Текст книги "The Classic Tales. Volume IV"
Автор книги: Beatrix Potter
Жанр:
Сказки
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 2 страниц)
FOR ALL LITTLE FRIENDS OF
MR. MCGREGOR &
PETER & BENJAMIN
The Tale of
the Flopsy Bunnies
( 1909 )
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 upon 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 flower.
The Flopsy Bunnies simply stuffed lettuces. By degrees, one after another, they were overcome with slumber, and lay 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 clacketty sound of the mowing machine. The bluebottles 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 called Thomasina 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 a heavy tread above their heads; and suddenly Mr. McGregor emptied out a sackful of lawn mowings right upon the 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 lawn mowings. He stared at them for some time.
Presently a fly settled on one of them and it moved.
Mr. McGregor climbed down on to the rubbish heap—
“One, two, three, four! five! six leetle 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 his head, and they told the doleful tale.
Benjamin and Flopsy were in despair, they could not undo the string.
But Mrs. Tittlemouse 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 sack with three rotten vegetable marrows, 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 leetle rabbits!” said Mr. McGregor.
“Eh? What’s that? What have they been spoiling now?” enquired Mrs. McGregor.
“One, two, three, four, five, six leetle 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!” replied 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 baccy!”
“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 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 was 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.
The End
DEDICATED WITH VERY KIND REGARDS TO OLD
MR. JOHN TAYLOR,
WHO “THINKS HE MIGHT PASS AS A DORMOUSE!”
(three years in bed and never a grumble!)
The Tale of
Ginger and Pickles
( 1909 )
* * * * *
Once upon a time there was a village shop. The name over the window was “Ginger and Pickles”.
It was a little small shop just the right size for Dolls – Lucinda and Jane Doll-cook always bought their groceries at Ginger and Pickles.
The counter inside was a convenient height for rabbits. Ginger and Pickles sold red spotty pocket-handkerchiefs at a penny three farthings.
They also sold sugar, and snuff and goloshes.
In fact, although it was such a small shop it sold nearly everything – except a few things that you want in a hurry – like bootlaces, hair-pins and mutton chops.
Ginger and Pickles were the people who kept the shop. Ginger was a yellow tom-cat, and Pickles was a terrier.
The rabbits were always a little bit afraid of Pickles.
The shop was also patronized by mice – only the mice were rather afraid of Ginger.
Ginger usually requested Pickles to serve them, because he said it made his mouth water.
“I cannot bear,” said he, “to see them going out at the door carrying their little parcels.”
“I have the same feeling about rats,” replied Pickles, “but it would never do to eat our customers; they would leave us and go to Tabitha Twitchit’s.”
“On the contrary, they would go nowhere,” replied Ginger gloomily.
(Tabitha Twitchit kept the only other shop in the village. She did not give credit.)
Ginger and Pickles gave unlimited credit.
Now the meaning of “credit” is this – when a customer buys a bar of soap, instead of the customer pulling out a purse and paying for it – she says she will pay another time.
And Pickles makes a low bow and says, “With pleasure, madam,” and it is written down in a book.
The customers come again and again, and buy quantities, in spite of being afraid of Ginger and Pickles.
But there is no money in what is called the “till”.
The customers came in crowds every day and bought quantities, especially the toffee customers. But there was always no money; they never paid for as much as a pennyworth of peppermints.
But the sales were enormous, ten times as large as Tabitha Twitchit’s.
As there was always no money, Ginger and Pickles were obliged to eat their own goods.
Pickles ate biscuits and Ginger ate a dried haddock.
They ate them by candle-light after the shop was closed.
When it came to Jan. 1st there was still no money, and Pickles was unable to buy a dog licence.
“It is very unpleasant, I am afraid of the police,” said Pickles.
“It is your own fault for being a terrier; I do not require a licence, and neither does Kep, the collie dog.”
“It is very uncomfortable, I am afraid I shall be summoned. I have tried in vain to get a licence upon credit at the Post Office,” said Pickles. “The place is full of policemen. I met one as I was coming home.
“Let us send in the bill again to Samuel Whiskers, Ginger, he owes 22/9 for bacon.”
“I do not believe that he intends to pay at all,” replied Ginger.
“And I feel sure that Anna Marie pockets things – Where are all the cream crackers?”
“You have eaten them yourself,” replied Ginger.
Ginger and Pickles retired into the back parlour.
They did accounts. They added up sums and sums, and sums.
“Samuel Whiskers has run up a bill as long as his tail; he has had an ounce and three-quarters of snuff since October.
“What is seven pounds of butter at 1/3, and a stick of sealing wax and four matches?”
“Send in all the bills again to everybody ‘with compts’,” replied Ginger.
After a time they heard a noise in the shop, as if something had been pushed in at the door. They came out of the back parlour. There was an envelope lying on the counter, and a policeman writing in a notebook!
Pickles nearly had a fit, he barked and he barked and made little rushes.
“Bite him, Pickles! bite him!” spluttered Ginger behind a sugar-barrel, “he’s only a German doll!”
The policeman went on writing in his notebook; twice he put his pencil in his mouth, and once he dipped it in the treacle.
Pickles barked till he was hoarse. But still the policeman took no notice. He had bead eyes, and his helmet was sewed on with stitches.
At length on his last little rush – Pickles found that the shop was empty. The policeman had disappeared.
But the envelope remained.
“Do you think that he has gone to fetch a real live policeman? I am afraid it is a summons,” said Pickles.
“No,” replied Ginger, who had opened the envelope, “it is the rates and taxes, £3 19 11-3/4.”
“This is the last straw,” said Pickles, “let us close the shop.”
They put up the shutters, and left. But they have not removed from the neighbourhood. In fact some people wish they had gone further.
Ginger is living in the warren. I do not know what occupation he pursues; he looks stout and comfortable.
Pickles is at present a gamekeeper.
The closing of the shop caused great inconvenience. Tabitha Twitchit immediately raised the price of everything a half-penny; and she continued to refuse to give credit.
Of course there are the tradesmen’s carts – the butcher, the fishman and Timothy Baker.
But a person cannot live on “seed wigs” and sponge-cake and butter-buns – not even when the sponge-cake is as good as Timothy’s!
After a time Mr. John Dormouse and his daughter began to sell peppermints and candles.
But they did not keep “self-fitting sixes”; and it takes five mice to carry one seven-inch candle.
Besides – the candles which they sell behave very strangely in warm weather.
And Miss Dormouse refused to take back the ends when they were brought back to her with complaints.
And when Mr. John Dormouse was complained to, he stayed in bed, and would say nothing but “very snug”; which is not the way to carry on a retail business.
So everybody was pleased when Sally Henny-penny sent out a printed poster to say that she was going to re-open the shop – “Henny’s Opening Sale! Grand co-operative Jumble! Penny’s penny prices! Come buy, come try, come buy!”
The poster really was most ’ticing.
There was a rush upon the opening day. The shop was crammed with customers, and there were crowds of mice upon the biscuit canisters.
Sally Henny-penny gets rather flustered when she tries to count out change, and she insists on being paid cash; but she is quite harmless.
And she has laid in a remarkable assortment of bargains.
There is something to please everybody.
* * * * *
The End
NELLIE’S LITTLE BOOK
The Tale of
Mrs. Tittlemouse
( 1910 )
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 and nut-cellars and seed-cellars, all amongst the roots of the hedge.
There was a kitchen, a parlour, 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.
“Shuh! shuh! little dirty feet!” said Mrs. Tittlemouse, clattering her dust-pan.
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 in to shelter from the rain.
“Beg pardon, is this 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 floor.
“I smell a smell of honey; is it the cowslips outside, in the hedge? I am sure I can see the marks of little dirty feet.”
Suddenly round a corner, she met Babbitty Bumble – “Zizz, Bizz, Bizzz!” said the bumble bee.
Mrs. Tittlemouse looked at her severely. She wished that she had a broom.
“Good-day, Babbitty 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, Bizz, Bizzz?” Mrs. Tittlemouse began to get cross.
“Zizz, Wizz, Wizz!” replied Babbitty 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 am not in the habit of letting lodgings; this is an intrusion!” said Mrs. Tittlemouse. “I will have them turned out—” “Buzz! Buzz! Buzzz!” – “I wonder who would help me?” “Bizz, Wizz, Wizzz!”
– “I will not have Mr. Jackson; he never wipes his feet.”
Mrs. Tittlemouse decided to leave the bees till after dinner.
When she got back to the parlour, she heard some one 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, in a very dirty wet ditch.
“How do you do, Mr. Jackson? Deary me, you have got very wet!”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mrs. Tittlemouse! I’ll sit awhile and dry myself,” said Mr. Jackson.
He sat and smiled, and the water dripped off his coat tails. 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 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 head.
Then she offered him thistle-down seed – “Tiddly, widdly, widdly! Pouff, pouff, puff!” 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 am 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 dish-cloth, to wipe his large wet footmarks off the parlour 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 the plate-rack. Two of them got away; but the littlest one he caught.
Then he squeezed into the larder. Miss 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 Tittlemouse.
They went along the sandy passage – “Tiddly widdly—” “Buzz! Wizz! Wizz!”
He met Babbitty round a corner, and snapped her up, and put her down again.
“I do not like bumble bees. They are all over bristles,” said Mr. Jackson, wiping his mouth with his coat-sleeve.
“Get out, you nasty old toad!” shrieked Babbitty Bumble.
“I shall go distracted!” scolded Mrs. Tittlemouse.
She shut herself up in the nut-cellar while Mr. Jackson pulled out the bees-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 beeswax.
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-cupfuls of honeydew through the window, and he was not at all offended.
He sat outside in the sun, and said – “Tiddly, widdly, widdly! Your very good health, Mrs. Tittlemouse!”
The End
FOR MANY UNKNOWN LITTLE FRIENDS,
INCLUDING MONICA
The Tale of
Timmy Tiptoes
( 1911 )
Once upon a time there was a little fat comfortable grey 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.
Timmy Tiptoes sat out, enjoying the breeze; he whisked his tail and chuckled – “Little 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 spring-time,” replied prudent Timothy.
When Timmy and Goody Tiptoes came 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 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 a tree, that had belonged to a wood-pecker; the nuts rattled down – down – down inside.
“How shall you ever get them out again? It is like a money-box!” said Goody.
“I shall be much thinner before spring-time, my love,” said Timmy Tiptoes, peeping into the hole.
