After a silence, he added, "You can imagine what it means to Bluebell and me to find ourselves underground, among friends. It wasn't I who tried to arrest you, Bigwig-that was another rabbit, long, long ago."

Rabbits (says Mr. Lockley) are like human beings in many ways. One of these is certainly their staunch ability to withstand disaster and to let the stream of their life carry them along, past reaches of terror and loss. They have a certain quality which it would not be accurate to describe as callousness or indifference. It is, rather, a blessedly circumscribed imagination and an intuitive feeling that Life is Now. A foraging wild creature, intent above all upon survival, is as strong as the grass. Collectively, rabbits rest secure upon Frith's promise to El-ahrairah. Hardly a full day had elapsed since Holly had come crawling in delirium to the foot of Watership Down. Yet already he was near recovery, while the more light-hearted Bluebell seemed even less the worse for the dreadful catastrophe that he had survived. Hazel and his companions had suffered extremes of grief and horror during the telling of Holly's tale. Pipkin had cried and trembled piteously at the death of Scabious, and Acorn and Speedwell had been seized with convulsive choking as Bluebell told of the poisonous gas that murdered underground. Yet, as with primitive humans, the very strength and vividness of their sympathy brought with it a true release. Their feelings were not false or assumed. While the story was being told, they heard it without any of the reserve or detachment that the kindest of civilized humans retains as he reads his newspaper. To themselves, they seemed to struggle in the poisoned runs and to blaze with rage for poor Pimpernel in the ditch. This was their way of honoring the dead. The story over, the demands of their own hard, rough lives began to re-assert themselves in their hearts, in their nerves, their blood and appetites. Would that the dead were not dead! But there is grass that must be eaten, pellets that must be chewed, hraka that must be passed, holes that must be dug, sleep that must be slept. Odysseus brings not one man to shore with him. Yet he sleeps sound beside Calypso and when he wakes thinks only of Penelope.

Even before Holly had finished his story, Hazel had fallen to sniffing at his wounded ear. He had not previously been able to get a good look at it, but now that he did, he realized that terror and fatigue had probably not been the principal causes of Holly's collapse. He was badly wounded-worse than Buckthorn. He must have lost a lot of blood. His ear was in ribbons and there was any amount of dirt in it. Hazel felt annoyed with Dandelion. As several of the rabbits began to silflay, attracted by the mild June night and the full moon, he asked Blackberry to wait. Silver, who had been about to leave by the other run, returned and joined them.

"Dandelion and the other two seem to have cheered you up, all right," said Hazel to Holly. "It's a pity they didn't clean you up as well. That dirt's dangerous."

"Well, you see-" began Bluebell, who had remained beside Holly.

"Don't make a joke," said Hazel. "You seem to think-"

"I wasn't going to," said Bluebell. "I was only going to say that I wanted to clean the captain's ear, but it's too tender to be touched."

"He's quite right," said Holly. "I'm afraid I made them neglect it, but do as you think best, Hazel, I'm feeling much better now."

Hazel began on the ear himself. The blood had caked black and the task needed patience. After a while the long, jagged wounds bled again as they slowly became clean. Silver took over. Holly, bearing it as well as he could, growled and scuffled, and Silver cast about for something to occupy his attention.

"Hazel," he asked, "what was this idea you had-about the mouse? You said you'd explain it later. How about trying it out on us now?"

"Well," said Hazel, "the idea is simply that in our situation we can't afford to waste anything that might do us good. We're in a strange place we don't know much about and we need friends. Now, elil can't do us good, obviously, but there are many creatures that aren't elil-birds, mice, yonil and so on. Rabbits don't usually have much to do with them, but their enemies are our enemies, for the most part. I think we ought to do all we can to make these creatures friendly. It might turn out to be well worth the trouble."

"I can't say I fancy the idea myself," said Silver, wiping Holly's blood out of his nose. "These small animals are more to be despised than relied upon, I reckon. What good can they do us? They can't dig for us, they can't get food for us, they can't fight for us. They'd say they were friendly, no doubt, as long as we were helping them; but that's where it would stop. I heard that mouse tonight-'You want 'im, 'e come. You bet he will, as long as there's any grub or warmth going, but surely we're not going to have the warren overrun with mice and-and stag beetles, are we?"

"No, I didn't mean quite that," said Hazel. "I'm not suggesting we should go about looking for field mice and inviting them to join us. They wouldn't thank us for that, anyway. But that mouse tonight-we saved his life-"

"You saved his life," said Blackberry.

"Well, his life was saved. He'll remember that."

"But how's it going to help us?" asked Bluebell.

"To start with, he can tell us what he knows about the place-"

"What mice know. Not what rabbits need to know."

"Well, I admit a mouse might or might not come in handy," said Hazel. "But I'm sure a bird would, if we could only do enough for it. We can't fly, but some of them know the country for a long way round. They know a lot about the weather, too. All I'm saying is this. If anyone finds an animal or bird, that isn't an enemy, in need of help, for goodness' sake don't miss the opportunity. That would be like leaving carrots to rot in the ground."

"What do you think?" said Silver to Blackberry.

"I think it's a good idea, but real opportunities of the kind Hazel has in mind aren't likely to come very often."

"I think that's about right," said Holly, wincing as Silver resumed licking. "The idea's all right as far as it goes, but it won't come to a great deal in practice."

"I'm ready to give it a try," said Silver. "I reckon it'll be worth it, just to see Bigwig telling bedtime stories to a mole."

"El-ahrairah did it once," said Bluebell, "and it worked. Do you remember?"

"No," said Hazel, "I don't know that story. Let's have it."

"Let's silflay first," said Holly. "This ear's had all I can stand for the time being."

"Well, at least it's clean now," said Hazel. "But I'm afraid it'll never be as good as the other, you know. You'll have a ragged ear."

"Never mind," said Holly. "I'm still one of the lucky ones."

The full moon, well risen in a cloudless eastern sky, covered the high solitude with its light. We are not conscious of daylight as that which displaces darkness. Daylight, even when the sun is clear of clouds, seems to us simply the natural condition of the earth and air. When we think of the downs, we think of the downs in daylight, as we think of a rabbit with its fur on. Stubbs may have envisaged the skeleton inside the horse, but most of us do not: and we do not usually envisage the downs without daylight, even though the light is not a part of the down itself as the hide is part of the horse itself. We take daylight for granted. But moonlight is another matter. It is inconstant. The full moon wanes and returns again. Clouds may obscure it to an extent to which they cannot obscure daylight. Water is necessary to us, but a waterfall is not. Where it is to be found it is something extra, a beautiful ornament. We need daylight and to that extent it is utilitarian, but moonlight we do not need. When it comes, it serves no necessity. It transforms. It falls upon the banks and the grass, separating one long blade from another; turning a drift of brown, frosted leaves from a single heap to innumerable flashing fragments; or glimmering lengthways along wet twigs as though light itself were ductile. Its long beams pour, white and sharp, between the trunks of trees, their clarity fading as they recede into the powdery, misty distance of beech woods at night. In moonlight, two acres of coarse bent grass, undulant and ankle deep, tumbled and rough as a horse's mane, appear like a bay of waves, all shadowy troughs and hollows. The growth is so thick and matted that even the wind does not move it, but it is the moonlight that seems to confer stillness upon it. We do not take moonlight for granted. It is like snow, or like the dew on a July morning. It does not reveal but changes what it covers. And its low intensity-so much lower than that of daylight-makes us conscious that it is something added to the down, to give it, for only a little time, a singular and marvelous quality that we should admire while we can, for soon it will be gone again.