The next morning passed quickly, Bevis having so much to do.  Hur-hur, the pig, asked him to dig up some earth-nuts for him with his knife, for the ground was hard from the heat of the sun, and he could not thrust his snout in.  Then Pan, the spaniel, had to be whipped very severely because he would not climb a tree; and so the morning was taken up.  After the noontide heat had decreased, Bevis again started, and found his way by the aid of the oak to the corner of the wheat-field.  The dragon-fly was waiting for him with a message from the hare, saying that she had been invited to a party on the hills, so the dragon-fly would guide him into the copse.

Flying before him, the dragon-fly led the way, often going a long distance ahead, and coming back in a minute, for he moved so rapidly it was not possible for Bevis to keep pace with him, and he was too restless to stand still.  Bevis walked carefully over the bridge, holding to the rail, as the toad had told him; and passing the thistles, and the grass, and the ferns, came to the piece of timber.  There he sat down to rest, while the dragon-fly played to and fro, now rising to the top of the trees, and now darting down again, to show off his dexterity.  While he was sitting there a crow came along and looked at him hard, but said nothing; and immediately afterwards a jackdaw went over, remarking what a lovely day it was.

“Now take me to the raspberries,” said Bevis; and the dragon-fly, winding in and out the trees, brought him to the thicket, showed him the place to creep in, and left, promising to return by-and-by and fetch him when it was time to go home.  Bevis, warm with walking in the sunshine, after he had crept in to the raspberries, went across and sat down on the moss under the oak; and he had hardly leant his back against the tree than the squirrel came along the ground and sat beside him.

“You are just in time, my dear,” he said, speaking low and rapidly, and glancing round to see that no one was near; “for there is going to be a secret council of the courtiers this afternoon, while Kapchack takes his nap; and in order that none of the little birds may play the spy and carry information to the police, Kauc, the crow, has been flying round and driving them away, so that there is not so much as a robin left in the copse.  This is an employment that suits him very well, for he loves to play the tyrant.  Perhaps you saw him coming in.  And this council is about Kapchack’s love affair, and to decide what is to be done, and whether it can be put up with, or whether they must refuse to receive her.”

“And who is she?” said Bevis; “you keep on talking, but you do not tell me.”  The squirrel pricked up his ears and looked cross, but he heard the people coming to the council, and knew there was no time to be lost in quarrelling, so he did not go off in a pet this time.  “The lady is the youngest jay, dear, in the wood; La Schach is her name; she is sweetly pretty, and dresses charmingly in blue and brown.  She is sweetly pretty, though they say rather a flirt, and flighty in her ways.  She has captivated a great many with her bright colour, and now this toothless old Kapchack — but hush!  It is a terrible scandal.  I hear them coming; slip this way, Bevis dear.”

Bevis went after him under the brambles and the ferns till he found a place in a hollow ash-stole, where it was hung all round with honeysuckle, and then, doing as the squirrel told him, he sat down, and was quite concealed from sight; while the squirrel stopped on a bough just over his head, where he could whisper and explain things.  Though Bevis was himself hidden, he could see very well; and he had not been there a minute before he heard a rustling, and saw the fox come stealthily out from the fern, and sit under an ancient hollow pollard close by.

The stoat came close behind him; he was something like the weasel, and they say a near relation; he is much bolder than the weasel, but not one quarter so cunning.  He is very jealous, too, of the power the weasel has got on account of his cunning, and if he could he would strangle his kinsman.  The rat could not attend, having very important business at the brook that day, but he had sent the mouse to listen and tell him all that was said.  The fox looked at the mouse askance from the corner of his eye; and the stoat could not refrain from licking his lips, though it was well understood that at these assemblies all private feelings were to be rigidly suppressed.  So that the mouse was quite safe; still, seeing the fox’s glance, and the stoat’s teeth glistening, he kept very near a little hole under a stole, where he could rush in if alarmed.

“I understood Prince Tchack-tchack was coming,” said the fox, “but I don’t see him.”

“I heard the same thing,” said the stoat.  “He’s very much upset about this business.”

“Ah,” said the fox, “perhaps he had an eye himself to this beautiful young creature.  Depend upon it there’s more under the surface than we have heard of yet.”  Just then a message came from the weasel regretting very much that he could not be present, owing to indisposition, but saying that he quite agreed with all that was going to be said, and that he would act as the others decided, and follow them in all things.  This message was delivered by a humble-bee, who having repeated all the weasel had told him to, went buzzing on among the thistles.

“I do not quite like this,” said a deep hollow voice; and looking up, Bevis saw the face of the owl at the mouth of a hole in the pollard-tree.  He was winking in the light, and could not persuade himself to come out, which was the reason the council was held at the foot of his house, as it was necessary he should take part in it.  “I do not quite like this,” said the owl, very solemnly, “Is the weasel sincere in all he says?  Is he really unwell, or does he keep away in order that if Kapchack hears of this meeting he may say:  ’I was not there.  I did not take any part in it’?”

“That is very likely,” said the stoat.  “He is capable of anything — I say it with sorrow, as he is so near a relation, but the fact is, gentlemen, the weasel is not what he ought to be, and has, I am afraid, much disgraced our family.”

“Let us send for the weasel,” said the hawk, who just then came and alighted on the tree above the owl.  “Perhaps the squirrel, who knows the copse so well, will go and fetch him.”

“I really do not know where he lives,” said the squirrel.  “I have not seen him lately, and I am afraid he is keeping his bed.”  Then the squirrel whispered down to Bevis:  “That is not all true, but you see I am obliged not to know too much, else I should offend somebody and do myself no good”.

“Well, then,” said the rook, who had just arrived, “send the mouse; he looks as if he wanted something to do.”

“I cannot agree to that,” said the owl; “the mouse is very clever, and his opinion worthy of attention; we cannot spare him.”  The truth was, the owl, squinting down, had seen what a plump mouse it was, and he reflected that if the weasel saw him he would never rest till he had tasted him, whereas he thought he should like to meet the mouse by moonlight shortly.  “Upon the whole, I really don’t know that we need send for the weasel,” he went on, thinking that if the weasel came he would fasten his affections upon the mouse.

“But I do,” said the stoat.

“And so do I,” said the fox.

“And I,” said Kauc, the crow, settling down on a branch of the pollard.

“For my part,” said Cloctaw, the old jackdaw, taking his seat on a branch of horse-chestnut, “I think it is very disrespectful of the weasel.”

“True,” said the wood-pigeon.  “True-whoo,” as he settled on the ash.

“Quite true-oo,” repeated the dove, perching in the hawthorn.

“Send for the weasel, then,” said a missel-thrush, also perching in the hawthorn.  “Why all this delay?  I am for action.  Send for the weasel immediately.”

“Really, gentlemen,” said the mouse, not at all liking the prospect of a private interview with the weasel, “you must remember that I have had a long journey here, and I am not quite sure where the weasel lives at present.”

“The council is not complete without the weasel,” screamed a jay, coming up; he was in a terrible temper, for the lady jay whom Kapchack was in love with had promised him her hand, till the opportunity of so much grandeur turned her head, and she jilted him like a true daughter of the family, as she was.  For the jays are famous for jilting their lovers.  “If the mouse is afraid,” said the jay, “I’ll fetch the humble-bee back, and if he won’t come I’ll speak a word to my friend the shrike, and have him spitted on a thorn in a minute.”  Off he flew, and the humble-bee, dreadfully frightened, came buzzing back directly.

“It falls upon you, as the oldest of the party, to give him his commands,” said Tchink, the chaffinch, addressing the owl.  The owl looked at the crow, and the crow scowled at the chaffinch, who turned his back on him, being very saucy.  He had watched his opportunity while the crow went round the copse to drive away the small birds, and slipped in to appear at the council.  He was determined to assert his presence, and take as much part as the others in these important events.  If the goldfinches, and the thrushes, and blackbirds, and robins, and greenfinches, and sparrows, and so on, were so meek as to submit to be excluded, and were content to have no voice in the matter till they were called upon to obey orders, that was their affair.  They were a bevy of poor-spirited, mean things.  He was not going to be put down like that.  Tchink was, indeed, a very impudent fellow:  Bevis liked him directly, and determined to have a chat with him by-and-by.

“If I am the oldest of the party, it is scarcely competent for you to say so,” said the owl with great dignity, opening his eyes to their full extent, and glaring at Tchink.

“All right, old Spectacles,” said Tchink; “you’re not a bad sort of fellow by daylight, though I have heard tales of your not behaving quite so properly at night.”  Then catching sight of Bevis (for Tchink was very quick) he flew over and settled near the squirrel, intending, if any violence was offered to him, to ask Bevis for protection.

The owl, seeing the fox tittering, and the crow secretly pleased at this remark, thought it best to take no notice, but ordered the humble-bee, in the name of the council, to at once proceed to the weasel, and inform him that the council was unable to accept his excuses, but was waiting his arrival.

“Is Tchack-tchack coming?” asked the mouse, recovering his spirits now.

“I too-whoo should like to know if Tchack-tchack is coming,” said the wood-pigeon.

“And I so, too-oo,” added the dove.  “It seems to me a most important matter.”

“In my opinion,” said Cloctaw, speaking rather huskily, for he was very old, “Tchack-tchack will not come.  I know him well — I can see through him — he is a double-faced rascal like — like (he was going to say the fox, but recollected himself in time) his — well, never matter; like all his race then.  My opinion is, he started the rumour that he was coming just to get us together, and encourage us to conspire against his father, in the belief that the heir was with us and approved of our proceedings.  But he never really meant to come.”

“The jackdaw is very old,” said the crow, with a sneer.  “He is not what he used to be, gentlemen, you must make allowance for his infirmities.”

“It seems to me,” said the missel-thrush, interrupting, “that we are wasting a great deal of time.  I propose that we at once begin the discussion, and then if the weasel and Tchack-tchack come they can join in.  I regret to say that my kinsman, the missel-thrush who frequents the orchard (by special permission of Kapchack, as you know), is not here.  The pampered fawning wretch! — I hate such favourites — they disgrace a court.  Why, all the rest of our family are driven forth like rogues, and are not permitted to come near!  If the tyrant kills his children in his wanton freaks even then this minion remains loyal:  despicable being!  But now without further delay let us ask the owl to state the case plainly, so that we can all understand what we are talking about.”

“Hear, hear,” said Tchink.

“I agree too,” said the wood-pigeon.

“I too,” said the dove.

“It is no use waiting for Tchack-tchack,” said the hawk.

“Hum! haw! caw!” said the rook, “I do not know about that.”

“Let us go on to business,” said the stoat, “the weasel knows no more than we do.  His reputation is much greater than he deserves.”

“I have heard the same thing,” said the fox.  “Indeed I think so myself.”

“I am sure the owl will put the case quite fairly,” said the mouse, much pleased that the owl had saved him from carrying the message to the weasel.

“We are all waiting, Owl,” said Tchink.

“We, indeed,” said the hawk, very sharply.

“Hush! hush!” said the squirrel.  “This is a privileged place, gentlemen; no personal remarks, if you please.”

“I think, think, the owl is very stupid not to begin,” said the chaffinch.

“If you please,” said the fox, bowing most politely to the owl, “we are listening.”

“Well then, gentlemen, since you all wish it,” said the owl, ruffling out his frills and swelling up his feathers, “since you all wish it, I will endeavour to put the case as plainly as possible, and in as few words as I can.  You must understand, gentlemen, indeed you all understand already, that from time immemorial, ever since the oak bore acorns, and the bramble blackberries, it has been the established custom for each particular bird and each particular animal to fall in love with, and to marry some other bird or animal of the same kind.

“To explain more fully, so that there cannot by any possibility be the least chance of any one mistaking my meaning, I should illustrate the position in this way, that it has always been the invariable custom for owls to marry owls; for crows to marry crows; for rooks to fall in love with rooks; for wood-pigeons to woo wood-pigeons; doves to love doves; missel-thrushes to court lady missel-thrushes; jackdaws, jackdaws; hawks, hawks; rats, rats; foxes, foxes; stoats, stoats; weasels, weasels; squirrels, squirrels; for jays to marry jays (’Just so,’ screamed the jay); and magpies to marry magpies.”

“And chaffinches to kiss chaffinches,” added Tchink, determined not to be left out.

“This custom,” continued the owl, “has now existed so long, that upon looking into the archives of my house, and turning over the dusty records, not without inconvenience to myself, I can’t discover one single instance of a departure from it since history began.  There is no record, gentlemen, of any such event having taken place.  I may say, without fear of contradiction, that no precedent exists.  We may, therefore, regard it as a fixed principle of common law, from which no departure can be legal, without the special and express sanction of all the nation, or of its representatives assembled.  We may even go further, and hazard the opinion, not without some authority, that even with such sanction, such departure from constitutional usage could not be sustained were an appeal to be lodged.

“Even the high court of representatives of all the nation, assembled in the fulness of their power, could not legalise what is in itself and of its own nature illegal.  Customs of this kind, which are founded upon the innate sense and feeling of every individual, cannot, in short, be abolished by Act of Parliament.  Upon this all the authorities I have consulted are perfectly agreed.  What has grown up during the process of so many generations, cannot be now put on one side.  This, gentlemen, is rather an abstruse part of the question, being one which recommends itself for consideration to the purely legal intellect.  It is a matter, too, of high state policy which rises above the knowledge of the common herd.  We may take it for granted, and pass on from the general to the special aspect of this most remarkable case.

“What do we see?  We see a proposed alliance between an august magpie and a beautiful jay.  Now we know by experience that what the palace does one day, the world at large will do to-morrow.  It is the instinct of nature to follow the example of those set so high above us.  We may therefore conclude, without fear of contradiction, that this alliance will be followed by others equally opposed to tradition.  We shall have hundreds of other equally ill-assorted unions.  If it could be confined to this one instance, a dispensation might doubtless be arranged.  I, for one, should not oppose it. (’I hate you!’ shouted the jay.) But no one can for a moment shut his eye to what must happen.  We shall have, as I before remarked, hundreds of these ill-assorted unions.

“Now I need not enlarge upon the unhappy state of affairs which would thus be caused:  the family jars, the shock to your feelings, the pain that must be inflicted upon loving hearts.  With that I have nothing to do.  It may safely be left to your imagination.  But what I, as a statesman and a lawyer, have to deal with, is the legal, that is the common-sense view of the situation, and my first question is this:  I ask myself, and I beg you, each of you, to ask yourselves — I ask myself, What effect would these ill-assorted unions produce upon the inheritance of property?”

“True-whoo!” said the wood-pigeon.

“Hum!  Haw!” said the rook.

“Law-daw!” said Cloctaw.

“Very important, very!” said the fox.  “The sacred laws of property cannot with safety be interfered with.”

“No intrusion can be thought of for a moment,” said the stoat.

“Most absurd!” said the jay.

“The very point!” said the missel-thrush.

“Very clear, indeed!” said the mouse; “I am sure the rat will echo the sentiment.”

“Every one will agree with you,” said Ki Ki, the hawk.

“I think the same,” said the chaffinch.

“The question is undoubtedly very important,” continued the owl, when the buzz had subsided, and much pleased at the sensation he had caused.  “You all agree that the question is not one to be lightly decided or passed over.  In order to fully estimate the threatened alteration in our present system, let us for a moment survey the existing condition of affairs.  I, myself, to begin with, I and my ancestors, for many generations, have held undisputed possession of this pollard.  Not the slightest flaw has ever been discovered in our title-deeds; and no claimant has ever arisen.  The rook has had, I believe, once or twice some little difficulty respecting his own particular tenancy, which is not a freehold; but his townsmen, as a body, possess their trees in peace.  The crow holds an oak; the wood-pigeon has an ash; the missel-thrush a birch; our respected friend the fox here, has a burrow which he inherited from a deceased rabbit, and he has also contingent claims on the witheybed, and other property in the country; the stoat has a charter of free warren.”

“And I have an elm,” said Tchink; “let anybody come near it, that’s all.”

“The squirrel,” continued the owl, “has an acknowledged authority over this copse; and the jay has three or four firs of his own.”

“And St. Paul belongs to me,” said Cloctaw, the jackdaw.

“Well, now,” said the owl, raising his voice and overpowering the husky Cloctaw, “about these various properties little or no dispute can take place; the son succeeds to the father, and the nephew to the uncle.  Occasional litigation, of course, occurs, which I have often had the pleasure of conducting to an amicable and satisfactory termination.  But, upon the whole, there is very little difficulty; and the principle of inheritance is accepted by all.  Your approval, indeed, has just been signified in the most unanimous manner.  But what shall we see if the example set by the palace spreads among society?  The ash at the present moment is owned by the wood-pigeon; were the wood-pigeon’s heir to marry the missel-thrush’s heiress, just imagine the conflicting claims which would arise.

“The family would be divided amongst itself; all the relations upon the paternal side, and the relations upon the maternal side would join the contest, and peace would be utterly at an end.  And so in all other instances.  The crow would no longer have a fee-simple of the oak, the jackdaw of the steeple, the rook of the elm, the fox of the burrow, or I of my pollard.  We might even see the rook claiming the — But I will not follow the illustration further, lest I be charged with descending to personalities.  I will only add, in conclusion, that if this ill-fated union takes place, we must look forward to seeing every home broken up, our private settlements, our laws of hereditary succession set upon one side, our property divided among a miscellaneous horde of people, who will not know their own grandfathers, and our most cherished sentiments cast to the winds of heaven.”  With which words the owl concluded, and was greeted with marks of approval from all parts of the circle.

“We are all very much indebted to the owl,” said the fox, “for putting the true aspect of the case so clearly before us.  His learned discourse — not more learned than lucid — has convinced us all of the extreme inexpediency of this alliance.”

“If this course is persisted in,” said the crow, “it can only end, in my opinion, in a way disastrous to the state.  The king cannot decline to listen to our representations, if we are united.”

“Haw!” said the rook; “I’m not so sure of that.  Kapchack likes his own way.”

“Kapchack is very self-willed,” said the hawk.  “It is almost our turn to have our way once now.”

“So I should say,” screamed the jay, who could never open his beak without getting into a temper.  “So I should say; Kapchack is a wicked old — ”

“Hush, hush,” said the squirrel; “you can’t tell who may be listening.”

“I don’t care,” said the jay, ruffling up his feathers; “Kapchack is a wicked old fellow, and Tchack-tchack is as bad.”

“Capital!” said Tchink, the chaffinch; “I like outspoken people.  But I have heard that you (to the jay) are very fond of flirting.”  At this there would have been a disturbance, had not the fox interfered.

“We shall never do anything, unless we agree amongst ourselves,” he said.  “Now, the question is, are we going to do anything?”

“Yes, that is it,” said the missel-thrush, who hated talking, and liked to be doing; “what is it we are going to do?”

“Something must be done,” said the owl, very solemnly.

“Yes; something must be done,” said Cloctaw.

“Something must be done,” said Ki Ki.

“I think, think so,” said Tchink.

“I, too,” said the dove.

“Quite true,” said the wood-pigeon.

“Something must be done,” said the stoat.

“Let us tell Kapchack what we think,” said the mouse, getting bold, as he was not eaten.

“A good idea,” said the crow; “a very good idea.  We will send the mouse with a message.”

“Dear me!  No, no,” cried the mouse, terribly frightened; “Kapchack is awful in a rage — my life would not be worth a minute’s purchase.  Let the stoat go.”

“Not I,” said the stoat; “I have had to suffer enough already, on account of my relation to that rascal the weasel, whom Kapchack suspects of designs upon his throne.  I will not go.”

“Nor I,” said the fox; “Kapchack has looked angrily at me for a long time — he cannot forget my royal descent.  Let the hawk go.”

“I!  I!” said Ki Ki.  “Nonsense; Kapchack does not much like me now; he gave me a hint the other day not to soar too high.  I suppose he did not like to think of my overlooking him kissing pretty La Schach.”

“Wretch! horrid wretch!” screamed the jay, at the mention of the kissing, in a paroxysm of jealousy.  “Pecking is too good for him!”

“Send the jackdaw or the crow,” said Ki Ki.

“No, no,” said Kauc and Cloctaw together.  “Try the wood-pigeon.”

“I go? — whoo,” said the pigeon.  “Impossible.  Kapchack told me to my face the other day that he more than half suspected me of plotting to go over to Choo Hoo.  I dare not say such a thing to him.”

“Nor I,” said the dove.  “Why not the owl?”

“The fact is,” said the owl, “my relations with Kapchack are of a peculiar and delicate nature.  Although I occupy the position of a trusted counsellor, and have the honour to be chief secretary of state, that very position forbids my taking liberties, and it is clear if I did, and were in consequence banished from the court, that I could not plead your cause.  Now, the rat — ”

“I am sure the rat will not go,” said the mouse.  “My friend the rat is very particularly engaged, and could not possibly stir from home at this juncture.  There is the missel-thrush.”

“Ridiculous,” said the missel-thrush.  “Everybody knows I had to leave my hawthorn-tree because Prince Tchack-tchack took a fancy to it.  He would very likely accuse me to his father of high treason, for he hates me more than poison ever since he did me that injury, and would lose no chance of compassing my destruction.  Besides which my relative — the favourite — would effectually prevent me from obtaining an audience.  Now, there’s the squirrel.”

“My dear sir,” said the squirrel, “it is well known I never meddle with politics.  I am most happy to see you all here, and you can have the use of my copse at any time, and I may say further that I sympathise with your views in a general way.  But on no account could I depart from my principles.”

“His principles,” muttered the crow, always a cynical fellow.  “His principles are his own beech-trees.  If anybody touched them he would not object to politics then.”

“This is rather awkward,” said the owl.  “There seems an embarrassment on the part of all of us, and we must own that to venture into the presence of a despotic monarch with such unpleasant advice requires no slight courage.  Now, I propose that since the weasel has attained so high a reputation for address, that he be called upon to deliver our message.”

“Hear, hear,” said the fox.

“Hear, hear,” said the stoat.

“Capital,” said the chaffinch.  “Old Spectacles can always see a way out of a difficulty.”

“Haw!” said the rook.  “I’m doubtful.  Perhaps the weasel will not see it in this light.”

“Buzz,” said the humble-bee, just then returning.  “Gentlemen, I have seen the weasel.  His lordship was lying on a bank in the sun — he is very ill indeed.  His limbs are almost powerless; he has taken a chill from sleeping in a damp hole.  He sends his humble apology, and regrets he cannot move.  I left him licking his helpless paw.  Buzz, buzz.”

“Hark! hark!” said the woodpecker, bursting into the circle with such a shout and clatter that the dove flew a little way in alarm.  “Kapchack is waking up.  I have been watching all the time to let you know.  And there is no chance of Prince Tchack-tchack coming, for he told me that Kapchack ordered him not to leave the orchard while he was asleep.”

“I do not believe it,” said the jay.  “He is a false scoundrel, and I daresay Kapchack never gave any such order, and never thought about it.  However, there is no help for it, we must break up this meeting, or we shall be missed.  But it is clear that something must be done.”

“Something must be done,” said the wood-pigeon, as he flew off.

“Something must be done,” repeated the dove.

“Something must be done,” said the owl, as he went down into the pollard to sleep the rest of the day.  Off went the mouse as fast as he could go, anxious to get away from the neighbourhood of the weasel.  The missel-thrush had started directly he heard what the woodpecker said, disgusted that there was no action, and nothing but talk.  The jay went off with the hawk, remarking as he went that he had expected better things of the fox, whose royal ancestors had so great a reputation, and could contrive a scheme to achieve anything, while their ignoble descendant was so quiet, and scarce spoke a word.  It seemed as if the weasel would soon outdo him altogether.  The rook flew straight away to the flock to which he belonged, to tell them all that had been said.  The chaffinch left at the same time; the fox and the stoat went away together; the crow and the jackdaw accompanied each other a little way.  When they had gone a short distance the crow said he wanted to say something very particular, so they perched together on a lonely branch.

“What is it?” said Cloctaw.

“The fact is,” said the crow, “my belief is — come a little nearer — my belief is that Kapchack’s reign is coming to an end.  People won’t put up with this.”

“Ah,” said the jackdaw, “if that is the case who is to be king?”

“Well,” said the crow, “let me whisper to you; come a little nearer.”  He hopped towards Cloctaw.  Cloctaw hopped the other way.  The crow hopped towards him again, till Cloctaw came to the end of the branch, and could go no farther without flying, which would look odd under the circumstances.  So he kept a very sharp eye on Kauc, for the fact was they had had many a quarrel when they were younger, and Cloctaw was not at all sure that he should not have a beak suddenly driven through his head.

“The truth is,” said the crow, in a hoarse whisper, “there’s a chance for you and me.  Can’t you see the fox is very stupid, quite abject, and without the least spirit; the stoat is very fierce, but has no mind; everybody suspects the weasel, and will not trust him; as for the rat, he is no favourite; the hawk is — well, the hawk is dangerous, but might be disposed of (’You black assassin,’ thought Cloctaw to himself); the rook has not a chance, for his friends would be too jealous to let one of their number become a king; and for the rest, they are too weak.  There’s only you and me left.”

“I see,” said Cloctaw; “but we could not both be king.”

“Why not?” said the crow; “you wear the crown and live in the palace; you are old, and it would be nice and comfortable; you have all the state and dignity, and I will do the work.”

“It is very kind of you to propose it,” said Cloctaw, as if considering.  In his heart he thought:  “Oh, yes, very convenient indeed; I am to wear the crown, and be pecked at by everybody, and you to do all the work — that is, to go about and collect the revenue, and be rich, and have all the power, while I have all the danger”.

“It is quite feasible, I am sure,” said the crow; “especially if Prince Tchack-tchack continues his undutiful course, and if Choo Hoo should come up with his army.”

“I must think about it,” said Cloctaw; “we must not be too hasty.”

“Oh, dear no,” said the crow, delighted to have won over one important politician to his cause so easily; “we must wait and watch events.  Of course this little conversation is quite private?”

“Perfectly private,” said Cloctaw; and they parted.

The crow had an appointment, and Cloctaw flew direct to the steeple.  His nest was in the highest niche, just behind the image of St. Paul; and it was not only the highest, but the safest from intrusion, for there was no window near, and, on account of some projections below, even a ladder could not be put up, so that it was quite inaccessible without scaffolding.  This niche he discovered in his hot youth, when he won renown by his strength and courage:  he chose it for his home, and defended it against all comers.  He was now old and feeble, but his reputation as a leading politician, and his influence at the court of King Kapchack, were too great for any to think of ousting him by force.

But the members of his family, in their extreme solicitude for his personal safety, frequently represented to him the danger he incurred in ascending so high.  Should a wing fail him, how terrible the consequences! more especially for the race of which he was so distinguished an ornament.  Nor was there the least reason for his labouring to that elevation; with his reputation and influence, none would dare to meddle with him.  There were many pleasant places not so exposed, as the gurgoyle, the leads, the angle of the roof, where he could rest without such an effort; and upon their part they would willingly assist him by collecting twigs for a new nest.

But Cloctaw turned a deaf ear to these kindly proposals, and could not be made to see the advantages so benevolently suggested.  He would in no degree abate his dignity, his right, power, or position.  He adhered to St. Paul.  There he had built all his days, and there he meant to stay to the last, for having seen so much of the world, well he knew that possession is ten points of the law, and well he understood the envy and jealousy which dictated these friendly counsels.

At the same time, as the fox and the stoat were going through the fern, the stoat said:  “It appears to me that this is a very favourable opportunity for ruining the weasel.  Could we not make up some tale, and tell Kapchack how the weasel asked us to a secret meeting, or something?”

Now the fox had his own ideas, and he wanted to get rid of the stoat.  “Another time,” he said, “another time, we will consider of it; but why waste such a capital chance as you have to-day?”

“Capital chance to-day?” said the stoat; “what is it you mean?”

“Did you not see the mouse?” said the fox.  “Did you not see how fat he was?  And just think, he has a long and lonely road home; and it would be very easy to make a short cut (for he will not leave the hedges which are round about) and get in front of, and so intercept him.  I should go myself, but I was out last night, and feel tired this afternoon.”

“Oh, thank you,” said the stoat; “I’ll run that way directly.”  And off he started, thinking to himself:  “How silly the fox has got, and how much he has fallen off from the ancient wisdom for which his ancestors were famous.  Why ever did he not hold his tongue, and I should never have thought of the mouse, and the fox could have had him another day?”

But the fact was the fox recollected that the mouse had had a long start, and it was very doubtful if the stoat could overtake him, and if he did, most likely the rat would come to meet his friend, and the stoat would get the worst of the encounter.

However ill the rat served the mouse, however much he abused his superior strength, wreaking his temper on his weaker companion, still the mouse clung to him all the more.  On the other hand the rat, ready enough to injure the mouse himself, would allow no one else (unless with his permission) to touch his follower, wishing to reserve to himself a monopoly of tyranny.

So soon as the stoat was out of sight, the fox looked round to see that no one was near, and he said to a fly:  “Fly, will you carry a message for me?”

“I am very busy,” said the fly, “very busy indeed.”

So the fox went a little farther, and said to a humble-bee:  “Humble-bee, will you carry a message for me?”

“I am just going home,” said the humble-bee, and buzzed along.

So the fox went a little farther, and said to a butterfly:  “Beautiful butterfly, will you carry a message for me?” But the disdainful butterfly did not even answer.

The fox went a little farther, and met a tomtit.  “Te-te,” said he, addressing the tomtit by name, “will you carry a message for me?”

“What impudence!” said Te-te.  “Mind your own business, and do not speak to gentlemen.”

“I see how it is,” said the fox to himself, “the fortunes of my family are fallen, and I am disregarded.  When we were rich, and had a great reputation, and were the first of all the people in the wood, then we had messengers enough, and they flew to do our bidding.  But now, they turn aside.  This is very bitter.  When I get home, I must curl round and think about it; I cannot endure this state of things.  How dreadful it is to be poor!  I wish we had not dissipated our wealth so freely.  However, there is a little left still in a secret corner.  As I said, I must see about it.  Here is a gnat.  Gnat, will you carry a message for me?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said the gnat; “I must think about it.  Will to-morrow do?”

“No,” said the fox quickly, before the gnat flew off.  “Go for me to Kapchack, and say there has been a secret — ”

“A secret?” said the gnat; “that’s another matter.”  And he went down closer to the fox.

“Yes,” said the fox, “you fly as fast as you can, and whisper to Kapchack — you have free admittance, I know, to the palace — that there has been a secret meeting in the copse about his love affair, and that the courtiers are all against it, and are bent on his destruction, especially the owl, the hawk, the crow, the rook, the weasel (the weasel worst of all, for they would have chosen him as their deputy), the stoat, and the jackdaw, and that he has only one true friend, the fox, who sends the message.”

“All right!” said the gnat; “all right, I’ll go!” And off he flew, delighted to be entrusted with so great a secret.

While the courtiers were thus intriguing, not only against Kapchack, but against each other, Bevis and the squirrel went back into the raspberries, and Bevis helped himself to the fruit that had ripened since yesterday.

“It seems to me,” said Bevis, after he had eaten as much as he could, “that they are all very wicked.”

“So they are,” said the squirrel.  “I am sorry to say they are rather treacherous, and I warned you not to believe all they said to you.  I would not let them use my copse, but the fact is, if they are wicked, Kapchack is a hundred times more so.  Besides, it is very hard on the jay, who is an old acquaintance of mine — we often have a chat in the fir-trees — to have his dear, sweet, pretty lady stolen away from him by such a horrid old wretch, whose riches and crown have quite turned her head!”

“What a business it all is,” said Bevis.  “Everybody seems mixed up in it.  And so it is true that Prince Tchack-tchack is also in love with the pretty jay?”

“Yes, that it is,” said the squirrel; “and, between you and me, I have seen her flirt with him desperately, in that very hawthorn bush he forced the missel-thrush to give up to him.  And that is the reason he will not let Kapchack peck his eye out, as he is so vain, and likes to look nice.”

“Let Kapchack peck his eye out!  But Kapchack is his father.  Surely his papa would not peck his eye out?”

“Oh, dear me!” said the squirrel, “I almost let the secret out.  Goodness!  I hope nobody heard me.  And pray, Bevis dear, don’t repeat it — oh, pray don’t! — or it will be sure to be traced to me.  I wish I had never heard it.  If I had not listened to that vile old crow; if I had not been so curious, and overheard him muttering to himself, and suggesting doubts at night!  Bevis dear, don’t you ever be curious, and don’t you say a word.”

The squirrel was in a terrible fright, till Bevis promised not to repeat anything.

“But,” said he, “you have not told me the secret.”

“No,” said the squirrel, “but I very nearly did, and only just stopped in time.  Why, if the trees heard it, they would pass it from one to the other in a moment.  Dear, dear!” He sat down, he was so frightened he could not frisk about.  But Bevis stroked him down, and soothed him, and said he had the most lovely silky tail in the world, and this brought him to himself again.

“All this comes,” said the squirrel, “of my having run up the wrong side of the tree first this morning.  Take care, Bevis dear, that you too do not make a mistake, and put the wrong foot first out of bed when you get up.”  Bevis laughed at this, and asked which was his wrong foot.  “Well,” said the squirrel, “the fact is, it depends:  sometimes it is one, and sometimes it is the other, and that is the difficulty, to know which it is, and makes all the difference in life.  The very best woman I ever knew (and she was a farmer’s wife) always, when she was out walking, put one foot before the other, and so was always right.”

“Nonsense,” said Bevis, “how could she walk without putting one foot before the other?”

“Oh, yes,” said the squirrel, “many people, though they think they put one foot before the other, really keep the wrong foot foremost all the time.  But do you remember to-morrow morning when you get up.”

“I do not see what difference it can make,” said Bevis.

“If you put one foot out first,” said the squirrel, “it will very likely lead you to the looking-glass, where you will see yourself and forget all the rest, and you will do one sort of thing that day; and if you put the other out first it will lead you to the window, and then you will see something, and you will think about that, and do another sort of thing; and if you put both feet out of bed together they will take you to the door, and there you will meet somebody, who will say something, and you will do another kind of thing.  So you see it is a very important matter, and this woman, as I said, was the best that ever lived.”

“No she wasn’t,” said Bevis, “she was not half so good as my mother is.”

“That is true, dear,” said the squirrel.  “Your mother is the very best of all.  But don’t forget about your feet to-morrow morning, dear.”

“Look up,” said Bevis, “and tell me what bird that is.”

The squirrel looked up, and saw a bird going over at a great height.  “That is a peewit,” he said.  “He is a messenger; you can see how fast and straight he is flying.  He is bringing some news, I feel sure, about Choo Hoo.  Kapchack sent an out-post of peewits over the hills to watch Choo Hoo’s movements, and to let him know directly if he began to gather his army together.  Depend upon it, dear, there is some very important news.  I must tell the woodpecker, and he will find out; he is very clever at that.”  The squirrel began to get restless, though he did not like to tell Bevis to go.

“You promised to tell me about Choo Hoo,” said Bevis.

“So I did,” said the squirrel, “and if you will come to-morrow I will do so; I am rather in a hurry just now.”

“Very well,” said Bevis, “I will come to-morrow.  Now show me the way to the felled tree.”  As they were going Bevis recollected the weasel, and asked if he was really so ill he could not move, but was obliged to lick his paw to cure the pain.

The squirrel laughed.  “No,” he whispered; “don’t you say I said so:  the truth is, the weasel is as well as you or I, and now the council is broken up I daresay he is running about as quickly as he likes.  And, Bevis dear, stoop down and I’ll tell you (Bevis stooped), the fact is, he was at the council all the time.”

“But I never saw him,” said Bevis, “and he never said anything.”

“No,” whispered the squirrel very quietly, “he wanted to hear what they said without being present; he was in the elm all the time; you know, dear, that malice-minded elm on the other side of the raspberries, which I told you was rotten inside.  He lives there in that hole; there is a way into it level with the ground; that is his secret hiding-place.”

“I will bring my cannon-stick to-morrow,” said Bevis, delighted to have discovered where the weasel lived at last, “and I will shoot into the hole and kill him.”

“I could not let you do that,” said the squirrel.  “I do not allow any fighting, or killing, in my copse, and that is the reason all the birds and animals come here to hold their meetings, because they know it is a sanctuary.  If you shoot off your cannon the birds are sure to hear it, and you will not be present at any more of their meetings, and you will not hear any more of the story.  Therefore it would be very foolish of you to shoot off your cannon; you must wait, Bevis dear, till you can catch the weasel outside my copse, and then you may shoot him as much as you like.”

“Very well,” said Bevis, rather sulkily, “I will not shoot him in the hole if you do not want me to.  But how could the weasel have been in the elm all the time, when the humble-bee said he found him lying in the sunshine on a bank licking his paw?”

“Why, of course he told the humble-bee to say that.”

“What a cheater he is, isn’t he?” said Bevis.  “And how did you find out where he lived?  I looked everywhere for him, and so did Pan — Pan sniffed and sniffed, but could not find him.”

“Nor could I,” said the squirrel.  “After you shot the — I mean after the unfortunate business with the thrush, he kept out of the way, knowing that you had vowed vengeance against him, and although I go about a good deal, and peep into so many odd corners, I could not discover his whereabouts, till the little tree-climber told me.  You know the tree-climber, dear, you have seen him in your orchard at home; he goes all round and round the trees, and listens at every chink, and so he learns almost all the secrets.  He heard the weasel in the elm, and came at once and told me.  Here is the timber, and there is the dragon-fly.  Good-afternoon, Bevis dear; come to-morrow, and you shall hear the peewit’s news, and be sure and not forget to put the right foot out of bed first in the morning.”  Bevis kissed his hand to the squirrel, and went home with the dragon-fly.