Other hares, now lean and wild, come out of the woods at dusk and try to share Peter’s bread. But he turns on them fiercely, driving them back over the hill, with an angry noise, something between a squeal and a grunt. If anyone thinks a rabbit a meek, poor-spirited creature, he should see Peter, when threatened with the loss of his dinner. Evidently, he believes that he has pre-empted this territory and all that goes here in the way of food, and he means to defend his claim.
Rufus, the red squirrel, torments Peter unmercifully, dashing across the ground under his nose and snatching the bread from between the rabbit’s very teeth. He is there and away before the rabbit knows what has happened. Poor, slow little Peter stood these attacks in bewildered patience for a time, but now he has worked out a plan for getting even with the squirrel that serves him fairly well. He sits on his crust, drawing it out inch by inch from under him as he nibbles, but even at that Rufus gets about half. I am training the rabbit to take his food from my hand, for nothing thrown on the ground is safe for an instant from the little red-brown robber. It took some very patient sitting to overcome Peter’s timidity, but after the first bit was taken the rest was easy. Now he comes fearlessly to me as soon as I appear.
The squirrel is growing very tame too, but he will never be as tranquil a companion as the rabbit. He lacks Bunny’s repose of manner. He is sitting on the windowsill now, eating a bit of cold potato. He turns it round and round, nibbling at it daintily. Now and again he stops to lay a tiny paw on his heart—or is it his stomach? The area of his organs is very minute and it may be either.
There is something very flattering in the confidence of these little creatures of the island. How do they know that they may safely trust my kindness? How can they be sure that I will not betray them suddenly with trap or gun?
The rabbit came into the house yesterday, padding about noiselessly on his cushioned toes. He stopped at each chair and stood on his hind feet, resting his forepaws on the seat. He examined everything, ears wriggling, nose quivering, tail thumping on the carpet. Suddenly he discovered that the door had blown shut and then he went quite wild with fear. He was in a trap, he thought, and tore round and round the room, jumping against the window panes, dashing his head against the walls until I feared that he would injure himself before I could reach the door to open it. Poor little Peter, he is not valiant after all. He comes in still, but always keeps close to the door, and the way of escape must always be open.