THE TALE OF PETER RABBIT

BY BEATRIX POTTER

Once upon a time there were four little rabbits, and their names were Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail, and Peter. They lived with their mother in a sand-bank, beneath the roots of a great fir tree.

"Now, my dears," said old Mrs. Rabbit one morning, "you may go into the fields or down the lane, but do not go into Mr. McGregor's garden. Your father had an accident there — he was baked into a pie by Mrs. McGregor."

"Now run along, and don't get into any mischief. I'm going out."

Old Mrs. Rabbit took a basket and her umbrella and set off through the woods to the baker's, where she bought a loaf of brown bread and five currant buns.

Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail, who were well-behaved little rabbits, went down the lane to pick blackberries. But Peter, who was not nearly so obedient, dashed straight to Mr. McGregor's garden and squeezed underneath the gate.

First he ate some lettuce and some French beans, and then some radishes. Feeling rather queasy afterward, he went off in search of parsley.

But rounding the end of a cucumber frame, who should he run into but Mr. McGregor himself! Mr. McGregor had been on his hands and knees planting cabbage seedlings, but he sprang up at once and chased after Peter, waving a rake and shouting, "Stop, thief!"

Peter was terrified. He dashed wildly around the garden, for in his panic he'd forgotten the way back to the gate. He lost one shoe among the cabbages and the other among the potatoes. Once they were gone, he ran faster on all four legs — so fast that he might well have escaped completely, had he not blundered into a gooseberry net and been caught fast by the large brass buttons on his brand-new blue jacket.

Peter believed himself doomed and burst into tears. But some kindhearted sparrows heard his sobbing and flew to him at once, urging him frantically to keep struggling.

Mr. McGregor arrived carrying a sieve, meaning to clap it down over Peter, but Peter wriggled free just in time — leaving his jacket caught in the net behind him.

He bolted into the tool-shed and dove into a watering can. It would have made a fine hiding place, if it hadn't been so full of water.

Mr. McGregor felt certain Peter was hiding somewhere in the shed — perhaps beneath a flowerpot — and began carefully turning them over, one by one, to check. Just then, Peter sneezed: "Kertyschoo!" In an instant, Mr. McGregor was after him again.

He tried to stamp his foot down on Peter, who leaped out through a window, knocking over three potted plants as he went. The window was too small for Mr. McGregor to follow, and by now he was growing tired of the chase, so he returned to his work.

Peter stopped to catch his breath. He was shaking with fear and had no idea which direction to go — and, having sat in that watering can, he was thoroughly soaked besides.

After a while he began wandering about, hopping slowly — lippity-lippity — and glancing around him on every side.

He came upon a door in a wall, but it was locked, and there was no gap beneath it wide enough for a plump little rabbit to squeeze through. An old mouse was scurrying in and out over the stone doorstep, hauling peas and beans back to her family in the woods. Peter asked her the way to the gate, but her mouth was so full of a large pea that she couldn't answer — she only shook her head. Peter began to cry.

He then tried cutting straight across the garden, but only grew more and more lost. Eventually he reached a pond where Mr. McGregor filled his watering cans. A white cat sat there, perfectly still, watching some goldfish — though the tip of her tail twitched now and then, as if it had a life of its own. Peter decided it was wisest to slip past without a word; he remembered what his cousin, little Benjamin Bunny, had told him about cats.

He turned back toward the tool-shed, but suddenly, very close by, he heard the sound of a hoe — scr-r-ritch, scratch, scratch, scritch. Peter darted under a bush. When nothing happened, he crept out again, climbed onto a wheelbarrow, and peered over the edge. There was Mr. McGregor, hoeing onions with his back turned — and beyond him stood the gate!

Peter climbed down quietly from the wheelbarrow and took off running as fast as he could along a straight path behind some black-currant bushes. Mr. McGregor spotted him at the corner, but Peter didn't care. He slid under the gate and was safe at last in the woods outside the garden.

Mr. McGregor hung the little jacket and shoes on a stick to serve as a scarecrow, to keep the blackbirds away.

Peter never once paused or looked back until he reached home at the big fir tree. He was so exhausted that he collapsed onto the soft sand of the rabbit-hole floor and closed his eyes. His mother, busy cooking, wondered what had become of his clothes — it was the second little jacket and pair of shoes Peter had lost in just two weeks!

I'm sorry to report that Peter felt quite unwell that evening. His mother put him to bed and brewed a cup of chamomile tea, giving him a spoonful as medicine: "One tablespoon, to be taken at bedtime."

But Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cotton-tail had bread, milk, and blackberries for their supper.

THE END