After awhile the mowers came and began to cut the long grass in the Home Field, and the meadow by the brook.  Bevis could see them from the garden, and it was impossible to prevent him from straying up the footpath, so eager was he to go nearer.  The best thing that could be done, since he could not be altogether stopped, was to make him promise that he would not go beyond a certain limit.  He might wander as much as he pleased inside the hedge and the Home Field, in which there was no pond, nor any place where he could very well come to harm.  But he must not creep through the hedge, so that he would always be in sight from the garden.  If he wished to enter the meadow by the brook he must ask special permission, that some one might be put to watch now and then.

But more expressly he was forbidden to enter the Little Field.  The grass there was not yet to be mown — it was too long to walk in — and they were afraid lest he should get through the hedge, or climb over the high padlocked gate in some way or other, for the Long Pond was on the other side, though it could not be seen for trees.  Nor was he to approach nearer to the mowers than one swathe; he was always to keep one swathe between him and the scythes, which are extremely sharp and dangerous instruments.

Sir Bevis repeated these promises so seriously, and with so demure and innocent an expression, that no one could doubt but that he would keep them strictly, nor, indeed, did any idea of exceeding these limits occur to him.  He was so overjoyed at the vast extent of territory, almost a new world thrown open for exploration, that he did not think it possible he could ever want to go any farther.  He rushed into the Home Field, jumping over the swathes till he was tired, and kicking the grass about with his feet.  Then he wanted a prong, and a stout stick with a fork was cut and pointed for him, and with this he went eagerly to work for five minutes.  Next he wanted some one to bury under the grass, and could not be satisfied till the dairy-maid was sent out and submitted to be completely hidden under a heap of it.

Next he walked all round the field, and back home down the middle.  By-and-by he sat down and looked at the mowers, who were just finishing the last corner before they went into the meadow by the brook.  While he was sitting there a number of greenfinches, and sparrows, and two or three hasty starlings (for they are always in a hurry), came to the sward where the mowers had just passed, and searched about for food.  They seemed so happy and looked so pretty, Bevis thought he should like to shoot one, so away he ran home to the summer-house for his bow and arrow.  Hastening back with these, he built a heap of the grass to hide behind, like a breastwork, and then sat down and watched for the birds.

They did not come directly, as they ought to have done, so he kicked up his heels, and rolled over on his back, and looked up at the sky, as was his wont.  Every now and then he could hear Pan whining woefully in his tub a long way off.  Since the whipping the spaniel had been in disgrace, and no one would let him loose.  Bevis, so delighted with his field to roam about in, quite forgot him, and left him to sorrow in his tub.  Presently he heard a lark singing so sweetly, though at a great distance, that he kept quite still to listen.  The song came in verses, now it rose a little louder, and now it fell till he could hardly hear it, and again returned.  Bevis got up on his knees to try and find where the lark was, but the sky was so blue there or the bird so high up, he could not see it, though he searched and searched.  It was somewhere in the next field, far beyond the great oak where he once fell asleep.

He then peered round his heap of grass, but there were no greenfinches near; they had come out from the hedges, and the starling had come from the hollow pollard where he had a nest, but all had settled a long way off from his hiding-place.  Bevis was very angry, so he stood up, and pulled his bow with all his might, and let the arrow fly into the air almost straight up.  When it had risen so far, it turned over and came down among the flock of birds and stuck in the ground.

They flew away in terror, and though he had not killed any, Bevis was highly delighted at the fright they were in.  He picked up his arrow, and tried another long shot at a rook on the other side of the field, but he could not send it so great a distance.  As he ran for it, he saw that the rook’s back was towards him, and, thinking that the rook could not see him, he raced on quietly to try and catch him, but just as he got close, up rose the rook over the hedge with a “Caw, caw!” Whizz! went Bevis’s arrow after him, and fell on the other side of the hedge, where he was not to go.

In his anger at the rook’s behaviour Bevis forgot all about his promise; he jumped into the ditch regardless of the stinging-nettles, pushed his way up through the briars, tearing his sleeve, forced his way across the mound, and went on his hands and knees through the young green fern on the other side (just as Pan would have done) under the thick thorn bushes, and so out into the next field.  It was the very field where he and Pan had wandered before, only another part of it.  There was his arrow ever so far off, sticking upright in the grass among the cowslips.  As he went to pick up his arrow he saw another flower growing a little farther on, and went to gather that first; it was an orchid, and when he stood up with it in his hand he heard a mouse rustle in the grass, and stepped quietly to try and see it, but the mouse hid in a hole.

Then there was an enormous humble-bee, so huge that when it stayed to suck a cowslip, the cowslip was bent down with its weight.  Bevis walked after the giant humble-bee, and watched it take the honey from several cowslips; then he saw a stone standing in the field, it was not upright, but leaned to one side — yet it was almost as tall as he was.  He went to the stone and looked all round it, and got up on it and sat still a minute, and while he was there a cuckoo came by, so close, that he jumped off to run after it.  But the cuckoo flew fast, and began to call “Cuckoo!” and it was no use to chase him.

When Bevis stopped and looked about he was in a hollow, like a big salad bowl, only all grass, and he could see nothing but the grass and cowslips all round him — no hedges — and the sky overhead.  He began to dance and sing with delight at such a curious place, and when he paused the lark was on again, and not very far this time.  There he was, rising gradually, singing as he went.  Bevis ran up the side of the hollow towards the lark, and saw a hedge cut and cropped low, and over it a wheat-field.  He watched the lark sing, sing, sing, up into the sky, and then he thought he would go and find his nest, as he remembered the ploughboy had told him larks made their nests on the ground among the corn.

He ran to the low hedge, but though it was low it was very thorny, and while he was trying to find a place to get through, he looked over and spied a hare crouched in the rough grass, just under the hedge between it and the wheat.  The hare was lying on the ground; she did not move, though she saw Bevis, and when he looked closer he saw that her big eyes were full of tears.  She was crying very bitterly, all by herself, while the sun was shining so brightly, and the wind blowing so sweetly, and the flowers smelling so pleasantly, and the lark sing, sing, singing overhead.

“Oh! dear,” said Bevis, so eager and so sorry, that he pushed against the hedge, and did not notice that a thorn was pricking his arm:  “Whatever is the matter?” But the hare was so miserable she would not answer him at first, till he coaxed her nicely.  Then she said:  “Bevis, Bevis, little Sir Bevis, do you know what you have done?”

“No,” said Bevis, “I can’t think:  was it me?”

“Yes, it was you; you let the weasel loose, when he was caught in the gin.”

“Did I?” said Bevis, “I have quite forgotten it.”

“But you did it,” said the hare, “and now the weasel has killed my son, the leveret, while he was sleeping, and sucked his blood, and I am so miserable; I do not care to run away any more.”  Then the hare began to weep bitterly again, till Bevis did not know what to do to comfort her.

“Perhaps the weasel only killed the leveret for your good,” he said presently.

“What!” cried the hare, putting her fore-feet down hard, and stamping with indignation.  “That is what the wicked old wretch told you, did he not, about the mouse and the partridge’s eggs.  Cannot you see that it is all a pack of lies?  But I do not wonder that he deceives you, dear, since he has deceived the world for so long.  Let me tell you, Sir Bevis, the weasel is the wickedest and most dreadful creature that lives, and above all things he is so cunning he can make people believe anything he chooses, and he has succeeded in making fools of us all — every one.

“There is not one of all the animals in the hedge, nor one of the birds in the trees, that he has not cheated.  He is so very, very cunning, and his talk is so soft and smooth.  Do you please take care, Sir Bevis, or perhaps he may deceive you, as he deceived the fox.  Why, do you know, he has made the people believe that his crimes are committed by the fox, who consequently bears all the disgrace; and not only that, but he has spread it abroad that the fox is the most cunning of all, in order that he may not be suspected of being so clever as he is.  I daresay the weasel will have me some day, and I do not care if he does, now my leveret is dead; and very soon his poor bones will be picked clean by the ants, and after the corn is carried the plough will bury them.”

Bevis was terribly distressed at the hare’s story, and showed such indignation against the weasel, and stamped his little foot so hard, knitting his brow, that the hare was somewhat appeased, and began to explain all about it.

“Of course you did not know, dear,” she said, “when you stepped on the spring of the gin, what trouble we had had to get him into the trap.  For we had all suffered so long from his cruelty, that we had all agreed at last to try and put an end to it.  The trees could not bear to stand still and see it go on under them, yet they could not move.  The earth could not bear to feel him running about on his bloodthirsty business, through the holes the rabbits had made.  The grass hated to feel him pushing through, for it had so often been stained with the blood that he had shed.  So we all took counsel together, and I carried the messages, dear, from the oak, where you slept, to the ash and the elm, and to the earth in the corner where the rabbits live; and the birds came up into the oak and gave their adherence, every one; and the fox, too, though he did not come himself, for he is too cunning to commit himself till he knows which way the wind is going to blow, sent word of his high approval.

“Thus we were all prepared to act against that midnight assassin, the weasel, but we could not begin.  The trees could not move, the earth could not wag a step, the grass could do nothing, and so it went on for some months, during all which time the weasel was busy with his wickedness, till at last the bailiff set the gin for the rat by the cart-house.  Then the fox came out by day — contrary to his custom, for he likes a nap — and went to a spot where he knew a rabbit sat in the grass; and he hunted the poor rabbit (it was very good sport to see — I do not like rabbits), till he had driven him across the ditch, where the weasel was.  Then the fox stopped, and hid himself in the furze; and the weasel, first looking round to see that no one was near, stole after the rabbit.  Now the rabbit knew that the fox was about, and therefore he was afraid to run across the open field; all he could do was to go down the hedge towards the garden.

“Everything was going on well, and we sent word to the rat, to warn him against the gin — we did not like the rat, but we did not want the gin thrown — don’t you see, dear?  But when the rabbit had gone half-way down the hedge, and was close to the garden, he became afraid to venture any nearer your house, Bevis.  Still the weasel crept after him, and presently drove him almost up to your sycamore-tree.  Then the rabbit did not know what to do; for if he went forward the people in the house might see him and bring out the gun, and if he turned back the weasel would have him, and if he ran out into the field the fox would be there, and he could not climb up a tree.  He stopped still, trying to think, till the weasel came so near he could smell the rabbit’s blood, and then, in his terror, the rabbit darted out from the hedge, and into the ditch of your haha wall, under where the bee-hives are.  There he saw a dry drain, and hopped into it, forgetting in his fright that he might not be able to get out at the other end.

“The weasel thought he had now got him safe, and was just going to rush across and follow, when an ant spoke to him from the trunk of a tree it was climbing.  The ant said the fox had asked him yesterday to watch, and if the weasel came that way, to warn him that there was a plot laid for his life, and not to be too venturesome.  This was a piece of the same double-faced ways the fox has been notorious for these many years past.  No one hates the weasel so much as the fox, but he said to himself:  ’The weasel is so cunning, that even if he is caught, he is sure to find some way to get free, and then he will perhaps discover that I had a hand in it, and will turn round on me and spoil some of my schemes out of spite.  Besides which, I don’t see why I should take much interest in the hare or the mouse.’  So, though he hunted the rabbit for us, yet he sent the weasel this message, to take care and mind and not be too bold.

“When the weasel heard this he stopped, and thought to himself that it was rather dangerous to go so near a house, almost under it; and yet he could not help licking his mouth, as he remembered the sweet scent of the rabbit’s blood.  But he was so very, very cunning, that he thought to himself the rabbit would be obliged to come out again presently, and would be sure to come up the hedge if he did not see the weasel.  So the weasel turned round to go up the hedge, and we were all in anxiety lest the scheme should miscarry.  But as the weasel was going under the elm, the elm dropped a large dead branch, and as it came crashing down, it fell so near the weasel as to pinch his foot, and, hearing another branch go crack, he lost his presence of mind, turned back again, and darted across the corner into the drain.  There the scent of the rabbit was so strong he could not help but follow it, and in a moment or two he saw the poor creature crouched at the end where he could not pass.

“The weasel bounded forward, when the earth squeezed out a stone, and the stone fell between the weasel and the rabbit.  Before he could tell what to do, the earth squeezed out another stone behind him and he was caught, and could neither go forward or backward.  Now we thought we had got him, and that he must starve to death.  As for the rabbit, when the stone fell down it left a hole above, up which he scrambled into the cow-yard, and there hid himself behind a bunch of nettles till night, when he escaped into the field.

“Meantime the weasel in a dreadful fright was walking to and fro in his narrow prison, gnashing his teeth with rage and terror, and calling to all the animals and birds and insects and even to the mole (whom he despised most of all) to help him out.  He promised to be the nicest, kindest weasel that ever was known; but it was no use, for they were all in the secret, and overjoyed to see him on the point of perishing.  There he had to stay, and though he scratched and scratched, he could not make any hole through the solid stone, and by-and-by he got weaker, and he began to die.  While he was dying the rat came and peeped down at him through a chink, and laughed and said:  ’What is the use of all your cunning, you coward?  If you had been bold like me you would never have got into this scrape, by being afraid of a dead branch of a tree because it pinched your foot.  I should have run by quickly.  You are a silly, foolish, blind sort of creature; could you not see that all the things had agreed to deceive you?’

“At this the weasel was so wroth it woke him up from his dying, and he returned the taunt and said:  ’Rat, you are by far the silliest to help the hare and the mouse; it is true they sent you a message about the gin, but that was not for love of you, I am sure, and I can’t think why they should send it; but you may depend it is some trick, and very likely the gin is not where they said at all, but in another place, and you will walk into it when you are not thinking, and then you will curse the hare and the mouse’.

“‘Ah,’ said the rat, ’that sounds like reason; you are right, the hare and the mouse are going to play me a trick.  But I will spite them, I will let you out.’

“‘Will you?’ said the weasel, starting up and feeling almost strong again.  ’But you can’t, these stones are so thick you cannot move them, nor scratch through them, nor raise them; no, you cannot let me out.’

“‘Oh, yes, I can,’ said the rat, ’I know a way to move the biggest stones, and if you can only wait a day or two I will make this chink large enough for you to come up.’

“‘A day or two,’ said the weasel in despair; ’why, I am nearly dead now with hunger.’

“‘Well then,’ said the rat, ‘gnaw your own tail;’ and off he went laughing at the joke.  The miserable weasel cried and sniffed, and sniffed and cried, till by-and-by he heard the rat come back and begin to scratch outside.  Presently the rat stopped, and was going away again, when the weasel begged and prayed him not to leave him to die there in the dark.

“‘Very well,’ said the rat, ’I will send the cricket to sing to you.  In a day or two you will see the chink get bigger, and meantime you can eat your tail; and as you will get very thin, you will be able to creep through a very small hole and get out all the quicker.  Ha! ha!  As for me, I am going to have a capital dinner from Pan’s dish, for he has fallen asleep in his tub.’

“So the weasel was left to himself, and though he watched and watched, he could not see the chink open in the least, and he got so dreadfully hungry that at last, after sucking his paws, he was obliged to bring his tail round and begin to gnaw it a little bit.  The pain was dreadful, but he could not help himself, he was obliged to do it or die.  In the evening the cricket came, as the rat had promised, to the top of the chink, and at once began to sing.  He sang all about the lady cricket with whom he was in love, and then about the beautiful stars that were shining in the sky, and how nice it was to be a cricket, for the crickets were by far the most handsome and clever of all creatures, and everybody would like to be a cricket if they could.

“Next, he went on to praise himself, that his lady might hear what fine limbs he had, and so noble a form, and such a splendid chink to live in.  Thus he kept on the livelong night, and all about himself; and his chirp, chirp, chirp filled the weasel’s prison with such a noise that the wretched thing could not sleep.  He kept asking the cricket to tell him if the rat had really done anything to enlarge the chink; but the cricket was too busy to answer him till the dawn, and then, having finished his song, he found time to attend to the weasel.

“‘You have been very rude,’ he said, ’to keep on talking while I was singing, but I suppose, as you are only an ignorant weasel, you do not understand good manners, and therefore I will condescend so far as to inform you of the measures taken by my noble friend the rat to get you out.  If you were not so extremely ignorant and stupid you would guess what he has done.’

“Now all this was very bitter to the weasel, who had always thought he knew everything, to be insulted by a cricket; still he begged to be told what it was.  ‘The rat,’ went on the cricket, ’has brought a little piece from a fungus, and has scratched a hole beside the stone and put it in there.  Now, when this begins to grow and the fungus pushes up, it will move the stone and open a chink.  In this way I have seen my lord the rat heave up the heaviest paving stones and make a road for himself.  Now are you not stupid?’ Then the cricket went home to bed.

“All day long the miserable weasel lay on the floor of his prison, driven every now and then to gnaw his tail till he squeaked with the pain.  The only thing that kept him from despair was the hope of the revenge he would have, if ever he did get out, on those who had laid the trap for him.  For hours he lay insensible, and only woke up when the rat looked down the chink and asked him, with a jolly chuckle, how his tail tasted, and then went off without waiting for an answer.  Then the cricket came again, and taking not the least notice of the prisoner, sang all night.

“In the morning the weasel looked up, and saw that the chink had really opened.  He crawled to it, he was so faint he could not walk, so he had to crawl over the floor, which was all red with his own blood.  The fungus, a thick, yellowish-green thing, like a very large and unwholesome mushroom, was growing fast, so fast he could see it move, and very slowly it shoved and lifted up the stone.  The chink was now so far open that in his thin, emaciated state, the weasel could have got through; but he was so weak he could not climb up.  He called to the rat, and the rat came and tried to reach him, but it was just a little too far down.

“‘If I only had something to drink,’ said the weasel, ’only one drop of water, I think I could do it, but I am faint from thirst.’

“Off ran the rat to see what he could do, and as he passed the tub where Pan lived he saw a bowl of water just pumped for the spaniel.  The bowl was of wood with a projecting handle — not a ring to put the fingers through, but merely a short straight handle.  He went round to the other side of the tub in which Pan was dozing and began to scratch.  Directly Pan heard the scratching: —

“‘Ho! ho!’ said he, ‘that’s that abominable rat that steals my food,’ and he darted out, and in his tremendous hurry his chain caught the handle of the bowl, just as the rat had hoped it would.  Over went the bowl, and all the water was spilt, but the rat, the instant he heard Pan coming, had slipped away back to the weasel.

“When Pan was tired of looking where he had heard the scratching, he went back to take a lap, but found the bowl upset, and that all the water had run down the drain.  As he was very thirsty after gnawing a salt bacon-bone, he set up a barking, and the dairy-maid ran out, thinking it was a beggar, and began to abuse him for being so clumsy as to knock over his bowl.  Pan barked all the louder, so she hit him with the handle of her broom, and he went howling into his tub.  He vowed vengeance against the rat, but that did not satisfy his thirst.

“Meantime the water had run along the drain, and though the fungus greedily sucked up most of it, the weasel had a good drink.  After that he felt better, and he climbed up the chink, squeezing through and dragging his raw tail behind him, till he nearly reached the top.  But there it was still a little tight, and he could not manage to push through, not having strength enough left.  He felt himself slipping back again, and called on the rat to save him.  The rat without ceremony leant down the chink, and caught hold of his ear with his teeth, and snipped it so tight he bit it right through, but he dragged the weasel out.

“There he lay a long time half dead and exhausted, under a dock leaf which hid him from view.  The rat began to think that the weasel would die after all, so he came and said:  ’Wake up, coward, and come with me into the cart-house; there is a very nice warm hole there, and I will tell you something; if you stay here very likely the bailiff may see you, and if Pan should be let loose he will sniff you out in a second’.  So the weasel, with very great difficulty, dragged himself into the cart-house, and found shelter in the hole.

“Now the rat, though he had helped the weasel, did not half like him, for he was afraid to go to sleep while the weasel was about, lest his guest should fasten on his throat, for he knew he was treacherous to the last degree.  He cast about in his mind how to get rid of him, and at the same time to serve his own purpose.  By-and-by he said that there was a mouse in the cart-house who had a very plump wife, and two fat little mouses.  At this the weasel pricked up his ears, for he was so terribly hungry, and sat up and asked where they were.  The rat said the wife and the children were up in the beam; the wood had rotted, and they had a hole there, but he was afraid the mouse himself was away from home just then, most likely in the corn-bin, where the barley-meal for the pigs was kept.

“‘Never mind,’ said the weasel, eagerly, ’the wife and the baby mice will do very well,’ and up he started and climbed up through the rat’s hole in the wall to the roof, and then into the hole in the beam, where he had a good meal on the mice.  Now the rat hated this mouse because he lived so near, and helped himself to so much food, and being so much smaller, he could get about inside the house where you live, Bevis, without being seen, and so got very fat, and made the rat jealous.  He thought, too, that when the weasel had eaten the wife and the babies, that he would be strong enough to go away.  Presently the weasel came down from his meal, and looked so fierce and savage that the rat, strong as he was, was still more anxious to get rid of him as quickly as possible.

“He told the weasel that there was a way by which he could get to the corn-bin without the least danger, though it was close to the house, and there he would be certain to find the mouse himself, and very likely another Miss Mouse whom he used to meet there.  At this the weasel was so excited he could hardly wait to be shown the way, and asked the rat to put him in the road directly; he was so hungry he did not care what he did.  Without delay the rat took him to the mouth of the hole, and told him to stay there and listen a minute to be sure that no one was coming.  If he could not hear any footsteps, all he had to do was to rush across the road there, only two or three yards, to the rough grass, the dandelions, and the docks opposite.  Just there there was an iron grating made in the wall of the house to let in the air and keep the rats out; but one of the bars had rusted off and was broken, and that was the mouse’s track to the corn-bin.

“The weasel put out his head, glanced round, saw no one, and without waiting to listen rushed out into the roadway.  In an instant the rat pushed against a small piece of loose stone, which he kept for the purpose, and it fell down and shut up the mouth of his hole.  As the weasel was running across the roadway suddenly one of the labourers came round the corner with a bucket of food for the pigs.  Frightened beyond measure, the weasel hastened back to the rat’s hole, but could not get in because of the stone.  Not knowing what to do, he ran round the cart-house, where there was some grass under the wall, with the man coming close behind him.  Now it was just there that the bailiff had set the gin for the rat, near the mouth of the drain, but the rat knew all about it, and used the other hole.

“The grass, knowing that we wished to drive the weasel that way into the gin, had tried to grow faster and hide the trap, but could not get on very well because the weather was so dry.  But that morning, when the rat upset Pan’s bowl of water, and it ran down the drain, some part of it reached the roots of the grass and moistened them, then the grass shot up quick and quite hid the trap, except one little piece.  Now, seeing the weasel rushing along in his fright, the grass was greatly excited, but did not know what to do to hide this part, so the grass whispered to his friend the wind to come to his help.

“This the wind was very ready to do, for this reason — he hated to smell the decaying carcases of the poor creatures the weasel killed, and left to rot and to taint the air, so that it quite spoilt his morning ramble over the fields.  With a puff the wind came along and blew a dead leaf, one of last year’s leaves, over the trap, and so hid it completely.

“The weasel saw the mouth of the drain, and thinking to be safe in a minute darted at it, and was snapped up by the gin.  The sudden shock deprived him of sense or motion, and well for him it did, for had he squeaked or moved ever so little the man with the bucket must have seen or heard him.  After a time he came to himself, and again began to beg the rat to help him; but the rat, having had his revenge on the mouse, did not much care to trouble about it, and, besides, he remembered how very wolfish and fierce the weasel had looked at him when in his hole.  At least he thought he would have a night’s sleep in comfort first, for he had been afraid to sleep a wink with the weasel so near.  Now the weasel was in the gin he could have a nap.

“All night long the weasel was in the gin, and to a certainty he would have been seen — for the bailiff would have been sure to come and look at his trap — but if you remember, Bevis, dear, that was the very day you were lost (while asleep under the oak), and everything was confusion, and the gin was forgotten.  Well, in the morning the weasel begged so piteously of the rat to help him again, that the rat began to think he would, now he had had a good sleep, when just as he was peeping out along you came, Bevis, dear, and found the weasel in the gin.

“Now, I daresay you remember the talk you had with the weasel, and what the mouse said; well, the rat was listening all the while, and he heard the weasel say to you that he always killed the rats.  ‘Aha!’ thought the rat, ‘catch me helping you again, sir;’ and the weasel heard him say it.  So when you stepped on the spring and loosed the weasel, he did not dare go into the drain, knowing that the rat (while awake) was stronger than he, but hobbled as well as he could across to the wood-pile.  There he stopped, exhausted, and stiff from his wounds.  Meantime the rat deliberated how best he could drive the treacherous weasel away from the place.

“At night, accordingly, he cautiously left his hole and went across to the tub where Pan was sleeping, curled up comfortably within.  The end of Pan’s chain, where it was fastened to the staple outside the tub, was not of iron, but tar-cord.  The last link had been broken, and it was therefore tied in this manner.  The rat easily gnawed through the tar-cord, and then slipped back to his hole to await events.  About the middle of the night, when the weasel had rested and began to stir out, Pan woke up, and seeing that it was light, stepped out to bay at the moon.  He immediately found that his chain was undone, and rushed about to try and find some water, being very thirsty.  He had not gone very far before he smelt the weasel, and instantly began to chase him.  The weasel, however, slipped under a faggot, and so across and under the wood-pile, where he was safe; but he was so alarmed that presently he crept out the other side, and round by the pig-sty, and so past the stable to the rick-yard, and then into the hedge, and he never stopped running, stiff as he was, till he was half-a-mile away in the ash copse and had crept into a rabbit’s hole.  He could not have got away from the wood-pile, only Pan, being so thirsty, gave up looking for him, and went down to the brook.

“In the morning, as they thought Pan had broken his chain, they kicked the spaniel howling into his tub again.  And now comes the sad part of it, Bevis, dear.  You must know that when the weasel was in the trap we all thought it was quite safe, and that our enemy was done for at last, and so we went off to a dancing-party, on the short grass of the downs by moonlight, leaving our leverets to nibble near the wheat.  We stayed at the dancing-party so late that the dawn came and we were afraid to go home in the daylight, and next night we all felt so merry we had another dance, and again danced till it was morning.

“While we were sleeping in the day, the weasel, having now recovered a good deal, crept out from the rabbit-hole in the copse.  We were so far off, you see, the mice could not send us word that he had escaped from the gin in time, and, indeed, none of them knew exactly where to find us; they told the swallows, and the swallows searched, but missed us.  The wind, too, blew as many ways as he could to try and reach us, but he had to blow east that day, and could not manage it.  If we had only been at home we should have been on the watch; but my poor leveret, and my two friends’ poor leverets, were sleeping so comfortably when the wicked weasel stole on them one by one, and bit their necks and killed them.  He could not eat them, nor half of them, he only killed them for revenge, and oh! dear little Sir Bevis, what shall I do? what shall I do?”

“I will kill the weasel,” said Bevis.  “He is dreadfully wicked.  I will shoot him this minute with my bow and arrow.”

But when he looked round he had got neither of them; he had dropped the bow in the Home Field when he jumped into the ditch to scramble through the hedge, and he had wandered so far among the cowslips that he could not see the arrow.  Bevis looked all round again, and did not recognise any of the trees, nor the hedges, nor could he see the house nor the ricks, nor anything that he knew.  His face flushed up, and the tears came into his eyes; he was lost.

“Don’t cry,” said the hare, much pleased at the eagerness with which he took up the quarrel against the weasel; “don’t cry, darling, I will show you the way home and where to find your arrow.  It is not very far, though you cannot see it because of the ground rising between you and it.  But will you really kill the weasel next time?”

“Yes, indeed I will,” said Bevis, “I will shoot my arrow and kill him quite dead in a minute.”

“But I am not sure you can hit him with your arrow; don’t you remember that you could not hit the greenfinches nor the rook?”

“Well then,” said Bevis, “if you will wait till I am a man, papa will lend me his gun, and then I can certainly kill him.”

“But that will be such a long time, Sir Bevis; did not your papa tell you you would have to eat another peck of salt before you could have a gun?”

“Then I know what I will do,” said Bevis, “I will shoot the weasel with my brass cannon.  Ah, that is the way!  And I know where papa keeps his gunpowder; it is in a tin canister on the topmost shelf, and I will tell you how I climb up there.  First, I bring the big arm-chair, and then I put the stool on that, and then I stand on the lowest shelf, and I can just reach the canister.”

“Take care, Sir Bevis,” said the hare, “take care, and do not open the canister where there is a fire in the room, or a candle, because a spark may blow you up just when you are not thinking.”

“Oh!  I know all about that; I’ll take care,” said Bevis, “and I will shoot the wretch of a weasel in no time.  Now please show me the way home.”

“So I will; you stay there till I come to you, I will run round by the gateway.”

“Why not come straight through the hedge?” said Bevis, “you could easily creep through, I’m sure.”

“No, dear.  I must not come that way, that road belongs to another hare, and I must not trespass.”

“But you can run where you like — can you not?”

“Oh, dear no; all the hares have different roads, Sir Bevis, and if I were to run along one of theirs that did not belong to me, to-night they would bite me and thump me with their paws till I was all bruised.”

“I can’t see any path,” said Bevis, “you can run where you like in the field, I’m sure.”

“No, I can’t, dear; I shall have to go a quarter of a mile round to come to you, because there are three paths between you and me, and I shall have to turn and twist about not to come on them.”

While Bevis was thinking about this, and how stupid it was of the hares to have roads, the hare ran off, and in two or three minutes came to him through the cowslips.  “Oh, you pretty creature!” said Sir Bevis, stooping down and stroking her back, and playing with the tips of her long ears.  “Oh, I do love you so!” At this the hare was still more pleased, and rubbed her head against Bevis’s hand.

“Now,” she said, “you must come along quickly, because I dare not stay on this short grass, lest some dog should see me.  Follow me, dear.”  She went on before him, and Bevis ran behind, and in a minute or two they went over the rising ground, past the tall stone (put there for the cows to rub their sides against), and then the hare stopped and showed Bevis the great oak tree, where he once went to sleep.  She told him to look at it well, and recollect the shape of it, so that another time he could find his way home by the tree.  Then she told him to walk straight to the tree, and on his way there he would find the arrow, and close by the tree was the gap in the hedge, and when he got through the gap, he would see the house and the ricks, and if he followed the ditch then he would presently come to the place where he dropped his bow.  “Thank you,” said Bevis, “I will run as fast as I can, for I am sure it must be nearly dinner time.  Good-bye, you pretty creature;” and having stroked her ears just once more, off he started.  In a few minutes he found his arrow, and looked back to show it to the hare, but she was gone; so he went on to the oak, got through the gap, and there was the house at the other side of the field.  He could hear Pan barking, so he felt quite at home, and walked along the ditch till he picked up his bow.  He was very hungry when he got home, and yet he was glad when the dinner was over, that he might go to the cupboard and get his brass cannon.

When he came to examine the cannon, and to think about shooting the weasel with it, he soon found that it would not do very well, because he could not hold it in his hand and point it straight, and when it went off it would most likely burn his fingers.  But looking at his papa’s gun he saw that the barrel, where the powder is put in, was fixed in a wooden handle called the stock, so he set to work with his pocket-knife to make a handle for his cannon.  He cut a long thick willow stick, choosing the willow because it was soft and easiest to cut, and chipped away till he had made a groove in it at one end in which he put the cannon, fastening it in with a piece of thin copper wire twisted round.  Next he cut a ramrod, and then he loaded his gun, and fired it off with a match to see how it went.

This he did at the bottom of the orchard, a long way from the house, for he was afraid that if they saw what he was doing they might take it from him, so he kept it hidden in the summer-house under an old sack.  The cannon went off with a good bang, and the shot he had put in it stuck in the bark of an apple tree.  Bevis jumped about with delight, and thought he could now kill the weasel.  It was too late to start that day, but the next morning off he marched with his gun into the Home Field, and having charged it behind the shelter of a tree out of sight, began his chase for the weasel.

All round the field he went, looking carefully into the ditch and the hedge, and asking at all the rabbits’-holes if they knew where the scoundrel was.  The rabbits knew very well, but they were afraid to answer, lest the weasel should hear about it, and come and kill the one that had betrayed him.  Twice he searched up and down without success, and was just going to call to the hare to come and show him, when suddenly he discovered a thrush sitting on her nest in a bush.  He put down his gun, and was going to see how many eggs she had got, when the weasel (who had no idea he was there) peeped over the bank, having a fancy for the eggs, but afraid that the nest was too high for him to reach.

“Ho!  Ho!” cried Bevis, “there you are.  Now I have you.  Just stand still a minute, while I get my gun and strike a match.”

“Whatever for?” asked the weasel, very innocently.

“I am going to shoot you,” said Bevis, busy getting his gun ready.

“Shoot me!” said the weasel, in a tone of the utmost astonishment; “why ever do you want to shoot me, Sir Bevis?  Did I not tell you that I spent all my life doing good?”

“Yes, you rascal!” said Bevis, putting a pinch of powder on the touch-hole, “you know you are a wicked story-teller; you killed the poor leveret after I let you loose.  Now!” and he went down on one knee, and put his cannon-stick on the other as a rest to keep it straight.

“Wait a minute,” said the weasel, “just listen to me a minute.  I assure you — ”

“No; I sha’n’t listen to you,” said Bevis, striking his match.

“Oh,” said the weasel, kneeling down, “if you will only wait one second, I will tell you all the wickedness I have committed.  Don’t, please, kill me before I have got this load of guilt off my mind.”

“Well, make haste,” said Bevis, aiming along his cannon.

“I will,” said the weasel; “and first of all, if you are going to kill me, why don’t you shoot the thrush as well, for she is ever so much more wicked and cruel than I have been?”

“Oh, what a dreadful story!” said the thrush.  “How can you say so?”

“Yes, you are,” said the weasel.  “Sir Bevis, you remember the two snails you found in the garden path — those you put on a leaf, and watched to see which could crawl the fastest?”

“I remember,” said Sir Bevis.  “But you must make haste, or my match will burn out.”

“And you recollect that the snails had no legs and could not walk, and that they had no wings and could not fly, and were very helpless creatures?”

“Yes, I remember; I left them on the path.”

“Well, directly you left them, out came this great ugly speckled thrush from the shrubbery — you see how big the thrush is, quite a monster beside the poor snails; and you see what long legs she has, and great wings, and such a strong, sharp beak.  This cruel monster of a thrush picked up the snails, one at a time, and smashed them on the stones, and gobbled them up.”

“Well,” said the thrush, much relieved, “is that all? snails are very nice to eat.”

“Was it not brutally cruel?” asked the weasel.

“Yes, it was,” said Bevis.

“Then,” said the weasel, “when you shoot me, shoot the thrush too.”

“So I will,” said Bevis, “but how can I hit you both?”

“I will show you,” said the weasel.  “I will walk along the bank till I am just in a line with the thrush’s nest, and then you can take aim at both together.”

So he went along the bank and stopped behind the nest, and Bevis moved his cannon-stick and took another aim.

“Dear me!” cried the thrush, dreadfully alarmed, “you surely are not going to shoot me?  I never did any harm.  Bevis, stop — listen to me!”

Now if the thrush had flown away she might have escaped, but she was very fond of talking, and while she was talking Bevis was busy getting his gun ready.

“It is straight now,” said the weasel; “it is pointed quite straight.  Hold it still there, and I will sit so that I shall die quick; — here is my bosom.  Tell the hare to forgive me.”

“Oh,” said the thrush, “don’t shoot!”

“Shoot!” cried the weasel.

Bevis dropped his match on the touch-hole, puff went the priming, and bang went the cannon.  Directly the smoke had cleared away, Bevis looked in the ditch, to see the dead weasel and the thrush.  There was the thrush right enough, quite dead, and fallen out of the nest; the nest, too, was knocked to pieces, and the eggs had fallen out (two were broken), but there was one not a bit smashed, lying on the dead leaves at the bottom of the ditch.  But the weasel was nowhere to be seen.

“Weasel,” cried Bevis, “where are you?” But the weasel did not answer.  Bevis looked everywhere, over the bank and round about, but could not find him.  At last he saw that under some grass on the bank there was a small rabbit’s-hole.  Now the weasel had sat up for Bevis to shoot him right over this hole, and when he saw him move the match, just as the priming went puff, the weasel dropped down into the hole, and the shot went over his head.

Bevis was very angry when he saw how the weasel had deceived him, and felt so sorry for the poor thrush, whose speckled breast was all pierced by the shot, and who would never sing any more.  He did not know what to do, he was so cross; but presently he ran home to fetch Pan, to see if Pan could hunt out the weasel.

When he had gone a little way the weasel came out of the hole, and went down into the ditch and feasted on the thrush’s egg, which he could not have got had not the shot knocked the nest to pieces, just as he had contrived.  He never tasted so sweet an egg as that one, and as he sucked it up he laughed as he thought how cleverly he had deceived them all.  When he heard Pan bark he went back into the hole, and so along the hedge till he reached the copse; and then creeping into another hole, a very small one, where no dog could get at him, he curled himself up very comfortably and went to sleep.