The Tale of Peter Rabbit

The Rabbit Who Went Over the Fence

Peter's mother had one rule. Just one.

"You may play in the meadow. You may play by the stream. You may play under the big oak tree. But you must NEVER, ever go into Mr. McGregor's garden."

Peter's three sisters — Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail — nodded. They were good rabbits. They picked blackberries in the lane and came home with clean paws.

Peter nodded too. But his nose was twitching. Because over the fence, just OVER, he could smell carrots. And Peter loved carrots the way the Emperor loved clothes — completely and unreasonably.

He waited until his mother went to the baker's. He waited until his sisters were busy with their blackberries. Then he squeezed under the garden gate — pop — and tumbled into Mr. McGregor's garden.

Oh, it was WONDERFUL. Rows and rows of lettuce, fat and green. Radishes as round as buttons. Beans climbing up tall poles. And carrots — CARROTS — poking their orange tops out of the dark soil like tiny flags saying "eat me."

Peter ate one. Then two. Then he lost count. He ate until his blue jacket felt tight across his tummy and a button pinged off into the lettuce.

"STOP, THIEF!"

Mr. McGregor appeared at the end of the row, watering can in one hand, furious face on his head. He was tall and red and his boots went STOMP STOMP STOMP.

Peter's ears went flat. His eyes went wide. He ran.

He ran down the carrot row — too slow, Mr. McGregor was gaining. He turned left at the beans — his jacket caught on a pole. He pulled free and lost ANOTHER button. He dove under the gooseberry bushes — thorns scraped his back.

He was lost. The garden that had seemed so wonderful five minutes ago now seemed enormous and strange and full of corners that led to more corners.

Peter's heart hammered. His whiskers trembled. He crouched behind a watering can and tried to be very, very small.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The watering can leaked onto his ear.

He wanted his mother. He wanted his sisters. He wanted his bed under the big oak tree where the roots made a perfect burrow and the wind smelled of clover, not carrots.

Then he heard it — a bird. A robin, sitting on the fence post, head tilted, looking right at him.

"Cheep," said the robin. And it hopped — once, twice — along the fence, toward the gate.

Peter followed. He didn't have a better plan.

The robin hopped. Peter crept. Past the tool shed. Past the greenhouse. Past a very suspicious scarecrow that Peter gave a WIDE berth. The robin flew to the garden gate and landed on the top.

"Cheep."

The gate. Peter could see the meadow through the slats — green and open and SAFE. He squeezed under — pop — and ran.

He ran through the meadow. He ran past the stream. He ran under the big oak tree and down into the burrow so fast that Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail barely saw him pass.

He crawled into his bed. His jacket was missing two buttons, torn at the elbow, and covered in dirt. His shoes were somewhere in the garden — he'd kicked them off running. His tummy ached from too many carrots.

His mother came home from the baker's. She looked at Peter. She looked at the jacket. She looked at the missing shoes.

She didn't say anything. She didn't need to.

She made chamomile tea — one cup, very warm, with a little honey — and set it by Peter's bed.

Peter drank it slowly. His sisters whispered in the next room. His mother hummed while she mended the jacket, adding two new buttons from the button jar, because that was the kind of mother she was — the kind who fixes things without making you feel worse about breaking them.

"Mama?" Peter said quietly.

"Mm?"

"The garden isn't that great."

His mother's whiskers twitched. Just a little. "No?"

"The carrots are too easy to find. There's no challenge."

"Mm-hmm."

"I prefer blackberries."

"Mm-HMM."

His mother kissed the top of his head. She tucked the blanket around him — the one that smelled of clover and oak bark and home. She left the cup of chamomile where he could reach it.

Outside, the evening came softly... the meadow turned gold... and the robin sat on the fence post and sang one last song...

And Peter closed his eyes in his bed under the roots of the big oak tree... warm and full and safe... his nose twitching once, just once, at the faint smell of carrots carried on the breeze... but his paws stayed exactly where they were.

The oak leaves whispered overhead... and the burrow was dark and soft and perfectly, perfectly still.