The Magic Hare. Lynne Banks Reid

whispered the flower. “Nobody’s ever bothered. I’m not in any of the garden centres or catalogues. No one ever picks me. I suppose I’m a nothing-flower.”

      “No you jolly well are not!” exclaimed the hare robustly. “Your bells make the prettiest sound I’ve ever heard! Tell me,” he went on, trying to sound casual, “why were you ringing them just now – and the other night? Were they for me?”

      “You did such lovely jumps,” whispered the flower. “And you helped those silly moths. And then, just now …”

      “Yes?” pressed the hare, who loved to hear himself praised.

      “You helped that little cat. You’re always helping,” it went on in its shy, whispering voice.

      “I do my best, of course,” said the hare, scratching his ear. “I didn’t think anyone had noticed, particularly.”

      “I did,” murmured the flower.

      “Well, that’s very nice,” said the hare. “I mean, one likes to be appreciated.”

      “What’s that?” asked the flower.

      “You know – when people notice what you do and give you a word of praise occasionally.”

      The flower was silent. The hare realised, with a jolt, that it had never been appreciated, ever.

      He felt terribly sad suddenly. To go through life never being appreciated – and without even a common-or-garden name!

      “Listen,” said the hare suddenly. “I’m going to give you a name.”

      The flower seemed to straighten its stem, and its bells perked up and stood out instead of hanging limply.

      “Are you?” it said in a louder whisper than before.

      “Yes!” said the hare decisively. “I’m going to name you after me. You are a harebell.”

      At this the flower grew much taller. It stood up above many of the grasses now, and – the hare blinked, was he imagining it? – its flowers took on a brighter colour. They were definitely blue now.

      “Fantastic!” it exclaimed, and then added: “I suppose I couldn’t have a Latin name too, like other plants?”

      That stumped the hare for a second, but he was full of invention and never could admit he couldn’t do something.

      “Of course you could!” he said. “Your Latin name is – er – Campanula Rotundifolia.” He thought that sounded pretty good, and repeated it with a flourish: “Yes. Campanula Rotundifolia.”

      “Wow,” said the Harebell in a voice shaking with awe. “Is that really me?”

      “That’s you,” said the hare firmly.

      “What does it mean?”

      “‘Campanula’ means bells. ‘Rotund’ means round. ‘Folia’ means leaves. So it means a bell flower with round leaves.”

      The Harebell shook its bells, which rang out a peal like happy laughter, and turned pink, then white, then blue again.

      “See you around then!” said the hare.

      “You bet!” shouted the Harebell.

       The Hare and the Orphan

      There was once a beautiful girl who had been left an orphan when she was very young. Her home was in a little house in a deep, dark forest. Since her parents died, she had never left the clearing around her house, because she was so afraid of the darkness under the trees, the trees themselves, and whatever might lie beyond.

      For food she ate the vegetables that grew in her garden, wild fruit that grew in the clearing, and for meat, she set snares and cooked the animals that got caught in them.

      One day she found a fine big hare caught in one of her snares.

      “Aha! You will make me an excellent supper!” she said.

      To her amazement, the hare in her hands spoke to her.

      “I shall be honoured to be eaten by such a beautiful woman,” it said, in a very pleasing and polite voice.

      She was taken aback. But she only said, “Very well, I shall give you that honour.”

      And she carried the fine hare back to her kitchen.

      He didn’t struggle, but lay quietly in her arms, looking up at her in a trustful sort of way that made her feel rather uncomfortable, considering that she had quite made up her mind to eat him.

      In the kitchen, she laid him on the table and turned away to get the stove burning. She put a pot of water on the stove, then she picked up a sharp knife and turned to him.

      She half expected that he would have run away, in fact a bit of her hoped that he had; but he was sitting up on the table with his little front paws tucked to his breast.

      “Have you got the onions?” he asked.

      “Onions?” she said. “No. Why?”

      “Goodness gracious grips! No hare should be cooked without onions,” he said reproachfully.

      “Oh, all right then,” she said, and went out into her garden and pulled up some onions. She left the back door open on purpose, but when she returned the hare was still sitting on the kitchen table.

      She prepared the onions and put them in the pot. Then she picked up the knife again.

      “And the carrots?” the hare asked.

      “You want carrots, too?” asked the girl.

      “Of course! Whoever heard of eating hare without carrots?”

      So she went outside again and pulled up some carrots. This time she left the door open very wide. But when she came back, the hare was waiting.

      She scraped the carrots and put them in the pot. Then she picked up the knife with a strangely heavy heart, and turned to the hare.

      “Where’s the bayleaf?” he asked.

      “Bayleaf?”

      “Don’t you know about bay leaves? They give a wonderful flavour, especially to hare.”

      “You insist upon bay leaf?”

      “No, I don’t insist. But everyone knows that hare doesn’t taste its best without a little bayleaf.”

      She lowered the knife. “I would get some if I could,” she said, “just to please you. But I can’t.”

      “Why not? There’s a big bay tree just at the far edge of the forest.”

      The girl shivered.

      “I can’t go there. I’m too frightened.”

      The hare looked into her eyes.

      “If you’re frightened, don’t go,” he said. “I’ll be cooked without a bayleaf.”

      “But you won’t taste your best,” she said. “You deserve the very best cooking.”

      He shrugged. “I don’t want you to be frightened. Cook me and eat me now, and enjoy me as much as you can.”

      And he laid his head on the table.

      She put the knife down.