Little Ears: The Velveteen Rabbit

Once,

there was a velveteen rabbit,

and in the beginning he was really splendid.

He was fat and bunchy,

just as a rabbit should be;

his coat was brown and white,

and he was very soft,

he had real thread whiskers,

and his ears were lined with pink sateen.

On Christmas morning,

when he sat wedged in the top of the Boy's stocking,

with a sprig of holly between his paws,

the effect was charming.

Of corse there were other toys that Christmas,

nuts and oranges and a toy engine,

and chocolate almonds and a clockwork mouse,

but the Rabbit was quite the best of all.

For at least two hours the Boy loved him,

and then aunts and uncles came to dinner,

and there was a great rustling of tissue paperand unwrapping of parcels,

and in the excitement of looking at all the new presents

the Velveteen Rabbit was forgotten.

For a long time he lived in the toy cupboard

or on the nursery floor,

and no one thought very much about him.

He was naturally shy,

and being only made of velveteen,

some of the more expensive toys made fun of him.

The mechanical toys like the model train,

were very stuck up and posted as if they were real.

But the Rabbit could not claim to be a model of anything,

for he didn't know that real rabbits existed;

he thought they were all stuffed with sawdust like himself,

and he understood that sawdust was quite out of date

Even Timothy, the jointed wooden lion,

who was made by the disabled soldiers,

and should have had broader views,

put on airs.

Between them all the poor little Rabbit

was made to feel very insignificant and commonplace,

and the only person who was kind to him at all

was the Skin Horse.

The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others.

He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches

and showed the seams underneath,

and most of the hairs in his tail

had been pulled out to string bead necklaces.

He was wise,

for he had seen a long succession

of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger,

and by and by break their mainsprings and pass away,--

that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.

"What is REAL?"

asked the Rabbit one day,

"Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made,"

said the Skin Horse.

"It's a thing that happens to you.

When a child loves you for a long, long time,

not just to play with,

but really loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?"

"Er... Sometimes,"

for he was always truthful.

"When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,"

"or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once,"

"You become. It takes a long time.

That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily,

or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.

Generally, by the time you are Real,

most of your hair has been loved off,

and your eyes drop out

and you get loose in the joints and very shabby.

But these things don't matter at all,

because once you are Real you can't be ugly,

except to people who don't understand."

"I suppose you are real?"

And then he wished he had not said it,

for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive.

But the Skin Horse only smiled.

"The Boy's uncle made me Real,"

"That was a great many years ago;

but once you are Real you can't become unreal again.

It lasts for always."

The Rabbit sighed.

He thought it would be a long time before this magic called Real happened to him.

He longed to become Real,

to know what it felt like;

and yet the idea of growing shabby

and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad.

He wished that he could become it

without these uncomfortable things happening to him.

There was a person called Nana who ruled the nursery.

Sometimes she took no notice of the playthings lying about,

and sometimes, for no reason whatever,

she went swooping about like a great wind and hustled them away in cupboards.

She called this "tidying up,"

and the playthings all hated it, especially the tin ones.

The Rabbit didn't mind it so much,

for wherever he was thrown he came down soft.

One evening,

when the Boy was going to bed,

he couldn't find the china dog that always slept with him.

Nana was in a hurry,

and it was too much trouble to hunt for china dogs,

and seeing that the toy cupboard door stood open,

she made a swoop.

"Here,take your old Bunny! He'll do to sleep with you!"

That night, and for many nights after,

the Velveteen Rabbit slept in the Boy's bed.

At first he found it rather uncomfortable,

for the Boy hugged him very tight,

and sometimes he rolled over on him,

and sometimes he pushed him so far under the pillow

that the Rabbit could scarcely breathe.

And he missed his talks with the Skin Horse

during the long moonlight hours in the nursery,

when all the house was silent.

But very soon he grew to like it,

for the Boy used to talk to him,

and made nice tunnels for him

under the bedclothes. And they had splendid games together,

in whispers,

--close under his little warm chin and dream,

with the Boy's hands clasped close round him all night long.

And so time went on,

and the little Rabbit was very happy

so happy that he never noticed

how his beautiful velveteen fur was getting shabbier and shabbier,

and his tail was coming unsewn,

and all the pink rubbed off his nose

where the Boy had kissed him.

Spring came,

and they had long days in the garden,

for wherever the Boy went the Rabbit went too.

He had rides in the wheelbarrow,

and picnics on the grass,

and lovely fairy huts built for him

under the raspberry canes behind the flower border.

One time, the Boy was called away suddenly,

and the Little Rabbit was left out on the lawn until long after dusk,

Nana had to come and look for him with the candle

because the Boy was so worried about the Rabbit

he couldn't go to sleep unless the Rabbit was safely home.

He was wet through with the dew

and quite earthy from diving into the burrows

the Boy had made for him in the flower bed,

Nana grumbled, "You must have your old Bunny!"

"Fancy all that fuss for a toy!"

"Give me my Bunny!"

"You mustn't say that. He isn't a toy. He's Real!"

When the little Rabbit heard that he was happy,

for he knew that what the Skin Horse had said was true at last.

The nursery magic had happened to him,

and he was a toy no longer.

He was Real. The Boy himself had said it.

That night he was almost too happy to sleep,

and so much love stirred in his little sawdust heart

that it almost burst.

And into his boot button eyes,

that had long ago lost their polish,

there came a look of wisdom and beauty,

so that even Nana noticed it next morning

when she picked him up, and said,

"I declare if that old Bunny hasn't got quite a knowing expression!"

That was a wonderful Summer!

Near the house where they lived there was a wood,

and in the long June evenings

the Boy liked to go there with the Velveteen Rabbit to play.

And each day before the Boy wandered off to pick flowers, or,

play at brigands among the trees,

he made the Rabbit a little nest among the bracken.

He was a kind hearted little boy

and he liked Bunny to be comfortable.

One evening, the Rabbit was sitting there alone,

watching the ants,

suddenly,

he saw two strange beings creep out of the tall bracken near him.

They were rabbits like himself,

but quite furry and brand new.

They must have been very well made,

for their seams didn't show at all,

and they changed shape in a queer way when they moved;

one minute they were long and thin

and the next minute fat and bunchy,

instead of always staying the same like he did.

They stared at him,

and little Rabbit stared back.

And all the time their noses twitched.

"Why don't you get up and play with us?"

one of them asked.

"I don't feel like it," said the Rabbit,