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Also we were in trouble because my brother’s forepaw was broken. It gave him a great deal of pain, so that he could not rest or sleep. After a while, however, it mended up in a fashion, but he was never able to run as fast as we could, nor did he grow so big. In the end the mother fox killed him, as I shall tell.

My mother asked my father what the men with the sticks were doing–for, you know, many animals can talk to each other in their own way, even if they are of different kinds. He told her that they were protecting the wheat to prevent us from eating it, to which she answered angrily that hares must live somehow, especially when they had young ones to nurse. My father replied that men did not seem to think so, and perhaps they had young ones also. I see now that my father was a philosophic hare. But are you tired of my story?

“Not at all,” I answered; “go on, please. It is very interesting to hear things described from the animal’s point of view, especially when that animal has grown wise and learned to understand.”

“Ah,” answered the Hare. “I see what you mean. And it is odd, but I do understand. All has become clear to me. I don’t know what happened when I died, but there came a change, and I knew that I who was but a beast always have been and still am a necessary part of everything as much as you are, though more helpless and humble. Yes, I am as ancient and as far-reaching as yourself, but how I began and how I shall end is dark to me. Well, I will go on with my story.”

It must have been a moon or so later, after my mother had given up nursing me, that I went to lie out by myself. There was a big house on the hillside overlooking the sea, and near to it were gardens surrounded by a wall. Also outside of this wall was another patch of garden where cabbages grew. I found a way to those cabbages and kept it secret, for I was greedy and wanted them all for myself. I used to creep in at night and eat them, also some flowers with spiky leaves that grew round them which had a very fine flavour. Then after the dawn came I went to a form which I had made under a furze bush on the slope that ran down to the sea, and slept there.

One day I was awakened by something white, hard, and round which rolled gently and stopped still quite close to me. It was not alive, although it had a queer smell, and I wondered why it moved at all. Presently I heard voices and there appeared a little man, and with him somebody who was not a man because it was differently dressed and spoke in a higher voice. I saw that they had sticks in their hands and thought of running away, then that it would be safer to lie quite close. They came up to me and the little man said–

“There’s the ball; pick it up, Ella, the lie is too bad.”

She, for now I know it was what is called a girl, stooped to obey and saw my back.

“Tom,” she said in a whisper, “here’s a young hare on its form.”

“Get out of the light,” he answered, “and I’ll kill it,” and he lifted the stick he held, which had a twisted iron end.

“No,” she said, “catch it alive; I want a hare to be a friend to my rabbit, which has lost all its little ones.”

“Lost them? Eaten them, you mean, because you would always go and stare at it,” said Tom. “Where’s the leveret? Oh! I see. Now, look out!”

A moment later and I was in darkness. Tom had thrown himself upon the top of me and was grabbing at me with his hands. I nearly got away, but as my head poked up under his arm the girl caught hold of it.