The Lost galleon and Other Tales

The Rabbit of Malvern Hills

A story for Children

Bret Harte

BUNNY, squatting in the grass,
Saw the glancing column pass;
Saw the stripéd banner fly,
And sabres twinkle by;
Saw the chargers fret and fume,
Saw the flapping hat and plume,—
Saw them with his moist and shy
Most unspeculative eye,
Thinking only in the dew,
That it was a fine review.

’Till a flash—not all of steel—
Where the rolling squadrons wheel,
Brought a rumble and a roar
Rolling down that velvet floor,
And like blows of Autumn flail
Sharply threshed the iron hail.

Bunny, thrilled by unknown fears,
Raised his long and pointed ears,
Mumbled his prehensile lip,
Quivered his pulsating hip,
As the sharp vindictive yell
Rose above the screaming shell;
Thought the world and all its men,—
All the charging squadrons meant,—
All were rabbit hunters then,
All to capture him intent.
Bunny was not much to blame:
Wiser folk have thought the same,—
Wiser folk who think they spy
Every ill begins with “I.”

Wildly panting here and there,
Bunny sought the freer air,
From the columns closing in,
From the strange, confusing din;
Till he hopped below the hill,
And saw lying close and still,
Men with muskets in their hands.
Never Bunny understands
That hypocrisy of sleep,
In the vigils grim they keep,
As recumbent on that spot
They elude the level shot.

One, a grave and quiet man,
Thinking of his wife and child
Far beyond the Rapidan,
Where the Androscoggin wild,
Felt the little rabbit creep,
Nestling by his arm and side,
Wakened from strategic sleep,
To that soft appeal replied,
Drew him to his blackened breast,
And— But you have guessed the rest.

Softly o’er that chosen pair
Omnipresent Love and Care
Drew a mightier hand and arm,
Shielding them from every harm—
Right and left the bullets waved,
Saved the saviour for the saved.

Who believes that equal grace
God extends in every place,
Little difference he scans
’Twixt a rabbit’s God and man’s.

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