Mrs. McGregor untied the
               sack and put her hand inside.

               When she felt the vegetables
               she became very very angry.
               She said that Mr. McGregor
               had "done it a purpose."

               And Mr. McGregor was very
               angry too. One of the rotten
               marrows came flying through
               the kitchen window, and hit
               the youngest Flopsy Bunny.

               It was rather hurt.

               Then Benjamin and Flopsy
               thought that it was time to go
               home.

               So Mr. McGregor did not get his
               tobacco, and Mrs. McGregor did
               not get her rabbit skins.

               But next Christmas Thomasina
               Tittlemouse got a present of
               enough rabbit wool to make herself
               a cloak and a hood, and a
               handsome muff and a pair of
               warm mittens.

               [Nellie's
               Little Book]

               Once upon a time there was
               a woodmouse, and her name
               was Mrs. Tittlemouse.

               She lived in a bank under a hedge.

               Such a funny house! There
               were yards and yards of sandy
               passages, leading to store-
               rooms and nut cellars and
               seed cellars, all amongst the
               roots of the hedge.

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

               Also, there was Mrs. Tittle-
               mouse's bedroom, where she
               slept in a little box bed!

               Mrs. Tittlemouse was a most
               terribly tidy particular little
               mouse, always sweeping and
               dusting the soft sandy floors.

               Sometimes a beetle lost its way
               in the passages.

               "Shuh! shuh! little dirty feet!"
               said Mrs. Tittlemouse, clattering
               her dustpan.

               And one day a little old woman
               ran up and down in a red spotty
               cloak.

               "Your house is on fire, Mother
               Ladybird! Fly away home to your
               children!"

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

               "Beg pardon, is this not Miss
               Muffet's?"

               "Go away, you bold bad spider!
               Leaving ends of cobweb all over
               my nice clean house!"

               She bundled the spider out at a
               window.

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

               Mrs. Tittlemouse went on her
               way to a distant storeroom, to
               fetch cherrystones and thistle-
               down seed for dinner.

               All along the passage she
               sniffed, and looked at the floor.

               "I smell a smell of honey; is it
               the cowslips outside, in the hedge?
               I am sure I can see the marks of
               little dirty feet."

               Suddenly round a corner, she
               met Babbitty Bumble—"Zizz,
               Bizz, Bizzz!" said the bumble bee.

               Mrs. Tittlemouse looked at her
               severely. She wished that she had
               a broom.

               "Good-day, Babbitty Bumble; I
               should be glad to buy some bees-
               wax. But what are you doing
               down here? Why do you always
               come in at a window, and say,
               Zizz, Bizz, Bizzz?" Mrs. Tittle-
               mouse began to get cross.

               "Zizz, Wizz, Wizzz!" replied
               Babbitty Bumble in a peevish
               squeak. She sidled down a passage,
               and disappeared into a
               storeroom which had been used
               for acorns.

               Mrs. Tittlemouse had eaten the
               acorns before Christmas; the
               storeroom ought to have been
               empty.

               But it was full of untidy dry
               moss.

               Mrs. Tittlemouse began to pull out the
               moss. Three or four other bees put
               their heads out, and buzzed fiercely.

               "I am not in the habit of letting
               lodgings; this is an intrusion!"
               said Mrs. Tittlemouse.
               "I will have them turned out
               —" "Buzz! Buzz! Buzzz!"—"I
               wonder who would help me?"
               "Bizz, Wizz, Wizzz!"

               —"I will not have Mr. Jackson;
               he never wipes his feet."

               Mrs. Tittlemouse decided to
               leave the bees till after dinner.

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

               He was sitting all over a
               small rocking chair, twiddling his
               thumbs and smiling, with his feet
               on the fender.

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

               "How do you do, Mr. Jackson?
               Deary me, you have got
               very wet!"

               "Thank you, thank you,
               thank you, Mrs. Tittlemouse!
               I'll sit awhile and dry myself,"
               said Mr. Jackson.

               He sat and smiled, and the
               water dripped off his coat
               tails. Mrs. Tittlemouse went
               round with a mop.

               He sat such a while that he had
               to be asked if he would take some
               dinner?

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

               He opened his mouth most
               unnecessarily wide; he certainly had
               not a tooth in his head.

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

               "Thank you, thank you, thank
               you, Mrs. Tittlemouse! Now what
               I really—REALLY should like—
               would be a little dish of honey!"

               "I am afraid I have not got
               any, Mr. Jackson!" said Mrs.
               Tittlemouse.

               "Tiddly, widdly, widdly,
               Mrs. Tittlemouse!" said the
               smiling Mr. Jackson, "I can SMELL it;
               that is why I came to call."

               Mr. Jackson rose ponderously
               from the table, and began
               to look into the cupboards.

               Mrs. Tittlemouse followed him with
               a dishcloth, to wipe his large
               wet footmarks off the parlor floor.

               When he had convinced himself
               that there was no honey in the
               cupboards, he began to walk
               down the passage.

               "Indeed, indeed, you will stick
               fast, Mr. Jackson!"

               "Tiddly, widdly, widdly, Mrs.
               Tittlemouse!"

               First he squeezed into the pantry.

               "Tiddly, widdly, widdly? No
               honey? No honey, Mrs. Tittlemouse?"

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

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

               "Tiddly, widdly, widdly, Mrs.
               Tittlemouse; you seem to have
               plenty of visitors!"

               "And without any invitation!"
               said Mrs. Thomasina Tittlemouse.

               They went along the sandy
               passage—"Tiddly, widdly—" "Buzz!
               Wizz! Wizz!"

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

               "I do not like bumble bees. They
               are all over bristles," said Mr.
               Jackson, wiping his mouth with
               his coat sleeve.

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

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

               She shut herself up in the nut
               cellar while Mr. Jackson pulled out
               the bees-nest. He seemed to have
               no objection to stings.

               When Mrs. Tittlemouse ventured
               to come out—everybody
               had gone away.

               But the untidiness was something
               dreadful—"Never did I see
               such a mess—smears of honey;
               and moss, and thistledown—and
               marks of big and little dirty feet—
               all over my nice clean house!"

               She gathered up the moss
               and the remains of the bees-
               wax.

               Then she went out and
               fetched some twigs, to partly
               close up the front door.

               "I will make it too small for
               Mr. Jackson!"

               She fetched soft soap, and
               flannel, and a new scrubbing
               brush from the storeroom.
               But she was too tired to do any
               more. First she fell asleep in
               her chair, and then she went
               to bed.

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

               Next morning she got up
               very early and began a spring
               cleaning which lasted a fort-
               night.

               She swept, and scrubbed,
               and dusted; and she rubbed
               up the furniture with bees-
               wax, and polished her little tin
               spoons.

               When it was all beautifully
               neat and clean, she gave a
               party to five other little mice,
               without Mr. Jackson.

               He smelt the party and
               came up the bank, but he
               could not squeeze in at the
               door.

               So they handed him out acorn cupfuls of
               honeydew through the window,
               and he was not at all offended.

               He sat outside in the sun, and said—
               "Tiddly, widdly, widdly! Your very
               good health, Mrs. Tittlemouse!"

               [For Many Unknown Little Friends,
               Including Monica]

               Once upon a time there was a
               little fat comfortable grey squirrel,
               called Timmy Tiptoes. He had a
               nest thatched with leaves in the
               top of a tall tree; and he had a
               little squirrel wife called Goody.

               Timmy Tiptoes sat out, enjoying
               the breeze; he whisked his tail and
               chuckled—"Little wife Goody, the
               nuts are ripe; we must lay up a
               store for winter and spring."
               Goody Tiptoes was busy pushing
               moss under the thatch—"The nest
               is so snug, we shall be sound
               asleep all winter." "Then we shall
               wake up all the thinner, when
               there is nothing to eat in spring-
               time," replied prudent Timothy.

               When Timmy and Goody
               Tiptoes came to the nut
               thicket, they found other
               squirrels were there already.

               Timmy took off his jacket
               and hung it on a twig; they
               worked away quietly by themselves.

               Every day they made several
               journeys and picked quantities
               of nuts. They carried them
               away in bags, and stored
               them in several hollow
               stumps near the tree where
               they had built their nest.

               When these stumps were full,
               they began to empty the bags into
               a hole high up a tree, that had
               belonged to a woodpecker; the nuts
               rattled down—down—down inside.

               "How shall you ever get them
               out again? It is like a money box!"
               said Goody.

               "I shall be much thinner before
               springtime, my love," said Timmy
               Tiptoes, peeping into the hole.

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

               The most forgetful squirrel in
               the wood was called Silvertail. He
               began to dig, and he could not
               remember. And then he dug again
               and found some nuts that did not
               belong to him; and there was a
               fight. And other squirrels began to
               dig,—the whole wood was in
               commotion!

               Unfortunately, just at this time
               a flock of little birds flew by, from
               bush to bush, searching for green
               caterpillars and spiders. There
               were several sorts of little birds,
               twittering different songs.

               The first one sang—"Who's bin
               digging-up MY nuts? Who's-been-
               digging-up MY nuts?"

               And another sang—"Little bita
               bread and-NO-cheese! Little bit-a-
               bread an'-NO-cheese!"

               The squirrels followed and listened.
               The first little bird flew into
               the bush where Timmy and Goody
               Tiptoes were quietly tying up their
               bags, and it sang—"Who's-bin
               digging-up MY nuts? Who's been
               digging-up MY-nuts?"

               Timmy Tiptoes went on with
               his work without replying; indeed,
               the little bird did not expect an
               answer. It was only singing its
               natural song, and it meant nothing
               at all.

               But when the other squirrels
               heard that song, they rushed upon
               Timmy Tiptoes and cuffed and
               scratched him, and upset his bag
               of nuts. The innocent little bird
               which had caused all the mischief,
               flew away in a fright!

               Timmy rolled over and over,
               and then turned tail and fled
               towards his nest, followed by
               a crowd of squirrels shouting—
               "Who's-been digging-up MY-nuts?"

               They caught him and dragged
               him up the very same tree, where
               there was the little round hole,
               and they pushed him in. The hole
               was much too small for Timmy
               Tiptoes' figure. They squeezed
               him dreadfully, it was a wonder
               they did not break his ribs. "We
               will leave him here till he confesses,"
               said Silvertail Squirrel and
               he shouted into the hole—"Who's-
               been-digging-up MY-nuts?"

               Timmy Tiptoes made no
               reply; he had tumbled down
               inside the tree, upon half a
               peck of nuts belonging to
               himself. He lay quite stunned and
               still.

               Goody Tiptoes picked up the
               nut bags and went home. She
               made a cup of tea for Timmy; but
               he didn't come and didn't come.

               Goody Tiptoes passed a lonely
               and unhappy night. Next morning
               she ventured back to the nut
               bushes to look for him; but the
               other unkind squirrels drove her
               away.

               She wandered all over the
               wood, calling—

               "Timmy Tiptoes! Timmy Tip-
               toes! Oh, where is Timmy Tiptoes?"

               In the meantime Timmy Tiptoes
               came to his senses. He found
               himself tucked up in a little moss
               bed, very much in the dark, feeling
               sore; it seemed to be under
               ground. Timmy coughed and
               groaned, because his ribs hurted
               him. There was a chirpy noise,
               and a small striped Chipmunk
               appeared with a night light, and
               hoped he felt better?

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

               The Chipmunk explained that it
               had rained nuts through the top of
               the tree—"Besides, I found a few
               buried!" It laughed and chuckled
               when it heard Timmy's story.
               While Timmy was confined to
               bed, it 'ticed him to eat quantities
               —"But how shall I ever get out
               through that hole unless I thin
               myself? My wife will be anxious!"
               "Just another nut—or two nuts;
               let me crack them for you," said
               the Chipmunk. Timmy Tiptoes
               grew fatter and fatter!

               Now Goody Tiptoes had set to
               work again by herself. She did not
               put any more nuts into the woodpecker's
               hole, because she had always
               doubted how they could be
               got out again. She hid them under
               a tree root; they rattled down,
               down, down. Once when Goody
               emptied an extra big bagful, there
               was a decided squeak; and next
               time Goody brought another bagful,
               a little striped Chipmunk
               scrambled out in a hurry.

               "It is getting perfectly full-up
               downstairs; the sitting room is
               full, and they are rolling along the
               passage; and my husband, Chippy
               Hackee, has run away and left me.
               What is the explanation of these
               showers of nuts?"

               "I am sure I beg your pardon; I
               did not know that anybody lived
               here," said Mrs. Goody Tiptoes;
               "but where is Chippy Hackee? My
               husband, Timmy Tiptoes, has run
               away too." "I know where Chippy
               is; a little bird told me," said Mrs.
               Chippy Hackee.

               She led the way to the woodpecker's
               tree, and they listened at
               the hole.

               Down below there was a noise
               of nutcrackers, and a fat squirrel
               voice and a thin squirrel voice
               were singing together—

                    "My little old man and I fell out,
                    How shall we bring this matter about?
                    Bring it about as well as you can,
                    And get you gone, you little old man!"

               "You could squeeze in, through
               that little round hole," said Goody
               Tiptoes. "Yes, I could," said the
               Chipmunk, "but my husband,
               Chippy Hackee, bites!"

               Down below there was a noise
               of cracking nuts and nibbling; and
               then the fat squirrel voice and the
               thin squirrel voice sang—

                    "For the diddlum day
                    Day diddle durn di!
                    Day diddle diddle dum day!"

               Then Goody peeped in at the
               hole, and called down—"Timmy
               Tiptoes! Oh fie, Timmy Tiptoes!"
               And Timmy replied, "Is that you,
               Goody Tiptoes? Why, certainly!"

               He came up and kissed Goody
               through the hole; but he was so fat
               that he could not get out.

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

               And so it went on for a fort-
               night; till a big wind blew off
               the top of the tree, and opened
               up the hole and let in the rain.

               Then Timmy Tiptoes came
               out, and went home with an
               umbrella.

               But Chippy Hackee continued
               to camp out for another
               week, although it was
               uncomfortable.

               At last a large bear came
               walking through the wood.
               Perhaps he also was looking
               for nuts; he seemed to be
               sniffing around.

               Chippy Hackee went home
               in a hurry!

               And when Chippy Hackee
               got home, he found he had
               caught a cold in his head; and
               he was more uncomfortable
               still.

               And now Timmy and
               Goody Tiptoes keep their nut
               store fastened up with a little
               padlock.

               And whenever that little
               bird sees the Chipmunks, he
               sings—"Who's-been-digging-
               up MY-nuts? Who's been dig-
               ging-up MY-nuts?" But nobody
               ever answers!

               [For William Francis of Ulva—Someday!]

               I have made many books about
               well-behaved people. Now, for a
               change, I am going to make a story
               about two disagreeable people,
               called Tommy Brock and Mr. Tod.

               Nobody could call Mr. Tod
               "nice." The rabbits could not bear
               him; they could smell him half a
               mile off. He was of a wandering
               habit and he had foxy whiskers;
               they never knew where he would be
               next.

               One day he was living in a stick-
               house in the coppice [grove], causing
               terror to the family of old Mr.
               Benjamin Bouncer. Next day he
               moved into a pollard willow near
               the lake, frightening the wild ducks
               and the water rats.

               In winter and early spring he
               might generally be found in an
               earth amongst the rocks at the top
               of Bull Banks, under Oatmeal Crag.

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

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

               Tommy Brock was a short bristly
               fat waddling person with a grin; he
               grinned all over his face. He was
               not nice in his habits. He ate wasp
               nests and frogs and worms; and he
               waddled about by moonlight, digging
               things up.

               His clothes were very dirty; and
               as he slept in the daytime, he
               always went to bed in his boots.
               And the bed which he went to bed
               in was generally Mr. Tod's.

               Now Tommy Brock did occasionally
               eat rabbit pie; but it was only
               very little young ones occasionally,
               when other food was really scarce.
               He was friendly with old Mr.
               Bouncer; they agreed in disliking
               the wicked otters and Mr. Tod; they
               often talked over that painful subject.

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

               He lived with his son Benjamin
               Bunny and his daughter-in-law
               Flopsy, who had a young family.
               Old Mr. Bouncer was in charge of
               the family that afternoon, because
               Benjamin and Flopsy had gone out.

               The little rabbit babies were just
               old enough to open their blue eyes
               and kick. They lay in a fluffy bed of
               rabbit wool and hay, in a shallow
               burrow, separate from the main
               rabbit hole. To tell the truth—old
               Mr. Bouncer had forgotten them.

               He sat in the sun, and conversed
               cordially with Tommy Brock, who
               was passing through the wood with
               a sack and a little spud which he
               used for digging, and some mole
               traps. He complained bitterly
               about the scarcity of pheasants'
               eggs, and accused Mr. Tod of
               poaching them. And the otters had
               cleared off all the frogs while he
               was asleep in winter—"I have not
               had a good square meal for a fort-
               night, I am living on pig-nuts. I
               shall have to turn vegetarian and
               eat my own tail!" said Tommy
               Brock.

               It was not much of a joke, but it
               tickled old Mr. Bouncer; because
               Tommy Brock was so fat and
               stumpy and grinning.

               So old Mr. Bouncer laughed; and
               pressed Tommy Brock to come inside,
               to taste a slice of seed cake
               and "a glass of my daughter Flopsy's
               cowslip wine." Tommy Brock
               squeezed himself into the rabbit
               hole with alacrity.

               Then old Mr. Bouncer smoked
               another pipe, and gave Tommy
               Brock a cabbage leaf cigar which
               was so very strong that it made
               Tommy Brock grin more than ever;
               and the smoke filled the burrow.
               Old Mr. Bouncer coughed and
               laughed; and Tommy Brock puffed
               and grinned.

               And Mr. Bouncer laughed and
               coughed, and shut his eyes because
               of the cabbage smoke ..........

               When Flopsy and Benjamin came
               back old Mr. Bouncer woke up.
               Tommy Brock and all the young
               rabbit babies had disappeared!

               Mr. Bouncer would not confess
               that he had admitted anybody into
               the rabbit hole. But the smell of
               badger was undeniable; and there
               were round heavy footmarks in the
               sand. He was in disgrace; Flopsy
               wrung her ears, and slapped him.

               Benjamin Bunny set off at once
               after Tommy Brock.

               There was not much difficulty in
               tracking him; he had left his foot-
               mark and gone slowly up the winding
               footpath through the wood. Here he
               had rooted up the moss and wood
               sorrel. There he had dug quite a
               deep hole for dog darnel; and had
               set a mole trap. A little stream
               crossed the way. Benjamin skipped
               lightly over dry-foot; the badger's
               heavy steps showed plainly in the mud.

               The path led to a part of the
               thicket where the trees had been
               cleared; there were leafy oak
               stumps, and a sea of blue hyacinths
               —but the smell that made Benjamin
               stop was NOT the smell of flowers!

               Mr. Tod's stick house was before
               him; and, for once, Mr. Tod was at
               home. There was not only a foxy
               flavor in proof of it—there was
               smoke coming out of the broken
               pail that served as a chimney.

               Benjamin Bunny sat up, staring,
               his whiskers twitched. Inside the
               stick house somebody dropped a
               plate, and said something. Benjamin
               stamped his foot, and bolted.

               He never stopped till he came to
               the other side of the wood. Apparently
               Tommy Brock had turned the
               same way. Upon the top of the wall
               there were again the marks of

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

               Benjamin climbed over the wall,
               into a meadow. He found another
               mole trap newly set; he was still
               upon the track of Tommy Brock. It
               was getting late in the afternoon.
               Other rabbits were coming out to
               enjoy the evening air. One of them
               in a blue coat, by himself, was busily
               hunting for dandelions.—
               "Cousin Peter! Peter Rabbit, Peter
               Rabbit!" shouted Benjamin Bunny.

               The blue coated rabbit sat up
               with pricked ears—"Whatever is
               the matter, Cousin Benjamin? Is it
               a cat? or John Stoat Ferret?"

               "No, no, no! He's bagged my
               family—Tommy Brock—in a sack
               —have you seen him?"

               "Tommy Brock? how many,
               Cousin Benjamin?"

               "Seven, Cousin Peter, and all of
               them twins! Did he come this way?
               Please tell me quick!"

               "Yes, yes; not ten minutes since
               ... he said they were CATERPILLARS;
               I did think they were kicking rather
               hard, for caterpillars."

               "Which way? which way has he
               gone, Cousin Peter?"

               "He had a sack with something
               live in it; I watched him set a mole
               trap. Let me use my mind, Cousin
               Benjamin; tell me from the beginning,"
               Benjamin did so.

               "My Uncle Bouncer has displayed
               a lamentable want of discretion for
               his years;" said Peter reflectively,
               "but there are two hopeful
               circumstances. Your family is alive and
               kicking; and Tommy Brock has had
               refreshments. He will probably go
               to sleep, and keep them for breakfast."
               "Which way?" "Cousin Benjamin,
               compose yourself. I know
               very well which way. Because Mr.
               Tod was at home in the stick house
               he has gone to Mr. Tod's other
               house, at the top of Bull Banks. I
               partly know, because he offered to
               leave any message at Sister Cottontail's;
               he said he would be passing."
               (Cottontail had married a black
               rabbit, and gone to live on the hill.)

               Peter hid his dandelions, and
               accompanied the afflicted parent,
               who was all of atwitter. They
               crossed several fields and began to
               climb the hill; the tracks of Tommy
               Brock were plainly to be seen. He
               seemed to have put down the sack
               every dozen yards, to rest.

               "He must be very puffed; we are
               close behind him, by the scent.
               What a nasty person!" said Peter.

               The sunshine was still warm and
               slanting on the hill pastures. Half
               way up, Cottontail was sitting in
               her doorway, with four or five half-
               grown little rabbits playing about
               her; one black and the others
               brown.

               Cottontail had seen Tommy
               Brock passing in the distance.
               Asked whether her husband was at
               home she replied that Tommy
               Brock had rested twice while she
               watched him.

               He had nodded, and pointed to
               the sack, and seemed doubled up
               with laughing.—"Come away,
               Peter; he will be cooking them;
               come quicker!" said Benjamin
               Bunny.

               They climbed up and up;—"He
               was at home; I saw his black ears
               peeping out of the hole." "They live
               too near the rocks to quarrel with
               their neighbors. Come on, Cousin
               Benjamin!"

               When they came near the wood
               at the top of Bull Banks, they went
               cautiously. The trees grew amongst
               heaped up rocks; and there,
               beneath a crag, Mr. Tod had made
               one of his homes. It was at the top
               of a steep bank; the rocks and
               bushes overhung it. The rabbits
               crept up carefully, listening and
               peeping.

               This house was something between
               a cave, a prison, and a tumbledown
               pigsty. There was a strong
               door, which was shut and locked.

               The setting sun made the window
               panes glow like red flame; but
               the kitchen fire was not alight. It
               was neatly laid with dry sticks, as
               the rabbits could see, when they
               peeped through the window.

               Benjamin sighed with relief.

               But there were preparations
               upon the kitchen table which made
               him shudder. There was an immense
               empty pie dish of blue willow
               pattern, and a large carving
               knife and fork, and a chopper.

               At the other end of the table was
               a partly unfolded tablecloth, a
               plate, a tumbler, a knife and fork,
               salt cellar, mustard and a chair—
               in short, preparations for one
               person's supper.

               No person was to be seen, and
               no young rabbits. The kitchen was
               empty and silent; the clock had run
               down. Peter and Benjamin flattened
               their noses against the window,
               and stared into the dusk.

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

               The rabbits shivered in their
               shoes.

               "Oh my poor rabbit babies!
               What a dreadful place; I shall never
               see them again!" sighed Benjamin.

               They crept up to the bedroom
               window. It was closed and bolted
               like the kitchen. But there were
               signs that this window had been
               recently open; the cobwebs were
               disturbed, and there were fresh dirty
               footmarks upon the windowsill.

               The room inside was so dark that
               at first they could make out nothing;
               but they could hear a noise—a
               slow deep regular snoring grunt.
               And as their eyes became accustomed
               to the darkness, they perceived
               that somebody was asleep
               on Mr. Tod's bed, curled up under
               the blanket.—"He has gone to bed
               in his boots," whispered Peter.

               Benjamin, who was all of atwitter,
               pulled Peter off the windowsill.