit kept theonly other shop in the village.She did not give credit.)

But there is no money inwhat is called the “till.”

Ginger and Pickles gaveunlimited credit.

Now the meaning of“credit” is this—when a customerbuys a bar of soap, insteadof the customer pullingout a purse and paying for it

she says she will pay anothertime.And Pickles makes a lowbow and says, “With pleasure,madam,” and it is writtendown in a book.

The customers come againand again, and buy quantities,in spite of being afraid ofGinger and Pickles.

The customers came incrowds every day and boughtquantities, especially thetoffee customers. But there wasalways no money; they neverpaid for as much as a penny-worth of peppermints.

But the sales were enormous,ten times as large asTabitha Twitchit’s.

As there was always nomoney, Ginger and Pickleswere obliged to eat their own

goods.

Pickles ate biscuits and Gingerate a dried haddock.

They ate them by candle-light after the shop wasclosed.

“It is very uncomfortable, Iam afraid I shall be summoned.I have tried in vain toget a license upon credit at thePost Office;” said Pickles.“The place is full of policemen.I met one as I was cominghome.

“Let us send in the billagain to Samuel Whiskers,Ginger, he owes 22/9 forbacon.”

“I do not believe that heintends to pay at all,” repliedGinger.

When it came to Jan. 1st

there was still no money, andPickles was unable to buy adog license.

“It is very unpleasant, I amafraid of the police,” saidPickles.

“It is your own fault forbeing a terrier; I do notrequire a license, and neitherdoes Kep, the Collie dog.”

“And I feel sure that AnnaMaria pockets things—

“Where are all the creamcrackers?”

“You have eaten them yourself.”

replied Ginger.

Ginger and Pickles retiredinto the back parlor.

They did accounts. Theyadded up sums and sums, andsums.

“Samuel Whiskers has runup a bill as long as his tail; hehas had an ounce and three-quarters of snuff since October.

“What is seven pounds ofbutter at 1/3, and a stick ofsealing wax and fourmatches?”

“Send in all the bills againto everybody ‘with compliments,’”replied Ginger.

Pickles nearly had a fit, hebarked and he barked andmade little rushes.

“Bite him, Pickles! bitehim!” spluttered Ginger behinda sugar barrel, “he’s onlya German doll!”

The policeman went onwriting in his notebook; twicehe put his pencil in his mouth,and once he dipped it in thetreacle.

Pickles barked till he washoarse. But still the policemantook no notice. He had beadeyes, and his helmet wassewed on with stitches.

After a time they heard anoise in the shop, as if somethinghad been pushed in atthe door. They came out of theback parlor. There was an

envelope lying on the counter,and a policeman writing in anotebook!

At length on his last littlerush—Pickles found that theshop was empty. The policemanhad disappeared.

But the envelope remained.“Do you think that he hasgone to fetch a real live policeman?I am afraid it is a summons,”said Pickles.

“No,” replied Ginger, whohad opened the envelope, “it isthe rates and taxes, 3 pounds 1911 ¾.” [pounds are British money,the 19 is schillings, and then pence]

“This is the last straw,” saidPickles, “let us close the shop.”

They put up the shutters,and left. But they have notremoved from the neighborhood.In fact some peoplewish they had gone further.

Ginger is living in the warren[game preserve for rabbits].I do not know whatoccupation he pursues; helooks stout and comfortable.

Pickles is at present a game-keeper.

After a time Mr. JohnDormouse and his daughterbegan to sell peppermints andcandles.

But they did not keep “self-fitting sixes”; and it takes fivemice to carry one seven inch

candle.

The closing of the shopcaused great inconvenience.Tabitha Twitchit immediatelyraised the price of everythinga halfpenny; and she continuedto refuse to give credit.

Of course there are thetradesmen’s carts—the butcher,the fishman and TimothyBaker.

But a person cannot live on“seed wigs” and sponge cakeand butter buns—not evenwhen the sponge cake is asgood as Timothy’s!

And Miss Dormouse refusedto take back the ends whenthey were brought back to herwith complaints.

And when Mr. JohnDormouse was complained to, hestayed in bed, and would saynothing but “very snug;”which is not the way to carryon a retail business.

Besides—the candles whichthey sell behave very strangelyin warm weather.

So everybody was pleasedwhen Sally Henny Penny sentout a printed poster to saythat she was going to reopenthe shop—“Henny’s OpeningSale! Grand cooperative Jumble!Penny’s penny prices!Come buy, come try, comebuy!”

The poster really was most‘ticing.

There was a rush upon theopening day. The shop wascrammed with customers,and there were crowds ofmice upon the biscuit cannisters.

Sally Henny Penny getsrather flustered when she triesto count out change, and sheinsists on being paid cash; butshe is quite harmless.

And she has laid in aremarkable assortment ofbargains.

There is something toplease everybody.

End Project Gutenberg’s The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter