114 Raggylu. 





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 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 ffesh of her flesh and brain of her 

 brain was Rag. She lives in him, and through 

 him transmits a finer fibre to her race. 



And Rag still lives in the Swamp. Old Oli- 

 fant 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 prett)^ brown wife that he got no one 

 knows wbere. There, no doubt, he and his 



