IN BERKSHIRE FIELDS 



Land, pock-marked with shell-holes. Not only un- 

 der the bushes, but in an open space outside, ten feet 

 across, he had hopped or danced round and about. 

 But his former lair was deserted — nature had 

 evicted him. It had been the neatest little winter 

 quarters you ever saw, a hole scarcely six inches in 

 diameter leading beneath a root and in under the 

 heart of the old stump, the entrance half hidden by 

 the drooping, snow-laden branches of a young hem- 

 lock that had sprouted in the rotten wood. But 

 the recent thaw had raised the water-level of the 

 swamp, and now the hole was filled solid with ice. 

 Curious to see what he had done about it, I picked 

 up the single track leading away from the play- 

 ground (his dance last night had quite evidently 

 been a solo), and followed it. I could also dis- 

 cover, thought I, what he had eaten since last 

 evening, when the snow stopped falling. 



This track led me directly toward a slight rise of 

 forest ground, well above swamp-level. Mr. Rab- 

 bit had nosed about a bit, like a dog, especially 

 running in under every small hemlock which roofed 

 the snow with its low branches, and there squatting 

 down. But nowhere could I find a trace that he 

 had so much as nibbled a shoot. Even back in his 

 playground not a twig of the shrubbery was nibbled. 

 After a short distance the tracks led to another 

 stump, less picturesque than the first, but better 

 drained, and here was a similar hole. Tracks led 

 both in and out, and grayish hairs were adhering to 

 the root under which he had to squeeze to enter. 

 I poked into the hole, but could not reach the 

 end, as it speedily took a sharp curve. So I se- 



