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THE STORY OF A COTTONTAIL RABBIT
 RAGGYLUG, or Rag, was the name of a young cottontail rabbit. It
was given him from his torn and ragged ear, a life-mark that he got
in his first adventure. He lived with his mother in Olifant's Swamp,
where I made their acquaintance and gathered, in a hundred
different ways, the little bits of proof and scraps of truth that at
length enabled me to write this history.
Those who do not know the animals well may think I have
humanized them, but those who have lived so near them as to
know somewhat of their ways and their minds will not think so.
Truly rabbits have no speech as we understand it, but they have a
way of conveying ideas by a system of sounds, signs, scents,
whisker-  touches, movements, and example that answers the
purpose of speech; and it must be remembered that though in
telling this story I freely translate from rabbit into
English, I repeat
nothing that they did not say.
The rank swamp grass bent over and concealed the snug nest
where Raggylug's mother had hidden him. She had partly covered
him with some of the bedding, and, as always, her last warning
was to 'lay low and say nothing, whatever happens.' Though tucked
in bed, he was wide awake and his bright eyes were
 taking in that
part of his little green world that was straight above. A bluejay and
a red-squirrel, two notorious thieves, were loudly berating each
other for stealing, and at one time Rag's home bush was the centre
of their fight; a yellow warbler caught a blue butterfly but six
inches from his nose, and a scarlet and black ladybug, serenely
waving her knobbed feelers, took a long walk up one grassblade,
down another, and across the nest and over Rag's face—and yet he
never moved nor even winked.
After a while he heard a strange rustling of the leaves in the near
thicket. It was an odd, continuous sound, and though it went this
way and that way and came ever nearer, there was no patter of feet
with it. Rag had lived his whole life in the Swamp (he was three
weeks old) and yet had never heard anything like this. Of course
his curiosity was greatly aroused. His mother had cautioned him to
lay low, but that was understood to be in case of danger, and this
strange sound without footfalls could not be anything to fear.
The low rasping went past close at hand, then to the right, then
back, and seemed going
 away. Rag felt he knew what he was
about; he wasn't a baby; it was his duty to learn what it was. He
slowly raised his roly-poly body on his short fluffy legs, lifted his
little round head above the covering of his nest and peeped out into
the woods. The sound had ceased as soon as he moved. He saw
nothing, so took one step forward to a clear view, and instantly
found himself face to face with an enormous Black Serpent.
"Mammy," he screamed in mortal terror as the monster darted at
him. With all the strength of his tiny limbs he tried to run. But in a
flash the Snake had him by one ear and whipped around him with
his coils to gloat over the helpless little baby bunny he had secured
'Mammy, Mammy!' he Screamed in Mortal Terror
"Mam-my—Mam-my," gasped poor little Raggylug as the cruel
monster began slowly choking him to death. Very soon the little
one's cry would have ceased, but bounding through the woods
straight as an arrow came Mammy. No longer a shy, helpless little
Molly Cottontail, ready to fly from a shadow: the mother's love
was strong in her. The cry of
 her baby had filled her with the
courage of a hero, and—hop, she went over that horrible reptile.
Whack, she struck down at him with her sharp hind claws as she
passed, giving him such a stinging blow that he squirmed with pain
and hissed with anger.
"M-a-m-my," came feebly from the little one. And Mammy came
leaping again and again and struck harder and fiercer until the
loathsome reptile let go the little one's ear and tried to bite the old
one as she leaped over. But all he got was a mouthful of wool each
time, and Molly's fierce blows began to tell, as long bloody rips
were torn in the Black Snake's scaly armor.
Things were now looking bad for the Snake; and bracing himself
for the next charge, he lost his tight hold on Baby Bunny, who at
once wriggled out of the coils and away into the underbrush,
breathless and terribly frightened, but unhurt save that his left ear
was much torn by the teeth of that dreadful Serpent.
Molly now had gained all she wanted. She had no notion of
fighting for glory or revenge. Away she went into the woods and
 one followed the shining beacon of her snow-white tail
until she led him to a safe corner of the Swamp.
Old Olifant's Swamp was a rough, brambly tract of second-growth
woods, with a marshy pond and a stream through the middle. A
few ragged remnants of the old forest still stood in it and a few of
the still older trunks were lying about as dead logs in the
brushwood. The land about the pond was of that willow-grown
sedgy kind that cats and horses avoid, but that cattle do not fear.
The drier zones were overgrown with briars and young trees. The
outermost belt of all, that next the fields, was of thrifty,
gummy-trunked young pines whose living needles in air and dead
ones on earth offer so delicious an odor to the nostrils of the
passer-by, and so deadly a breath to those seedlings that would
compete with them for the worthless waste they grow on.
All around for a long way were smooth fields, and the only wild
tracks that ever crossed
 these fields were those of a thoroughly bad
and unscrupulous fox that lived only too near.
The chief indwellers of the swamp were Molly and Rag. Their
nearest neighbors were far away, and their nearest kin were dead.
This was their home, and here they lived together, and here Rag
received the training that made his success in life.
Molly was a good little mother and gave him a careful bringing up.
The first thing he learned was 'to lay low and say nothing.' His
adventure with the snake taught him the wisdom of this. Rag never
forgot that lesson; afterward he did as he was told, and it made
the other things come more easily.
The second lesson he learned was 'freeze.' It grows out of the first,
and Rag was taught it as soon as he could run.
'Freezing' is simply doing nothing, turning into a statue. As soon as
he finds a foe near, no matter what he is doing, a well-trained
Cottontail keeps just as he is and stops all movement, for the
creatures of the woods are of the same color as the things in the
woods and catch the eye only while moving. So when
chance together, the one who first sees the other can keep himself unseen by 'freezing' and thus have all the advantage of
choosing the time for attack or escape. Only those who live in the
woods know the importance of this; every wild creature and every
hunter must learn it; all learn to do it well, but not one of them can
beat Molly Cottontail in the doing. Rag's mother taught him this
trick by example. When the white cotton cushion that she always
carried to sit on went bobbing away through the woods, of course
Rag ran his hardest to keep up. But when Molly stopped and
'froze,' the natural wish to copy made him do the same.
But the best lesson of all that Rag learned from his mother was the
secret of the Brierbrush. It is a very old secret now, and to make it
plain you must first hear why the Brierbrush quarrelled with the
 Long ago the Roses used to grow on bushes that had no thorns. But
the Squirrels and Mice used to climb after them, the Cattle used to
knock them off with their horns, the Possum would twitch them
off with his long tail, and the Deer, with his sharp hoofs, would
break them down. So the Brierbrush armed itself with spikes to
protect its roses and declared eternal war on all creatures that
climbed trees, or had horns, or hoofs, or long tails. This left the
Brierbrush at peace with none but Molly Cottontail, who could not
climb, was hornless, hoofless, and had scarcely any tail at all.
In truth the Cottontail had never harmed a Brierrose, and having
now so many enemies the Rose took the Rabbit into especial
friendship, and when dangers are threatening poor Bunny he flies
to the nearest Brierbrush, certain that it is ready with a million
keen and poisoned daggers to defend him.
 So the secret that Rag learned from his mother was, 'The
Brierbrush is your best friend.'
Much of the time that season was spent in learning the lay of the
land, and the bramble and brier mazes. And Rag learned them so
well that he could go all around the swamp by two different ways
and never leave the friendly briers at any place for more than five
It is not long since the foes of the Cottontails were disgusted to
find that man had brought a new kind of bramble and planted it in
long lines throughout the country.
It was so strong that no
creatures could break it down, and so sharp that the toughest skin
was torn by it. Each year there was more of it and each year it
became a more serious matter to the wild creatures. But Molly
Cottontail had no fear of it. She was not brought up in the briers
for nothing. Dogs and foxes, cattle and sheep, and even man
himself might be torn by those fearful spikes: but Molly
understands it and lives and thrives under it. And the further it
spreads the more safe country there is for the Cottontail. And the
name of this new and dreaded bramble is—the barbed-wire fence.
 Molly had no other children to look after now, so Rag had all her
care. He was unusually quick and bright as well as strong, and he
had uncommonly good chances; so he got on remarkably well.
All the season she kept him busy learning the tricks of the trail,
and what to eat and drink and what not to touch. Day by day she
worked to train him; little by little she taught him, putting into his
mind hundreds of ideas that her own life or early training had
stored in hers, and so equipped him with the knowledge that makes
life possible to their kind.
Close by her side in the clover-field or the thicket he would sit and
copy her when she wobbled her nose 'to keep her smeller clear,'
and pull the bite from her mouth or taste her lips to make sure he
was getting the same kind of fodder. Still copying her, he learned
to comb his ears with his claws and to dress his coat and to bite the
burrs out of his vest and socks. He learned, too, that nothing but
 dewdrops from the briers were fit for a rabbit to drink, as
water which has once touched the earth must surely bear some
taint. Thus he began the study of woodcraft, the oldest of all
As soon as Rag was big enough to go out alone, his mother taught
him the signal code. Rabbits telegraph each other by thumping on
the ground with their hind feet. Along the ground sound carries
far; a thump that at six feet from the earth is not heard at twenty
yards will, near the ground, be heard at least one hundred yards.
Rabbits have very keen hearing, and so might hear this same
thump at two hundred yards, and that would reach from end to end
of Olifant's Swamp. A single thump means 'look out' or
slow thump thump means 'come.' A fast thump thump means
'danger'; and a very fast thump thump thump means 'run for dear
At another time, when the weather was fine and the bluejays were
quarrelling among themselves, a sure sign that no dangerous foe
was about, Rag began a new study. Molly, by flattening her ears,
gave the sign to squat. Then
 she ran far away in the thicket and
gave the thumping signal for 'come.' Rag set out at a run to the
place but could not find Molly. He thumped, but got no reply.
Setting carefully about his search he found her foot-scent and,
following this strange guide, that the beasts all know so well and
man does not know at all, he worked out the trail and found her
where she was hidden. Thus he got his first lesson in trailing, and
thus it was that the games of hide and seek they played became
the schooling for the serious chase of which there was so much in
his after life.
Before that first season of schooling was over he had learnt all the
principal tricks by which a rabbit lives and in not a few problems
showed himself a veritable genius.
He was an adept at 'tree,' 'dodge,' and 'squat,' he could play
'log-lump,' with 'wind' and 'baulk' with 'back-track' so well that he
scarcely needed any other tricks. He had not yet tried it, but he
knew just how to play 'barb-wire,' which is a new trick of the
brilliant order; he had made a special study of 'sand,' which burns
up all scent, and he was
 deeply versed in 'change-off,' 'fence,' and
'double' as well as 'hole-up,' which is a trick requiring longer
notice, and yet he never forgot that 'lay-low' is the beginning of all
wisdom and 'brierbush' the only trick that is always safe.
He was taught the signs by which to know all his foes and then the
way to baffle them. For hawks, owls, foxes, hounds, curs, minks,
weasels, cats, skunks, coons, and—men, each have a different
plan of pursuit, and for each and all of these evils he was taught a
And for knowledge of the enemy's approach he learnt to depend
first on himself and his mother, and then on the bluejay.
"Never neglect the bluejay's warning," said Molly; "he is a
mischief-maker, a marplot, and a thief all the time, but nothing
escapes him. He wouldn't mind harming us, but he cannot, thanks
to the briers, and his enemies are ours, so it is well to heed him. If
the woodpecker cries a warning you can trust him, he is honest;
but he is a fool beside the bluejay, and though the bluejay often
tells lies for mischief you are safe to believe him when he brings
 The barb-wire trick takes a deal of nerve and the best of legs. It
was long before Rag ventured to play it, but as he came to his full
powers it became one of his favorites.
"It's fine play for those who can do it," said Molly. "First you lead
off your dog on a straightaway and warm him up a bit by nearly
letting him catch you. Then keeping just one hop ahead, you lead
him at a long slant full tilt into a breast-high barb-wire. I've seen
many a dog and fox crippled, and one big hound killed outright
this way. But I've also seen more than one rabbit lose his life in
Rag early learnt what some rabbits never learn at all, that 'hole-up'
is not such a fine ruse as it seems; it may be the certain safety of a
wise rabbit, but soon or late is a sure death-trap to a fool. A young
rabbit always thinks of it first, an old rabbit never tries it till all
others fail. It means escape from a man or dog, a fox or a bird of
prey, but it means sudden death if the foe is a ferret, mink, skunk,
There were but two ground-holes in the Swamp. One on the
Sunning Bank, which was
 a dry sheltered knoll in the South-end. It
was open and sloping to the sun, and here on fine days the
Cottontails took their sunbaths. They stretched out among the
fragrant pine needles and winter-green in odd cat-like positions,
and turned slowly over as though roasting and wishing all sides
well done. And they blinked and panted, and squirmed as if in
dreadful pain; yet this was one of the keenest enjoyments they
Just over the brow of the knoll was a large pine stump. Its
grotesque roots wriggled out above the yellow sand-bank like
dragons, and under their protecting claws a sulky old woodchuck
had digged a den long ago.
He became more sour and ill-tempered as weeks went by, and
one day waited to quarrel with Olifant's dog instead of going in so
that Molly Cottontail was able to take possession of the den an
This, the pine-root hole, was afterward very coolly taken by a
self-sufficient young skunk who with less valor might have
enjoyed greater longevity, for he imagined that even man with a
gun would fly from him. Instead of keeping
 Molly from the den
for good, therefore, his reign, like that of a certain Hebrew king,
was over in seven days.
The other, the fern-hole, was in a fern thicket next the clover field.
It was small and damp, and useless except as a last retreat. It also
was the work of a woodchuck, a well-meaning friendly neighbor,
but a hare-brained youngster whose skin in the form of a whip-lash
was now developing higher horse-power in the Olifant working
"Simple justice," said the old man, "for that hide was raised on
stolen feed that the team would a' turned into horse-power
The Cottontails were now sole owners of the holes, and did not go
near them when they could help it, lest anything like a path should
be made that might betray these last retreats to an enemy.
was also the hollow hickory, which, though nearly fallen, was still
green, and had the great advantage of being open at both ends.
This had long been the residence of one Lotor, a solitary old coon
whose ostensible calling was frog-hunting, and who, like the
monks of old,
 was supposed to abstain from all flesh food.
was shrewdly suspected that he needed but a chance to indulge in a
diet of rabbit. When at last one dark night he was killed while
raiding Olifant's hen-house, Molly, so far from feeling a pang of
regret, took possession of his cosy nest with a sense of unbounded
Bright August sunlight was flooding the Swamp in the morning.
Everything seemed soaking in the warm radiance. A little brown
swamp-sparrow was teetering on a long rush in the pond. Beneath
him there were open spaces of dirty water that brought down a few
scraps of the blue sky, and worked it and the yellow duckweed
into an exquisite mosaic, with a little wrong-side picture of the
bird in the middle. On the bank behind was a great vigorous
growth of golden green skunk-cabbage, that cast dense shadow
over the brown swamp tussocks.
The eyes of the swamp-sparrow were not trained to take in the
color glories, but he saw what we might have missed; that two of
 numberless leafy brown bumps under the broad cabbage-leaves
were furry living things, with noses that never ceased to move up
and down, whatever else was still.
It was Molly and Rag. They were stretched under the
skunk-cabbage, not because they liked its rank smell, but because
the winged ticks could not stand it at all and so left them in peace.
Rabbits have no set time for lessons, they are always learning; but
what the lesson is depends on the present stress, and that must
arrive before it is known. They went to this place for a quiet rest,
but had not been long there when suddenly a warning note from
the ever-watchful bluejay caused Molly's nose and ears to go up
and her tail to tighten to her back. Away across the Swamp was
Olifant's big black and white dog, coming straight toward them.
"Now," said Molly, "squat while I go and keep that fool out of
mischief." Away she went to meet him and she fearlessly dashed
across the dog's path.
"Bow-ow-ow," he fairly yelled as he
bound-  ed after Molly, but she
kept just beyond his reach and led him where the million daggers
struck fast and deep, till his tender ears were scratched raw, and
guided him at last plump into a hidden barbed-wire fence, where
he got such a gashing that he went homeward howling with pain.
After making a short double, a loop and a baulk in case the dog
should come back, Molly returned to find that Rag in his eagerness
was standing bolt upright and craning his neck to see the sport.
This disobedience made her so angry that she struck him with her
hind foot and knocked him over in the mud.
One day as they fed on the near clover field a red-tailed hawk came
swooping after them. Molly kicked up her hind legs to make fun of
him and skipped into the briers along one of their old pathways,
where of course the hawk could not follow. It was the main path
from the Creekside Thicket to the Stove-pipe brushpile. Several
creepers had grown across it, and Molly, keeping one eye on the
hawk, set to work and cut the creepers off. Rag watched her, then
ran on ahead, and cut some more that
 were across the path. "That's
right," said Molly, "always keep the runways clear, you will need
them often enough. Not wide, but clear. Cut everything like a
creeper across them and some day you will find you have cut a
snare." "A what?" asked Rag, as he scratched his right ear with his
left hind foot.
"A snare is something that looks like a creeper, but it doesn't grow
and it's worse than all the hawks in the world," said Molly,
glancing at the now far-away red-tail, "for there it hides night and
day in the runway till the chance to catch you comes."
"I don't believe it could catch me," said Rag, with the pride of
youth as he rose on his heels to rub his chin and whiskers high up
on a smooth sapling. Rag did not know he was doing this, but his
mother saw and knew it was a sign, like the changing of a boy's
voice, that her little one was no longer a baby but would soon be a
 There is magic in running water. Who does not know it and feel it?
The railroad builder fearlessly throws his bank across the wide bog
or lake, or the sea itself, but the tiniest rill of running water he
treats with great respect, studies its wish and its way and gives it
all it seems to ask. The thirst-parched traveller in the poisonous
alkali deserts holds back in deadly fear from the sedgy ponds till
he finds one down whose centre is a thin, clear line, and a faint
flow, the sign of running, living water, and joyfully he drinks.
There is magic in running water, no evil spell can cross it. Tam
O'Shanter proved its potency in time of sorest need. The
wild-wood creature with its deadly foe following tireless on the
trail scent, realizes its nearing doom and feels an awful spell. Its
strength is spent, its every trick is tried in vain till the good
Angel leads it to the water, the running, living water, and dashing
in it follows the cooling stream, and then with force renewed
takes to the woods again.
 There is magic in running water. The hounds come to the very spot
and halt and cast about; and halt and cast in vain. Their spell is
broken by the merry stream, and the wild thing lives its life.
And this was one of the great secrets that Raggylug learned from
his mother—"after the Brierrose, the Water is your friend."
One hot, muggy night in August, Molly led Rag through the
woods. The cotton-white cushion she wore under her tail twinkled
ahead and was his guiding lantern, though it went out as soon as
she stopped and sat on it.
Rag Followed the Snow-White Beacon
After a few runs and stops to listen, they
came to the edge of the pond. The hylas in the trees above them
were singing 'sleep, sleep,' and away out on a sunken log in the
deep water, up to his chin in the cooling bath, a bloated bullfrog
was singing the praises of a 'jug o' rum.'
"Follow me still," said Molly, in rabbit, and 'flop' she went into the
pond and struck out for the sunken log in the middle. Rag flinched
but plunged with a little 'ouch,' gasping and wobbling his nose very
fast but still copying his mother. The same
move-  ments as on land
sent him through the water, and thus he found he could swim. On
he went till he reached the sunken log and scrambled up by his
dripping mother on the high dry end, with a rushy screen around
them and the Water that tells no tales. After this in warm black
nights when that old fox from Springfield came prowling through
the Swamp, Rag would note the place of the bullfrog's voice, for in
case of direst need it might be a guide to safety. And thenceforth
the words of the song that the bullfrog sang were, 'Come, come, in
This was the latest study that Rag took up with his mother—it was
really a post-graduate course, for many little rabbits never learn it
No wild animal dies of old age. Its life has soon or late a tragic
end. It is only a question of how long it can hold out against its
foes. But Rag's life was proof that once a rabbit passes out of his
youth he is likely to outlive his prime
 and be killed only in the last
third of life, the downhill third we call old age.
The Cottontails had enemies on every side. Their daily life was a
series of escapes. For dogs, foxes, cats, skunks, coons, weasels,
minks, snakes, hawks, owls, and men, and even insects were all
plotting to kill them. They had hundreds of adventures, and at least
once a day they had to fly for their lives and save themselves by
their legs and wits.
More than once that hateful fox from Springfield drove them to
taking refuge under the wreck of a barbed-wire hog-pen by the
spring. But once there they could look calmly at him while he
spiked his legs in vain attempts to reach them.
Once or twice Rag when hunted had played off the hound against a
skunk that had seemed likely to be quite as dangerous as the dog.
Once he was caught alive by a hunter who had a hound and a ferret
to help him. But Rag had the luck to escape next day, with a yet
deeper distrust of ground holes. He was several times run into the
water by the cat, and many times was chased by hawks and owls,
 for each kind of danger there was a safeguard. His mother
taught him the principal dodges, and he improved on them and
made many new ones as he grew older. And the older and wiser he
grew the less he trusted to his legs, and the more to his wits for
Ranger was the name of a young hound in the neighborhood. To
train him his master used to put him on the trail of one of the
Cottontails. It was nearly always Rag that they ran, for the young
buck enjoyed the runs as much as they did, the spice of danger in
them being just enough for zest. He would say:
"Oh, mother! here comes the dog again, I must have a run to-day."
"You are too bold, Raggy, my son!" she might reply.
"I fear you will run once too often."
"But, mother, it is such glorious fun to tease that fool dog, and it's
all good training. I'll thump if I am too hard pressed, then you can
come and change off while I get my second wind."
On he would come, and Ranger would take the trail and follow till
Rag got tired of it. Then
 he either sent a thumping telegram for
help, which brought Molly to take charge of the dog, or he got rid
of the dog by some clever trick. A description of one of these
shows how well Rag had learned the arts of the woods.
He knew that his scent lay best near the ground, and was strongest
when he was warm. So if he could get off the ground, and be left
in peace for half an hour to cool off, and for the trail to stale, he
knew he would be safe. When, therefore, he tired of the chase, he
made for the Creekside brier-patch, where he 'wound'—that is,
zigzagged—till he left a course so crooked that the dog was sure to
be greatly delayed in working it out. He then went straight to D
the woods, passing one hop to windward of the high log E.
Stopping at D, he followed his back trail to F; here he leaped aside
and ran toward G. Then, returning on his trail to J, he waited till
the hound passed on his trail at I. Rag then got back on his old trail
at H, and followed it to E, where, with a scent-baulk or great leap
aside, he reached the high log, and running to its higher end, he
sat like a bump.
Ranger lost much time in the bramble maze, and the scent was
very poor when he got it straightened out, and came to D. Here he
began to circle to pick it up, and after losing much time, struck the
trail which ended suddenly at G. Again he was at fault, and had to
circle to find the trail. Wider and wider circles, until at last, he
passed right under the log Rag was on. But a cold scent, on a cold
day, does not go downward much. Rag never budged nor winked,
and the hound passed.
Again the dog came round. This time he crossed the low part of
the log, and stopped to smell it. 'Yes, clearly it was rabbity,' but it
was a stale scent now; still he mounted the log.
The Hound came Sniffing along the Log
It was a trying moment for Rag, as the great
 hound came
sniff-sniffing along the log. But his nerve did not forsake him; the
wind was right; he had his mind made up to bolt as soon as Ranger
came half-way up. But he didn't come. A yellow cur would have
seen the rabbit sitting there, but the hound did not, and the scent
seemed stale, so he leaped off the log, and Rag had won.
Rag had never seen any other rabbit than his mother. Indeed he
had scarcely thought about there being any other. He was more and
more away from her now, and yet he never felt lonely, for rabbits
do not hanker for company. But one day in December, while he
was among the red dogwood brush, cutting a new path to the great
Creekside thicket, he saw all at once against the sky over the
Sunning Bank the head and ears of a strange rabbit. The new-comer
had the air of a well-pleased discoverer and soon came hopping
Rag's way along one of his paths into his Swamp.
A new feeling
rushed over him, that boiling mixture of anger and hatred called
 The stranger stopped at one of Rag's rubbing-trees—that is, a tree
against which he used to stand on his heels and rub his chin as far
up as he could reach. He thought he did this simply because he
liked it; but all buck-rabbits do so, and several ends are served. It
makes the tree rabbity, so that other rabbits know that this swamp
already belongs to a rabbit family and is not open for settlement. It
also lets the next one know by the scent if the last caller was an
acquaintance, and the height from the ground of the rubbing-places
shows how tall the rabbit is.
Now to his disgust Rag noticed that the new-comer was a head
taller than himself, and a big, stout buck at that. This was a wholly
new experience and filled Rag with a wholly new feeling. The
spirit of murder entered his heart; he chewed very hard at nothing
in his mouth, and hopping forward onto a smooth piece of hard
ground he struck slowly:
'Thump—thump—thump,' which is a rabbit
telegram for 'Get out of my swamp, or fight.'
The new-comer made a big V with his ears, sat upright for a few
seconds, then, dropping on
 his fore-feet, sent along the ground a
louder, stronger, 'Thump—thump—thump.'
And so war was declared.
They came together by short runs side-wise, each one trying to get
the wind of the other and watching for a chance advantage. The
stranger was a big, heavy buck with plenty of muscle, but one or
two trifles such as treading on a turnover and failing to close when
Rag was on low ground showed that he had not much cunning and
counted on winning his battles by his weight. On he came at last
and Rag met him like a little fury. As they came together they
leaped up and struck out with their hind feet. Thud, thud they
came, and down went poor little Rag. In a moment the stranger
was on him with his teeth and Rag was bitten, and lost several tufts
of hair before he could get up. But he was swift of foot and got out
of reach. Again he charged and again he was knocked down and
bitten severely. He was no match for his foe, and it soon became a
question of saving his own life.
Hurt as he was he sprang away, with the stranger in full chase, and
bound to kill him as well
 as to oust him from the Swamp where he
was born. Rag's legs were good and so was his wind. The stranger
was big and so heavy that he soon gave up the chase, and it was
well for poor Rag that he did, for he was getting stiff from his
wounds as well as tired. From that day began a reign of terror for
Rag. His training had been against owls, dogs, weasels, men, and
so on, but what to do when chased by another rabbit, he did not
know. All he knew was to lay low till he was found, then run.
Poor little Molly was completely terrorized; she could not help
Rag and sought only to hide. But the big buck soon found her out.
She tried to run from him, but she was not now so swift as Rag.
The stranger made no attempt to kill her, but he made love to her,
and because she hated him and tried to get away, he treated her
shamefully. Day after day he worried her by following her about,
and often, furious at her lasting hatred, he would knock her down
and tear out mouthfuls of her soft fur till his rage cooled
somewhat, when he would let her go for a while. But his fixed
 purpose was to kill Rag, whose escape seemed hopeless. There
was no other swamp he could go to, and whenever he took a nap
now he had to be ready at any moment to dash for his life. A dozen
times a day the big stranger came creeping up to where he slept,
but each time the watchful Rag awoke in time to escape. To
escape yet not to escape. He saved his life indeed, but oh! what a
miserable life it had become. How maddening to be thus helpless,
to see his little mother daily beaten and torn, as well as to see all
his favorite feeding-grounds, the cosy nooks, and the pathways he
had made with so much labor, forced from him by this hateful
brute. Unhappy Rag realized that to the victor belong the spoils,
and he hated him more than ever he did fox or ferret.
How was it to end? He was wearing out with running and watching
and bad food, and little Molly's strength and spirit were breaking
down under the long persecution. The stranger was ready to go to
all lengths to destroy poor Rag, and at last stooped to the worst
crime known among rabbits. However much they may hate each
other, all good rabbits forget
 their feuds when their common
enemy appears. Yet one day when a great goshawk came swooping
over the Swamp, the stranger, keeping well under cover himself,
tried again and again to drive Rag into the open.
Once or twice the hawk nearly had him, but still the briers saved
him, and it was only when the big buck himself came near being
caught that he gave it up. And again Rag escaped, but was no
better off. He made up his mind to leave, with his mother, if
possible, next night and go into the world in quest of some new
home when he heard old Thunder, the hound, sniffing and
searching about the outskirts of the swamp, and he resolved on
playing a desperate game. He deliberately crossed the hound's
view, and the chase that then began was fast and furious. Thrice
around the Swamp they went till Rag had made sure that his
mother was hidden safely and that his hated foe was in his usual
nest. Then right into that nest and plump over him he jumped,
giving him a rap with one hind foot as he passed over his head.
"You miserable fool, I kill you yet," cried
 the stranger, and up he
jumped only to find himself between Rag and the dog and heir to
all the peril of the chase.
On came the hound baying hotly on the straight-away scent. The
buck's weight and size were great advantages in a rabbit fight, but
now they were fatal. He did not know many tricks. Just the simple
ones like 'double,' 'wind,' and 'hole-up,' that every baby Bunny
knows. But the chase was too close for doubling and winding, and
he didn't know where the holes were.
It was a straight race. The brier-rose, kind to all rabbits alike, did its
best, but it was no use. The baying of the hound was fast and
steady. The crashing of the brush and the yelping of the hound
each time the briers tore his tender ears were borne to the two
rabbits where they crouched in hiding. But suddenly these sounds
stopped, there was a scuffle, then loud and terrible screaming.
knew what it meant and it sent a shiver through him, but he soon
forgot that when all was over and rejoiced to be once more the
master of the dear old Swamp.
 Old Olifant had doubtless a right to burn all those brush-piles in
the east and south of the Swamp and to clear up the wreck of the
old barbed-wire hog-pen just below the spring. But it was none the
less hard on Rag and his mother. The first were their various
residences and outposts, and the second their grand fastness and
They had so long held the Swamp and felt it to be their very own
in every part and suburb—including Olifant's grounds and
buildings—that they would have resented the appearance of another
rabbit even about the adjoining barnyard.
Their claim, that of long, successful occupancy, was exactly the
same as that by which most nations hold their land, and it would
be hard to find a better right.
During the time of the January thaw the Olifants had cut the rest of
the large wood about the pond and curtailed the Cottontails'
domain on all sides. But they still clung to the dwindling Swamp,
for it was their home and
 they were loath to move to foreign parts.
Their life of daily perils went on, but they were still fleet of foot,
long of wind, and bright of wit. Of late they had been somewhat
troubled by a mink that had wandered up-stream to their quiet
nook. A little judicious guidance had transferred the
uncomfortable visitor to Olifant's hen-house. But they were not yet
quite sure that he had been properly looked after. So for the
present they gave up using the ground-holes, which were, of
course, dangerous blind-alleys, and stuck closer than ever to the
briers and the brush-piles that were left.
That first snow had quite gone and the weather was bright and
warm until now. Molly, feeling a touch of rheumatism, was
somewhere in the lower thicket seeking a teaberry tonic. Rag was
sitting in the weak sunlight on a bank in the east side. The smoke
from the familiar gable chimney of Olifant's house came fitfully
drifting a pale blue haze through the underwoods and showing as a
dull brown against the brightness of the sky. The sun-gilt gable
was cut off midway by the banks of brier-brush, that purple in
shadow shone like rods of
 blazing crimson and gold in the light.
Beyond the house the barn with its gable and roof, new gilt as the
house, stood up like a Noah's ark.
The sounds that came from it, and yet more the delicious smell
that mingled with the smoke, told Rag that the animals were being
fed cabbage in the yard. Rag's mouth watered at the idea of the
feast. He blinked and blinked as he snuffed its odorous promises,
for he loved cabbage dearly. But then he had been to the barnyard
the night before after a few paltry clover-tops, and no wise rabbit
would go two nights running to the same place.
Therefore he did the wise thing. He moved across where he could
not smell the cabbage and made his supper of a bundle of hay that
had been blown from the stack. Later, when about to settle for the
night, he was joined by Molly, who had taken her teaberry and
then eaten her frugal meal of sweet birch near the Sunning Bank.
Meanwhile the sun had gone about his business elsewhere, taking
all his gold and glory with him. Off in the east a big black shutter
came pushing up and rising higher and higher;
 it spread over the
whole sky, shut out all light and left the world a very gloomy place
indeed. Then another mischief-maker, the wind, taking advantage
of the sun's absence, came on the scene and set about brewing
trouble. The weather turned colder and colder; it seemed worse
than when the ground had been covered with snow.
"Isn't this terribly cold? How I wish we had our stove-pipe
brush-pile," said Rag.
"A good night for the pine-root hole," replied Molly, "but we have
not yet seen the pelt of that mink on the end of the barn, and it is
not safe till we do."
The hollow hickory was gone—in fact at this very moment its
trunk, lying in the wood-yard, was harboring the mink they feared.
So the Cottontails hopped to the south side of the pond and,
choosing a brush-pile, they crept under and snuggled down for the
night, facing the wind but with their noses in different directions
so as to go out different ways in case of alarm. The wind blew
harder and colder as the hours went by, and about midnight a
fine icy snow came ticking down on the dead leaves and hissing
through the brush heap. It might seem a poor
 night for hunting, but
that old fox from Springfield was out. He came pointing up the
wind in the shelter of the Swamp and chanced in the lee of the
brush-pile, where he scented the sleeping Cottontails. He halted
for a moment, then came stealthily sneaking up toward the brush
under which his nose told him the rabbits were crouching. The
noise of the wind and the sleet enabled him to come quite close
before Molly heard the faint crunch of a dry leaf under his paw.
She touched Rag's whiskers, and both were fully awake just as the
fox sprang on them; but they always slept with their legs ready for
a jump. Molly darted out into the blinding storm. The fox missed
his spring but followed like a racer, while Rag dashed off to one
There was only one road for Molly; that was straight up the wind,
and bounding for her life she gained a little over the unfrozen mud
that would not carry the fox, till she reached the margin of the
pond. No chance to turn now, on she must go.
No Chance to Turn now
Splash! splash! through the weeds she went, then plunge into the
 And plunge went the fox close behind. But it was too much for
Reynard on such a night. He turned back, and Molly, seeing only
one course, struggled through the reeds into the deep water and
struck out for the other shore. But there was a strong headwind.
The little waves, icy cold, broke over her head as she swam, and
the water was full of snow that blocked her way like soft ice, or
floating mud. The dark line of the other shore seemed far, far
away, with perhaps the fox waiting for her there.
But she laid her ears flat to be out of the gale, and bravely put forth
all her strength with wind and tide against her. After a long, weary
swim in the cold water, she had nearly reached the farther reeds
when a great mass of floating snow barred her road; then the wind
on the bank made strange, fox-like sounds that robbed her of all
force, and she was drifted far backward before she could get free
from the floating bar.
Again she struck out, but slowly—oh so slowly now. And when at
last she reached the lee of the tall reeds, her limbs were numbed,
her strength spent, her brave little heart was
 sinking, and she cared
no more whether the fox were there or not. Through the reeds she
did indeed pass, but once in the weeds her course wavered and
slowed, her feeble strokes no longer sent her landward, the ice
forming around her stopped her altogether. In a little while
the cold, weak limbs ceased to move, the furry nose-tip of the little
mother Cottontail wobbled no more, and the soft brown eyes were
closed in death.
But there was no fox waiting to tear her with ravenous jaws. Rag
had escaped the first onset of the foe, and as soon as he regained
his wits he came running back to change-off and so help his
mother. He met the old fox going round the pond to meet Molly
and led him far and away, then dismissed him with a barbed-wire
gash on his head, and came to the bank and sought about and
trailed and thumped, but all his searching was in vain; he could not
find his little mother. He never saw her again, and he never knew
whither she went, for she slept her never-waking sleep in the
ice-arms of her friend the Water that tells no tales.
 Poor little Molly Cottontail! She was a true heroine, yet only one
of unnumbered millions that without a thought of heroism have
lived and done their best in their little world, and died. She fought
a good fight in the battle of life. She was good stuff; the stuff that
never dies. For flesh of her flesh and brain of her brain was Rag.
She lives in him, and through him transmits a finer fibre to her
And Rag still lives in the Swamp. Old Olifant died that winter, and
the unthrifty sons ceased to clear the Swamp or mend the wire
fences. Within a single year it was a wilder place than ever; fresh
trees and brambles grew, and falling wires made many Cottontail
castles and last retreats that dogs and foxes dared not storm. And
there to this day lives Rag. He is a big strong buck now and fears
no rivals. He has a large family of his own, and a pretty brown
wife that he got I know not where. There, no doubt, he and his
children's children will flourish for many years to come, and there
you may see them any sunny evening if you have learnt their signal
code, and choosing a good spot on the ground, know just how
and when to thump it.