 CHAPTER XIII. THE ROLY POLY PUTTING IN REMEMBERANCE OF SAMMY, THE INTELLIGENT PINK-EYED REPRESENTATIVE, OF A PERSECUTED, BUT IRREPRESSIBLE RACE, AN AFECTIONATE LITTLE FRIEND, AND A MOST ACCOMPLISHED THIEF. Once upon a time there was an old cat called Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit, who was an anxious parent. She used to lose her kittens continually, and whenever they were lost they were always in mischief. On baking day she determined to shut them up in a cupboard. She caught moppet and mittens, but she could not find Tom. Mrs. Tabitha went up and down all over the house, mewing for Tom Kitten. She looked in the pantry under the staircase, and she searched in the best spare bedroom that was all covered up with dust sheets. She went right upstairs and looked into the attics, but she could not find him anywhere. It was an old, old house, full of cupboards and passages. Some of the walls were four feet thick, and there used to be queer noises inside them, as if there might be a little secret staircase. Certainly there were odd little jagged doorways in the wanescut, and things disappeared at night, especially cheese and bacon. Mrs. Tabitha became more and more distracted and mewed dreadfully. While their mother was searching the house, moppet and mittens had got into mischief. The cupboard door was not locked, so they pushed it open and came out. They went straight to the door, which was set to rise in a pan before the fire. They patted it with their soft little paws. Shall we make dear little muffins, said mittens, to moppet? But just at that moment somebody knocked at the front door, and moppet jumped into the flower barrel in a fright. Mittens ran away to the dairy and hid in an empty jar on the stone shelf where the milk pans stand. The visitor was a neighbor. Mrs. Ribby, she had called to borrow some yeast. Mrs. Tabitha came downstairs, mewing dreadfully. Come in, cousin Ribby, come in and sit ye down. I'm in a sad state, cousin Ribby, said Tabitha, shedding tears. I've lost my dear son, Thomas. I'm afraid the rats have got him. She wiped her eyes with her apron. He's a bad kitten, cousin Tabitha. He's made a cat's cradle of my best bonnet last time I came to tea. Where have you looked for him? All over the house, the rats are too many for me. What a thing it is to have an unruly family, said Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit. I'm not afraid of rats. I'll help you find him, and I'll whip him, too. What's all that soot in the fender? The chimney wants sweeping. Oh, dear me, cousin Ribby, now Moppet and Mittens are gone. They have both got out of the cupboard. Ribby and Tabitha set to work to search the house thoroughly again. They poked under the beds with Ribby's umbrella, and they rummaged in the cupboards. They even fetched a candle and looked inside a closed chest in one of the attics. They could not find anything. But once they heard a door bang, and somebody scuttered downstairs. Yes, it isn't fasted with rats, said Tabitha Turfily. I caught seven young ones out of one hole in the back kitchen, and we had them for dinner last Saturday. And once I saw the old father rat, an enormous old rat, cousin Ribby, I was just going to jump upon him when he showed his yellow teeth at me and whisked down the hole. The rats get upon my nerves, cousin Ribby, said Tabitha. Ribby and Tabitha searched and searched. They both heard a curious, roly-poly noise under the attic floor. But there was nothing to be seen. They returned to the kitchen. Here's one of your kittens at least, said Ribby, dragging Moppet out of the flower barrel. They shook the flower off her and set her down on the kitchen floor. She seemed to be in a terrible fright. Oh, mother, mother! said Moppet. There's been an old woman rat in the kitchen, and she's stolen some of the dough. The two cats ran to look at the dough pan. Sure enough, there were marks of little scratching fingers, and a lump of dough was gone. Which way did she go, Moppet? But Moppet had been too much frightened to peep out of the barrel again. Ribby and Tabitha took her with them to keep her safely in sight while they went on their search. They went into the dairy. The first thing they found was mittens, hiding in an empty jar. They tipped over the jar, and she scrambled out. Oh, mother, mother! said Mittens. Oh, mother, mother! There has been an old man rat in the dairy, a dreadful, enormous big rat mother, and he's stolen a pad of butter and the rolling pin. Ribby and Tabitha looked at one another. A rolling pin and butter? Oh, my poor son, exclaimed Tabitha, ringing her paws. A rolling pin, said Ribby. Did we not hear a rolly-poly noise in the attic when we were looking into that chest? Ribby and Tabitha rushed upstairs again. Sure enough, the rolly-poly noise was still going on, quite distinctly, under the attic floor. This is Sirius Cousin Tabitha, said Ribby. We must send for John Joyner at once, with a saw. Now this is what had been happening to Tom Kitten, and it shows how very unwise it is to go up a chimney in a very old house, where a person does not know his way, and where there are enormous rats. Tom Kitten did not want to be shut up in a cupboard. When he saw that his mother was going to bake, he determined to hide. He looked about for a nice convenient place, and he fixed upon the chimney. The fire had only just been lighted, and it was not hot. But there was a little white, choky smoke from the green sticks. Tom Kitten got upon the fender and looked up. It was a big, old-fashioned fireplace. The chimney itself was wide enough inside for a man to stand up and walk about. So there was plenty of room for a little Tom cat. He jumped right up onto the fireplace, balancing himself upon the iron bar where the kettle hangs. Tom Kitten took another big jump, off the bar and landed on a ledge high up inside the chimney, knocking down some soot into the fender. Tom Kitten coughed and choked with the smoke. He could hear the sticks beginning to crackle and burn in the fireplace down below. He made up his mind to climb right to the top and get out on the slates and try to catch sparrows. I cannot go back. If I slipped, I might fall in the fire and singe my beautiful tail in my little blue jacket. The chimney was a very big, old-fashioned one. It was built in the days when people burnt logs of wood upon the hearth. The chimney stack stood up above the roof like a little stone tower and the daylight shone down from the top under the slanting slates that kept out the rain. Tom Kitten was getting very frightened. He climbed up and up and up. Then he waited sideways through inches of soot. He was like a little sweep himself. It was most confusing in the dark. One flew seemed to lead into another. There was less smoke, but Tom Kitten felt quite lost. He scrambled up and up, but before he reached the chimney-top he came to a place where somebody had loosened a stone in the wall. There were some mutton bones lying about. This seems funny, said Tom Kitten. Who has been gnawing bones up here in the chimney? I wish I had never come. And what a funny smell! It is something like mouse, only dreadfully strong. It makes me sneeze, said Tom Kitten. He sneezed through the hole in the wall and dragged himself along a most uncomfortably tight passage where there was scarcely any light. He groped his way carefully for several yards and he was at the back of the skirting board in the attic where there was a little mark, ostrisk, in the picture. All at once he fell head over heels in the dark, down a hole and landed on a heap of very dirty rags. When Tom Kitten picked himself up and looked about him, he found himself in a place that he had never seen before, although he had lived all his life in the house. It was a very small, stuffy, fusty room with boards and rafters and cobwebs and lath and plaster. Opposite to him, as far away as he could sit, was an enormous rat. What do you mean by tumbling into my bed all covered with smuts? said the rat, chattering his teeth. Please, sir, the chimney once sweeping, said poor Tom Kitten. Anna Maria, Anna Maria, squeaked the rat. There was a pattering noise and an old woman rat poked her head round a rafter. All in a minute she rushed upon Tom Kitten and before he knew what was happening, his coat was pulled off and he was rolled up in a bundle and tied with string in very hard knots. Anna Maria did the tying. The old rat watched her and took snuff. When she had finished, they both sat staring at him with their mouths open. Anna Maria, said the old man rat, whose name was Samuel Whiskers, Anna Maria, make me a kitten dumpling, roly-poly pudding for my dinner. It requires dough and a pad of butter and a rolling pin, said Anna Maria, considering Tom Kitten with her head to one side. No, said Samuel Whiskers, make it properly, Anna Maria, with breadcrumbs. Nonsense, butter and dough, replied Anna Maria. The two rats consulted together for a few minutes and then ran away. Samuel Whiskers got through a hole in the wanesket and went boldly down the front staircase to the dairy to get the butter. He did not meet anybody. He made a second journey for the rolling pin. He pushed it in front of him with his paws, like a brewer's man trundling a barrel. He could hear Ribby and Tabitha talking, but they were too busy lighting the candle to look in the chest. They did not see him. Anna Maria went down by way of skirting board and a window shutter to the kitchen to steal the dough. She borrowed a small saucer and scooped up the dough with her paws. She did not observe Moppet. While Tom Kitten was left alone under the floor of the attic, he wriggled about and tried to mew for help. But his mouth was full of soot and cobwebs, and he was tied up in such very tight knots. He could not make anybody hear him, except a spider who came out of a crack in the ceiling and examined the knots critically from a safe distance. It was a judge of knots, because it had a habit of tying up unfortunate blue bottles. It did not offer to assist him. Tom Kitten wriggled and squirmed until he was quite exhausted. Presently the rats came back and set to work to make him into a dumpling. First they smeared him with butter, and then they rolled him in the dough. Will not the string be very indigestible, Anna Maria inquired Samuel Whiskers. Anna Maria said she thought that it was of no consequence, but she wished that Tom Kitten would hold his head still, as it disarranged the pastry. She laid a hold of his ears. Tom Kitten bit and spit, and mewed and wriggled, and the rolling pin went rolly-poly-rolly, rolly-poly-rolly. The rats each held an end. His tail is sticking out. You did not fetch enough dough, Anna Maria. I fetched as much as I could carry, replied Anna Maria. I do not think, said Samuel Whiskers, pausing to take a good look at Tom Kitten. I do not think it will be a good pudding. It smells sooty. Anna Maria was about to argue the point when all at once there began to be other sounds up above. The rasping noise of a saw, and the noise of a little dog, scratching and yelping. The rats dropped the rolling pin and listened attentively. We are discovered and interrupted, Anna Maria. Let us collect our property and other peoples, and depart at once. I fear that we shall be obliged to leave this pudding, but I am persuaded that the rats would have proved indigestible, whatever you may urge to the contrary. Come away at once and help me tie up some mutton bones in a counterpane, said Anna Maria. I have got half a smoked ham hidden in the chimney. So it happened that by the time John Joyner had got the plank up, there was nobody here under the floor except the rolling pin and Tom Kitten in a very dirty dumpling. But there was a strong smell of rats. And John Joyner spent the rest of the morning sniffing and whining and wagging his tail and going round and round with his head in the hole like a gimlet. Then he nailed the plank down again and put his tools in his bag and came downstairs. The cat family had quite recovered. They invited him to stay to dinner. The dumpling had been peeled off Tom Kitten and made separately into a bag pudding with currents in it to hide the smuts. They had been obliged to put Tom Kitten into a hot bath to get the butter off. John Joyner smelt the pudding. But he regretted that he had not time to stay to dinner because he had just finished making a wheelbarrow for Miss Potter and she had ordered two hencoops. And when I was going to the post late in the afternoon I looked up the land from the corner and I saw Mr. Samuel Whiskers and his wife on the run with big bundles on a little wheelbarrow which looked very much like mine. They were just turning in at the gate to the barn of farmer potatoes. Samuel Whiskers was puffing and out of breath. Anna Maria was still arguing in shrill tones. She seemed to know her way and she seemed to have a quantity of luggage. I am sure I never gave her leave to borrow my wheelbarrow. They went into the barn and hauled their parcels with a bit of string to the top of the haymow. After that there were no more rats for a long time at Tabitha Twitchetts. As for farmer potatoes he has been driven nearly distracted. There are rats and rats and rats in his barn. They eat up the chicken food and steal the oats and bran and make holes in the meal bags and they are all descended from Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Whiskers. Children and grandchildren and great great grandchildren. There is no end to them. Loppet and Mittens have grown up into very good rat catchers. They go out rat catching in the village and they find plenty of employment. They charge so much a dozen and earn their living very comfortably. They hang up the rat's tails in a row on the barn door to show how many they have caught. Dozens and dozens of them. But Tom Kitten has always been afraid of a rat. He never durst face anything that is bigger than a mouse. End of Chapter 13 Recording by Jenny Lundack South Padre Island, Texas Recorded in May 2009 Chapter 14 of The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jenny Lundack The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter by Beatrix Potter Chapter 14 The Tale of the Flopsy Bunnies For all the little friends of Mr. McGregor and Peter and Benjamin, it is said that the effect of eating too much lettuce is soporific. I have never felt sleepy after eating lettuces, but then I am not a rabbit. They certainly had a very soporific effect on the Flopsy Bunnies. When Benjamin Bunny grew up, he married his cousin Flopsy. They had a large family and they were very improvident and cheerful. I do not remember the separate names of their children. They were generally called the Flopsy Bunnies. As there was not always quite enough to eat, Benjamin used to borrow cabbages from Flopsy's brother Peter Rabbit, who kept a nursery garden. Sometimes Peter Rabbit had no cabbages to spare. When this happened, the Flopsy Bunnies went across the field to a rubbish heap in the ditch outside Mr. McGregor's garden. Mr. McGregor's rubbish heap was a mixture. There were jam pots and paper bags and mountains of chopped grass from the mowing machine, which always tasted oily, and some rotten vegetable marrows, and an old boot or two. One day, oh joy, there were a quantity of overgrown lettuces, which had shot into flour. The Flopsy Bunnies simply stuffed themselves with lettuces. By degrees, one after another, they were overcome with slumber and laid down in the mown grass. Benjamin was not so much overcome as his children, before going to sleep. He was sufficiently wide awake to put a paper bag over his head to keep off the flies. The little Flopsy Bunnies slept delightfully in the warm sun. From the lawn beyond the garden came the distant clackety sound of the mowing machine, the blue bottles buzzed about the wall, and a little old mouse picked over the rubbish among the jam pots. I can tell you her name. She was Tomasina Tittlemouse, a wood mouse with a long tail. She rustled across the paper bag and awakened Benjamin Bunny. The mouse apologized profusely and said that she knew Peter Rabbit. While she and Benjamin were talking close under the wall, they heard the heavy tread above their heads. And suddenly Mr. McGregor emptied out a sackful of lawnmowings right on top of the sleeping Flopsy Bunnies. Benjamin shrank down under his paper bag. The mouse hid in a jam pot. The little rabbits smiled sweetly in their sleep under the shower of grass. They did not awake because the lettuces had been so soporific. They dreamt that their mother Flopsy was tucking them up in a hay bed. Mr. McGregor looked down after emptying his sack. He saw some funny little brown tips of ears sticking up through the lawnmowings. He stared at them for some time. Presently, a fly settled on one of them and it moved. Mr. McGregor climbed down on the rubbish heap. One, two, three, four, five, six little rabbits said he as he dropped them into his sack. The Flopsy Bunnies dreamt that their mother was turning them over in bed. They stirred a little in their sleep. But still they did not wake up. Mr. McGregor tied up the sack and left it on the wall. He went to put away the mowing machine. While he was gone, Mrs. Flopsy Bunny, who had remained at home, came across the field. She looked suspiciously at the sack and wondered where everybody was. Then the mouse came out of her jam pot and Benjamin took the paper bag off of his head and they told the doleful tale. Benjamin and Flopsy were in despair. They could not undo the string. But Mrs. Tiddlemouse was a resourceful person. She nibbled a hole in the bottom corner of the sack. The little rabbits were pulled out and pinched to wake them. Their parents stuffed the empty bag with three rotten vegetable mirrors, an old blacking brush, and two decayed turnips. Then they all hid under a bush and watched for Mr. McGregor. Mr. McGregor came back and picked up the sack and carried it off. He carried it hanging down as if it were rather heavy. The Flopsy Bunnies followed at a safe distance. They watched him go into his house. And then they crept up to the window to listen. Mr. McGregor threw down the sack on the stone floor in a way that would have been extremely painful to the Flopsy Bunnies if they had happened to have been inside it. They could hear him drag his chair on the flags and chuckle. One, two, three, four, five, six little rabbits said Mr. McGregor. A. What's that? What? Have they been spoiling now? Enquired Mrs. McGregor. One, two, three, four, five, six little fat rabbits. Repeated Mr. McGregor counting on his fingers. One, two, three. Don't you be silly. What do you mean, you silly old man? In the sack. One, two, three, four, five, six. Repeated Mr. McGregor. The youngest Flopsy Bunny got upon the window sill. Mrs. McGregor took hold of the sack and felt it. She said she could feel six, but they must be old rabbits. Because they were so hard and all different shapes. Not fit to eat, but the skins will do fine to line my old cloak. Line your old cloak, shouted Mr. McGregor. I shall sell them and buy myself backie. Rabbit tobacco. I shall skin them and cut off their heads. Mrs. McGregor untied the sack and put her hand inside. When she felt the vegetables, she became 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 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. End of Chapter 14. Recording by Jenny Lundack, South Padre Island, Texas. Recorded May 2009. Chapter 15 of The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jenny Lundack, The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter, by Beatrix Potter. Chapter 15. The Tale of Mrs. Tittlemouse. Nelly's Little Book. Once upon a time there was a wood mouse, 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 storerooms of nut sellers and seed sellers, all amongst the roots of the hedge. There was a kitchen, a parlor, a pantry, and a larder. Also there was Mrs. Tittlemouse'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. Shasha, 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 into shelter from the rain. Big pardon. This is 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 cherry stones and thistle down seed for dinner. All along the passage she sniffed and looked at the door. I smell a smell of honey. Is it the cow's lips outside in the hedge? I'm sure I can see marks of little dirty feet. Suddenly, round the corner she met Babbity Bumble. Said the Bumble Bee. Mrs. Tittlemouse looked at her severely. She wished that she had a broom. Good day, Babbity Bumble. I should be glad to buy some beeswax. But what are you doing down here? Why do you always come in at a window and say, Zizz, biz, biz? Mrs. Tittlemouse began to get cross. Zizz, biz, biz? Replied Babbity 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'm not in the habit of letting lodgings. This is an intrusion, said Mrs. Tittlemouse. I'll have them turned out. Bzz, bzz, bzz! I wonder who would help me. Bzz, bzz, bzz! I'll not have Mr. Jackson. He never wipes his feet. Mrs. Tittlemouse decided to leave the bees until after dinner. When she got back to the parlor, she heard someone 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. A very dirty, wet ditch. How do you do, Mr. Jackson? Dearing me, you have got very wet. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mrs. Tittlemouse. I'll sit a while and dry myself, said Mr. Jackson. He sat and smiled and the water dripped off his coattails. 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 some 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 mouth. She offered him thistle-down seed. A tiddly, widdly, widdly, poof, poof, poof, 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'm 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 a plate rack. Two of them got away, but the littlest one he caught. Then he squeezed into the larder. Mrs. 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 Tiddlemouse. They went along the sandy passage. Tiddly, widdly, buzz, whizz, whizz. He met Babity round a corner and snapped her up and put her down again. I do not like bumblebees. They are all over bristles. Said Mr. Jackson, wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve. Get out! You mist! Shrieked, Babity bumble. I shall go distracted. Scalded Mrs. Tittlemouse. She shut herself up in the nut cellar. While Mr. Jackson pulled out the bee's 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 thistle down, and marks of big and little dirty feet. All over my nice clean house. She gathered up the moss and the remains of the bee's 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 fortnight. She swept and scrubbed and dusted, and she rubbed up the furniture with beeswax 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 cup bowls of a honeydew through the window. And he was not at all offended. He sat outside in the sun and said, Tiddly, widdly, widdly, to your very good health, Mrs. Tittlemouse. End of Chapter 15 The Tale of Mrs. Tittlemouse Recording by Jenny Lundack, South Padre Island, Texas. Recorded in May 2009. Chapter 16 of The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jenny Lundack. The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter by Beatrix Potter. Chapter 16 The Tale of Timmy Tiptoes For many unknown little friends, including Monica. Once upon a time, there was a little, fat, comfortable gray 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. Tommy Tiptoes sat out enjoying the breeze. He whisked his tail and chuckled. Little good 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 the springtime. Replied prudent Timothy. When Timmy and Goody Tiptoes came out 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 up 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 in a tree that had belonged to a woodpecker. The nuts rattled down, down, down inside. How shall we ever get them out again? It is like a money box, said Goody. I shall be much thinner before springtime, my love, said Tommy 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 been digging up my nuts? Who's been digging up my nuts? And another one sang. Little bit of bread and no cheese. Little bit of bread and no cheese. The squirrels followed and listened. The first little bird flew into a bush where Timmy and Goody Tiptoes were quietly tying up their bags. And it sang. Who's been 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 Tommy 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. Tommy 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 a 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. Goodie Tiptoes picked up the nut bags and went home. She made a cup of tea for Timmy, but he didn't come. And he didn't come. Goodie 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 Tiptoes, 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. So it seemed to be underground. Timmy coughed and groaned because his ribs hurt. There was a chirpy noise and a small striped chipmunk appeared with a nightlight, and hoped he felt better. It was most kind to Timmy Tiptoes. It lent him his nightcap, and the house was full of provisions. The chipmunk explained that it had rain 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? 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 the next time Goody brought another bagful, a little striped chipmunk scrambled out in a hurry. It's getting perfectly full downstairs. The sitting room is full, and they are rolling along the passage. And my husband chippy-hacking 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-hacking? My husband, Timmy Tiptoes, has run away too. I know where chippy is. A little bird told me, said Mrs. Chippy-hacking. She led the way to the woodpecker's tree, and they listened at the hole. Down below there was the noise of nutcrackers, and a fat squirrel voice, and a thin squirrel voice. We're 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— 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 diddle-dumb day, day, diddle-dum-dee, day, diddle, diddle-dumb day. Then Goody peeped in at the hole and called down. Timmy Tiptoes? Oh, fine, Timmy Tiptoes. And Timmy replied, Is that you, Goody Tiptoes? Why, certainly. And he came up and kissed Goody through the hole, but he was so fat that he could not get out. Chippy Hackey was not too fat, but he did not want to come. He stayed down below and chuckled, and so it went on for a fortnight, 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 Hackey continued to camp out for another week, although it was uncomfortable. At last a large bear came walking through the woods. Perhaps he also was looking for nuts. He seemed to be sniffing around. Chippy Hackey went home in a hurry, and when Chippy Hackey 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 padlock, and whenever that little bird sees the chipmunks, he sings, Who's been digging up my, digging up my nuts? But nobody ever answers. End of Chapter 16 Recording by Jenny Lundack, South Padre Island, Texas. Recorded in May 2009. Chapter 17 of The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jenny Lundack, The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter by Beatrix Potter. Chapter 17 The Tale of Mr. Todd For William Francis of Olva, Someday I have made many books about well-behaved people. Now, for a change, I'm going to make a story about two disagreeable people called Tommy Brock and Mr. Todd. Nobody could call Mr. Todd 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 coppers' grove, causing terror to the family of old Mr. Benjamin Bouncer. The next day he moved into a pollard willow near the lake, frightening the wild ducks and the water rats. In the 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 a half a dozen houses, but he was seldom at home. The houses were not always empty when Mr. Todd 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. Todd'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. Todd, and 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 pheasant's eggs, and accused Mr. Todd 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 fortnight. 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 co-slip 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 sat off at once after Tommy Brock. There was not much difficulty in tracking him. He had left his footmark 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 Darnell, and he 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. Todd's stick house was before him, and for once Mr. Todd 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 ravlings of a sack had caught on a briar. Benjamin climbed over the wall into the 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 a John Stoat ferret? No, no, no. He's back 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. Todd was at home in the stick house, he has gone to Mr. Todd's other house at the top of bull banks. I partly know because he offered to leave any message at Sister Cotton Tales. He said he would be passing. Cotton Tale 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 a Twitter. 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. Halfway up, Cotton Tale was sitting in her doorway, with four or five half-grown little rabbits playing about her. One black and the other's brown. Cotton Tale 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 to be doubled up with laughing. Come away, Peter. He'll 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 lived to 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. Todd 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 a light. 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, a 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 overgrown 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! Side 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 window sill. 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. Todd's bed, curled up under the blanket. He has gone to bed, in his boots, whispered Peter. Benjamin, who was all of a Twitter, pulled Peter off the window sill. Tommy Brock's snores continued grunty and regular from Mr. Todd'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 chicken's 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 that same moment, Peter and Benjamin noticed that whenever they shook the window, the little door opposite shook an answer. The young family were alive. Shut up in the oven! Benjamin was so excited that it was a mercy he did not wake Tommy Brock, whose snores continued solemnly in Mr. Todd'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 a count 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 top of the hill. In the valley there was a sea of white mists, 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. Todd's kitchen floor. Mr. Todd 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 Todd. 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. Todd 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. Todd 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. Todd slapped his stick upon the earth and fumed. He guessed where Tommy Brock had gone to. He was further annoyed by the J-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. Todd 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. Todd had his doubts whether it was empty. He turned the rusty key in the lock. The rabbits below could hear it. Mr. Todd opened the door cautiously and went in. The sight that met Mr. Todd's eyes in Mr. Todd's kitchen made Mr. Todd furious. There was Mr. Todd's chair and Mr. Todd'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. Todd'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-caller stood on end with rage. For the next twenty minutes, Mr. Todd kept creeping cautiously into the house and retreating hurriedly out again. By degrees he ventured further in, right into the bedroom. When he was outside the house, he scratched up the earth with a 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. Todd 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 seemed to be even sounder asleep. He was an incurably indolent person. He was not in the least afraid of Mr. Todd. He was simply too lazy and comfortable to move. Mr. Todd came back yet again into the bedroom with a clothesline. He stood a minute watching Tommy Brock and listened attentively to the snores. They were very loud indeed, but seemed quite natural. Mr. Todd turned his back towards the door 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. Todd'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 clothesline onto the windowsill. The rest of the line, with a hook at the end, remained in his hand. Tommy Brock snored conscientiously. Mr. Todd 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. Todd 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 on 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. Todd fetched a large heavy pail full of water from the spring and staggered with it through the kitchen to his bedroom. Tommy Brock snored industriously, with rather a snort. Schhh! Mr. Todd put down the pail beside the bed, took up the end of the rope with the hook, hesitated, and looked at Tommy Brock. The snores were almost apoplectic, but the grin was not quite so big. Mr. Todd 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 the rope, with the hook, over the head of the tester bed where the curtains ought to hang. Mr. Todd'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. Todd, 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. Todd 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. Todd and the pail descended from the chair without incident. 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. Todd got up and down, down and up, on the chair. As he could not lift the whole pail full 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. Todd'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. Todd. Mr. Todd took a last look at the badger and softly left the room. He went out of the house, shutting the 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 pail full of water upon Tommy Brock. I will wake him up with an unpleasant surprise, said Mr. Todd. The moment he had gone, Tommy Brock got up in a hurry. He rolled Mr. Todd'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. Todd got to the tree, he found that the weight and strain had dragged the knot so tight that it was passed untieing. He was obliged to knot with his teeth. He chewed and nod 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. Todd 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. Todd 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. Todd. 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 sulfur. 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. Todd's kitchen table pouring out tea from Mr. Todd's teapot into Mr. Todd's tea cup. He was quite dry himself and grinning and he threw the cup of scalding tea all over Mr. Todd. Then Mr. Todd rushed upon Tommy Brock and Tommy Brock grappled with Mr. Todd 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 a falling furniture. They crept out of the 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 that 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. Todd's sandy whiskers. The vases fell off the mantelpiece. The canisters fell off the shelf and the kettle fell off the hob. Mr. 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. Todd. When the kettle fell Tommy Brock, who was still grinning, happened to be uppermost and he rolled Mr. Todd 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 the hill bumping over the rocks. There will never be any love lost between Tommy Brock and Mr. Todd. 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 he won't miss them. Decidedly there were lively doings in Mr. Todd'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 quarreled 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 his pipe and hidden the tobacco. She had been having a complete turnout 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. Todd'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 wiggling. 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, bumpity 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. Todd. End of Chapter 17 The Tale of Mr. Todd Recording by Jenny Lundack South Padre Island, Texas Recorded in May 2009 Chapter 18 of The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Jenny Lundack With Mason and Jefferson Montoya The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter By Beatrix Potter Chapter 18 The Tale of Pigling Bland For Sicily and Charlie, a tale of the Christmas Pig Once upon a time there was an old pig called Aunt Petito's. She had eight of a family. Four little girl pigs called Cross Patch, Suck Suck, Yuck Yuck, 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. Yes, yes, yes, indeed they— Said Aunt Petito's, looking at her family with pride. Suddenly there were fearful squeals. Alexander had squeezed inside the hoops of the pick trough and stuck. Aunt Petito's 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. What error is this? Grunted Aunt Petito's. Now, all the 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 Yuck Yuck. 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 Petito's and Petito's. You are a worthy person, but your family is not well brought up. Every one of them has been in mischief except spot and piggling bland. Yes, yes, Said Aunt Petito's. And they drink bucketfuls of milk. I shall have to get another cow. Good little smut shall stay at home to do the housework. But the others must go. Said Aunt Petito's. Without them. So Chin Chin and Suck Suck went away in a wheelbarrow. And Stumpy, Yuck Yuck and Cross Patch rode away in a cart. And the other two little boy pigs, Piggling 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 Petito's wiped her eyes with a large pocket handkerchief. Then she wiped, piggling Bland's nose and shed tears. Then she wiped Alexander's nose and shed tears. Then she passed the handkerchief to Spot. Aunt Petito's sighed and grunted and addressed those little pigs as follows. Now, piggling Bland. Son, piggling Bland must go to market. Take your brother Alexander by the hand. Your Sunday clothes. To blow your nose. Aunt Petito's passed round the handkerchief again. Beware of Trash. Bacon and his wack of paw. Piggling Bland, who was a sedate little pig, looked solemnly at his mother. A tear trickled down his cheek. Aunt Petito's turned to the other. Now, son, Alexander, take the hand. Giggled Alexander. Take him to market. Interrupted Alexander again. You put, said Aunt Petito's, observes and milestones. Do not gobble. And remember, said I impressively, if you once crossed the county boundary, you cannot come back. Alexander, you are not attending. Here are two licenses permitting two pigs to go to market in Lancaster. Attend, Alexander. I have had no end of trouble in getting these papers from the policemen. Piggling Bland listened gravely. Alexander was hopelessly volatile. I pinned the papers for safety inside their waistcoat pockets. And Petito's gave to each a little bundle, and eight conversation peppermints with appropriate moral sentiments in screws of paper. Then they started. Piggling Bland and Alexander trotted along steadily for a mile. At least Piggling 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 little pig went to market. This little pig stayed home. This little pig had a bit of meat. Let's see what they've given us for dinner, Piggling. Piggling Bland and Alexander sat down and untied their bundles. Alexander gobbled up his dinner in no time. He had already eaten all his peppermints. Can anyone of yours please, Piggling? But I wish to preserve them for emergencies, said Piggling Bland doubtfully. Alexander went into squeals of laughter. Then he pricked Piggling with the pin that had fastened his pig paper. And when Piggling slapped him, he dropped the pin and tried to take Piggling's pin. And the papers got mixed up. Piggling Bland reproved Alexander. But presently they made it up again and trotted away together singing. What's that young sirs? Stole a pig? Where are your licenses? said the policeman. They had nearly run against him round a corner. Piggling Bland pulled out his paper. Alexander, after fumbling, handed over something scrumply. To two one half ounce conversation sweeties at three far things. 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'll let you start without. I am passing the farm. You may walk with me. Could I come back, too? inquired Piggling Bland. I see no reason, young sir. Your paper is all right. Piggling Bland did not like going on alone. And it was beginning to rain. But it was 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. Piggling Bland went on alone dejectedly. He came to cross roads and a signpost to Marketown, five miles over the hills, four miles to Pettito's farm, three miles. Piggling Bland was shocked. There was little hope of sleeping in Marketown. 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 toward the hills and then set off walking immediately the other way, butting 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 Piggling 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, Piggling 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. Piggling Bland became frightened and cried, 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 Piggling 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 henhouse. But what can I do? said Piggling Bland, wet and cold and quite tired out. Bacon and eggs! Bacon and eggs! cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cluck cl crime. He and the hens fell asleep. In less than an hour they were all awakened. The owner, Mr. Peter Thomas Piperson, came with a lantern and a hamper to catch six fowls to take to market in the morning. He grabbed the white hen roosting next to the cock. Then his eye fell upon piggling bland. Squeezed up in a corner. He made a singular remark. Hello, here's another. Squeezed piggling by the scruff of the neck and dropped him into the hamper. Then he dropped in five more dirty, kicking, cackling hens upon the top of piggling bland. The hamper containing six fowls and a young pig was no lightweight. It was taken downhill, unsteadily, with jerks. Piggling, although nearly scratched to pieces, contrived to hide the papers and the peppermints inside his clothes. At last the hamper was bumped down upon a kitchen floor. The lid was opened and piggling was lifted out. He looked up blinking and saw an offensively, ugly, elderly man grinning from ear to ear. This one's come up himself, whatever, said Mr. Piperson, turning piggling's pockets inside out. He pushed the hamper into a corner, drew a sack over it to keep the hens quiet, put a pot on the fire and unlaced his boots. Piggling bland drew forward a copy-stool and sat on the edge of it, shyly warming his hands. Mr. Piperson pulled off a boot and threw it against the wane-skit at the further end of the kitchen. There was a smothered noise. Shut up! said Mr. Piperson. Piggling bland warmed his hands and eyed him. Mr. Piperson pulled off the other boot and flung it after the first. There was again a curious noise. Be quiet, will ye? said Mr. Piperson. Piggling bland sat on the very edge of the copy-stool. Mr. Piperson fetched meal from a chest and made porridge. It seemed to Piggling that something at the further end of the kitchen was taking a suppressed interest in the cooking, but he was too hungry to be troubled by noises. Mr. Piperson poured out three platefuls for himself, for Piggling, and a third, after glaring at Piggling, he put away with much scuffling and locked up. Piggling bland ate his supper discreetly. After supper Mr. Piperson consulted an almanac and felt Piggling's ribs. It was too late in the season for curing bacon and he grudged his meal. Besides, the hens had seen this pig. He looked at the small remains of a flitch—side of bacon—and then looked undecidedly at Piggling. You may sleep on the rug, said Mr. Peter Thomas Piperson. Piggling bland slept like a top. In the morning Mr. Piperson made more porridge. The weather was warmer. He looked how much meal was left in the chest and seemed dissatisfied. You'll likely be moving on again? He said to Piggling bland. Before Piggling could reply, a neighbor who was giving Mr. Piperson and the hens a lift whistled from the gate. Mr. Piperson hurried out with the hamper, enjoining Piggling to shut the door behind him and not meddle with knot. Or— Said Mr. Piperson, it crossed Piggling's mind that if he had asked for a lift too, he might have been in time for market. But he distrusted Peter Thomas. After finishing breakfast at his leisure, Piggling had a look around the cottage. Everything was locked up. He found some potato peelings in a bucket in the back kitchen. Piggling ate the peel and washed up the porridge plates in the bucket. He sang while he worked. Tom with his mic made such a noise. He called up all the girls and boys. And they all ran to hear him play. Over the hills and far away. Suddenly, a little smothered voice chimed in. Over the hills and a great way up, not off. Piggling bland put down a plate, which he was wiping and listened. After a long pause, Piggling went on tiptoe and peeped round the door into the front kitchen. There was nobody there. After another pause, Piggling approached the door of the locked cupboard and snuffed at the keyhole. It was quite quiet. After another long pause, Piggling pushed a peppermint under the door. It was sucked in immediately. In the course of the day, Piggling pushed in all his remaining six peppermints. When Mr. Piperson returned, he found Piggling sitting before the fire. He had brushed up the hearth and put on the pot to boil. The meal was not get-ad-able. Mr. Piperson was very affable. He slapped Piggling on the back, made lots of porridge, and forgot to lock the meal chest. He did lock the cupboard door, but without properly shutting it. He went to bed early and told Piggling, upon no account to disturb him next day before twelve o'clock. Piggling bland sat by the fire, eating his supper. All at once, at his elbow, a little boy spoke. My name is Pigwick. Bake me more porridge, please. Piggling bland jumped and looked round. A perfectly lovely little black Berkshire pig stood, smiling beside him. She had twinkly little screwed-up eyes, a double chin, and a short, turned-up nose. She pointed at Piggling's plate. He hastily gave it to her, and fled to the meal chest. How did you come here? asked Piggling bland. Stolen, replied Pigwick, with her mouth full. Piggling helped himself to meal without scruple. What for? Bacon, hams, replied Pigwick cheerfully. Why on earth don't you run away? exclaimed the horrified Pigwick. I shall, after supper, said Pigwick decidedly. Piggling bland made more porridge and watched her shyly. She finished a second plate, got up, and looked about her as though she were going to start. You can't go in the dark, said Pigwick bland. Pigwick looked anxious. Do you know the way by daylight? I know we can see this little white house from the hills across the river. Which way are you going, Mr. Pig? To mark it. I have two pig papers. I might take you to the bridge if you have no objection, said Piggling, much confused and sitting on the edge of his copy-stool. Pigwick's gratitude was such, and she asked so many questions that it became embarrassing to Piggling bland. He was obliged to shut his eyes and pretend to sleep. She became quiet, and there was a smell of peppermint. I thought you had eaten a thab, said Piggling, waking suddenly. Only the corners, replied Pigwick, studying the sentiments with much interest by the firelight. I wish you wouldn't. He might smell them through the ceiling. Pigwick said the alarmed Pigling. Pigwick put back the sticky peppermints into her pocket. Sing something, she demanded. I am sorry. I have a toothache, said Pigling, much dismayed. Then I will sing, replied Pigwick. You will not mind if I sing itty to diddy? I have forgotten some of the words. Pigling bland made no objection. He sat with his eyes shut and watched her. She wagged her head and rocked about, clapping time and singing in a sweet little grunty voice. I find Neal mother Pig lived in no style, and three little pigs he said she, diddy, diddy, diddy, umf, umf, umf, and little pigs said wee-wee. She sang successfully through three or four verses. Only at every verse, her head nodded a little lower, and her twinkly eyes closed up. Those three little piggies grew picky and lean, and lean, they might for a little bee. For some how they couldn't say umf, umf, umf, and they wouldn't say wee-wee-wee. For some how they couldn't say umf, umf, umf. Pigwig's head bobbed lower and lower until she rolled over, a little round ball. Fast asleep on the hearth rug, Pigling bland on tiptoe covered her up with the animic casser. He was afraid to go to sleep himself, for the rest of the night he sat listening to the chirping of the crickets and to the snores of Mr. Piperson overhead. Early in the morning between dark and daylight, Pigling tied up his little bundle and woke up Pigwig. She was excited and half frightened. But at dark how can we find our way? The cock has crowed. We must start before the hens come out. They might shout to Mr. Piperson. Pigwig sat down and commenced to cry. Come away, Pigwig. We could see when we get used to it. Come, I can hear them clucking. Pigling had never said shuh to a hen in his life, being peaceable. Also he remembered the hamper. He opened the house door quietly and shut it after them. There was no garden. The neighborhood of Mr. Piperson's was all scratched up by fouls. They slipped away hand in hand across an untidy field to the road. Tom, Tom, the Piperson stole a pig and away he ran. But all the tune he could play was over the hills and far away. Come, Pigwig. We must get to the bridge before folks are stirring. Why do you want to go to market, Pigling? Enquired Pigwig. The sun rose while they were crossing the moor. A dazzle of light over the tops of the hills. The sunshine crept down the slopes into the peaceful green valleys, where little white cottages nestled in gardens and orchards. That's Westmoreland, said Pigwig. She dropped Pigling's hand and commenced to dance, singing, presently, I don't want. I want to grow potatoes. Have a peppermint. Said Pigwig. Pigling Bland refused quite crossly. Does your poor toothy hurt? Enquired Pigwig. Pigling Bland grunted. Pigwig ate the peppermint herself and followed the opposite side of the road. Pigwig, keep under the wall. There's a man blowing. Pigwig crossed over. They hurried downhill towards the county boundary. Suddenly Pigling stopped. He heard wheels. Slowly jogging up the road below them came a tradesman's cart. The reins flapped on the horse's back. The grocer was reading a newspaper. Take that peppermint out of your mouth, Pigwig. We may have to run. Don't say one word. Leave it to me. And in sight of the bridge. Said poor Pigling, nearly crying. He began to walk frightfully lame, holding Pigwig's arm. The grocer intent upon his newspaper might have passed them. If his horse had not shied and snorted, he pulled the cart crossways and held down his whip. Hello, where are you going to? Pigling Bland stared at him vacantly. Are you deaf? Are you going to market? Pigling nodded slowly. My thought is much. It was yesterday. Show me your license. Pigling stared at the off hind shoe of the grocer's horse, which had picked up a stone. The grocer flicked his whip. Papers, pig license? Pigling fumbled in all his pockets and handed up the papers. The grocer read them, but still seemed dissatisfied. This here pig is a young lady. Is her name Alexander? Pigwig opened her mouth and shut it again. Pigling coughed asmatically. The grocer ran his finger down the advertisement column of his newspaper. Last stolen or strayed, ten shillings reward. He looked suspiciously at Pigwig. Then he stood up in the trap and whistled for the plowman. You wait here while I drive on and speak to him, said the grocer, gathering up the reins. He knew that pigs are slippery, but surely such a very lame pig could never run. Not yet, Pigwig. He will look back. The grocer did so. He saw the two pigs stock still in the middle of the road. Then he looked over at his horse's heels. It was lame also. The stone took some time to knock out after he got to the plowman. Now, Pigwig! Now! said Pigling Bland. Never did any pigs run as these pigs ran. They raced and squealed and pelted down the long, white hill towards the bridge. Little fat Pigwig's petticoats fluttered and her feet went pitter-patter, pitter, as she bounded and jumped. They ran and they ran and they ran down the hill and across a shortcut on level-green turf at the bottom between pebble beds and rushes. They came to the river. They came to the bridge. They crossed it hand in hand. Then over the hills and far away she danced with Pigling Bland. End of Chapter 18. Recording by Jenny Lundack with Mason and Jefferson Montoya. Recorded in June, July, and August of 2009.