 Chapter 1 of THE GREAT BIG TREASURY OF BEATRICK'S POTTER Chapter 1 THE TALE OF PEDER RABBIT Once upon a time there were four little rabbits, and their names were Flopsie, Mopsie, Cottontail, and Peter. They lived with their mother in a sandbank, underneath the root of a very big fir tree. Now my dears, said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don't go into Mr. McGregor's garden. Your father had an accident there. He was put in a pie by Mrs. McGregor. Now run along and don't get into mischief. I'm going out. Then old Mrs. Rabbit took a basket and her umbrella and went through the woods to the bakers. She bought a loaf of brown bread and five current buns. Flopsie, Mopsie, and Cottontail, who were good little bunnies, went down the lane to gather blackberries. But Peter, who was very naughty, ran straight away to Mr. McGregor's garden and squeezed under the gate. First he ate some lettuces and some green beans, and then he ate some radishes. And then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some parsley. But round the end of the cucumber frame, who should he meet but Mr. McGregor? Mr. McGregor was on his hands and knees planting out young cabbages. But he jumped up and ran after Peter, waving a rake and calling out, Stop, thief! Peter was most dreadfully frightened. He rushed all over the garden, for he had forgotten the way back to the gate. He lost one of his shoes among the cabbages and the other shoe amongst the potatoes. After losing them, he ran on four legs and went faster, so that I think he might have gotten away altogether if he had not, unfortunately, run into a gooseberry net, and got caught by the large buttons on his jacket. It was a blue jacket with brass buttons, quite new. Peter gave himself up for lost and shed big tears, but his sobs were overheard by some friendly sparrows, who flew to him in great excitement and implored him to exert himself. Mr. McGregor came up with a sieve, which he intended to pop on the top of Peter. But Peter wriggled out, just in time, leaving his jacket behind him, and he rushed into the tool shed and jumped into a can. It would have been a beautiful thing to hide in, if it had not had so much water in it. Mr. McGregor was quite sure that Peter was somewhere in the tool shed, perhaps hidden underneath a flower pot. He began to turn them over carefully, looking under each. Presently, Peter sneezed, Mr. McGregor was after him in no time, and he tried to put his foot upon Peter, who jumped out of a window, upsetting three plants. The window was too small for Mr. McGregor, and he was tired of running after Peter. He went back to work. Peter sat down to rest. He was out of breath and trembling with fright, and he had not the least idea which way to go. Also, he was very damp with sitting in that can. After a time he began to wander about, going lippity, lippity, not very fast, and looking all around. He found a door in a wall. But it was locked, and there was no room for a fat little rabbit to squeeze underneath. An old mouse was running in and out over the stone doorstep, carrying peas and beans to her family in the wood. Peter asked her the way to the gate, but she had such a large pee in her mouth that she could not answer. She only shook her head at him. Peter began to cry. Then he tried to find his way straight across the garden, but he became more and more puzzled. Presently he came to a pond where Mr. McGregor filled his water cans. A white cat sat staring at some goldfish. She sat very, very still. But now and then the tip of her tail twitched, as if it were alive. Peter thought it best to go away without speaking to her. He has heard about cats from his cousin, little Benjamin Bunny. He went back toward the tool shed. But suddenly, quite close to him, he heard the noise of a hoe. Scritch, scratch, scratch, scratch. Peter scuttered underneath the bushes. But presently, as nothing happened, he came out and climbed upon a wheelbarrow and peeped over. The first thing he saw was Mr. McGregor hoeing onions. His back was turned towards Peter, and beyond him was the gate. Peter got down very quietly off the wheelbarrow, and started running as fast as he could go, along a straight walk behind some black current bushes. Mr. McGregor caught sight of him at the corner, but Peter did not care. He slipped underneath the gate and was safe at last in the wood outside the garden. Mr. McGregor hung up the little jacket and shoes for a scarecrow to frighten the blackbirds. Peter never stopped running or looked behind him till he got home to the big fir tree. He was so tired that he flopped down upon the nice soft sand of the floor of the rabbit hole and shut his eyes. His mother was busy cooking. She wondered what he had done with his clothes. It was the second little jacket and pair of shoes that Peter had lost in a fortnight. I am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening. His mother put him to bed and made some chamomile tea, and she gave a dose of it to Peter. One tablespoon full to be taken at bedtime. But flopsie, mobsie, and cottontail had bread and milk and blackberries for supper. Chapter 2 of The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jenny Lundack. The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter by Beatrix Potter. Chapter 2 The Taylor of Gloucester I'll be at charges for a looking-glass and entertain a score or two of tailors. Richard III. My dear Frida, because you are fond of fairy tales, and have been ill, I have made a story all for yourself, a new one that nobody has read before, and the queerest thing about it, that I heard it in Gloucestershire, and that it is true, at least about the Taylor, the waistcoat, and the no more twist. Christmas, in the time of swords and periwigs and full-skirted coats, with flowered lapets, when gentlemen wore ruffles and gold-laced waist-skits, a padusoi, and taffeta, there lived a Taylor in Gloucester. He sat in the window of a little shop in Westgate Street, cross-legged on a table, from morning till dark. All day long, while the light lasted, he sewed and snippeted, piecing out his satin, and pompadour, and loot string. Stuffs had strange names, and were very expensive in the days of the Taylor of Gloucester. But although he sewed fine silks for his neighbours, he himself was very, very poor. He cut his coats without waste. According to his embroidered cloth, they were very small ends and snippets that lay about upon the table. Two narrow breaths for naught, except waist-kits for mice, said the Taylor. One bitter cold day near Christmas, the Taylor began to make a coat, a coat of cherry-colored corded silk, embroidered with pansies and roses, and a cream-colored satin waistcoat for the mayor of Gloucester. The Taylor worked and worked, and he talked to himself, No breath at all, and cut on the cross. It is no breath at all, tippets for mice, and ribbons for mobs, for mice, said the Taylor of Gloucester. When the snowflakes came down against the small, leaded window panes, and shut out the light, the Taylor had done his day's work. All the silk and satin lay cut out upon the table. There were twelve pieces for the coat and four pieces for the waistcoat, and there were pocket flaps and cuffs and buttons all in order. For the lining of the coat there was fine yellow taffeta, and for the buttonholes of the waistcoat there was cherry-colored twist, and everything was ready to sew together in the morning. All measured and sufficient, except that there was wanting just one single skein of cherry-colored twisted silk. The Taylor came out of his shop at dark. No one lived there at nights but little brown mice, and they ran in and out without any keys. For behind the wooden wanes-cut of all the old houses in Gloucester there are little mouse staircases and secret trap doors, and the mice run from house to house through those long, narrow passages. But the Taylor came out of his shop and shuffled home through the snow, and although it was not a big house, the Taylor was so poor he only rented the kitchen. He lived alone with his cat. It was called Simkin. Meow! said the cat when the Taylor opened the door. Meow! The Taylor replied, Simkin, we shall make our fortune, but I am warned to a ravelling. Take this groat, which is our last fourpence, and Simkin, take a china pipkin, but a pan of worth of bread, a pan of worth of milk, and a pan of worth of sausages, and, oh, Simkin, with the last penny of our fourpence, but me one penny worth of cherry-colored silk, but do not lose the last penny of the fourpence, Simkin, for I am undone, and warned to a thread-paper, for I have no more twist. Then Simkin again said, Meow! and took the groat and the pipkin, and went out into the dark. The Taylor was very tired and beginning to be ill. He sat down by the hearth and talked to himself about that wonderful coat. I shall make my fortune. To be cut by us, the mayor of Gloucester is to be married on Christmas Day in the morning, and he hath ordered a coat and an embroidered waistcoat. Then the Taylor started, for suddenly interrupting him from the dresser at the other side of the kitchen came a number of little noises. Now, what can that be? said the Taylor of Gloucester jumping up from his chair. The Taylor crossed the kitchen and stood quite still beside the dresser listening, and peering through his spectacles. This is very peculiar, said the Taylor of Gloucester, and he lifted up the teacup which was upside down, outstepped a little live lady mouse, and made a curtsy to the Taylor. Then she hopped away down off the dresser and under the wainscot. The Taylor sat down again by the fire, warming his poor cold hands. But all at once from the dresser there came other little noises. This is passing extraordinary, said the Taylor of Gloucester, and turned over another teacup which was upside down, outstepped a little gentleman mouse, and made a bow to the Taylor, and out from under teacups and from under bowls and basins, stepped other and more little mice, who hopped away down off the dresser and under the wainscot. The Taylor sat down, close over the fire lamenting. One and twenty buttonholes of cherry colored silk to be finished by noon of Saturday, and this is Tuesday evening. Was it right to let loose those mice? Undoubtedly the property of Simkin, a lack, I am undone, for I have no more twist. The little mice came out again and listened to the Taylor. They took notice of the pattern of that wonderful coat. They whispered to one another about the taffeta lining and about little mouse tippets. And then, suddenly they all ran away together down the passage behind the wainscot, squeaking and calling to one another as they ran from house to house. Not one mouse was left in the Taylor's kitchen when Simkin came back. He sat down the pipkin of milk upon the dresser and looked suspiciously at the teacups. He wanted his supper of little, fat mouse. Simkin, said the Taylor, where is my twist? But Simkin hid a little parcel privately in the teapot and spit and growled at the Taylor. And if Simkin had been able to talk, he would have asked, where is my mouse? Alack, I am undone, said the Taylor of Gloucester, and went sadly to bed. All that night long Simkin hunted and searched through the kitchen, peeping into cupboards and under the wainscot, and into the teapot where he had hidden that twist. But still, he never found a mouse. The poor old Taylor was very ill with a fever, tossing and turning in his four-post bed, and still in his dreams he mumbled, No more twist, no more twist. What should become of the cherry-colored coat? Who should come to sew it, when the window was barred and the door was fast locked? Out of doors the market folks went trudging through the snow to buy their geese and turkeys, and to bake their Christmas pies. But there would be no dinner for Simkin and the poor old Taylor of Gloucester. The Taylor lay ill for three days and nights, and then it was Christmas Eve and very late at night, and still Simkin wanted his mice, and mewed as he stood beside the four-post bed. But it is in the old story that all the beasts can talk in the night between Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in the morning, though there are very few folk that can hear them, or know what it is that they say. When the cathedral clocks struck twelve there was an answer. Like an echo of the chimes, and Simkin heard it, and came out of the Taylor's door and wandered about in the snow. From all the roofs and gables and old wooden houses in Gloucester came a thousand merry voices singing the old Christmas rhymes, all the old songs that ever I heard of, and some that I don't know, like Whittington's bells. Under the wooden eaves, the starlings and sparrows sang of Christmas pies, the jackdaws woken the cathedral tower, and although it was the middle of the night, the throssles and robins sang, and the air was quite full of little twittering tunes. But it was all rather provoking to poor hungry Simkin. From the Taylor's ship, in Wescott came a glow of light, and when Simkin crept up to peep in at the window it was full of candles. There was snippeting of scissors, and snappeting of thread, and little mouse voices, saying loudly and gaily. Without a pause the little mouse voices went on again. Simkin, my lady, don't leave. Interrupted Simkin, and he scratched at the door, but the key was under the Taylor's pillow. He could not get in. The little mouse only laughed and tried another tune. Scratch! Scuffled Simkin on the window sill, while the little mice inside sprang to their feet, and all began to shout all at once in little twittering voices. And they barred up the window shutters and shut out Simkin. Simkin came away from the shop and went home considering in his mind. He found the poor old Taylor without fever, sleeping peacefully. Then Simkin went on tiptoe and took a little parcel of silk, out of the teapot, and looked at it in the moonlight, and he felt quite ashamed of his badness, compared with those good little mice. When the Taylor awoke in the morning the first thing which he saw, upon the patchwork quilt, was a skein of cherry-colored twisted silk, and beside his bed stood the repentant Simkin. The sun was shining on the snow when the Taylor got up and dressed, and came out into the street with Simkin running before him. A lack, said the Taylor, I have my twist, but no more strength, nor time, then will serve me to make one single buttonhole. For this is Christmas Day in the morning. The mayor of Gloucester shall be married by noon, and where is his cherry-colored coat? He unlocked the door of the little shop in Westgate Street, and Simkin ran in, like a cat that expects something, but there was no one there, not even one little brown mouse. But upon the table, oh joy, the Taylor gave a shout. There, where he had left plain cuttings of silk, there lay the most beautiful coat and embroidered satin waistcoat that ever were worn by a mayor of Gloucester. Everything was finished, except just one single cherry-colored buttonhole, and where that buttonhole was wanting, there was pinned a scrap of paper. With these words in little, teeny, tiny writing. No more twist. And from then began the luck of the Taylor of Gloucester. He grew quite stout, and he grew quite rich. He made the most wonderful waistcoats for all the rich merchants of Gloucester, and for all the fine gentlemen of the country round. Never were seen such ruffles, or such embroidered cuffs and lapets, but his buttonholes were the greatest triumph of it all. The stitches of those buttonholes were so neat, so neat. I wonder how they could be stitched by an old man in spectacles, with crooked old fingers and a Taylor's thimble. The stitches of those buttonholes were so small, so small. They looked as if they had been made by little mice. End of chapter 2, recording by Jenny Lundack, South Padre Island, Texas. Recorded in June 2009. Chapter 3 of The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jenny Lundack. The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter by Beatrix Potter. Chapter 3 The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin. A story for Nora. This is a tale, about a tale. A tale that belonged to a little red squirrel, and his name was Nutkin. He had a brother called Twinkleberry, and a great many cousins. They lived in a wood at the edge of a lake. In the middle of the lake there is an island covered with trees and nut bushes, and amongst those trees stands a hollow oak tree, which is the house of an owl, who is called Old Brown. One autumn when the nuts were ripe and the leaves on the hazel bushes were golden and green, nutkin and Twinkleberry, and all the other little squirrels came out of the wood and down to the edge of the lake. They made little rafts out of twigs, and they paddled away over the water to Owl Island to gather nuts. Each squirrel had a little sack and a large oar, and spread out his tail for a sale. They also took with them an offering of three fat mice, as a present for Old Brown, and put them down upon his doorstep. Then Twinkleberry and the other little squirrels each made a low bow, and said politely, Old Mr. Brown, will you favor us with permission to gather nuts upon your island? But nutkin was excessively impertinent in his manners. He bobbed up and down like a little red cherry singing. This riddle is as old as the hills. Mr. Brown paid no attention, whatever, to nutkin. He shut his eyes obstinately and went to sleep. The squirrels filled their little sacks with nuts and sailed away home in the evening. But next day they all came back again to Owl Island, and Twinkleberry and the others brought a fine fat mole, and laid it on the stone in front of Old Brown's doorway, and said, Mr. Brown, will you favor us with your gracious permission to gather some more nuts? But nutkin, who had no respect, began to dance up and down, tickling Old Mr. Brown with a nettle and singing. Mr. Brown woke up suddenly and carried the mole into his house. He shut the door in nutkin's face. Presently a little thread of blue smoke from a wood fire came up from the top of the tree, and nutkin peeped through the keyhole and sang. The squirrels searched for nuts all over the island and filled their little sacks. But nutkin gathered oak apples, yellow and scarlet, and sat upon a beach stump playing marbles, and watching the door of Old Mr. Brown. On the third day the squirrels got up very early and went fishing. They caught seven fat minnows as a present for Old Brown. They paddled over the lake and landed under a crooked chestnut tree on Owl Island. Twinkleberry and six other little squirrels each carried a fat minnow, but nutkin, who had no nice manners, brought no present at all. He ran in front singing. Mr. Brown took no interest in riddles, not even when the answer was provided for him. On the fourth day the squirrels brought a present of six fat beetles, which were as good as plums in plum pudding for Old Brown. Each beetle was wrapped up carefully in a dock leaf, fastened with a pine needle pin. But nutkin sang as rudely as ever, which was ridiculous of nutkin, because he had not got any ring to give Old Brown. The other squirrels hunted up and down the nut bushes, but nutkin gathered robin's pin cushions off a briar bush and stuck them full of pine needle pins. On the fifth day the squirrels brought a present of wild honey. It was so sweet and sticky that they licked their fingers as they put it down upon the stone. They had stolen it out of a bumble bee's nest on the tippity top of the hill, but nutkin skipped up and down singing. He turned up his eyes and discussed at the impertinence of nutkin, but he ate up the honey. The squirrels filled their little sacks with nuts, but nutkin sat upon a big flat rock and played nine pins with a crab apple and green fur cones. On the sixth day, which was Saturday, the squirrels came again for the last time. They brought a new laid egg in a little rush basket as a last parting present for Old Brown, but nutkin ran in front, laughing and shouting. Mr. Brown took an interest in eggs. He opened one eye and shut it again, but still he did not speak. Nutkin became more and more impertinent and up and down like a sunbeam, but still Old Brown said nothing at all. Nutkin began again as to sound like the wind, and he took a running jump right onto the head of Old Brown. Then all at once there was a flutterment and a scufflement and a loud the other squirrels guttered away into the bushes. When they came back, very cautiously peeping round the tree, there was Old Brown sitting on his doorstep quite still with his eyes closed as if nothing had happened. But Nutkin was in his waistcoat pocket. This looks like the end of the story, but it isn't. Old Brown carried Nutkin into his house and held him up by the tail, intending to skin him. But Nutkin pulled so very hard that his tail broke in two, and he dashed up the staircase and escaped out of the attic window. And to this day, if you meet Nutkin up a tree and ask him a riddle, he will throw sticks at you and stamp his feet and scold and shout, HAAAAAAA! End of Chapter 3 Recording by Jenny Lundack, South Padre Island, Texas. Recorded in March 2009. Chapter 4 of The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jenny Lundack, The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter, by Beatrix Potter. Chapter 4 The Tale of Benjamin Bunny For the Children of Salary From Old Mr. Bunny One morning a little rabbit sat on a bank. He pricked his ears and listened to the trit-trot-trit-trot of a pony. The gig was coming along the road. It was driven by Mr. McGregor, and beside him sat Mrs. McGregor in her best bonnet. As soon as they had passed little Benjamin Bunny slid down into the road and set off with a hop, skip, and a jump to call upon his relations who lived in the wood at the back of Mr. McGregor's garden. That wood was full of rabbit holes and in the neatest, sandiest hole of all lived Benjamin's aunt and his cousins, Flopsy, Mopsie, Cottontail, and Peter. Old Mrs. Rabbit was a widow. She earned her living by knitting rabbit wool mittens and muffetties. I once bought a pair at a bazaar. She also sold herbs and rosemary tea and rabbit tobacco, which is what we call lavender. Little Benjamin did not very much want to see his aunt. He came round to the back of the fir tree and nearly tumbled upon the top of his cousin Peter. Peter was sitting by himself. He looked poorly and was dressed in a red cotton pocket handkerchief. Peter, said little Benjamin in a whisper. Who has got your clothes? Peter replied. The scare crow in Mr. McGregor's garden, and described how he had been chased about the garden and had dropped his shoes and coat. Little Benjamin sat down beside his cousin and assured him that Mr. McGregor had gone out in a gig, and Mrs. McGregor also, and certainly for the day, because she was wearing her best bonnet. Peter said he hoped it would rain. At this point old Mrs. Rabbit's voice was heard inside the rabbit hole, calling, Cottontail, Cottontail, fetch some more chamomile. Peter said he thought he might feel better if he went for a walk. They went away hand in hand and got upon the flat top of the wall at the bottom of the wood. From here they looked down into Mr. McGregor's garden. Peter's coat and shoes were plainly to be seen upon the scare crow, topped with an old tamashanter of Mr. McGregor's. Little Benjamin said, it spoils people's clothes to squeeze under a gate, the proper way to get in is to climb down a pear tree. Peter fell down head first, but it was of no consequence as the bed below was newly raked and quite soft. It had been sown with lettuces. They left a great many odd little footmarks all over the bed, especially Little Benjamin who was wearing clogs. Little Benjamin said that the first thing to be done was to get back Peter's clothes in order that they might be able to use the pocket handkerchief. They took them off the scare crow. There had been rain during the night, there was water in the shoes, and the coat was somewhat shrunk. Benjamin tried on the tamashanter, but it was too big for him. Then he suggested that they should fill the pocket handkerchief with onions as a little present for his aunt. Peter did not seem to be enjoying himself. He kept hearing noises. Benjamin, on the contrary, was perfectly at home, and ate a lettuce leaf. He said that he was in the habit of coming to the garden with his father to get lettuces for their Sunday dinner. The name of Little Benjamin's papa was old Mr. Benjamin Bunny. The lettuces certainly were very fine. Peter did not eat anything. He said he should like to go home. Presently he dropped half the onions. Little Benjamin said that it was not possible to get back up the pear tree with the load of vegetables. He led the way boldly towards the other end of the garden. They went along a little walk on planks under a sunny red brick wall. My sat on their doorsteps cracking cherry stones. They winked at Peter Rabbit and Little Benjamin Bunny. Presently Peter let the pocket handkerchief go again. They got amongst flower pots and frames and tubs. Peter heard noises worse than ever. His eyes were as big as lollipops. He was a step or two in front of his cousin when he suddenly stopped. This is what those little rabbits saw round the corner. Little Benjamin took one look, and then, in half a minute less than no time, he hid himself and Peter and the onions underneath a large basket. The cat got up and stretched herself and came and sniffed at the basket. Perhaps she liked the smell of onions. Anyway, she sat down on the top of the basket. She sat there for five hours. I cannot draw you a picture of Peter and Benjamin underneath the basket, because it was quite dark, and because the smell of onions was fearful. It made Peter Rabbit and Little Benjamin cry. The sun got round behind the wood, and it was late in the afternoon, but still the cat sat upon the basket. At length, there was a pitter-patter, pitter-patter, and some bits of mortar fell from the wall above. The cat looked up and saw old Mr. Benjamin Bunny prancing along the top of the wall of the upper terrace. He was smoking a pipe of rabbit tobacco and had a little switch in his hand. He was looking for his son. Old Mr. Bunny had no opinion, whatever, of cats. He took a tremendous jump off the top of the wall, onto the top of the cat, and cuffed it off the basket, and kicked it into the greenhouse, scratching off a handful of fur. The cat was much too surprised to scratch back. When old Mr. Bunny had driven the cat into the greenhouse, he locked the door. Then he came back to the basket, and took out his son Benjamin by the ears, and whipped him with the little switch. Then he took out his nephew Peter. Then he took out the handkerchief of onions, and marched out of the garden. When Mr. McGregor returned about a half an hour later, he observed several things which perplexed him. It looked as though some person had been walking all over the garden, in a pair of clogs. Only the footmarks were too ridiculously little. Also, he could not understand how the cat could have managed to shut herself up inside the greenhouse, locking the door upon the outside. When Peter got home, his mother forgave him, because she was so glad to see that he had found his shoes and coat. Cottontail and Peter folded up the pocket handkerchief, and old Mrs. Rabbit strung up the onions and hung them from the kitchen ceiling, with the bunches of herbs and the rabbit tobacco. End of Chapter 4 The Tale of Benjamin Bunny Recording by Jenny Lundack, South Padre Island, Texas, recorded in March 2009. Chapter 5 of The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jenny Lundack, The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter, by Beatrix Potter. Chapter 5 The Tale of Two Bad Mice For W. M. L. W., the little girl who had the doll's house. Once upon a time there was a very beautiful doll's house. It was brick red with white windows, and had real muslin curtains and a front door and a chimney. It belonged to two dolls called Lucinda and Jane. At least it belonged to Lucinda, but she never ordered meals. Jane was the cook, but she never did any cooking, because the dinner had been bought, ready made, in a box full of shavings. There were two red lobsters and a ham, a fish, a pudding, and some pears and oranges. They would not come off the plates, but they were extremely beautiful. One morning Lucinda and Jane had gone out for a drive in the doll's perambulator. There was no one in the nursery, and it was very quiet. Presently there was a little scuffling, scratching noise in a corner near the fireplace, where there was a hole under the skirting board. Tom Thumb put out his head for a moment, and then popped it in again. Tom Thumb was a mouse. A minute afterwards, hunk a munk a, his wife put her head out too, and when she saw that there was no one in the nursery, she ventured out on the oil cloth under the coal box. The doll's house stood at the other side of the fireplace. Tom Thumb and hunk a munk a went cautiously across the hearth rug. They pushed the front door. It was not fast. Tom Thumb and hunk a munk a went upstairs and peeped into the dining room. Then they squeaked with joy. Such a lovely dinner was laid out upon the table. There were tin spoons and lead knives and forks, and two dolly chairs. All so convenient. Tom Thumb set to work at once to carve the ham. It was a beautiful, shiny, yellow, streaked with red. The knife crumbled up and hurt him. He put his finger in his mouth. It is not boiled enough. It is hard. You have a try, hunk a munk a. Hunk a munk a stood up in her chair and chopped at the ham with another lead knife. As hard as the ham's at the cheese mongers, said hunk a munk a. The ham broke off the plate with a jerk and rolled under the table. Let it alone, said Tom Thumb. Give me some fish, hunk a munk a. Hunk a munk a tried every tin spoon in turn. The fish was glued to the dish. Then Tom Thumb lost his temper. He put the ham in the middle of the floor and hit it with the tongs and with the shovel. Bang, bang, smash, smash! The ham flew all into pieces. For underneath the shiny paint, it was made of nothing but plaster. Then there was no end to the rage and disappointment of Tom Thumb and hunk a munk a. They broke up the pudding, the lobsters, the pears, and the oranges. As the fish would not come off the plate, they put it into the red, hot, crinkly paper fire in the kitchen. But it would not burn, either. Tom Thumb went up to the kitchen chimney and looked out at the top. There was no soot. While Tom Thumb was up the chimney, hunk a munk a had another disappointment. She found some tiny canisters upon the dresser labeled rice, coffee, sago. But when she turned them upside down, there was nothing inside except red and blue beads. Then those mice set to work, to do all the mischief they could, especially Tom Thumb. He took Jane's clothes out of the chest of drawers in her bedroom and he threw them out of the top floor window. But hunk a munk a had a frugal mind. After pulling half the feathers out of Lucinda's bolster, she remembered that she herself was in want of a feather bed. With Tom Thumb's assistance, she carried the bolster downstairs and across the hearth rug. It was difficult to squeeze the bolster into the mousehole, but they managed it somehow. Then hunk a munk a went back and fetched a chair, a bookcase, a birdcage, and several small odds and ends. The bookcase and the birdcage refused to go into the mousehole. Hunk a munk a left them behind the coal box and went to fetch a cradle. Hunk a munk a was just returning with another chair when suddenly there was a noise of talking outside upon the landing. The mice rushed back to their hole and the dolls came into the nursery. What a sight met the eyes of Jane and Lucinda. Lucinda sat upon the upset kitchen stove and stared. And Jane lent against the kitchen dresser and smiled. But neither of them made any remark. The bookcase and the birdcage were rescued from under the coal box. But hunk a munk a has got the cradle and some of Lucinda's clothes. She also has some useful pots and pans and several other things. The little girl that the dolls' house belonged to said, I will get a doll dressed like a policeman. But the nurse said, I will set a mousetrap. So that is the story of the two bad mice. But they were not so very, very naughty after all because Tom Thumb paid for everything he broke. He found a crooked sixpence under the hearth rug and upon Christmas Eve he and hunk a munk a stuffed it into one of the stockings of Lucinda and Jane. And very early every morning, before anybody is awake, hunk a munk a comes with her dustpan and her broom to sweep the dolly's house. And of Chapter 5, The Two Bad Mice, recording by Jenny Lundack, South Padre Island, Texas, recorded in March 2009, Chapter 6 of The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Jenny Lundack, The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter by Beatrix Potter, Chapter 6, The Tale of Mrs. Tiggie Winkle, for The Real Little Lucy of Newlands. Once upon a time there was a little girl called Lucy who lived at a farm called Little Town. She was a good little girl, only she was always losing her pocket handkerchiefs. One day Little Lucy came into the farmyard crying. Oh, she did cry so. I've lost my pocket hankin', three hankins and a penny. Have you seen them, Tabby Kitten? The kitten went on washing her white paws, so Lucy asked a speckled hen. Sally, honey, penny, have you found three pocket hankins? But the speckled hen ran into the barn, clucking. I go barefoot, barefoot, barefoot. And then Lucy asked Cock Robin sitting on a twig. Cock Robin looked sideways at Lucy with his bright black eye, and he flew over a stile and away. Lucy climbed upon the stile and looked up at the hill behind Little Town, a hill that goes up, up into the clouds as though it had no top. And a great way up the hillside, she thought she saw some white things spread upon the grass. Lucy scrambled up the hill as fast as her short legs would carry her. She ran along a steep pathway, up and up, until Little Town was right away down below. She could have dropped a pebble down the chimney. Presently she came to a spring, bubbling out of the hillside. Someone had stood a tin can upon a stone to catch the water. But the water was already running over, for the can was no bigger than an egg cup. And where the sand upon the path was wet, there were footmarks of a very small person. Lucy ran on and on. The path ended under a big rock. The grass was short and green, and there were clothesprops cut from bracken stems with lines of plated rushes and a heap of tiny clothespins. But no pocket handkerchiefs. There was something else. A door straight into the hill, and inside it someone was singing. Lily white and clean, oh, with little fills between, oh, smooth and hot, red, rusty spot, never to be seen, oh. Lucy knocked once, twice, and interrupted the song. A little frightened boy is called out. Who's that? Lucy opened the door. And what do you think was there inside the hill? A nice clean kitchen, with a flagged floor and wooden beams, just like any other farm kitchen. Only the ceiling was so low that Lucy's head nearly touched it, and the pots and pans were small, and so was everything there. There was a nice, hot, singy smell, and at the table, with an iron in her hand, stood a very stout, short person, staring anxiously at Lucy. Her print gown was tucked up, and she was wearing a large apron over her striped petticoat. Her little black nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle, and her eyes went twinkle, twinkle, and underneath her cap, where Lucy had yellow curls, that little person had prickles. Who are you? said Lucy. Have you seen my pocket hankens? The little person made a bob curtsy. Oh yes, and if you please him, my name is Mrs. Tiggie Winkle. Oh yes, if you please him, I'm an excellent clear stature. And she took something out of the clothes basket, and spread it on the ironing blanket. What's that thing? said Lucy. That's not my pocket hanken. Oh no, if you please him, that's a little scarlet waistcoat, belonging to Cock Robin. And she ironed it, and folded it, and put it on one side. Then she took something else off a clothes horse. That isn't my penny, said Lucy. Oh no, if you please him, that's a damask tablecloth belonging to Jenny Wren. Look how it's stained with current wine. It's very bad to wash, said Mrs. Tiggie Winkle. Mrs. Tiggie Winkle's nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle. And her eyes went twinkle, twinkle. And she fetched another hot iron from the fire. There's one of my pocket hankens, cried Lucy, and there's my penny. Mrs. Tiggie Winkle ironed it, and goffered it, and shook out the frills. Oh, that is lovely, said Lucy. What are those long yellow things with fingers like gloves? Oh, that's a pair of stockings belonging to Sally Hennie-Pennie. Look how she's worn the heels out with scratching in the yard. She'll very soon go barefoot, said Mrs. Tiggie Winkle. Why, there's another hanker sniff. But it isn't mine. It's red. Oh, oh no, if you please him, that one belongs to old Mrs. Rabbit. And it did, so smell of onions, I've had to wash it separately. I can't get out that smell. There's another one of mine, said Lucy. What are those funny little white things? That's a pair of mittens belonging to Tabby Kitten. I only have to iron them. She washes them herself. There's my last pocket hanken, said Lucy. And what are you dipping into the basin of starch? They're the little dicky shirt fronts belonging to Tom Titmouse, most terrible particular, said Mrs. Tiggie Winkle. Now I've finished my ironing. I'm going to air some clothes. What are those dear, soft, fluffy things, said Lucy? Oh, those are the woolly coats belonging to the little lambs at Skaigle. Will their jackets take off? asked Lucy. Oh yes, if you please them, look at the sheet mark on the shoulder. And there's one mark for gate scarf. And three that come from Little Town. They're always marked at Washing, said Mrs. Tiggie Winkle. And she hung up all sorts and sizes of clothes. Small brown coats of mice, and one velvety black moleskin waistcoat, and a red tailcoat with no tail, belonging to Squirrel Nutkin, and a very much shrunk blue jacket belonging to Peter Rabbit, and a petticoat, not marked, that had gone lost in the Washing. And at last the basket was empty. Then Mrs. Tiggie Winkle made tea. A cup for herself and a cup for Lucy. They sat before the fire on a bench and looked sideways at one another. Mrs. Tiggie Winkle's hand, holding the tea cup, was very, very brown and very, very wrinkly with the soap suds. And all through her gown and her cap there were hairpins sticking wrong and out, so that Lucy didn't like to sit too near her. When they had finished tea they tied up the clothes and bundles and Lucy's pocket handkerchiefs were folded up inside her clean penny, and fastened with a silver safety pin. And then they made up the fire with turf and came out and locked the door and hid the key under the door sill. Then away down the hill trotted Lucy and Mrs. Tiggie Winkle with the bundle of clothes. All the way down the path little animals came out of the fern to greet them. The first that they met were Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny, and she gave them their nice clean clothes, and all the little animals and birds were so very much obliged to tear Mrs. Tiggie Winkle. So that, at the bottom of the hill, when they came to the style, there was nothing left to carry, except Lucy's one little bundle. Lucy scrambled up the style with the bundle in her hand, and then she turned to say good night and to thank the washerwoman. But what a very odd thing! Mrs. Tiggie Winkle had not waited either for thanks or for the washing bill. She was running, running up the hill. And where was her white frilled cap, and her shawl, and her gown and her petticoat, and how small she had grown, and how brown and covered with prickles. Why, Mrs. Tiggie Winkle was nothing but a hedgehog. Now some people say that little Lucy had been asleep upon the style. But then how could she have found three clean pocket hankens and a penny pinned with a silver safety pin? And besides, I have seen that door into the back of the hill called Cat's Bells. And besides, and besides, I am very well acquainted with dear Mrs. Tiggie Winkle. End of Chapter 6 The Tale of Mrs. Tiggie Winkle. Recording by Jenny Lundack, South Padre Island, Texas. Recorded, March 2009. Chapter 7 of The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jenny Lundack, The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter, by Beatrix Potter. Chapter 7 The Pie and the Patty Pan. Pussycat sits by the fire. How should she be fair? In walks the little dog, says, Pussy, are you there? How do you do, Mistress Pussy? Mistress Pussy, how do you do? I thank you kindly, little dog. I fair as well as you. Old rhyme. Once upon a time there was a Pussycat called Ribby, who invited a little dog called Duchess to tea. Come in good time, my dear Duchess, said Ribby's letter, and we will have something so very nice. I am baking it in a pie dish, a pie dish with a pink rim. You never tasted anything so good, and you shall eat it all. I will eat muffins, my dear Duchess, wrote Ribby. I will come very punctually, my dear Ribby, wrote Duchess, and then at the end she added, I hope it isn't mouse. And then she thought that did not look quite polite. So she scratched out isn't mouse, and changed it to, I hope it will be fine. And she gave the letter to the postman. But she thought a great deal about Ribby's pie. And she read Ribby's letter over and over again. I am dreadfully afraid it will be mouse, said Duchess to herself. I really couldn't, couldn't eat mouse pie. And I shall have to eat it, because it's my party, and my pie was going to be veal and ham, a pink and white pie dish. And so is mine, just like Ribby's dishes. They were both bought at Tabitha Twidgets. Duchess went into her larder and took the pie off a shelf and looked at it. Oh, what a good idea. Why shouldn't I rush along and put my pie into Ribby's oven when Ribby isn't there? Ribby, in the meantime, had received Duchess's answer. And as soon as she was sure that the little dog would come, she popped her pie into the oven. There were two ovens, one above the other. Some other knobs and handles were only ornamental and not intended to open. Ribby put the pie into the lower oven. The door was very stiff. The top oven bakes too quickly, said Ribby to herself. Ribby put on some coal and swept the hearth. Then she went out with a can to the well for water to fill up the kettle. Then she began to set the room in order, for it was the sitting room as well as the kitchen. When Ribby had laid the table she went out down the field to the farm to fetch milk and butter. When she came back, she peeped into the bottom oven. The pie looked very comfortable. Ribby put on her shawl and bonnet and went out again with a basket, to the village shop to buy a packet of tea, a pound of lump sugar, and a pot of marmalade. At just the same time, Duchess came out of her house at the other end of the village. Ribby met Duchess halfway down the street, also carrying a basket, covered with a cloth. They only bowed to one another. They did not speak, because they were going to have a party. As soon as Duchess got round the corner out of sight, she simply ran, straight away to Ribby's house. Ribby went into the shop and bought what she required and came out, after a pleasant gossip with cousin, Tabitha Twitchit. Ribby went on to Timothy Baker's and bought the muffins. Then she went home. There seemed to be a sort of scuffling noise in the back passage as she was coming in at the front door, but there was nobody there. Duchess, in the meantime, had slipped out at the back door. It is a very odd thing that Ribby's pie was not in the oven when I put mine in, and I can't find it anywhere. I have looked all over the house. I put my pie into a nice hot oven at the top. I could not turn any of the other handles. I think that they are all shams, said Duchess, but I wish I could have removed the pie made of mouse. I cannot think what she has done with it. I heard Ribby coming, and I had to run out by the back door. Duchess went home and brushed her beautiful black coat, and then she picked a bunch of flowers in her garden as a present for Ribby, and passed the time until the clock struck four. Ribby, having assured herself by careful search that there was really no one hiding in the cupboard or in the larder, went upstairs to change her dress. She came down again and made the tea and put the teapot on the hob. She peeped again into the bottom oven. The pie had become a lovely brown, and it was steaming hot. She sat down before the fire to wait for the little dog. I am glad I used the bottom oven, said Ribby. The top one would certainly have been very much too hot. Very punctually at four o'clock, Duchess started to go to the party. At a quarter past four to the minute, there came a most gentile little tap—teppity. Is Mrs. Ribston at home? inquired Duchess in the porch. Come on in. And how do you do, my dear Duchess? cried Ribby. I hope I see you well. Quite well. I thank you, and how do you do, my dear Ribby? said Duchess. I've brought you some flowers. What a delicious smell of pie. Oh, what lovely flowers. Yes, it is mouse and bacon. I think it wants another five minutes, said Ribby. Just a shade longer. I will pour out the tea while we wait. Do you take sugar, my dear Duchess? Oh, yes, please, my dear Ribby. And may I have a lump upon my nose? With pleasure, my dear Duchess. Duchess sat up with the sugar on her nose and sniffed. How good that pie smells. I do love veal and ham. I mean to say mouse and bacon. She dropped the sugar in confusion and had to go hunting under the tea table, so did not see which oven Ribby opened in order to get out the pie. Ribby set the pie on the table. There was a very savory smell. Duchess came out from under the tablecloth, munching sugar and sat up on a chair. I will first cut the pie for you. I'm going to have a muffin and marmalade, said Ribby. I think, thought Duchess to herself. I think it would be wiser if I helped myself to pie, though Ribby did not seem to notice anything when she was cutting it. What very small, fine pieces it has cooked into. I did not remember that I had minced it up so fine. I suppose this is a quicker oven than my own. The pie dish was emptying rapidly. Duchess had had four helps already and was fumbling with the spoon. A little more bacon, my dear Duchess, said Ribby. Thank you, my dear Ribby. I was only feeling for the pattypan. The pattypan, my dear Duchess. The pattypan that held up the pie crust, said Duchess, blushing under her black coat. Oh, I didn't put one in, my dear Duchess, said Ribby. I don't think that it is necessary in pies made of mouse. Duchess fumbled with the spoon. I can't find it, she said anxiously. There isn't a pattypan, said Ribby, looking perplexed. Yes, indeed, my dear Ribby, where can it have gone to? said Duchess. Duchess looked very much alarmed and continued to scoop the inside of the pie dish. I have only four pattypans, and they are all in the cupboard. Duchess set up a howl. I shall die. I shall die. I have swallowed a pattypan. Oh, my dear Ribby, I do feel so ill. It is impossible, my dear Duchess. There was not a pattypan. Yes, there was, my dear Ribby. I am sure I have swallowed it. Let me prop you up with a pillow, my dear Duchess. Where do you think you feel it? Oh, I do feel so ill all over me. My dear Ribby. Shall I run for the doctor? Oh, yes, yes, fetch Dr. Magany, my dear Ribby. He is a pie himself. He will certainly understand. Ribby settled Duchess in an armchair before the fire and went out and hurried to the village to look for the doctor. She found him at the smithy. Ribby explained that her guest had swallowed a pattypan. Dr. Magany hopped so fast that Ribby had to run. It was most conspicuous. All the village could see that Ribby was fetching the doctor. But while Ribby had been hunting for the doctor, a curious thing had happened to Duchess, who had been left by herself, sitting before the fire, sighing and groaning and feeling very unhappy. How could I have swallowed it? Such a large thing as a pattypan! She sat down again and stared mournfully at the grate. The fire crackled and danced in something. Sizzled. Duchess started. She opened the door of the top of an out came a rich, steamy flavor of veal and ham. And there stood a fine brown pie. And through a hole in the top of the pie crust, there was a glimpse of the little tin pattypan. Duchess drew a long breath. Then I must have been eating mouse. No wonder I feel ill. But perhaps I should feel worse if I had really swallowed a pattypan. Duchess reflected. What a very awkward thing to have to explain to Ribby. I think I will put my pie in the backyard and say nothing about it. When I go home, I will run around and take it away. She put it outside the back door and sat down again by the fire and shut her eyes. When Ribby arrived with the doctor, she seemed fast asleep. I'm feeling very much better, said Duchess, waking with a jump. I'm truly glad to hear it. He has brought you a pill, my dear Duchess. I think I should feel quite well if he only felt my pulse, said Duchess, backing away from the magpie who sidled up with something in his beak. It is only a bread pill. You had much better take it. Drink a little milk, my dear Duchess. I'm feeling very much better, my dear Ribby, said Duchess. Do you not think that I had better go home before it gets dark? Perhaps it might be wise, my dear Duchess. Ribby and Duchess said goodbye affectionately, and Duchess started home. Halfway up the lane, she stopped and looked back. Ribby had gone in and shut her door. Duchess slipped through the fence and ran round to the back of Ribby's house, and peeped into the yard. Upon the roof of the pigsty sat Dr. Maggity and three Jack-Daws. The Jack-Daws were eating pie crust, and the magpie was drinking gravy out of a patty pan. Duchess ran home feeling uncommonly silly. When Ribby came out for a pail full of water to wash up the tea things, she found a pink and white pie dish lying smashed in the middle of the yard. Ribby stared with amazement. Did you ever see the like? So there really was a patty pan. But my patty pans are all in the kitchen cupboard. Well, I never did. Next time I want to give a party, I will invite Cousin Tabitha Twitchit. And of Chapter 7. The Pie and the Patty Pan. Recording by Jenny Lundack. South Padre Island, Texas. March 2009. Chapter 8 of The Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jenny Lundack. The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter. By Beatrix Potter. Chapter 8. The Tale of Jeremy Fisher. For Stephanie from Cousin B. Once upon a time there was a frog called Mr. Jeremy Fisher. He lived in a little damp house amongst the buttercups at the edge of the pond. The water was all slippy-sloppy in the larder and in the back passage. But Mr. Jeremy liked getting his feet wet. Nobody ever scolded him, and he never caught cold. He was quite pleased when he looked out and saw large drops of rain, splashing in the pond. I will get some worms and go fishing and catch a dish of minnows for my dinner, said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. If I catch more than five fish, I will invite my friends Mr. Alderman, Ptolemy, Tardis, and Sir Isaac Newton. The Alderman, however, eats salad. Mr. Jeremy put on a macintosh and a pair of shiny galoshes. He took his rod and basket and set off with enormous hops to the place where he kept his boat. The boat was round and green and very like the other lily-leaves. It was tied to a water plant in the middle of the pond. Mr. Jeremy took a reed pole and pushed the boat out into open water. I know a good place for minnows, said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. Mr. Jeremy stuck his pole into the mud and fastened the boat to it. Then he settled himself cross-legged and arranged his fishing tackle. He had the dearest little red float. His rod was a tough stalk of grass. His line was a fine, long, white horse-hair, and he tied a little wriggling worm at the end. The rain trickled down his back and for nearly an hour he stared at the float. This is getting tiresome. I think I should like some lunch, said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. He punted back again amongst the water plants and took some lunch out of his basket. I will eat a butterfly sandwich and wait till the shower is over, said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. A great big water beetle came up underneath the lily-leaf and tweaked the toe of one of his galoshes. Mr. Jeremy crossed his legs up shorter, out of reach, and went on eating his sandwich. Once or twice something moved about with a rustle and a splash among the rushes at the side of the pond. I trust that is not a rat, said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. I think I had better get away from here. Mr. Jeremy shoved the boat out again a little way and dropped in the bait. There was a bite almost directly. The float gave a tremendous bobbit. A minnow, a minnow! I have him by the nose, cried Mr. Jeremy Fisher, jerking up his rod. But what a horrible surprise! Instead of a smooth, fat minnow, Mr. Jeremy landed little jack-sharp, the stickleback, covered with spines. The stickleback floundered about the boat, pricking and snapping. Until he was quite out of breath. Then he jumped back into the water. A shoal of other little fishes put their heads out and laughed at Mr. Jeremy Fisher. And while Mr. Jeremy sat disconsolently on the edge of his boat, sucking his sore fingers and peering down into the water, a much worse thing happened. A really frightful thing it would have been if Mr. Jeremy had not been wearing a Macintosh. A great, enormous trout came up, grr-flop, with a splash, and it seized Mr. Jeremy with a snap. And then it turned and dived down to the bottom of the pond. But the trout was so displeased with the taste of the Macintosh that in less than half a minute it spat him out again. And the only thing it swallowed was Mr. Jeremy's galoshes. Mr. Jeremy bounced up to the surface of the water, like a cork and the bubbles out of a soda water bottle. And he swam with all his might to the edge of the pond. He scrambled out on the first bank he came to, and he hopped across the meadow with his Macintosh all in tatters. What a mercy it was not a pike, said Mr. Jeremy Fisher. I have lost my rod and basket, but it does not matter, for I am sure I should never have dared to go fishing again. He put some sticking plaster on his fingers, and his friends both came to dinner. He could not offer them fish, but he had something else in his larder. Sir Isaac Newton wore his black and gold waistcoat, and Mr. Alderman Ptolemy Tortoise brought a salad with him in a string bag. And instead of a nice dish of minnows, they had a roasted grasshopper with ladybird sauce, which frogs consider a beautiful treat. But I think it must have been nasty. End of Chapter 8 Recording by Jenny Lundack South Padre Island, Texas Recorded March of 2009 Chapter 9 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 9 The Story of the Fierce Bad Rabbit This is a fierce bad rabbit. Look at his savage whiskers, and his claws, and his turned up tail. This is a nice, gentle rabbit. His mother has given him a carrot. The bad rabbit would like some carrot. He doesn't say please. He takes it. And he scratches the good rabbit very badly. The good rabbit creeps away and hides in his hole. It feels sad. This is a man with a gun. He sees something sitting on a bench. He thinks it is a very funny bird. He comes creeping up behind the trees. And then he shoots, bang! This is what happens. But this is all he finds on the bench when he rushes up with his gun. The good rabbit peeps out of its hole. And it sees the bad rabbit tearing past without any tail or whiskers. End of Chapter 9 The Fierce Bad Rabbit Recording by Jenny Lundack South Padre Island, Texas Recorded in April 2009 Chapter 10 Of The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter This is a LibriVox recording, while LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jenny Lundack The Great Big Treasury of Beatrix Potter by Beatrix Potter Chapter 10 The Story of Miss Moppet This is a pussy called Miss Moppet. She thinks she has heard a mouse. This is the mouse peeping out behind the cupboard and making fun of Miss Moppet. He is not afraid of a kitten. This is Miss Moppet jumping just too late. She misses the mouse and hits her own head. She thinks it is a very hard cupboard. The mouse watches Miss Moppet from the top of the cupboard. Miss Moppet ties up her head in a duster and sits before the fire. The mouse thinks she is looking very ill. He comes sliding down the bell pole. Miss Moppet looks worse and worse. The mouse comes a little nearer. Miss Moppet holds her poor head in her paws and looks at him through a hole in the duster. The mouse comes very close. Then all of a sudden, Miss Moppet jumps upon the mouse. And because the mouse has teased Miss Moppet, Miss Moppet thinks she will tease the mouse, which is not at all nice of Miss Moppet. She ties him up in the duster and tosses it about like a ball. But she forgot about that hole in the duster. And when she untied it, there was no mouse. He has wriggled out and run away, and he is dancing a jig on top of the cupboard. End of Chapter 10 Recording by Jenny Lundack, South Padre Island, Texas. Recorded in April 2009. Chapter 11 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 11 The Tale of Tom Kitten Dedicated to all pickles, especially to those that get upon my garden wall. Once upon a time there were three little kittens, and their names were Mittens, Tom Kitten, and Moppet. They had dear little fur coats of their own, and they tumbled about the doorstep and played in the dust. But one day their mother, Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit, expected friends to tea, so she fetched the kittens indoors to wash and dress them before the fine company arrived. First she scrubbed their faces. This one is Moppet. Then she brushed their fur. This one is Mittens. Then she combed their tails and whiskers. This is Tom Kitten. Tom was very naughty, and he scratched. Mrs. Tabitha dressed Moppet and Mittens in clean pinaffores and tuckers. And then she took all sorts of elegant, uncomfortable clothes out of a chest of drawers in order to dress up her son, Thomas. Thomas Kitten was very fat, and he had grown. Several buttons burst off. His mother sewed them on again. When the three kittens were ready, Mrs. Tabitha unwisely turned them out into the garden to be out of the way while she made hot buttered toast. Now keep your frogs clean, children. You must walk on your hind legs. Keep away from the dirty ash pit, and from Sally Hennie-Pennie, and from the pigsty, and the puddle ducks. Moppet and Mittens walked down the garden path unsteady. Presently they trod upon their pinaffores and fell on their noses. When they stood up, there were several green smears. Let us climb up the rockery and sit on the garden wall, said Moppet. They turned their pinaffores back to front and went up with a skip and a jump. Moppet's white tucker fell down into the road. Tom Kitten was quite unable to jump when walking upon his hind legs in trousers. He came up the rockery by degrees, breaking the ferns and shedding his buttons right and left. He was all in pieces when he reached the top of the wall. Moppet and Mittens tried to pull him together. His hat fell off and the rest of his buttons burst. While they were in difficulties, there was a pit-pat, pattle-pat, and the three puddle-ducks came along the hard, high road, marching one behind the other and doing the goose-step. Pit-pat, pattle-pat, pit-pat, wattle-pat. They stopped and stood in a row and stared up at the kittens. They had very small eyes and looked surprised. Then the two duck-birds, Rebecca and Jemima puddle-duck, picked up the hat and tucker and put them on. Mittens laughed so that she fell off the wall. Moppet and Tom descended after her. The pinniforce and all the rest of Tom's clothes came off on the way down. Come, Mr. Drake puddle-duck, said Moppet. Come and help us to dress him. Come and button up Tom. Mr. Drake puddle-duck advanced in a slow, sidewise manner and picked up the various articles. But he put them on himself. They fitted him even worse than Tom Kitten. It's a very fine morning, said Mr. Drake puddle-duck, and he and Jemima and Rebecca puddle-duck set off up the road, keeping step. Pit-pat, pattle-pat, pit-pat, wattle-pat. Then, Tabitha Twitchit came down the garden and found her kittens on the wall with no clothes on. She pulled them off the wall, smacked them, and took them back to the house. My friends will arrive in a minute and you are not fit to be seen. I am affronted, said Mrs. Tabitha Twitchit. She sent them upstairs, and I am sorry to say she told her friends that they were in bed with the measles. Which was not true. Quite the contrary. They were not in bed. Not in the least. Somehow there were very extraordinary noises overhead, which disturbed the dignity and repose of the Tea Party. And I think that someday we shall have to make another larger book to tell you more about Tom Kitten. As for the puddle-ducks, they went into a pond. The clothes all came off directly because there were no buttons. And Mr. Drake puddle-duck and Jemima and Rebecca have been looking for them ever since. End of Chapter 11 Recording by Jenny Lundack South Padre Island, Texas Recorded in April 2009 Chapter 12 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 12 The Tale of Jemima Puddle-duck A Farm Yard Tale For Ralph and Betsy What a funny sight it is to see a brood of ducklings with a hen. Listen to the story of Jemima Puddle-duck who was annoyed because the farmer's wife would not let her hatch her own eggs. Her sister-in-law, Mrs. Rebecca Puddle-duck, was perfectly willing to leave the hatching to someone else. I have not the patience to sit on a nest for twenty-eight days and no more have you, Jemima. You would let them go cold. You know you would. I wish to hatch my own eggs. I will hatch them all by myself, quacked Jemima Puddle-duck. She tried to hide her eggs, but they were always found and carried off. Jemima Puddle-duck became quite desperate. She determined to make a nest right away from the farm. She set off on a fine spring afternoon along the cart road that leads over the hill. She was wearing a shawl and a poke bonnet. When she reached the top of the hill, she saw a wood in the distance. She thought that it looked a safe, quiet spot. Jemima Puddle-duck was not much in the habit of flying. She ran downhill a few yards, flapping her shawl, and then she jumped off into the air. She flew beautifully when she had got a good start. She skimmed along over the treetops until she saw an open place in the middle of the wood, where the trees and brushwood had been cleared. Jemima alighted rather heavily and began to waddle about in search of a convenient dry nesting place. She rather fancied a tree stump amongst some tall fox gloves. But, seated upon the stump, she was startled to find an elegantly dressed gentleman reading a newspaper. He had black prick ears and sandy colored whiskers. Quack! said Jemima Puddle-duck, with her head and her bonnet on one side. Quack! The gentleman raised his eyes above his newspaper and looked curiously at Jemima. Madam, have you lost your way? said he. He had a long, bushy tail which he was sitting upon. As the stump was somewhat damp, Jemima thought him mighty civil and handsome. She explained that she had not lost her way, but that she was trying to find a convenient dry nesting place. Ah! is that so! Indeed! said the gentleman with sandy whiskers, looking curiously at Jemima. He folded up the newspaper and put it in his coattail pocket. Jemima complained of the superfluous hen. Indeed! how interesting! I wish I could meet that fowl. I would teach it to mind its own business. But as to a nest, there is no difficulty. I have a sack full of feathers in my woodshed. No, my dear madam, you will be in nobody's way. You may sit there as long as you like. said the bushy, long-tailed gentleman. He led the way to a very retired, dismal-looking house among the fox-gloves. It was built of faggots and turf, and there were two broken pales, one on top of another by way of a chimney. This is my summer residence. You would not find my earth a my winter-house so convenient, said the hospitable gentleman. There was a tumble-down shed at the back of the house made of old soap boxes. The gentleman opened the door and showed Jemima in. The shed was almost quite full of feathers. It was almost suffocating, but it was comfortable and very soft. Jemima puddle-duck was rather surprised to find such a vast quantity of feathers. But it was very comfortable, and she made a nest without any trouble at all. When she came out the sandy-whiskered gentleman was sitting on a log reading the newspaper. At least he had it spread out, but he was looking over the top of it. He was so polite that he seemed almost sorry to let Jemima go home for the night. He promised to take great care of her nest until she came back again the next day. He said he loved eggs and ducklings, and he should be proud to see a fine nest full in his woodshed. Jemima puddle-duck came every afternoon. She laid nine eggs in the nest. They were greeny-white and very large. The foxy gentleman admired them immensely. He used to turn them over and count them when Jemima was not there. At last Jemima told him that she intended to begin to sit the next day. And I will bring a bag of corn with me, so that I need never leave my nest until the eggs are hatched. They might catch cold, said the conscientious Jemima. Madam, I beg you not to trouble yourself with the bag. I will provide oats, but before you commence your tedious sitting, I intend to give you a treat. Let's have a dinner party all to ourselves. May I ask you to bring up some herbs from the farm garden to make a savory omelette, sage and thyme and mint and two onions and some parsley? I will provide the lard for the stuff, a lard for the omelette, said the hospitable gentleman with sandy whiskers. Jemima puddle-duck was a simpleton. Not even the mention of sage and onions made her suspicious. She went round the farm garden, nibbling off snippets of all different sorts of herbs that are used for stuffing roast duck. And she waddled into the kitchen and got two onions out of a basket. The collie-dog kept met her coming out. What are you doing with those onions? Where do you go every afternoon by yourself, Jemima puddle-duck? Jemima was rather in awe of the collie. She told him the whole story. The collie listened with his wise head on one side. He grinned when she described the polite gentleman with sandy whiskers. He asked several questions about the wood and about the exact location of the house and shed. Then he went out and trotted down the village. He went to look for two foxhound puppies who were out at walk with the butcher. Jemima puddle-duck went up the cart road for the last time on a sunny afternoon. She was rather burdened with bunches of herbs and two onions in a bag. She flew over the wood and alighted opposite the house of the bushy, long-tailed gentleman. He was sitting on a log. He sniffed the air and kept glancing uneasily round the wood. When Jemima alighted, he quite jumped. Come in to the house as soon as you have looked at your eggs. Give me the herbs for the omelet. Be sharp. He was rather abrupt. Jemima puddle-duck had never heard him speak like that. She felt quite surprised and uncomfortable. While she was inside, she heard pattering feet round the back of the shed. Someone with a black nose sniffed at the bottom of the door and then locked it. Jemima became much alarmed. A moment afterward there were the most awful noises. Barking, baying, growls and howls, squealing and groans. And nothing more was ever seen of that foxy, whiskered gentleman. Presently, Kepp opened the door of the shed and let out Jemima puddle-duck. Unfortunately, the puppies rushed in and gobbled up all the eggs before he could stop them. He had a bite on his ear and both the puppies were limping. Jemima puddle-duck was a scorted home in tears on account of those eggs. She laid some more in June and she was permitted to keep them herself, but only four of them hatched. Jemima puddle-duck said that it was because of her nerves, but she had always been a bad sitter. End of Chapter 12, The Tale of Jemima Puddle-duck. Recording by Jenny Lundack, South Padre Island, Texas. Recorded in April 2009.