Which was ridiculous of Nutkin,
because he had not got any ring to
give to Old Brown.
The other squirrels hunted up and
down the nut bushes; but Nutkin
gathered robin's pin-cushions off a
briar bush, and stuck them full of
pine-needle-pins.
On the fifth day the squirrels
brought a present of wild honey; it
was so sweet and sticky that they
licked their fingers as they put it down
upon the stone. They had stolen it out
of a bumble BEES' nest on the tippity
top of the hill.
But Nutkin skipped up and down,
singing—
"Hum-a-bum! buzz! buzz! Hum-a-bum buzz!
As I went over Tipple-tine
I met a flock of bonny swine;
Some yellow-nacked, some yellow backed!
They were the very bonniest swine
That e'er went over the Tipple-tine."
Old Mr. Brown turned up his eyes
in disgust at the impertinence of
Nutkin.
But he ate up the honey!
The squirrels filled their little sacks
with nuts.
But Nutkin sat upon a big flat rock,
and played ninepins with a crab apple
and green fir-cones.
On the sixth day, which was
Saturday, the squirrels came again for
the last time; they brought a new-laid
EGG in a little rush basket as a last
parting present for Old Brown.
But Nutkin ran in front laughing,
and shouting—
"Humpty Dumpty lies in the beck,
With a white counterpane round his neck,
Forty doctors and forty wrights,
Cannot put Humpty Dumpty to rights!"
Now old Mr. Brown took an interest
in eggs; he opened one eye and shut it
again. But still he did not speak.
Nutkin became more and more
impertinent—
"Old Mr. B! Old Mr. B!
Hickamore, Hackamore, on the King's
kitchen door;
All the King's horses, and all the King's men,
Couldn't drive Hickamore, Hackamore,
Off the King's kitchen door!"
Nutkin danced up and down like a
SUNBEAM; but still Old Brown said
nothing at all.
Nutkin began again—
"Authur O'Bower has broken his band,
He comes roaring up the land!
The King of Scots with all his power,
Cannot turn Arthur of the Bower!"
Nutkin made a whirring noise to
sound like the WIND, and he took a
running jump right onto the head of
Old Brown! . . .
Then all at once there was a
flutterment and a scufflement and a
loud "Squeak!"
The other squirrels scuttered away
into the bushes.
When they came back very
cautiously, peeping round the tree—
there was Old Brown sitting on his
door-step, quite still, with his eyes
closed, as if nothing had happened.
* * * * * * * *
BUT NUTKIN WAS IN HIS WAISTCOAT POCKET!
This looks like the end of the story;
but it isn't.
Old Brown carried Nutkin into his
house, and held him up by the tail,
intending to skin him; but Nutkin
pulled so very hard that his tail broke
in two, and he dashed up the
staircase, and escaped out of the attic
window.
And to this day, if you meet Nutkin
up a tree and ask him a riddle, he will
throw sticks at you, and stamp his
feet and scold, and shout—
"Cuck-cuck-cuck-cur-r-r-cuck-k!"
THE TALE OF BENJAMIN BUNNY
[For the Children of Sawrey
from Old Mr. Bunny]
One morning a little rabbit sat on a
bank.
He pricked his ears and listened to
the trit-trot, trit-trot of a pony.
A gig was coming along the road; it
was driven by Mr. McGregor, and
beside him sat Mrs. McGregor in her
best bonnet.
As soon as they had passed, little
Benjamin Bunny slid down into the
road, and set off—with a hop, skip,
and a jump—to call upon his
relations, who lived in the wood at the
back of Mr. McGregor's garden.
That wood was full of rabbit holes;
and in the neatest, sandiest hole of all
lived Benjamin's aunt and his
cousins—Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail,
and Peter.
Old Mrs. Rabbit was a widow; she
earned her living by knitting
rabbit-wool mittens and muffatees (I
once bought a pair at a bazaar). She
also sold herbs, and rosemary tea,
and rabbit-tobacco (which is what
we call lavender).
Little Benjamin did not very much
want to see his Aunt.
He came round the back of the fir-
tree, and nearly tumbled upon the top
of his Cousin Peter.
Peter was sitting by himself. He
looked poorly, and was dressed in a
red cotton pocket-handkerchief.
"Peter," said little Benjamin, in a
whisper, "who has got your clothes?"
Peter replied, "The scarecrow in Mr.
McGregor's garden," and described
how he had been chased about the
garden, and had dropped his shoes
and coat.
Little Benjamin sat down beside his
cousin and assured him that Mr.
McGregor had gone out in a gig, and
Mrs. McGregor also; and certainly for
the day, because she was wearing her
best bonnet.
Peter said he hoped that it would
rain.
At this point old Mrs. Rabbit's voice
was heard inside the rabbit hole,
calling: "Cotton-tail! Cotton-tail! fetch
some more camomile!"
Peter said he thought he might feel
better if he went for a walk.
They went away hand in hand, and
got upon the flat top of the wall at the
bottom of the wood. From here they
looked down into Mr. McGregor's
garden. Peter's coat and shoes were
plainly to be seen upon the scarecrow,
topped with an old tam-o'-shanter of
Mr. McGregor's.
Little Benjamin said: "It spoils
people's clothes to squeeze under a
gate; the proper way to get in is to
climb down a pear-tree."
Peter fell down head first; but it
was of no consequence, as the bed
below was newly raked and quite
soft.
It had been sown with lettuces.
They left a great many odd little
footmarks all over the bed, especially
little Benjamin, who was wearing
clogs.
Little Benjamin said that the first
thing to be done was to get back
Peter's clothes, in order that they
might be able to use the pocket-
handkerchief.
They took them off the scarecrow.
There had been rain during the night;
there was water in the shoes, and the
coat was somewhat shrunk.
Benjamin tried on the tam-o'-
shanter, but it was too big for him.
Then he suggested that they should
fill the pocket-handkerchief with
onions, as a little present for his Aunt.
Peter did not seem to be enjoying
himself; he kept hearing noises.
Benjamin, on the contrary, was
perfectly at home, and ate a lettuce
leaf. He said that he was in the habit
of coming to the garden with his
father to get lettuces for their Sunday
dinner.
(The name of little Benjamin's papa
was old Mr. Benjamin Bunny.)
The lettuces certainly were very
fine.
Peter did not eat anything; he said
he should like to go home. Presently
he dropped half the onions.
Little Benjamin said that it was not
possible to get back up the pear-tree
with a load of vegetables. He led the
way boldly towards the other end of
the garden. They went along a little
walk on planks, under a sunny, red
brick wall.
The mice sat on their doorsteps
cracking cherry-stones; they winked
at Peter Rabbit and little Benjamin
Bunny.
Presently Peter let the pocket-
handkerchief go again.
They got amongst flower-pots, and
frames, and tubs. Peter heard noises
worse than ever; his eyes were as big
as lolly-pops!
He was a step or two in front of his
cousin when he suddenly stopped.
This is what those little rabbits saw
round that corner!
Little Benjamin took one look, and
then, in half a minute less than no
time, he hid himself and Peter and the
onions underneath a large basket. . . .
The cat got up and stretched
herself, and came and sniffed at the
basket.
Perhaps she liked the smell of onions!
Anyway, she sat down upon the top
of the basket.
She sat there for FIVE HOURS.
I cannot draw you a picture of
Peter and Benjamin underneath the
basket, because it was quite dark, and
because the smell of onions was
fearful; it made Peter Rabbit and little
Benjamin cry.
The sun got round behind the
wood, and it was quite late in the
afternoon; but still the cat sat upon
the basket.
At length there was a pitter-patter,
pitter-patter, and some bits of mortar
fell from the wall above.
The cat looked up and saw old Mr.
Benjamin Bunny prancing along the
top of the wall of the upper terrace.
He was smoking a pipe of rabbit-
tobacco, and had a little switch in his
hand.
He was looking for his son.
Old Mr. Bunny had no opinion
whatever of cats. He took a
tremendous jump off the top of the
wall on to the top of the cat, and
cuffed it off the basket, and kicked it
into the greenhouse, scratching off a
handful of fur.
The cat was too much surprised to
scratch back.
When old Mr. Bunny had driven the
cat into the greenhouse, he locked the
door.
Then he came back to the basket
and took out his son Benjamin by the
ears, and whipped him with the little
switch.
Then he took out his nephew Peter.
Then he took out the handkerchief
of onions, and marched out of the
garden.
When Mr. McGregor returned
about half an hour later he observed
several things which perplexed him.
It looked as though some person
had been walking all over the garden
in a pair of clogs—only the footmarks
were too ridiculously little!
Also he could not understand how
the cat could have managed to shut
herself up INSIDE the greenhouse,
locking the door upon the OUTSIDE.
When Peter got home his mother
forgave him, because she was so glad
to see that he had found his shoes and
coat. Cotton-tail and Peter folded up
the pocket-handkerchief, and old Mrs.
Rabbit strung up the onions and hung
them from the kitchen ceiling, with
the bunches of herbs and the rabbit-
tobacco.
THE TALE OF TWO BAD MICE
[For W.M.L.W., the Little Girl
Who Had the Doll's House]
Once upon a time there was a very
beautiful doll's-house; it was red
brick with white windows, and it had
real muslin curtains and a front door
and a chimney.
It belonged to two Dolls called
Lucinda and Jane; at least it belonged
to Lucinda, but she never ordered
meals.
Jane was the Cook; but she never
did any cooking, because the dinner
had been bought ready-made, in a
box full of shavings.
There were two red lobsters and a
ham, a fish, a pudding, and some
pears and oranges.
They would not come off the plates,
but they were extremely beautiful.
One morning Lucinda and Jane had
gone out for a drive in the doll's
perambulator. There was no one in
the nursery, and it was very quiet.
Presently there was a little scuffling,
scratching noise in a corner near the
fireplace, where there was a hole
under the skirting-board.
Tom Thumb put out his head for a
moment, and then popped it in again.
Tom Thumb was a mouse.
A minute afterwards, Hunca
Munca, his wife, put her head out,
too; and when she saw that there was
no one in the nursery, she ventured
out on the oilcloth under the coal-box.
The doll's-house stood at the other
side of the fire-place. Tom Thumb
and Hunca Munca went cautiously
across the hearthrug. They pushed
the front door—it was not fast.
Tom Thumb and Hunca Munca
went upstairs and peeped into the
dining-room. Then they squeaked
with joy!
Such a lovely dinner was laid out
upon the table! There were tin
spoons, and lead knives and forks,
and two dolly-chairs—all SO
convenient!
Tom Thumb set to work at once to
carve the ham. It was a beautiful
shiny yellow, streaked with red.
The knife crumpled up and hurt
him; he put his finger in his mouth.
"It is not boiled enough; it is hard.
You have a try, Hunca Munca."
Hunca Munca stood up in her
chair, and chopped at the ham with
another lead knife.
"It's as hard as the hams at the
cheesemonger's," said Hunca Munca.
The ham broke off the plate with a
jerk, and rolled under the table.
"Let it alone," said Tom Thumb;
"give me some fish, Hunca Munca!"
Hunca Munca tried every tin spoon
in turn; the fish was glued to the dish.
Then Tom Thumb lost his temper.
He put the ham in the middle of the
floor, and hit it with the tongs and
with the shovel—bang, bang, smash,
smash!
The ham flew all into pieces, for
underneath the shiny paint it was
made of nothing but plaster!
Then there was no end to the rage
and disappointment of Tom Thumb
and Hunca Munca. They broke up the
pudding, the lobsters, the pears and
the oranges.
As the fish would not come off the
plate, they put it into the red-hot
crinkly paper fire in the kitchen; but it
would not burn either.
Tom Thumb went up the kitchen
chimney and looked out at the top—
there was no soot.
While Tom Thumb was up the
chimney, Hunca Munca had another
disappointment. She found some tiny
canisters upon the dresser, labelled—
Rice—Coffee—Sago—but when she
turned them upside down, there was
nothing inside except red and blue
beads.
Then those mice set to work to do
all the mischief they could—especially
Tom Thumb! He took Jane's clothes
out of the chest of drawers in her
bedroom, and he threw them out of
the top floor window.
But Hunca Munca had a frugal
mind. After pulling half the feathers
out of Lucinda's bolster, she
remembered that she herself was in
want of a feather bed.
With Tom Thumbs's assistance she
carried the bolster downstairs, and
across the hearth-rug. It was difficult
to squeeze the bolster into the mouse-
hole; but they managed it somehow.
Then Hunca Munca went back and
fetched a chair, a book-case, a bird-
cage, and several small odds and
ends. The book-case and the bird-
cage refused to go into the mousehole.
Hunca Munca left them behind the
coal-box, and went to fetch a cradle.
Hunca Munca was just returning
with another chair, when suddenly
there was a noise of talking outside
upon the landing. The mice rushed
back to their hole, and the dolls came
into the nursery.
What a sight met the eyes of Jane
and Lucinda! Lucinda sat upon the
upset kitchen stove and stared; and
Jane leant against the kitchen dresser
and smiled—but neither of them
made any remark.
The book-case and the bird-cage
were rescued from under the coal-
box—but Hunca Munca has got the
cradle, and some of Lucinda's
clothes.
She also has some useful pots and
pans, and several other things.
The little girl that the doll's-house
belonged to, said,—"I will get a doll
dressed like a policeman!"
But the nurse said,—"I will set a
mouse-trap!"
So that is the story of the two Bad
Mice,—but they were not so very very
naughty after all, because Tom
Thumb paid for everything he broke.
He found a crooked sixpence under
the hearth-rug; and upon Christmas
Eve, he and Hunca Munca stuffed it
into one of the stockings of Lucinda
and Jane.
And very early every morning—
before anybody is awake—Hunca
Munca comes with her dust-pan and
her broom to sweep the Dollies' house!
THE TALE OF MRS. TIGGY-WINKLE
[For the Real
Little Lucie of Newlands]
Once upon a time there was a little
girl called Lucie, who lived at a farm
called Little-town. She was a good
little girl—only she was always losing
her pocket-handkerchiefs!
One day little Lucie came into the
farm-yard crying—oh, she did cry so!
"I've lost my pocket-handkin! Three
handkins and a pinny! Have YOU seen
them, Tabby Kitten?"
The Kitten went on washing her white paws;
so Lucie asked a speckled hen—
"Sally Henny-penny, have YOU
found three pocket-handkins?"
But the speckled hen ran into a
barn, clucking—
"I go barefoot, barefoot, barefoot!"
And then Lucie asked Cock Robin
sitting on a twig. Cock Robin looked
sideways at Lucie with his bright
black eye, and he flew over a stile and
away.
Lucie climbed upon the stile and
looked up at the hill behind Little-
town—a hill that goes up—up—into
the clouds as though it had no top!
And a great way up the hillside she
thought she saw some white things
spread upon the grass.
Lucie scrambled up the hill as fast
as her short legs would carry her; she
ran along a steep path-way—up and
up—until Little-town was right away
down below—she could have
dropped a pebble down the chimney!
Presently she came to a spring,
bubbling out from the hillside.
Some one had stood a tin can upon
a stone to catch the water—but the
water was already running over, for
the can was no bigger than an egg-
cup! And where the sand upon the
path was wet—there were footmarks
of a VERY small person.
Lucie ran on, and on.
The path ended under a big rock.
The grass was short and green, and
there were clothes-props cut from
bracken stems, with lines of plaited
rushes, and a heap of tiny clothes
pins—but no pocket-handkerchiefs!
But there was something else—a
door! straight into the hill; and inside
it some one was singing—
"Lily-white and clean, oh!
With little frills between, oh!
Smooth and hot-red rusty spot
Never here be seen, oh!"
Lucie knocked-once-twice, and
interrupted the song. A little
frightened voice called out "Who's
that?"
Lucie opened the door: and what
do you think there was inside the
hill?—a nice clean kitchen with a
flagged floor and wooden beams—
just like any other farm kitchen. Only
the ceiling was so low that Lucie's
head nearly touched it; and the pots
and pans were small, and so was
everything there.
There was a nice hot singey smell;
and at the table, with an iron in her
hand, stood a very stout short person
staring anxiously at Lucie.
Her print gown was tucked up, and
she was wearing a large apron over
her striped petticoat. Her little black
nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle, and
her eyes went twinkle, twinkle; and
underneath her cap-where Lucie
had yellow curls-that little person
had PRICKLES!
"Who are you?" said Lucie. "Have
you seen my pocket-handkins?"
The little person made a bob-
curtsey—"Oh yes, if you please'm; my
name is Mrs. Tiggy-winkle; oh yes if
you please'm, I'm an excellent clear-
starcher!" And she took something
out of the clothesbasket, and spread it
on the ironing-blanket.
"What's that thing?" said Lucie-
"that's not my pocket-handkin?"
"Oh no, if you please'm; that's a
little scarlet waist-coat belonging to
Cock Robin!"
And she ironed it and folded it, and
put it on one side.
Then she took something else off a
clothes-horse—"That isn't my pinny?"
said Lucie.
"Oh no, if you please'm; that's a
damask table-cloth belonging to
Jenny Wren; look how it's stained with
currant wine! It's very bad to wash!"
said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.
Mrs. Tiggy-winkle's nose went
sniffle sniffle snuffle, and her eyes
went twinkle twinkle; and she fetched
another hot iron from the fire.
"There's one of my pocket-
handkins!" cried Lucie—"and there's
my pinny!"
Mrs. Tiggy-winkle ironed it, and
goffered it, and shook out the frills.
"Oh that IS lovely!" said Lucie.
"And what are those long yellow
things with fingers like gloves?"
"Oh that's a pair of stockings
belonging to Sally Henny-penny—look
how she's worn the heels out with
scratching in the yard! She'll very soon
go barefoot!" said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.
"Why, there's another hankersniff—
but it isn't mine; it's red?"
"Oh no, if you please'm; that one
belongs to old Mrs. Rabbit; and it DID
so smell of onions! I've had to wash it
separately, I can't get out that smell."
"There's another one of mine," said Lucie.
"What are those funny little white things?"
"That's a pair of mittens belonging
to Tabby Kitten; I only have to iron
them; she washes them herself."
"There's my last pocket-handkin!"
said Lucie.
"And what are you dipping into the
basin of starch?"
"They're little dicky shirt-fronts
belonging to Tom Titmouse—most
terrible particular!" said Mrs. Tiggy-
winkle. "Now I've finished my ironing;
I'm going to air some clothes."
"What are these dear soft fluffy
things?" said Lucie.
"Oh those are woolly coats
belonging to the little lambs at
Skelghyl."
"Will their jackets take off?" asked
Lucie.
"Oh yes, if you please'm; look at the
sheep-mark on the shoulder. And
here's one marked for Gatesgarth,
and three that come from Little-town.
They're ALWAYS marked at washing!"
said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.
And she hung up all sorts and sizes
of clothes—small brown coats of
mice; and one velvety black moleskin
waist-coat; and a red tail-coat with
no tail belonging to Squirrel Nutkin;
and a very much shrunk blue jacket
belonging to Peter Rabbit; and a
petticoat, not marked, that had gone
lost in the washing—and at last the
basket was empty!
Then Mrs. Tiggy-winkle made
tea—a cup for herself and a cup for
Lucie. They sat before the fire on a
bench and looked sideways at one
another. Mrs. Tiggy-winkle's hand,
holding the tea-cup, was very very
brown, and very very wrinkly with the
soap-suds; and all through her gown
and her cap, there were HAIRPINS
sticking wrong end out; so that Lucie
didn't like to sit too near her.
When they had finished tea, they
tied up the clothes in bundles; and
Lucie's pocket-handkerchiefs were
folded up inside her clean pinny, and
fastened with a silver safety-pin.
And then they made up the fire
with turf, and came out and locked
the door, and hid the key under the
door-sill.
Then away down the hill trotted
Lucie and Mrs. Tiggy-winkle with the
bundles of clothes!
All the way down the path little
animals came out of the fern to meet
them; the very first that they met
were Peter Rabbit and Benjamin
Bunny!
And she gave them their nice clean
clothes; and all the little animals and
birds were so very much obliged to
dear Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.
So that at the bottom of the hill
when they came to the stile, there was
nothing left to carry except Lucie's
one little bundle.
Lucie scrambled up the stile with
the bundle in her hand; and then she
turned to say "Good-night," and to
thank the washer-woman.—But what
a VERY odd thing! Mrs. Tiggy-winkle
had not waited either for thanks or
for the washing bill!
She was running running running
up the hill—and where was her white
frilled cap? and her shawl? and her
gown-and her petticoat?
And HOW small she had grown—
and HOW brown—and covered with
PRICKLES!
Why! Mrs. Tiggy-winkle was
nothing but a HEDGEHOG!
* * * * * *
(Now some people say that little Lucie
had been asleep upon the stile—but then
how could she have found three clean
pocket-handkins and a pinny, pinned with a
silver safety-pin?
And besides—I have seen that door into
the back of the hill called Cat Bells—and
besides I am very well acquainted with dear
Mrs. Tiggy-winkle!)
THE PIE AND THE PATTY-PAN
Pussy-cat sits by the fire—how should she be fair?
In walks the little dog—says "Pussy are you there?
How do you do Mistress Pussy? Mistress Pussy, how
do you do?"
"I thank you kindly, little dog, I fare as well as you!"
[Old Rhyme]
Once upon a time there was a
Pussy-cat called Ribby, who invited a
little dog called Duchess to tea.
"Come in good time, my dear
Duchess," said Ribby's letter, "and we
will have something so very nice. I am
baking it in a pie-dish—a pie-dish
with a pink rim. You never tasted
anything so good! And YOU shall eat it
all! I will eat muffins, my dear
Duchess!" wrote Ribby.
"I will come very punctually, my
dear Ribby," wrote Duchess; and then
at the end she added—"I hope it isn't
mouse?"
And then she thought that did not
look quite polite; so she scratched out
"isn't mouse" and changed it to "I
hope it will be fine," and she gave her
letter to the postman.
But she thought a great deal about
Ribby's pie, and she read Ribby's letter
over and over again.