Rag: The Story of a Rabbit's Skin

Prologue: This story came about by the simple expedient of transforming a story of Earnest Thompson Seaton, a naturalist whose work I grew up reading. The idea for this story came to me some years ago, and I only recently resolved to complete the thought project. What you will read here is thus informed by The Naturalist view of nature, but also informed by more modern notions of gender politics and language. No disrespect is meant to the original, for it is a story I grew up with, and it has stuck with me all of these years. In the spirit of all of my writings, I only hope it will cause you to look at a few things differently, if only for a little while. Thank you for your interest.
--Dis-ease

RAG, The Story of a Rabbit’s Skin

by an Earnest Trans Sexual

Rag was the name of a young boy. Some said it was given him because, as a mewling welp, he’d been expelled from his mother’s womb like so much dead uterine flesh. He lived with his mother in an apartment above Olifant's Swamp, a dingy bar on the wrong side of town. They lived like animals and were constantly watched.

Those who do not know humans well may think I have animalized them, but those who have lived so near them as to know somewhat of their ways and their minds will not think so.

Truly Rag and his mother, Molly, had no speech as we understand it, but they had a way of conveying ideas by a system of sounds, signs, scents, touches, and movements that answered the purpose of speech; and it must be remembered that though in telling this story I translate without lies.


I
The rank blankets wrapped around and concealed the snug nest where
Rag's mother had told him to hide. As always, her last warning was to lie low and say nothing, whatever happens. “Momma’ll be back soon.” Though tucked in bed, he was wide awake and his bright eyes were taking in that part of his little world that was straight outside the window. Two thieves were loudly berating each other for stealing, and at one time Rag's home was the centre of their fight; a man caught a blue fly and ate it; and a scarlet and black ladybug, serenely waving her knobbed feelers, took a long walk up one glass pane, down another, and across the ledge--and yet Rag never moved nor even winked.

After a while he heard a strange rustling out in the corridor. It was an odd, continuous sound, and though it went this way and that way and came ever nearer, there was no thump of feet with it. Rag had lived his whole life next to the Swamp (he was three years old) and yet had never heard anything like this. Of course his curiosity was greatly aroused. His mother had cautioned him to lie low, but that was understood to be in case of danger, and this strange sound without footfalls could not be anything to fear.

The low rasping went past the door, then back, and seemed going away. Rag felt he knew what he was about; he wasn't a baby; it was his duty to learn what it was. He slowly raised his hand to the door knob, turned the knob and peeped out. The sound had ceased as soon as he’d turned the door knob. He saw nothing, so took one step forward to a clear view, and instantly found himself face to face with an enormous junky named Snake.

"Mamma," he screamed in mortal terror as the monster darted at him. With all the strength of his tiny limbs he tried to run, but it was a tiny room in which they lived, and in a flash Snake had him by the hair and whipped his fingers around his neck to gloat over the helpless little baby he had secured.

"Mamma--Mamma," gasped poor little Rag as the cruel monster began slowly choking him to death. Very soon the little one's cry would have ceased, but barreling down the hall straight as an arrow came Mamma. No longer a shy, helpless little piece of tail, ready to fly from a shadow: the mother's love was strong in her. The cry of her baby had filled her with the courage of a hero, and--slash, she struck at that horrible reptile. Slash, down came the tiny blade across his forearm, giving him such a slice that he writhed with pain and howled with anger.

"M-a-m-ma," came feebly from the little one. And Molly slashed again and again and struck harder and fiercer until the loathsome reptile let go the little one's throat and tried to grab the old one as she darted around him. But all he got was a handful of cheap wool from her sweater each time, and Molly's fierce blows began to tell, as long bloody rips were torn in Snake's scabby arm.

Things were now looking bad for Snake; and bracing himself for the next charge, he lost his tight hold on the now-bloody Rag, who at once wriggled out of his grip and away under the bed, breathless and terribly frightened, but unhurt save that his throat was much sore by the fingers of that dreadful Serpent.

Molly now had gained all she wanted. She, being female, was allowed no notion of glory or revenge, which really were the same. Away she went into the streets and the little one followed her tail until she led him to a safe place to crash for the night.

II
The neighborhood around Olifant's Swamp was a rough, broken-down tract of tenements. A few ragged remnants of the old city still stood in it and a few of the still older buildings were standing about as dead—and as hopeless—as their residents. The buildings were infested with cats, rats, dogs and other kinds of people that had no fear. The playground was overgrown with briars and young trees. Across the street was a stand of thrifty, gummy-trunked young pines whose living needles in air and dead ones on earth offer so delicious an odor to the nostrils of the passer-by, and so deadly a breath to those seedlings that would compete with them for the worthless waste they grow on.

All around for a long way were half-empty buildings, and the alleys that crossed between these buildings were those of the thoroughly bad and unscrupulous Fox that lived only too near.

The chief indwellers of the building above the Swamp were Molly and Rag. Their nearest neighbors were quiet, and their nearest kin dead. This was their home, and here they lived together, and here Rag received the training that made his success in life.

Molly was a good little mother and taught him fear. The first thing he learned was to lie low and say nothing. His adventure with Snake taught him the wisdom of this. Rag never forgot that lesson; afterward he did as he was told, and it made the other things come more easily.

The second lesson he learned was 'freeze.' It grows out of the first, and Rag was taught it as soon as he could run.

'Freezing' is simply doing nothing unusual, blending with the background. As soon as he finds a foe near, no matter what he is doing, a well-trained piece of tail keeps just as she is and stops all movement, for the creatures of the dead city are of the same dead color as the city and catch the eye only while moving. So when enemies chance together, the one who first sees the other can keep--himself unseen by 'freezing' and thus have all the advantage of choosing the time for attack or escape. Only those who live in the city know the importance of this; every prey and every hunter must learn it; all learn to do it well, but not one of them can beat Molly’s tail in the doing. Rag's mother taught him tricks. When he peeked through the bedroom keyhole and saw her head bobbing, of course Rag wanted to do the same, because Rag more than anything, longed to be wanted.

But the best trick of all that Rag learned from his mother was the secret of the Brierbrush. It is a very old trick now, and to make it plain you must first hear why the Brierbrush quarreled with the beasts.

Long ago, women used to be called “Rose” because they had no thorns. But cattle used to knock them up with their horns, and possums would piss them off with their long tales, and deer, with their sharp hoofs, would beat them. Down. So women armed themselves with spikes to protect their roses and declared eternal war on all creatures that had horns, or hoofs, or long tales. This left roses at peace, but Molly, who could not climb out of the gutter, was horny, hoofless, got scarcely any tale at all. Until now, that is.

In truth, a piece of tail had never harmed a rose. But when dangers are threatening Molly and her kind, she flashes her Brierbrush keen with a million poisoned daggers to defend her.

So the secret that Rag learned from his mother was, "The Brierbrush is your best friend." He couldn’t understand.

Much of the time that season was spent in learning the mazes men and women weave. And Rag learned them so well that he could go all around the Swamp by two different ways and never leave.

It was not long after that the foes of tail were disgusted to find that some people actually traded sex for money and didn’t call it marriage. They brought a new kind of bramble and planted it in long lines throughout the country. It was so strong that no creatures could break it down, and so sharp that the toughest skin was torn by it. Each year there was more of it and each year it became a more serious matter to the wild creatures. But Molly Cottontail had no fear of it. She was not brought up by those living in the dead city for nothing. Dogs and foxes, cattle and sheep, might be torn by those fearful spikes: but Molly understood it and lived and thrived under its shadow. And the further it spread the more safe country there was for tails/tales. And the name of this new and dreaded bramble was Prison Morality, though some called it Christianity and others called it Islam. Molly knew the Morale Male, and she taught Rag its tricks.

III

Molly’s other children had all died being poor in America, so Rag had all her care, and so the pigs reckoned them not so bad off and neglected them. He was unusually quick and bright as well as strong, and he had uncommonly good chances; so he got on remarkably well.

All the season she kept him busy learning the tricks of life amongst the dead, of what to eat and drink and what not to touch. By day she worked; by night she earned enough money to love. Little by little she put into Rag’s mind hundreds of ideas that her own life or early training had stored in hers, and so equipped him with the knowledge that makes life possible to their kind.

Close by her side he learned “to keep his nose clean.” He learned to comb his hair and to dress himself and to bite the burrs out of his socks. He learned, too, that nothing but clear rain from the sky was fit to drink, as water which has once touched the earth must surely bear some taint.

As soon as Rag was big enough to go out alone, his mother taught him the knock code. A single knock means 'look out' or 'freeze.' A slow knock knock means 'come.' A fast knock knock means 'danger'; and a very fast knock knock knock means 'run for dear life.'

At another time, when the weather was fine and the pigs were quarrelling among themselves, a sure sign that no dangerous foe was about, Rag began a new study. Molly told him to squat in the alley, as if he were going to shit. Then she ran far away. Rag waited and waited, but she didn’t come back. Scared, Rag set out at a run to find his mommy. He panicked and began to cry, but got no reply. On he ran, searching for his mommy, but uncovered no signs. Could she have abandoned him? He stopped crying because he resigned himself to the fact that she’d gone and he was now alone. He returned home and found his mommy on the couch, watching TV. Thus he got his first lesson in trailing, and thus it was that the games of hide and seek they played became the schooling for the serious chase of which there was so much in life. After that, she sent him to public school.

Before the first year was over he had learned and not a few problems, and showed himself a veritable genius, though the foes of Molly and her kind had already planted all the brambles they would need to keep this piece of tail down

In school, he was taught the signs by which to know all his foes, and for each and all of these evils he was taught a remedy, but he was amazed, for everything seemed to be getting turned around and upside down.

For knowledge of the enemy's approach he’d learnt to depend first on himself and his mother, and then on the bluejay, their secret name for the pigs. "Never neglect the bluejay's warning," said Molly; "he is a mischief-maker, a marplot, and a thief all the time, but nothing escapes him. He wouldn't mind harming us, but he cannot, thanks to the briers, and his enemies are ours, so it is well to heed him. You can trust an honest man, but he is a fool beside the bluejay, and though the bluejay often tells lies for mischief you are safe to believe him when he brings ill news."

Turning a trick takes a deal of nerve and the best of legs. It was long before Rag ventured to try it, but as he came to his full powers, in secret from his mother, he showed himself to be a genius here, too.

"It's fine play for those who can do it," said Molly one night after too many drinks. "First you lead off your dog straightaway and warm him up a bit by nearly letting him catch you. Then keeping just one hop ahead, you lead him at a long slant full tilt into a breast-high barb-wire. I've seen many a dog and fox crippled, and one big hound killed outright this way. But I've also seen more than one rabbit lose his life in trying it."

Thus Rag early learnt what some rabbits never learn at all, that sex had little or nothing to do with love.

In the summer they sunned themselves on the roof of the building. It was open and here they took their sun-baths. They stretched out in odd cat-like positions between the old chimneys, and turned slowly over as though roasting and wishing all sides well done. And they blinked and panted, and squirmed as if in dreadful pain; yet this was one of the keenest enjoyments they knew.

Just across the hall a sulky old woodchuck had dug in long ago and was refusing to leave even though the neighborhood had changed and the landlord sent dogs around to scare him.

He became more sour and ill-tempered as months went by, and one day waited to quarrel with Olifant's dog instead of going in so that Molly could have taken possession of the apartment an hour later, for it may have been a hole, but it was a nicer hole than the one she shared with Rag. But Molly had a bad feeling about this hole, and so didn’t go in, but owned it by the simple expedient that no one else could stay in it once the old woodchuck had had his throat slit in the kitchen.

This hole was afterward very coolly taken by a self-sufficient young skunk who with less valor might have enjoyed greater longevity, for he imagined that even a man with a gun would fly from him. Instead of keeping the apartment for good, i.e., from everyone else, therefore, his reign, like that of a certain Hebrew king, was over in seven days.

Molly and Rag’s hole was small and damp, and useless except as a last retreat from the small, petty violence that weak men do. It also was the work of a woodchuck, a well-meaning friendly neighbor, but a harebrained youngster whose messy death was now serving as an example to develop higher horse-power in Olifant’s illegal immigrant slaves working in the kitchen.

"Simple justice," said the old man, "for that friendly man was raised on stolen happiness that I and my team could a' turned into money/power anyway."

Molly and Rag were now sole owners of the holes, and did not go near them when they could help it, lest anything like a path should be made that might betray these last retreats to an enemy. There was also the little apartment downstairs, which, though almost too broken down to be lived in was still livable enough. It was green, and had the great advantage of having a lock that couldn’t lock. This had long been the residence of one Lotor, a solitary old black woman whose ostensible calling had been whoring, and who, like the monks of old, abstained from all flesh food. But Molly shrewdly suspected that Lotor needed but a chance to indulge in little murder, so she kept Rag from going near. When at last one dark night she was killed while refusing a pig his power, Molly, so far from feeling a pang of regret, took possession of this nest with a sense of unbounded relief.

IV

Bright August sunlight was flooding the Swamp in the morning. Everything seemed soaking in the warm radiance. A little brown Rag was teetering on the edge of a table. Beneath him there were open spaces of dirty water that brought down a few scraps of the fluorescent lighting, and worked it and the yellowing white curtains into an exquisite mosaic, with a little wrong-side picture of the American Eagle in the middle. On the bar behind was a great vigorous growth of green casting a dense shadow over the brown veneer.

The eyes of the boy were not trained to take in the color glories, but he saw what we might have missed; that two of the brown bumps under the broad bar were furry living things, with noses that never ceased to move up and down, whatever else was still. It was mice. It was Molly and Rag. They were stretched under the bar which was a car, not because they liked its rank smell, but because the winged ticks could not stand it at all and so left them in peace.

Those who fuck like rabbits have no set time for lessons, they are always learning; but what the lesson is depends on the present stress, and that must arrive before it is known. They went to this place for a quiet rest, but had not been long there when suddenly a warning note from the ever-watchful bluejay caused Molly to tighten her backside. Away across the Swamp was a big black and white dog, coming straight toward them, because he only saw black and white and so couldn’t look to the side and couldn’t see shades. He had his Yes and he had his No, and beyond that no more could he tell. He was the perfect cop.

"Now," said Molly, "stay here while I go and keep that fool out of mischief." Away she went to meet him and she fearlessly swayed her hips across his path.

"Bitch," he fairly yelled as he followed after Molly, but she kept just beyond his reach and led him where the million daggers struck fast and deep, where he felt guilty for desiring, till he scratched his ears raw in his frustration, and she guided him at last plump into a hidden barbed-wire fence, where she said she wanted nothing to do with such an ugly man. He went homeward cursing all women. After making a short double, a loop and a baulk in case the dog should come back, Molly returned to find that Rag in his eagerness was standing bolt upright and craning his neck to see the sport.

This disobedience made her so angry that she kicked him and struck him and knocked him over into a mud puddle glistening with oil.

One night as they ate at a nearby pancake house a handsome man came up to their table and tried talking to them. Molly crossed and re-crossed her legs to make fun of him and then took Rag and skipped into the alleys along one of their old pathways, where of course the handsome man would not follow. It was the main path from Creekside Thicket to Stove-pipe Brushpile, two local dives that competed with Olifant’s swamp. Several creepers hung around the alley, and Molly, cut the creepers off before they could say anything. Rag watched her, then ran on ahead, and cut some more that were across the path. "That's right," said Molly, "always keep the runways clear, you will need them often enough. Cut everything like a creeper across them and some day you will find you have cut a looker." "A what?" asked Rag, as he scratched his right ear with his left hind foot.

"A looker is something that looks like a creeper, but it doesn't grow and it's worse than all the handsome men in the world," said Molly, "for it hides night and day till the chance to catch you comes."

"I don't believe one could catch me," said Rag, with the pride of youth as he rubbed his chin and offending whiskers. Rag did not know he was doing this, but his mother saw and knew it was a sign, that her little one was no longer a baby but would soon be a grown-up. Rag viewed them as yet another sign of difference from his momma, a cut to separate them.

V

There is magic in running water. Who does not know it and feel it? The railroad builder fearlessly throws his bank across the wide bog or lake, or the sea itself, but the tiniest nil of running water he treats with great respect, studies its wish and its way and gives it all it seems to ask. The thirst-parched traveller in the poisonous alkali deserts holds back in deadly fear from the sedgy ponds till he finds one down whose centre is a thin, clear line, and a faint flow, the sign of running, living water, and joyfully he drinks.

There is magic in running water, no evil spell can cross it. The wild-wood creature with its deadly foe following tireless on the trail scent, realizes its nearing doom and feels an awful spell. Its strength is spent, its—every trick is tried in vain till luck leads it to the water, the running, living water, and dashing in it follows the cooling stream, and then with force renewed--takes to the woods again.

There is magic in running water. The hounds come to the very spot and halt and cast about; and halt and cast in vain. Their spell is broken by the merry stream, and the wild thing lives its life.

And this was one of the great secrets that Raggylug learned from his mother--"after the Brierrose, the Water is your friend."

One hot, muggy night in August, Molly led Rag through the woods. The cotton-white panties she wore under her mini skirt twinkled ahead and was his guiding lantern, though it went out as soon as she stopped and sat on it. After a few runs and stops to listen, they came to the edge of the river. The wind in the telephone lines above them was singing 'sleep, sleep,' and a bloated homeless man was singing the praises of a 'jug o' rum.'

"Follow me still," said Molly, and 'flop' she went into the river and struck out for the opposite bank. Rag flinched but plunged with a little 'ouch,' gasping and wobbling very fast but still copying his mother. On he went till he reached the far bank and scrambled up by his dripping mother on the high dry end, with a rushy screen around them and the Water that tells no tales. After this on warm black nights when the SWAT came prowling through the Swamp’s neighborhood, Rag would note the place of the river, for in case of direst need it might be his way to safety. And thenceforth the words of the song that the river sings are 'Come, come, in danger come.'

This was the latest study that Rag took up with his mother—it was really a post-graduate course, for many little rabbits never learn it at all.

VI

No wild animal, no true, living human, dies of old age. Its life has soon or late a tragic end. It is only a question of how long it can hold out against its foes. But Rag's life was proof that once a man passes out of his youth he is likely to outlive his prime and be killed only in the last third of life, the downhill third we call old age.

Molly and Rag had enemies on every side. Their daily life was a series of escapes. Everything living was plotting to kill and eat them. They had hundreds of adventures, and at least once a day they had to fly for their lives and save themselves by their legs and wits and knives.

More than once the hateful cop Olifant bribed drove them to taking
refuge under the wreck of a car in front of the building.

Once he was caught by a pimp who had a pig and a ferret to help him. But Rag had the luck to escape next day, with a yet deeper distrust of men. He was several times run into the river, and many times was chased, but for each kind of danger there was a safeguard. His mother taught him the principal dodges, and he improved on them and made many new ones as he grew older. And the older and wiser he grew the less he trusted to his legs, and the more to his wits for safety.

Ranger was the name of a strong, young man in the neighborhood. He always taunted Rag, and threatened to cut him. Almost every day he ran after Rag, for the young buck loved Ranger almost as much as Ranger did him, the spice of danger in them being just enough for zest. He would say:

"Oh, mother! here comes the boy again, I must have a run to-day."

"You are too bold, Rag, my son!" she might reply. "I fear you will run once too often."

"But, mother, it is such glorious fun to tease that fool, and it's all good training. I'll thump the wall if I am too hard pressed, then you can come and change off while I get my second wind."

On he would come, and Ranger would take the trail and follow till Rag got tired of it. Then he either sent a thumping telegram for help, which brought Molly to take charge, or he got rid of the dog by some clever trick.

Ranger lost much time in the maze of Rag’s hints and teases. He often stormed away, horny and frustrated. Again the dog came round, and Rag had won.

VII

Rag was more and more away from Molly now, and yet he never felt lonely, for their kind do not hanker for company. But one day in December, he saw all at once the hall a strange man. The newcomer had the air of a well-pleased discoverer and soon came strolling Rag's way. A new feeling rushed over him, that boiling mixture of anger and hatred called jealousy, possession, or property. There was nothing proper about Rag.

The stranger stopped at one of Rag's door. He knew someone lived here, but didn’t knock. He just walked in.

To his disgust Rag noticed that the new-comer was much taller than himself…a big, stout buck at that. This was a wholly new experience and filled Rag with a wholly new feeling. The spirit of murder and desire entered his heart; he chewed very hard at nothing in his mouth and stepped out into the hall:

“Get out of here, or fight.”

The new-comer—the big, strong, silent type—grinned wickedly.

And so war was declared.

They came together by short runs side-wise, each one trying to get the wind of the other and watching for a chance advantage. The stranger was a big, heavy fuck with plenty of muscle, but he soon proved that he had not much cunning and counted on winning his battles by his weight. On he came at last and Rag met him like a furious, toothy, rabbit. Thud, thud, and down went poor little Rag. In a moment the stranger was on him with his fists and Rag was hit, and got a broken nose before he could get up. But he was swift of foot and got out of reach. Again he charged and again he was knocked down and beaten severely. He was no match for his foe, and it soon became a question of saving his own life.

Hurt as he was, he sprang away, with the stranger in full chase, and bound to kill him as well as to oust him from the Swamp where he was born. Rag's legs were good and so was his wind. The stranger was big and so heavy that he soon gave up the chase, and it was well for poor Rag that he did, for he was getting stiff from his wounds as well as tired. From that day began a reign of terror for Rag. His training had been against owls, dogs, weasels and other such men, but what to do when chased by a lover, he did not know. All he knew was to lie low till he was found, then run.

Poor little Molly was completely terrorized; she could not help Rag and sought only to hide. But the big buck soon found her out. She tried to run from him, but she was not now so swift as Rag. The stranger made no attempt to kill her, but he made love to her (i.e., raped her), and because she hated him and tried to get away, he treated her shamefully. Day after day he worried her by following her about, and often, furious at her lasting hatred, he would knock her down and tear out handfuls of her soft hair till his rage cooled somewhat, when he would let her go for a while. But his fixed purpose was to kill Rag, whose escape seemed hopeless. There was it seemed no other swamp he could go to, for this was where his momma lived. A dozen times a day the big stranger came creeping up to Rag’s bed, but each time the watchful Rag awoke in time to escape the rape. To escape rape yet not to escape possession, property. He saved himself indeed, but oh! what a miserable life it had become. How maddening to be thus helpless, to see his little mother daily beaten and torn. Unhappy Rag realized that to the victor belong the spoils, and he hated him more than ever.

How was it to end? He was wearing out with running and watching and bad food, and little Molly's strength and spirit were breaking down under the long persecution. The stranger was ready to go to all lengths to destroy poor Rag, and at last stooped to the worst crime known to those that live: he ratted Rag out for being a fag. He tried again and again to force Rag into the open.

Once or twice the pigs who hate fag, and there really weren’t any others, nearly had him, but still the briers saved him, and it was only when his mother’s lover came near being caught that he gave it up. And again Rag escaped, but was no better off.

He made up his mind. Rag went to his secret place up on the roof. There, in the moonlight, he stripped himself until he stood there, a statue glowing in the pale light. He then began to tear away at his skin, revealing underneath all that is not blood and muscle, all that is a silver mirror. Perfect. Bathed in moonlight, the mirror took on the appearance of pale skin, but not Rag’s skin. No. This was the skin he wished he’d had, the skin that could be desired. His mother’s skin, and that of her kind. The change complete, he went to his mother’s room. He put on some of her clothes. Checking himself in the mirror, he was pleased to see how much like her, how desirable, he had become. He left, in search of the big fuck.

Rag found him at the bar. Using the tricks his mother had taught him and those he’d learned himself, he seduced the rapist. Well, not completely. Once the rapist got his hand under Rag’s skirt, he’d learned his mistake.

"You miserable fool, I'll kill you yet," cried his mother’s lover, and up he jumped only to find himself between Rag and the pig who was disgusted by their gay groping.

On came the cop pig baying hotly on the straight-away scent. The fuck's weight and size were great advantages in a rape, but now they were fatal. He did not know many tricks. Just the simple ones like 'lie,' 'smile,' and 'compliment,' that every lover knows. But the chase was too close, and he didn't know where to hide.

It was a straight race. The baying of the cop pig was fast and steady. The crashing and screaming were borne to Molly and Rag where they crouched in hiding. But suddenly these sounds stopped, there was a scuffle, then loud and terrible screaming. Rag knew what it meant and it sent a shiver through him: the cop pig was sodomizing the lover with his night stick. But Rag soon forgot that when all was over and rejoiced.

VIII

Old Olifant had doubtless a right to burn all those tenements in the east and south of the Swamp for they were his property and infested with homeless ticks and leeches. But it was none the less hard on Rag and his mother. They had to listen to the cries and screams and wonder if this would be their future.

“Don’t worry, momma,” Rag said. “I will protect you.”

They had so long lived above the Swamp that they felt the neighborhood to be their very own in every part and suburb
.

Their claim, like that of all squatters everywhere, that of long, successful occupancy, was exactly the same as that by which most nations hold their land, and it would be hard to find a better right. Except that Molly and Rag were Indians, and Olifant, a white, wage-slave holder, ignored them just so long as they remained out of sight and didn’t demand anything as silly as their rights. And Molly knew better than to do such a thing, for it only brought violence. She’d instilled this lesson in Rag since he was a baby, the lesson of laying still.

During January Olifant kicked out more of the squatters. But Molly and Rag still clung to their small dwellings, for it was their home and they were loath to move to foreign parts. Their life of daily perils went on, but they were still fleet of foot, long of wind, and bright of wit.

That first snow had quite gone and the weather was bright and warm until now. Molly, feeling a touch of rheumatism, was somewhere in the lower street seeking a tonic. Rag was sitting in the weak sunlight on the roof. The smoke from some nearby gable chimneys came fitfully drifting a pale blue haze across the roofs and showing as a dull brown against the brightness of the sky. The sun-gilt gables were cut off midway by the eve of the building that, purple in shadow, shone like rods of blazing crimson and gold in the light. Later, when about to settle for the night, he was joined by Molly, who had taken her tonic and then eaten a frugal meal. Off in the east a big black shutter came pushing up and rising higher and higher; it spread over the whole sky, shut out all light and left the world a very gloomy place indeed. Then another mischief-maker, the wind, taking advantage of the sun's absence, came on the scene and set about brewing trouble. The weather turned colder and colder; it seemed worse than when the ground had been covered with snow.

"Isn't this terribly cold? How I wish we had our own heater," said Rag.

"Yes, it’s a good night for a heater," replied Molly, "but we don’t have one." And with that they huddled together for warmth, and soon became sleepy.

The wind blew harder and colder as the hours went by, and about midnight a fine icy snow came ticking down on the window panes. It might seem a poor night for hunting, but an old fox from Springfield was out. He caught sight of Molly and Rag huddling together in the window. He halted for a moment, then came stealthily sneaking up toward the door. The noise of the wind and the sleet enabled him to come quite close before Molly heard the faint squeak of a floorboard under his paw. She touched Rag's whiskers, and both were fully awake just as the fox sprang into the room; but they, like all living humans, always slept with their legs ready for a jump. Molly darted out into hall. The fox missed his swing of the knife but followed like a racer, while Rag dashed off another hallway.

There was only one road for Molly; that was straight out the building, and racing for her life she gained a little over the unfrozen mud that would not carry the fox, till she reached the bank of the river. No chance to turn now, on she must go.

Splash! splash! through the weeds she went, then plunged into the deep water.

And plunge went the fox close behind. But it was too much for Reynard on such a night. He turned back, and Molly, seeing only one course, struggled through the reeds into the deep water and struck out for the other shore. But there was a strong headwind. The little waves, icy cold, broke over her head as she swam, and the water was full of snow that blocked her way like soft ice, or floating mud. The dark line of the other shore seemed far, far away, with perhaps other murderers, rapist, lovers, liars, waiting for her there.

She bravely put forth all her strength with wind and tide against her. After a long, weary swim in the cold water, she had nearly reached the farther reeds when a great mass of floating snow barred her road; then the wind on the bank made strange, fox-like sounds that robbed her of all force, and she was drifted far backward before she could get free from the floating bar.

Again she struck out, but slowly—oh so slowly now. And when at last she reached the lee of the tall reeds, her limbs were numbed, her strength spent, her brave little heart was sinking, and she cared no more whether the fox were there or not. Through the reeds she did indeed pass, but once in the weeds her course wavered and slowed, her feeble strokes no longer sent her landward, the ice forming around her stopped her altogether. In a little while the cold, weak limbs ceased to move, the sleek lips of little Molly Cottontail quavered no more, and the soft brown eyes were closed in death.

But there was no fox waiting to tear her with his knife. Rag had escaped the first onset of the foe, and as soon as he regained his wits he came running back to change-off and so help his mother. He met the old fox going across the bridge to meet Molly on the opposite bank and then dismissed him with a baseball bat to the head, and came to the bank and sought about, but all his searching was in vain; he could not find his little mother. He never saw her again, and he never knew whither she went, for she slept her never-waking sleep in the ice-arms of her friend the Water that tells no tales.

Poor little Molly Cottontail! She was a true heroine, yet only one of unnumbered millions that without a thought of heroism have lived and done their best in their little world, and died. She fought a good fight in the battle of life. She was good stuff; the stuff that never dies. For flesh of her flesh and brain of her brain was Rag. She lives in him, and through him transmits a finer fibre to her race.

And Rag still lives above the Swamp. Old Olifant died that winter, and the unthrifty sons ceased to clear the Swamp of squatters and filth. Within a single year it was a wilder place than ever; indeed, trees and brambles grew in its lees, and falling telephone wires made spider webs that dogs and foxes dared not storm. And there to this day lives Rag. He is a big strong buck now and fears no rivals. He has a large family of his own, and a pretty brown wife that he got I know not where. There, no doubt, he and his children's children will flourish for many years to come, and there you may see them any sunny evening if you have learnt their code, and, choosing a good window, know just how and when to look out.