Mr. Tod took a last look at the
badger and softly left the room. He
went out of the house, shutting the
front door. The rabbits heard his
footsteps over the tunnel.
He ran round behind the house,
intending to undo the rope in order
to let fall the pailful of water upon
Tommy Brock—
"I will wake him up with an
unpleasant surprise," said Mr. Tod.
The moment he had gone,
Tommy Brock got up in a hurry; he
rolled Mr. Tod's dressing-gown into
a bundle, put it into the bed beneath
the pail of water instead of
himself, and left the room also—
grinning immensely.
He went into the kitchen, lighted
the fire and boiled the kettle; for
the moment he did not trouble
himself to cook the baby rabbits.
When Mr. Tod got to the tree, he
found that the weight and strain
had dragged the knot so tight that
it was past untying. He was obliged
to gnaw it with his teeth. He
chewed and gnawed for more than
twenty minutes. At last the rope
gave way with such a sudden jerk
that it nearly pulled his teeth out,
and quite knocked him over backwards.
Inside the house there was a
great crash and splash, and the
noise of a pail rolling over and over.
But no screams. Mr. Tod was
mystified; he sat quite still, and
listened attentively. Then he peeped
in at the window. The water was
dripping from the bed, the pail had
rolled into a corner.
In the middle of the bed, under
the blanket, was a wet SOMETHING
—much flattened in the middle,
where the pail had caught it (as it
were across the tummy). Its head
was covered by the wet blanket,
and it was NOT SNORING ANY LONGER.
There was nothing stirring, and
no sound except the drip, drop,
drop, drip, of water trickling from
the mattress.
Mr. Tod watched it for half an
hour; his eyes glistened.
Then he cut a caper, and became
so bold that he even tapped at the
window; but the bundle never
moved.
Yes—there was no doubt about
it—it had turned out even better
than he had planned; the pail had
hit poor old Tommy Brock, and
killed him dead!
"I will bury that nasty person in
the hole which he has dug. I will
bring my bedding out, and dry it in
the sun," said Mr. Tod.
"I will wash the tablecloth and
spread it on the grass in the sun to
bleach. And the blanket must be
hung up in the wind; and the bed
must be thoroughly disinfected,
and aired with a warming-pan;
and warmed with a hot water bottle."
"I will get soft soap, and monkey
soap, and all sorts of soap; and
soda and scrubbing brushes; and
persian powder; and carbolic to
remove the smell. I must have a
disinfecting. Perhaps I may have to
burn sulphur."
He hurried round the house to
get a shovel from the kitchen—
"First I will arrange the hole—then
I will drag out that person in the
blanket. . . ."
He opened the door. . . .
Tommy Brock was sitting at Mr.
Tod's kitchen table, pouring out tea
from Mr. Tod's teapot into Mr.
Tod's teacup. He was quite dry
himself and grinning; and he threw
the cup of scalding tea all over Mr.
Tod.
Then Mr. Tod rushed upon
Tommy Brock, and Tommy Brock
grappled with Mr. Tod amongst
the broken crockery, and there
was a terrific battle all over the
kitchen. To the rabbits underneath
it sounded as if the floor would give
way at each crash of falling furniture.
They crept out of their tunnel,
and hung about amongst the rocks
and bushes, listening anxiously.
Inside the house the racket was
fearful. The rabbit babies in the
oven woke up trembling; perhaps it
was fortunate they were shut up inside.
Everything was upset except the
kitchen table.
And everything was broken,
except the mantelpiece and the
kitchen fender. The crockery was
smashed to atoms.
The chairs were broken, and the
window, and the clock fell with a
crash, and there were handfuls of
Mr. Tod's sandy whiskers.
The vases fell off the mantelpiece,
the cannisters fell off the
shelf; the kettle fell off the hob.
Tommy Brock put his foot in a jar
of raspberry jam.
And the boiling water out of the
kettle fell upon the tail of Mr. Tod.
When the kettle fell, Tommy
Brock, who was still grinning,
happened to be uppermost; and he
rolled Mr. Tod over and over like a
log, out at the door.
Then the snarling and worrying
went on outside; and they rolled
over the bank, and down hill,
bumping over the rocks. There will
never be any love lost between
Tommy Brock and Mr. Tod.
As soon as the coast was clear,
Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny
came out of the bushes.
"Now for it! Run in, Cousin
Benjamin! Run in and get them! while
I watch the door."
But Benjamin was frightened—
"Oh; oh! they are coming back!"
"No they are not."
"Yes they are!"
"What dreadful bad language! I
think they have fallen down the
stone quarry."
Still Benjamin hesitated, and
Peter kept pushing him—
"Be quick, it's all right. Shut the
oven door, Cousin Benjamin, so
that he won't miss them."
Decidedly there were lively
doings in Mr. Tod's kitchen!
At home in the rabbit hole,
things had not been quite comfortable.
After quarreling at supper,
Flopsy and old Mr. Bouncer had
passed a sleepless night, and
quarrelled again at breakfast. Old Mr.
Bouncer could no longer deny that
he had invited company into the
rabbit hole; but he refused to reply
to the questions and reproaches of
Flopsy. The day passed heavily.
Old Mr. Bouncer, very sulky, was
huddled up in a corner, barricaded
with a chair. Flopsy had taken
away his pipe and hidden the tobacco.
She had been having a complete
turn out and spring cleaning,
to relieve her feelings. She had just
finished. Old Mr. Bouncer, behind
his chair, was wondering anxiously
what she would do next.
In Mr. Tod's kitchen, amidst the
wreckage, Benjamin Bunny picked
his way to the oven nervously,
through a thick cloud of dust. He
opened the oven door, felt inside,
and found something warm and
wriggling. He lifted it out carefully,
and rejoined Peter Rabbit.
"I've got them! Can we get away?
Shall we hide, Cousin Peter?"
Peter pricked his ears; distant
sounds of fighting still echoed in
the wood.
Five minutes afterwards two
breathless rabbits came scuttering
away down Bull Banks, half carrying,
half dragging a sack between
them, bumpetty bump over the
grass. They reached home safely,
and burst into the rabbit hole.
Great was old Mr. Bouncer's relief
and Flopsy's joy when Peter and
Benjamin arrived in triumph with
the young family. The rabbit babies
were rather tumbled and very hungry;
they were fed and put to bed.
They soon recovered.
A new long pipe and a fresh supply
of rabbit tobacco was presented
to Mr. Bouncer. He was rather
upon his dignity; but he accepted.
Old Mr. Bouncer was forgiven,
and they all had dinner. Then Peter
and Benjamin told their story—but
they had not waited long enough to
be able to tell the end of the battle
between Tommy Brock and Mr.
Tod.
THE TALE OF PIGLING BLAND
[For Cicily and Charlie,
a Tale of the Christmas Pig]
Once upon a time there was an
old pig called Aunt Pettitoes. She
had eight of a family: four little girl
pigs, called Cross-patch, Suck-suck,
Yock-yock and Spot; and four little
boy pigs, called Alexander, Pigling
Bland, Chin-Chin and Stumpy.
Stumpy had had an accident to his
tail.
The eight little pigs had very fine
appetites—"Yus, yus, yus! they eat
and indeed they DO eat!" said Aunt
Pettitoes, looking at her family
with pride. Suddenly there were
fearful squeals; Alexander had
squeezed inside the hoops of the
pig trough and stuck.
Aunt Pettitoes and I dragged him
out by the hind legs.
Chin-chin was already in disgrace;
it was washing day, and he
had eaten a piece of soap. And
presently in a basket of clean
clothes, we found another dirty
little pig—"Tchut, tut, tut! whichever
is this?" grunted Aunt Pettitoes.
Now all the pig family are pink, or
pink with black spots, but this pig
child was smutty black all over;
when it had been popped into a
tub, it proved to be Yock-yock.
I went into the garden; there I
found Cross-patch and Suck-suck
rooting up carrots. I whipped them
myself and led them out by the
ears. Cross-patch tried to bite me.
"Aunt Pettitoes, Aunt Pettitoes!
you are a worthy person, but your
family is not well brought up.
Every one of them has been in
mischief except Spot and Pigling
Bland."
"Yus, yus!" sighed Aunt Pettitoes.
"And they drink bucketfuls of milk;
I shall have to get another cow!
Good little Spot shall stay at home
to do the housework; but the others
must go. Four little boy pigs and
four little girl pigs are too many
altogether." "Yus, yus, yus," said
Aunt Pettitoes, "there will be more
to eat without them."
So Chin-chin and Suck-suck went
away in a wheel-barrow, and
Stumpy, Yock-yock and Cross-
patch rode away in a cart.
And the other two little boy pigs,
Pigling Bland and Alexander went
to market. We brushed their coats,
we curled their tails and washed
their little faces, and wished them
good bye in the yard.
Aunt Pettitoes wiped her eyes
with a large pocket handkerchief,
then she wiped Pigling Bland's nose
and shed tears; then she wiped
Alexander's nose and shed tears;
then she passed the handkerchief to
Spot. Aunt Pettitoes sighed and
grunted, and addressed those little
pigs as follows—
"Now Pigling Bland, son Pigling
Bland, you must go to market. Take
your brother Alexander by the
hand. Mind your Sunday clothes,
and remember to blow your nose"
—(Aunt Pettitoes passed round the
handkerchief again)—"beware of
traps, hen roosts, bacon and eggs;
always walk upon your hind legs."
Pigling Bland who was a sedate
little pig, looked solemnly at his
mother, a tear trickled down his
cheek.
Aunt Pettitoes turned to the
other—"Now son Alexander take
the hand"—"Wee, wee, wee!"
giggled Alexander—"take the hand of
your brother Pigling Bland, you
must go to market. Mind—" "Wee,
wee, wee!" interrupted Alexander
again. "You put me out," said Aunt
Pettitoes—"Observe signposts and
milestones; do not gobble herring
bones—" "And remember," said I
impressively, "if you once cross the
county boundary you cannot come
back. Alexander, you are not
attending. Here are two licenses
permitting two pigs to go to market in
Lancashire. Attend Alexander. I
have had no end of trouble in getting
these papers from the policeman."
Pigling Bland listened
gravely; Alexander was hopelessly
volatile.
I pinned the papers, for safety,
inside their waistcoat pockets;
Aunt Pettitoes gave to each a little
bundle, and eight conversation
peppermints with appropriate
moral sentiments in screws of
paper. Then they started.
Pigling Bland and Alexander
trotted along steadily for a mile; at
least Pigling Bland did. Alexander
made the road half as long again
by skipping from side to side. He
danced about and pinched his
brother, singing—
"This pig went to market, this pig stayed
at home,
"This pig had a bit of meat—
let's see what they have given US for
dinner, Pigling?"
Pigling Bland and Alexander sat
down and untied their bundles.
Alexander gobbled up his dinner in
no time; he had already eaten all
his own peppermints—"Give me
one of yours, please, Pigling?" "But
I wish to preserve them for
emergencies," said Pigling Bland
doubtfully. Alexander went into squeals
of laughter. Then he pricked Pigling
with the pin that had fastened
his pig paper; and when Pigling
slapped him he dropped the pin,
and tried to take Pigling's pin, and
the papers got mixed up. Pigling
Bland reproved Alexander.
But presently they made it up
again, and trotted away together,
singing—
"Tom, Tom the piper's son, stole a pig
and away he ran!
"But all the tune that he could play, was
`Over the hills and far away!'"