Raggylug 



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. 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 <?' nan.' 



"Follow me still," said Molly, in rabbit, «%^C 



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- 



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