Tommy Brock's snores continued,
               grunty and regular from Mr.
               Tod's bed. Nothing could be seen of
               the young family.

               The sun had set; an owl began to
               hoot in the wood. There were many
               unpleasant things lying about that
               had much better have been buried;
               rabbit bones and skulls, and chickens'
               legs and other horrors. It was
               a shocking place, and very dark.

               They went back to the front of
               the house, and tried in every way to
               move the bolt of the kitchen window.
               They tried to push up a rusty
               nail between the window sashes;
               but it was of no use, especially
               without a light.

               They sat side by side outside the
               window, whispering and listening.

               In half an hour the moon rose
               over the wood. It shone full and
               clear and cold, upon the house,
               amongst the rocks, and in at the
               kitchen window. But alas, no little
               rabbit babies were to be seen! The
               moonbeams twinkled on the carving
               knife and the pie dish, and
               made a path of brightness across
               the dirty floor.

               The light showed a little door in
               a wall beside the kitchen fireplace
               —a little iron door belonging to a
               brick oven of that old-fashioned
               sort that used to be heated with
               faggots of wood.

               And presently at the same moment
               Peter and Benjamin noticed
               that whenever they shook the window
               the little door opposite shook
               in answer. The young family were
               alive; shut up in the oven!

               Benjamin was so excited that it
               was a mercy he did not awake
               Tommy Brock, whose snores continued
               solemnly in Mr. Tod's bed.

               But there really was not very
               much comfort in the discovery.
               They could not open the window;
               and although the young family was
               alive the little rabbits were quite
               incapable of letting themselves out;
               they were not old enough to crawl.

               After much whispering, Peter
               and Benjamin decided to dig a tunnel.
               They began to burrow a yard
               or two lower down the bank. They
               hoped that they might be able to
               work between the large stones
               under the house; the kitchen floor
               was so dirty that it was impossible
               to say whether it was made of earth
               or flags.

               They dug and dug for hours.
               They could not tunnel straight on
               account of stones; but by the end of
               the night they were under the
               kitchen floor. Benjamin was on his
               back scratching upwards. Peter's
               claws were worn down; he was
               outside the tunnel, shuffling sand
               away. He called out that it was
               morning—sunrise; and that the
               jays were making a noise down
               below in the woods.

               Benjamin Bunny came out of the
               dark tunnel shaking the sand from
               his ears; he cleaned his face with
               his paws. Every minute the sun
               shone warmer on the top of the
               hill. In the valley there was a sea of
               white mist, with golden tops of
               trees showing through.

               Again from the fields down
               below in the mist there came the
               angry cry of a jay, followed by the
               sharp yelping bark of a fox!

               Then those two rabbits lost their
               heads completely. They did the
               most foolish thing that they could
               have done. They rushed into their
               short new tunnel, and hid themselves
               at the top end of it, under
               Mr. Tod's kitchen floor.

               Mr. Tod was coming up Bull
               Banks, and he was in the very worst
               of tempers. First he had been upset
               by breaking the plate. It was his
               own fault; but it was a china plate,
               the last of the dinner service that
               had belonged to his grandmother,
               old Vixen Tod. Then the midges
               had been very bad. And he had
               failed to catch a hen pheasant on
               her nest; and it had contained only
               five eggs, two of them addled. Mr.
               Tod had had an unsatisfactory
               night.

               As usual, when out of humor, he
               determined to move house. First he
               tried the pollard willow, but it was
               damp; and the otters had left a
               dead fish near it. Mr. Tod likes
               nobody's leavings but his own.

               He made his way up the hill; his
               temper was not improved by noticing
               unmistakable marks of badger.
               No one else grubs up the moss so
               wantonly as Tommy Brock.

               Mr. Tod slapped his stick upon
               the earth and fumed; he guessed
               where Tommy Brock had gone to.
               He was further annoyed by the jay
               bird which followed him persistently.
               It flew from tree to tree and
               scolded, warning every rabbit
               within hearing that either a cat or
               a fox was coming up the plantation.
               Once when it flew screaming
               over his head Mr. Tod snapped at
               it, and barked.

               He approached his house very
               carefully, with a large rusty key. He
               sniffed and his whiskers bristled.

               The house was locked up, but Mr.
               Tod had his doubts whether it was
               empty. He turned the rusty key in
               the lock; the rabbits below could
               hear it. Mr. Tod opened the door
               cautiously and went in.

               The sight that met Mr. Tod's eyes
               in Mr. Tod's kitchen made Mr. Tod
               furious. There was Mr. Tod's chair,
               and Mr. Tod's pie dish, and his
               knife and fork and mustard and
               salt cellar, and his tablecloth, that
               he had left folded up in the dresser
               —all set out for supper (or breakfast)
               —without doubt for that
               odious Tommy Brock.

               There was a smell of fresh earth
               and dirty badger, which fortunately
               overpowered all smell of
               rabbit.

               But what absorbed Mr. Tod's
               attention was a noise, a deep slow
               regular snoring grunting noise,
               coming from his own bed.

               He peeped through the hinges of
               the half-open bedroom door. Then
               he turned and came out of the
               house in a hurry. His whiskers bristled
               and his coat collar stood on
               end with rage.

               For the next twenty minutes Mr.
               Tod kept creeping cautiously into
               the house, and retreating hurriedly
               out again. By degrees he ventured
               further in—right into the bed-
               room. When he was outside the
               house, he scratched up the earth
               with fury. But when he was inside
               —he did not like the look of
               Tommy Brock's teeth.

               He was lying on his back with his
               mouth open, grinning from ear to
               ear. He snored peacefully and
               regularly; but one eye was not
               perfectly shut.

               Mr. Tod came in and out of the
               bedroom. Twice he brought in his
               walking stick, and once he brought
               in the coal scuttle. But he thought
               better of it, and took them away.

               When he came back after removing
               the coal scuttle, Tommy Brock
               was lying a little more sideways;
               but he seemed even sounder asleep.
               He was an incurably indolent person;
               he was not in the least afraid
               of Mr. Tod; he was simply too lazy
               and comfortable to move.

               Mr. Tod came back yet again
               into the bedroom with a clothes
               line. He stood a minute watching
               Tommy Brock and listening attentively
               to the snores. They were very
               loud indeed, but seemed quite natural.

               Mr. Tod turned his back towards
               the bed, and undid the window. It
               creaked; he turned round with a
               jump. Tommy Brock, who had
               opened one eye—shut it hastily.
               The snores continued.

               Mr. Tod's proceedings were
               peculiar, and rather difficult (because
               the bed was between the window
               and the door of the bedroom). He
               opened the window a little way,
               and pushed out the greater part of
               the clothes line on to the window-
               sill. The rest of the line, with a hook
               at the end, remained in his hand.

               Tommy Brock snored conscientiously.
               Mr. Tod stood and looked
               at him for a minute; then he left
               the room again.

               Tommy Brock opened both eyes,
               and looked at the rope and grinned.
               There was a noise outside the window.
               Tommy Brock shut his eyes in
               a hurry.

               Mr. Tod had gone out at the
               front door, and round to the back
               of the house. On the way, he stumbled
               over the rabbit burrow. If he
               had had any idea who was inside it
               he would have pulled them out
               quickly.

               His foot went through the tunnel
               nearly upon the top of Peter Rabbit
               and Benjamin; but, fortunately, he
               thought that it was some more of
               Tommy Brock's work.

               He took up the coil of line from
               the sill, listened for a moment, and
               then tied the rope to a tree.

               Tommy Brock watched him with
               one eye, through the window. He
               was puzzled.

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

               Tommy Brock snored industriously,
               with rather a snort.

               Mr. Tod put down the pail beside
               the bed, took up the end of rope
               with the hook—hesitated, and
               looked at Tommy Brock. The
               snores were almost apoplectic; but
               the grin was not quite so big.

               Mr. Tod gingerly mounted a
               chair by the head of the bedstead.
               His legs were dangerously near to
               Tommy Brock's teeth.

               He reached up and put the end
               of rope, with the hook, over the
               head of the tester bed, where the
               curtains ought to hang.

               (Mr. Tod's curtains were folded
               up, and put away, owing to the
               house being unoccupied. So was
               the counterpane. Tommy Brock
               was covered with a blanket only.)
               Mr. Tod standing on the unsteady
               chair looked down upon him attentively;
               he really was a first prize
               sound sleeper!

               It seemed as though nothing
               would waken him—not even the
               flapping rope across the bed.

               Mr. Tod descended safely from
               the chair, and endeavored to get up
               again with the pail of water. He
               intended to hang it from the hook,
               dangling over the head of Tommy
               Brock, in order to make a sort of
               shower-bath, worked by a string,
               through the window.

               But, naturally, being a thin-
               legged person (though vindictive
               and sandy whiskered)—he was
               quite unable to lift the heavy
               weight to the level of the hook and
               rope. He very nearly overbalanced
               himself.

               The snores became more and
               more apoplectic. One of Tommy
               Brock's hind legs twitched under
               the blanket, but still he slept on
               peacefully.

               Mr. Tod and the pail descended
               from the chair without accident.
               After considerable thought, he
               emptied the water into a wash
               basin and jug. The empty pail was
               not too heavy for him; he slung it
               up wobbling over the head of
               Tommy Brock.

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

               As he could not lift the whole
               pailful of water at once he fetched
               a milk jug and ladled quarts of
               water into the pail by degrees. The
               pail got fuller and fuller, and
               swung like a pendulum. Occasionally
               a drop splashed over; but still
               Tommy Brock snored regularly and
               never moved,—except in one eye.

               At last Mr. Tod's preparations
               were complete. The pail was full of
               water; the rope was tightly strained
               over the top of the bed, and across
               the windowsill to the tree outside.

               "It will make a great mess in my
               bedroom; but I could never sleep in
               that bed again without a spring
               cleaning of some sort," said Mr.
               Tod.

               Mr. Tod took a last look at the
               badger and softly left the room. He
               went out of the house, shutting the
               front door. The rabbits heard his
               footsteps over the tunnel.

               He ran round behind the house,
               intending to undo the rope in order
               to let fall the pailful of water upon
               Tommy Brock—

               "I will wake him up with an
               unpleasant surprise," said Mr. Tod.

               The moment he had gone,
               Tommy Brock got up in a hurry; he
               rolled Mr. Tod's dressing-gown into
               a bundle, put it into the bed beneath
               the pail of water instead of
               himself, and left the room also—
               grinning immensely.

               He went into the kitchen, lighted
               the fire and boiled the kettle; for
               the moment he did not trouble
               himself to cook the baby rabbits.

               When Mr. Tod got to the tree, he
               found that the weight and strain
               had dragged the knot so tight that
               it was past untying. He was obliged
               to gnaw it with his teeth. He
               chewed and gnawed for more than
               twenty minutes. At last the rope
               gave way with such a sudden jerk
               that it nearly pulled his teeth out,
               and quite knocked him over backwards.

               Inside the house there was a
               great crash and splash, and the
               noise of a pail rolling over and over.

               But no screams. Mr. Tod was
               mystified; he sat quite still, and
               listened attentively. Then he peeped
               in at the window. The water was
               dripping from the bed, the pail had
               rolled into a corner.

               In the middle of the bed, under
               the blanket, was a wet SOMETHING
               —much flattened in the middle,
               where the pail had caught it (as it
               were across the tummy). Its head
               was covered by the wet blanket,
               and it was NOT SNORING ANY LONGER.

               There was nothing stirring, and
               no sound except the drip, drop,
               drop, drip, of water trickling from
               the mattress.

               Mr. Tod watched it for half an
               hour; his eyes glistened.

               Then he cut a caper, and became
               so bold that he even tapped at the
               window; but the bundle never
               moved.

               Yes—there was no doubt about
               it—it had turned out even better
               than he had planned; the pail had
               hit poor old Tommy Brock, and
               killed him dead!

               "I will bury that nasty person in
               the hole which he has dug. I will
               bring my bedding out, and dry it in
               the sun," said Mr. Tod.

               "I will wash the tablecloth and
               spread it on the grass in the sun to
               bleach. And the blanket must be
               hung up in the wind; and the bed
               must be thoroughly disinfected,
               and aired with a warming-pan;
               and warmed with a hot water bottle."

               "I will get soft soap, and monkey
               soap, and all sorts of soap; and
               soda and scrubbing brushes; and
               persian powder; and carbolic to
               remove the smell. I must have a
               disinfecting. Perhaps I may have to
               burn sulphur."

               He hurried round the house to
               get a shovel from the kitchen—
               "First I will arrange the hole—then
               I will drag out that person in the
               blanket. . . ."

               He opened the door. . . .

               Tommy Brock was sitting at Mr.
               Tod's kitchen table, pouring out tea
               from Mr. Tod's teapot into Mr.
               Tod's teacup. He was quite dry
               himself and grinning; and he threw
               the cup of scalding tea all over Mr.
               Tod.

               Then Mr. Tod rushed upon
               Tommy Brock, and Tommy Brock
               grappled with Mr. Tod amongst
               the broken crockery, and there
               was a terrific battle all over the
               kitchen. To the rabbits underneath
               it sounded as if the floor would give
               way at each crash of falling furniture.

               They crept out of their tunnel,
               and hung about amongst the rocks
               and bushes, listening anxiously.

               Inside the house the racket was
               fearful. The rabbit babies in the
               oven woke up trembling; perhaps it
               was fortunate they were shut up inside.

               Everything was upset except the
               kitchen table.

               And everything was broken,
               except the mantelpiece and the
               kitchen fender. The crockery was
               smashed to atoms.

               The chairs were broken, and the
               window, and the clock fell with a
               crash, and there were handfuls of
               Mr. Tod's sandy whiskers.

               The vases fell off the mantelpiece,
               the cannisters fell off the
               shelf; the kettle fell off the hob.
               Tommy Brock put his foot in a jar
               of raspberry jam.

               And the boiling water out of the
               kettle fell upon the tail of Mr. Tod.

               When the kettle fell, Tommy
               Brock, who was still grinning,
               happened to be uppermost; and he
               rolled Mr. Tod over and over like a
               log, out at the door.

               Then the snarling and worrying
               went on outside; and they rolled
               over the bank, and down hill,
               bumping over the rocks. There will
               never be any love lost between
               Tommy Brock and Mr. Tod.

               As soon as the coast was clear,
               Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny
               came out of the bushes.

               "Now for it! Run in, Cousin
               Benjamin! Run in and get them! while
               I watch the door."

               But Benjamin was frightened—

               "Oh; oh! they are coming back!"

               "No they are not."

               "Yes they are!"

               "What dreadful bad language! I
               think they have fallen down the
               stone quarry."

               Still Benjamin hesitated, and
               Peter kept pushing him—

               "Be quick, it's all right. Shut the
               oven door, Cousin Benjamin, so
               that he won't miss them."

               Decidedly there were lively
               doings in Mr. Tod's kitchen!

               At home in the rabbit hole,
               things had not been quite comfortable.

               After quarreling at supper,
               Flopsy and old Mr. Bouncer had
               passed a sleepless night, and
               quarrelled again at breakfast. Old Mr.
               Bouncer could no longer deny that
               he had invited company into the
               rabbit hole; but he refused to reply
               to the questions and reproaches of
               Flopsy. The day passed heavily.

               Old Mr. Bouncer, very sulky, was
               huddled up in a corner, barricaded
               with a chair. Flopsy had taken
               away his pipe and hidden the tobacco.
               She had been having a complete
               turn out and spring cleaning,
               to relieve her feelings. She had just
               finished. Old Mr. Bouncer, behind
               his chair, was wondering anxiously
               what she would do next.

               In Mr. Tod's kitchen, amidst the
               wreckage, Benjamin Bunny picked
               his way to the oven nervously,
               through a thick cloud of dust. He
               opened the oven door, felt inside,
               and found something warm and
               wriggling. He lifted it out carefully,
               and rejoined Peter Rabbit.

               "I've got them! Can we get away?
               Shall we hide, Cousin Peter?"

               Peter pricked his ears; distant
               sounds of fighting still echoed in
               the wood.

               Five minutes afterwards two
               breathless rabbits came scuttering
               away down Bull Banks, half carrying,
               half dragging a sack between
               them, bumpetty bump over the
               grass. They reached home safely,
               and burst into the rabbit hole.

               Great was old Mr. Bouncer's relief
               and Flopsy's joy when Peter and
               Benjamin arrived in triumph with
               the young family. The rabbit babies
               were rather tumbled and very hungry;
               they were fed and put to bed.
               They soon recovered.

               A new long pipe and a fresh supply
               of rabbit tobacco was presented
               to Mr. Bouncer. He was rather
               upon his dignity; but he accepted.

               Old Mr. Bouncer was forgiven,
               and they all had dinner. Then Peter
               and Benjamin told their story—but
               they had not waited long enough to
               be able to tell the end of the battle
               between Tommy Brock and Mr.
               Tod.

               [For Cicily and Charlie,
               a Tale of the Christmas Pig]

               Once upon a time there was an
               old pig called Aunt Pettitoes. She
               had eight of a family: four little girl
               pigs, called Cross-patch, Suck-suck,
               Yock-yock and Spot; and four little
               boy pigs, called Alexander, Pigling
               Bland, Chin-Chin and Stumpy.
               Stumpy had had an accident to his
               tail.

               The eight little pigs had very fine
               appetites—"Yus, yus, yus! they eat
               and indeed they DO eat!" said Aunt
               Pettitoes, looking at her family
               with pride. Suddenly there were
               fearful squeals; Alexander had
               squeezed inside the hoops of the
               pig trough and stuck.

               Aunt Pettitoes and I dragged him
               out by the hind legs.

               Chin-chin was already in disgrace;
               it was washing day, and he
               had eaten a piece of soap. And
               presently in a basket of clean
               clothes, we found another dirty
               little pig—"Tchut, tut, tut! whichever
               is this?" grunted Aunt Pettitoes.
               Now all the pig family are pink, or
               pink with black spots, but this pig
               child was smutty black all over;
               when it had been popped into a
               tub, it proved to be Yock-yock.

               I went into the garden; there I
               found Cross-patch and Suck-suck
               rooting up carrots. I whipped them
               myself and led them out by the
               ears. Cross-patch tried to bite me.

               "Aunt Pettitoes, Aunt Pettitoes!
               you are a worthy person, but your
               family is not well brought up.
               Every one of them has been in
               mischief except Spot and Pigling
               Bland."

               "Yus, yus!" sighed Aunt Pettitoes.
               "And they drink bucketfuls of milk;
               I shall have to get another cow!
               Good little Spot shall stay at home
               to do the housework; but the others
               must go. Four little boy pigs and
               four little girl pigs are too many
               altogether." "Yus, yus, yus," said
               Aunt Pettitoes, "there will be more
               to eat without them."

               So Chin-chin and Suck-suck went
               away in a wheel-barrow, and
               Stumpy, Yock-yock and Cross-
               patch rode away in a cart.

               And the other two little boy pigs,
               Pigling Bland and Alexander went
               to market. We brushed their coats,
               we curled their tails and washed
               their little faces, and wished them
               good bye in the yard.

               Aunt Pettitoes wiped her eyes
               with a large pocket handkerchief,
               then she wiped Pigling Bland's nose
               and shed tears; then she wiped
               Alexander's nose and shed tears;
               then she passed the handkerchief to
               Spot. Aunt Pettitoes sighed and
               grunted, and addressed those little
               pigs as follows—

               "Now Pigling Bland, son Pigling
               Bland, you must go to market. Take
               your brother Alexander by the
               hand. Mind your Sunday clothes,
               and remember to blow your nose"
               —(Aunt Pettitoes passed round the
               handkerchief again)—"beware of
               traps, hen roosts, bacon and eggs;
               always walk upon your hind legs."
               Pigling Bland who was a sedate
               little pig, looked solemnly at his
               mother, a tear trickled down his
               cheek.

               Aunt Pettitoes turned to the
               other—"Now son Alexander take
               the hand"—"Wee, wee, wee!"
               giggled Alexander—"take the hand of
               your brother Pigling Bland, you
               must go to market. Mind—" "Wee,
               wee, wee!" interrupted Alexander
               again. "You put me out," said Aunt
               Pettitoes—"Observe signposts and
               milestones; do not gobble herring
               bones—" "And remember," said I
               impressively, "if you once cross the
               county boundary you cannot come
               back. Alexander, you are not
               attending. Here are two licenses
               permitting two pigs to go to market in
               Lancashire. Attend Alexander. I
               have had no end of trouble in getting
               these papers from the policeman."
               Pigling Bland listened
               gravely; Alexander was hopelessly
               volatile.

               I pinned the papers, for safety,
               inside their waistcoat pockets;
               Aunt Pettitoes gave to each a little
               bundle, and eight conversation
               peppermints with appropriate
               moral sentiments in screws of
               paper. Then they started.

               Pigling Bland and Alexander
               trotted along steadily for a mile; at
               least Pigling Bland did. Alexander
               made the road half as long again
               by skipping from side to side. He
               danced about and pinched his
               brother, singing—

                    "This pig went to market, this pig stayed
                         at home,
                    "This pig had a bit of meat—

               let's see what they have given US for
               dinner, Pigling?"

               Pigling Bland and Alexander sat
               down and untied their bundles.
               Alexander gobbled up his dinner in
               no time; he had already eaten all
               his own peppermints—"Give me
               one of yours, please, Pigling?" "But
               I wish to preserve them for
               emergencies," said Pigling Bland
               doubtfully. Alexander went into squeals
               of laughter. Then he pricked Pigling
               with the pin that had fastened
               his pig paper; and when Pigling
               slapped him he dropped the pin,
               and tried to take Pigling's pin, and
               the papers got mixed up. Pigling
               Bland reproved Alexander.

               But presently they made it up
               again, and trotted away together,
               singing—

                    "Tom, Tom the piper's son, stole a pig
                         and away he ran!
                    "But all the tune that he could play, was
                         `Over the hills and far away!'"

               "What's that, young Sirs? Stole a
               pig? Where are your licenses?" said
               the policeman. They had nearly run
               against him round a corner. Pigling
               Bland pulled out his paper; Alexander,
               after fumbling, handed over
               something scrumply—

               "To 2 1/2 oz. conversation sweeties
               at three farthings"—"What's this?
               this ain't a license?" Alexander's
               nose lengthened visibly, he had lost
               it. "I had one, indeed I had, Mr.
               Policeman!"

               "It's not likely they let you start
               without. I am passing the farm.
               You may walk with me." "Can I
               come back too?" inquired Pigling
               Bland. "I see no reason, young Sir;
               your paper is all right." Pigling
               Bland did not like going on alone,
               and it was beginning to rain. But it
               is unwise to argue with the police;
               he gave his brother a peppermint,
               and watched him out of sight.

               To conclude the adventures of
               Alexander—the policeman sauntered
               up to the house about tea
               time, followed by a damp subdued
               little pig. I disposed of Alexander in
               the neighborhood; he did fairly
               well when he had settled down.

               Pigling Bland went on alone
               dejectedly; he came to cross roads and
               a sign-post—"To Market-town 5
               miles," "Over the Hills, 4 miles,"
               "To Pettitoes Farm, 3 miles."

               Pigling Bland was shocked, there
               was little hope of sleeping in Market
               Town, and tomorrow was the
               hiring fair; it was deplorable to
               think how much time had been
               wasted by the frivolity of Alexander.

               He glanced wistfully along the
               road towards the hills, and then set
               off walking obediently the other
               way, buttoning up his coat against
               the rain. He had never wanted to
               go; and the idea of standing all by
               himself in a crowded market, to be
               stared at, pushed, and hired by
               some big strange farmer was very
               disagreeable—

               "I wish I could have a little garden
               and grow potatoes," said Pigling
               Bland.

               He put his cold hand in his
               pocket and felt his paper, he put his
               other hand in his other pocket and
               felt another paper—Alexander's!
               Pigling squealed; then ran back
               frantically, hoping to overtake
               Alexander and the policeman.

               He took a wrong turn—several
               wrong turns, and was quite lost.

               It grew dark, the wind whistled,
               the trees creaked and groaned.

               Pigling Bland became frightened
               and cried "Wee, wee, wee! I can't
               find my way home!"

               After an hour's wandering he got
               out of the wood; the moon shone
               through the clouds, and Pigling
               Bland saw a country that was new
               to him.

               The road crossed a moor; below
               was a wide valley with a river twinkling
               in the moonlight, and beyond
               —in misty distance—lay the hills.

               He saw a small wooden hut,
               made his way to it, and crept inside
               —"I am afraid it IS a hen house,
               but what can I do?" said Pigling
               Bland, wet and cold and quite tired
               out.