river that ran past the hare’s home field, he heard the sound of crying, and rushed down to find a poor little cat with its leg torn open by a ferret.
Well, I say “poor little cat” – of course the cat wasn’t entirely the innocent victim, it had probably been trying to kill the ferret, but nevertheless it was a poor thing now because its leg was bleeding and it couldn’t drag itself along.
The hare had to do some magic very fast to help it home or it would have died there. The hare really could not bear animals dying, and did his best to save them whenever he could. He’d have saved the ferret, too, if it had been getting the worst of it with the cat.
After the cat was safely back in its own garden, with its owner making a big fuss of getting it to the vet, the hare (who was always a bit tired after a big output of magic) lay down in the sun. He had just stretched his back legs out behind and his front legs in front, when he heard that tinkling sound again.
This time he was on a clear bit of ground and it was broad daylight, so he could see much better. He snapped his head towards the sound, and suddenly he saw what was making it.
A pathetic little colourless flower was shaking its bells.
The hare hopped up to it.
“Hallo, Flower,” he said.
The flower had never been spoken to before. Its bells stopped ringing and it seemed to shrink down towards the ground.
“What’s your Latin name?” asked the hare politely and importantly. He loved the long names of plants and showed off with them.
“Haven’t got one,” whispered the flower.
“Your common-or-garden name, then,” said the hare kindly.
The flower shook its bells sadly.
“No name at all?” said the hare, shocked. “But that’s terrible! Everything has a name!”
“Not me,” 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.
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
