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Beatrix Potter:

The Roly-Poly Pudding
   

Module D: Lesson 43 – Part One

    
NEW WORDS: Foxx, Giles, Hutt, Jabba, Jove, Kleenex, Riggs, Tish’s, abide, abundant, adored, aftermath, aging, alcove, amend, analogy, antique, apropos, bathrooms, batty, beamed, beasties, blazer, cabinets, cadge, careened, catamount, cess, chambers, choky, churl, clamber, clangor, concerns, corpulent, crackle, craft, cubbyhole, dawdle, decrepit, dingy, displaced, distraught, empathetic, emphatic, ensconce, exchanged, existed, expansive, fetid, finetooth, foothold, footing, forthwith, fragrance, frazzle, gargantuan, glean, gravitated, grimalkin, grisly, grossly, gruffly, hacked, harrumphed, hateful, hillock, hogwash, hokem, humbug, imperative, impish, imprison, impudent, infestation, inspected, intrusion, investigated, jailhouse, jarring, jitters, jugs, ledge, liable, locking, marshmallow, meandered, menace, menagerie, mewed, mews, mildew, misery, misfortune, mold, moseyed, mysteries, nauseous, oblong, obscure, obsessed, obstinate, overlooked, oversight, peaked, peewee, pernicious, plethora, plummet, plundered, prod, prowled, psyche, puckish, quizzed, ratfink, readying, recommenced, redolent, reeked, reprove, resembled, retched, rodents, ruined, ruinous, rummaged, salutations, scoured, shingles, sideslip, singe, situated, skedaddled, smuggled, snooped, sparrows, spied, staircases, stammered, stench, sternly, tangibly, tarnation, taunted, tawny, timey, tottered, townsfolk, tracked, traversed, treatment, truant, twitch, uncontrollably, uneasy, unhealthily, unruly, utensil, veered, venue, vile, virtually, volcano, wayward, where’ve, whomp, wisp, wrested, wringing, yeast
    
        

It was once upon a time. There was an aging cat. The townsfolk called her a grimalkin. She was Mrs. Tish Twitch. She was a high-strung parent. Her kittens frequently veered astray. They were unruly. They were obstinate. They engaged in too much horseplay. They got into scads of trouble! What would they do next? She never knew. So unpredictable! They were fine one minute. They were disobedient the next! She could not trust her offspring. What could she do? 

It was Tish’s day to bake. She’d craft bread, cookies, and cake. She’d lock up her kittens! Then she would not fret. They’d be confined to the cupboard. Wasn’t this mean of her? Perhaps even cruel? Maybe! But the kids did this to themselves! They got what they deserved. They should amend their behavior. Then there’d be no need for this rough treatment.

She tracked their whereabouts. She caught Moppet. Then Mittens. But she could not espy Tom. He was truant. He’d gone AWOL. Where was he? Tish went up and down. She snooped all over. She searched the house with a finetooth comb. She mewed for Tom. “Where are you? Where could you be? Come out! Come out, wherever you are!”

She inspected all the rooms. She rummaged through the closets. She checked under the staircase. She searched the basement. She combed the attic. She prowled around the tool shed. But no Tom! She could not identify his location. She was distraught. She was distressed.

It was a decayed house. It was in need of abundant repairs. There were lots of dank halls. There was lots of mold and mildew. There were plentiful places to hide. The walls were four feet thick. There were noises in the walls. Were there secret chambers inside them? Maybe sequestered staircases? There were wee doors in the woodwork. Cheese and bacon disappeared at night! Were there ghosts? Were there grisly spirits? Were they being spied upon?

Tish got more upset. Her mews morphed into wails. But did Moppet and Mittens care? Nope! Not a bit. They left their mom to her pursuit. Then THEY became impish!

Tish had overlooked locking the cupboard door. That was unlike her. It was a hapless oversight. The kids could prod it open. They unfastened it. They exited their jailhouse. They knew it was mom’s day to bake. They smelled yeast. It was redolent to their nostrils. They adored its fragrance. It made their mouths water. They saw dough rising. It was in a pan. The utensil was in front of the fire.

The dough was all puffy. It was like an enlarged marshmallow. They patted it. They had soft, fluffy paws. Mittens asked this. “Shall we make muffins?” But just then, they had a scare. There was a door-knock. Moppet hurtled into the flour sack! Mittens skedaddled to the dairy. She concealed herself in a jar. It was on a stone shelf. It was next to the milk jugs.

Who’d knocked? It was Mrs. Riggs. She’d moseyed on over to cadge some eggs. Tish gravitated down the stairs. She was in a tizzy about Tom. “Salutations, Cousin. Come in,” she mewed. “Sit down. It’s a mess here.” She sobbed big tears. “I can’t find Tom. What if the rats got him?” She wiped her eyes with a Kleenex. She was tangibly flustered.

Riggs was empathetic. But she was also emphatic. “Tish! He’s a wayward lad. He was puckish when I last saw him. Do you remember? I had come to tea. He ruined my best hat. Such an impudent child. But we’ll deal with that later. So, Tish. Where’ve you looked for him?”   

Tish sighed. “I’ve traversed each alcove in the house! And at each place, there existed a stark reminder for me. There are just too many rats here. Look at me. I have kids who get in trouble. And I have rats. Rats, rats, and more rats! My house is virtually a menagerie of rats. Those rodents drive me batty! They tug at my psyche. They’re loathsome! They’re unsavory beasties. I can’t keep up! There’s no way! I’m a hot mess!”

Riggs said, “I don’t get jitters from rats. I’ll help you. We’ll stumble upon Tom. Then we’ll reprove him!” Then she glanced across the room. “Oh, my! What’s all that soot? There’s a heap at the fireplace. It’s like the aftermath of a volcano. It’s a hillock of ashes.”

“That’s an apropos analogy. Yes, indeed! The chimney desperately needs an arrant sweep.” Tish then looked in the kitchen. “Oh, dear! Riggs! Just look! More news to add to my misery. Moppet and Mittens are gone! They’ve escaped the cupboard! The jailbirds have fled their coop.”

Riggs and Tish hunkered down. They got to work. They scoured the house afresh. They revisited every room. They foraged under beds. They scanned the cabinets. They ransacked the clothes chests. They looked in bedrooms. They peaked in bathrooms. They investigated the library. They roamed through the dining room. They’d left no stone unturned! But no luck! Just misfortune. The kittens were gone! They were invisible.

They heard a whomp. It was jarring. Then something careened down the stairs. Poor Tish had tears in her eyes. She was obsessed with her rat infestation. “My, oh, my! We have a plethora of rats. I caught six young ones three days past. They were in a hole. It was in the back kitchen. We feasted on them for dinner.”

“Once, I saw the old father rat. He was colossal! I lunged at him. He hissed. The hateful churl taunted me. He had sharp, tawny teeth. They had ample decay. It was disgusting. What a vile creature! And, oh, his noxious breath! He smelled like a sewer. He had the odor of a cess pool. I gagged uncontrollably. I almost fainted. I thought I’d die. But, whew! Then he whisked down the hole. I regained my composure. Humbug! Rats! They frazzle my nerves.”

Riggs and Tish kept at it. They heard something. A “roly-poly” noise. It was under the attic floor. But they could not see a thing.

They returned to the kitchen. “AHA! By Jove! Here’s one of ’em!” cried Riggs. She wrested Moppet from the flour sack. She looked like a snow catamount. They shook the flour off of her. It made the room dusty. Tish hacked. She coughed up a hairball.

They situated Moppet on the floor. Tish and Riggs looked sternly at her. She was fearful. “Oh! Mom! There’s been an old woman rat here,” stammered Moppet. “She stole some dough!”

The two adult cats ran. They studied the dough pan. There were signs of intrusion. They saw scratching finger marks. And a lump of dough was gone! “Which way? Where did she go? We’ll smoke her out.”

Moppet did not know. She’d been too scared to peep out of the sack. Riggs and Tish took her with them. Now she’d be safe. She’d be in sight. They recommenced with their search.

First, to the dairy. They found Mittens, forthwith! She’d hidden in an empty jar. They tipped it over. She fell out. She tottered to her feet. “Oh! Mom!” puled Mittens. I spied an old man rat here. He’s gargantuan! He’s dreadful! He’s hideous. He’s grossly rotund. He’s unhealthily corpulent. He resembled Jabba the Hutt.”

Riggs quizzed her. “Who in tarnation is that?”

Mittens rolled her eyes. “You know! From Star Wars.”

Riggs harrumphed. She gruffly replied, “Oh! Your science fiction hogwash. It’s all hokem, if you asked me. Can’t abide the stuff. Anyway, what did the ratfink do?”

She said, “He plundered some butter. A mighty chunk of it! Then he smuggled away the rolling pin. He reeked of a most fetid stench! He smelled like manure. It made me nauseous. I almost retched.”

Riggs and Tish exchanged looks. “Hmm! Rolling pin. Butter! My poor Tom!” yelled mama Twitch. A pernicious sense of doom came over her. She was wringing her paws. She was shaking her head. She was pulling her hair. She was biting her claws. She was beside herself.

“HMM! A rolling pin, eh?” said Riggs. “I smell a rat. No pun intended. What did we just hear? It was a roly-poly noise! It was in the attic. It’s when we looked in that chest.”

They made haste. They bolted out of the room. They rushed upstairs. They heard the roly-poly clangor! It was as clear as a bell! They knew exactly where it came from. It was under the attic floor. “This is a big deal, Tish,” said Riggs. “It’s a huge red alert. There’s a menace in this house. No question about it. Send for Giles Foxx! NOW! We can’t tarry! We can’t dawdle! He must bring a saw. That’s imperative.”

Now, we transfer ourselves to a new scene in our story. Here is Tom’s tale. We need to glean his perspective. It will explain some mysteries that we’ve mentioned up to now. What had Tom been up to?

I’m uneasy about telling you this. But poor Tom! He had displayed a perilous lack of wisdom. It’s unwise to ascend the insides of a chimney. It’s worse if it’s in a decrepit house! And their house was just such a beat-up antique. One must be cautious in such a chimney. You can’t find your way. And menacing rats are liable to be there!

But you know Tom. He did not want to be shut up. Not in a cupboard! He saw his mom readying to bake. He knew what she’d do. She’d lock him up! She’d imprison him. So, he looked for a new venue. He would ensconce himself there.

Such a cubbyhole should be convenient. But it should be an obscure location. You know. Hard to find. He thought of an exemplary hideaway. “Why not the chimney?” The fire had just been lit. It was not hot yet. There was just a white choky smoke. It was just a wisp. It was from the green sticks. Tom got on the fireplace’s metal guard. That’s called a “fender.”

He looked up. It was an old-fashioned fireplace. The chimney was expansive. A man could stand up in it. And one could walk in it. There was lots of room. Even more room for a peewee Tom Cat. He vaulted into the fireplace. He balanced on the iron bar. That’s where the kettle hangs. Tom took a second leap off the bar. He had strong hind legs. He descended upon a ledge. It was high up in the chimney. He displaced some soot. It floated down like dingy snowflakes. It meandered onto the fender.

Tom coughed. The smoke choked him. He heard the sticks. They’d begun to crackle and burn. He considered what he’d do next. He’d clamber to the top. He’d get on the slate roof shingles. He’d find a good foothold. He’d watch for birds. He’d catch sparrows.

But he had some concerns. He talked to himself. “I can’t go back. What if I lose my footing? What if I sideslip? I might plummet into the fire. I’d singe my gorgeous tail. It would be ruinous to my cyan blazer.”

That old-timey chimney was cavernous. It was from the old days. That’s when folks burnt logs of wood on the hearth. The chimney stack stood up above the roof. It was like a dwarf-sized stone tower. The oblong shingles kept out the rain. The daylight shone down from the top. The light beamed under the slanting shingles.

     
   
*********
  
   
Beatrix Potter:

The Roly-Poly Pudding
   

Module D: Lesson 44 – Part Two

   
NEW WORDS: Bain, Hobbes, Holmes, Houdini, Hyde, Jekyll, Krakatoa, Marie, Pickens, Samuel, Sherlock, Twitch’s, Vesuvius, advertising, agape, allergic, amateur, antagonist, appetizing, arachnid, artistic, arugula, ascot, asparagus, avail, baffled, balderdash, baubles, befuddled, bellyache, bestial, blithely, blubber, bluebottle, boohoo, breadcrumbs, brewer’s, brutish, buckteeth, budged, bulbous, bulging, carping, cascaded, chintzy, claustrophobic, cleansed, coils, compartment, complement, confinement, conscience, consequence, contracted, cooperative, coops, cranny, critically, dauphine, decorators, demon, dilled, disarranging, disarray, discharge, distracted, dozens, driblet, dual, durst, emerged, employment, enfolded, enraged, entree, fee, felines, festooned, figment, filch, flavor, floundered, forenoon, frenzied, fruitless, fusty, futures, gamey, garishly, gaudy, gawking, gazillions, getaway, gewgaw, gimlet, gnawing, gorge, gormless, grimaced, grimy, gristle, grumbled, grunted, harpy, hauling, haymow, heights, heinous, hightail, hourglass, hovel, hovered, howdy, indigestible, inhaled, inmate, interstice, invaded, irritated, jowls, junky, keister, kitsch, knots, lath, locale, loosened, lowlife, manhandled, masterful, mincemeat, mocked, moisten, molten, motley, mulling, mumsy, mysterious, nebula, neutral, niggling, nonsense, noticeable, offensive, outfitted, overbite, pangs, panted, parcels, partners, pattering, persuaded, phobia, pierced, pilfer, plaintive, plumes, prevarication, primary, prolonged, properly, protagonists, pungent, pustule, quarters, quivered, rafter, rafters, random, rasping, rathole, raucous, regretted, relatives, remorse, sawing, secluded, separately, serpent, shadowy, sinister, skirting, skull, smog, smut, smuts, snivel, sociopath, somersaulted, speedy, spewed, splayed, stashed, strident, stuttered, subsequent, substantial, sup, surroundings, swarthy, tasteless, thieves, tiptoed, tones, toppled, torso, township, tramped, transformed, trifles, trinkets, trundling, tumultuous, unclean, uncomfortably, unsightly, venomously, vertigo, vinaigrette, visage, wainscot, walkway, warfare, whacked, whimper, whiner, wickedness, wizened, writhed, yammered
     
     

Tom was now goosepimply! He was afraid of great heights. So, he had vertigo. He tiptoed up, and up. He had to wade sideways. He trudged through mounds of soot. He was like a chimney sweep, himself. And he looked the part. His fur was becoming blacker by the minute. He’d transformed into a swarthy-looking cat. He resembled a black panther now. He was terribly unclean.

It was confusing in the dark. One flue led to another. Where was he? Where was he headed? There was less smoke now. But Tom felt baffled. He was befuddled. He was all aflutter. His nerves were frayed.

He scrambled up. The top was still a ways away. But he came to an odd place. There was a loosened stone. It was in the wall. He whacked at it. It budged. He nudged it till it fell out. There was an opening there.

Oddly, mutton bones were scattered about. “Strange,” said Tom. “Who’s been gnawing bones way up here? I wish I’d never come! Dumb and dumber. I’m so gormless. I’m such an idiot! And what a putrid smell! It’s something like ‘mouse.’ But not quite. It’s dreadfully pungent. It makes me sneeze. ACHOO!”

He squeezed through the hole. He dragged himself along. He was in an uncomfortably tight passage. He had to slither like a serpent. There was scarcely a driblet of light there. He groped his way along. He was cautious. He inched a few yards. He was at the rear of a skirting board. That’s in the attic. There’s a small mark in the picture there.

All at once, his walkway collapsed. He somersaulted head over heels. Down an interstice he went. He floundered down, headlong. He’d created quite a commotion. He landed on his keister. He was atop a heap of filthy rags. He was overcome with the stench. He picked himself up. He looked about. He’d never been here. Yet he’d thought that he’d known every nook and cranny in the house. But not this mysterious locale!

Tom loved detective stories. He fancied himself an amateur Sherlock Holmes. So, he examined his surroundings. He looked for clues. This was a claustrophobic compartment. It was stuffy and fusty. It was a rathole. It was a dump. It was a junk heap. It was a snake pit. It was in complete disarray.

There were boards. There were rafters. There were cobwebs. There was lath and plaster. There were random decorations. It was all gewgaw. Junky. Gaudy. Useless. A mishmash of trifles, trinkets, and baubles. The decorators were tasteless. They had no artistic sense. It was all kitsch. These quarters were totally unsightly!

Then Tom’s heart stopped. He perceived wickedness in the room. He became aware of a spooky visage. He viewed a shadowy figure. It was NOT a figment of his imagination. It was across the room. EGADS! It was an enormous rat! An odious looking hulk of a rat!

The bestial troll was garishly outfitted. Chintzy jewelry hung from his torso. He was festooned with it. He wore a snooty-looking ascot. He had an ugly pustule on his left cheek. A nebula of smog hovered about him. He was smoking a pipe. The tobacco scent permeated the room. The rat took a deep puff. He wheezed. He snorted.

Then he spoke. Blithely, he said, “Howdy-do!” He paused. Then, he turned instantly from Jekyll to Hyde! He spat, venomously, towards Tom.

“GADZOOKS! What’s this unwelcome intrusion?!” The rat’s bulbous jowls wobbled as he bellowed. “You’ve invaded my privacy. You’ve caused a calamity. You’ve toppled onto my bed. You disgust me. You’re a feline. You’re an enemy. You’re an antagonist. You’re an adversary. You’re covered with smuts. You smell of soot. And I’m allergic to your fur.”

“No one treats Samuel Whiskers like this! Especially a lowlife CAT! Abominable creatures, felines. My primary life goal is to battle with the feline species!” His teeth chattered as he yammered. He had bulging ebony eyes. They were nearly popping out of his skull. Tom had never seen a creature this irate and enraged! What was next? Would billows of smoke discharge from his ears? Would plumes of molten lava shoot from his mouth? Would he be like Mount Vesuvius? Would he be like Krakatoa?

Tom quivered with fear. He stuttered. “Please! Sir! The chimney needs sweeping.” But his prevarication was of no avail to him.

“Ann-Marie!” squeaked the rat. Drool splayed from his maw. His voice was a raucous, high-pitched shrill. It was grating to the ear. Then, there was a pattering noise. A wizened old woman rat arrived. She had a wicked overbite. Crooked buckteeth hung from her gums. She poked her head around a rafter. Then there was a feverish frenzy!

All at once, she rushed upon Tom. Before he knew it, she had manhandled him. It happened too fast for him to react. She was experienced at this! His coat was pulled off. He was enfolded in a bundle. She commenced to tie him with string. The twine was in hard knots. They were being firmly tied. There was no escape. Tom was now their prisoner!

Ann-Marie did the tying. The old rat observed her. He inhaled a pinch of snuff. She finished her task. The rats both sat gawking at him. Their mouths were agape.

Then the old rat grimaced. It was a most sinister look. He looked like a demon. “Ann,” he called out. “Let’s sup on the cat. Make a scrumptious kitten dumpling roly-poly pudding.”

“Hmm! What should accompany our entree? Cook up a delectable Henry Bain sauce. That will best complement the meat. Start with an arugula salad. Then a light lemon vinaigrette to moisten it. How about dilled asparagus? And potatoes dauphine? And let’s finish with a tart mincemeat pie. Vanilla ice cream, a la mode, of course. That will make for us a gourmet dinner. I’m famished!”

Ann responded. “That requires dough. And a substantial pat of butter. And a rolling pin.” She was studying Tom. She’d cocked her head to one side. She was mulling over how she’d cook him.

“Balderdash!” yowled Sam. “Make it properly. Use breadcrumbs.”

“Nonsense! Butter and dough,” replied Ann. The two rats consulted. A few minutes passed. They departed. Sam left through a hole in the wainscot. He tramped boldly down the front staircase. He skulked to the dairy. There, he stole butter. He did not encounter a soul.

Sam made a subsequent journey. This was for the rolling pin. He thrust it in front of him with his arthritic paws. He was like a brewer’s man trundling a barrel.

He heard Riggs and Tish. But they were busy. They were lighting a candle. They didn’t look into where he was. They did not notice him.

Ann went down. She went by way of a skirting board. And through a window shutter. She invaded the kitchen. There, she stole the dough. She pinched a saucer. She scooped up the dough with her paws. No one observed her, either.

Meanwhile, Tom was isolated. He was sequestered away. He was in solitary confinement. He was under the attic floor. He was an inmate in the rats’ secluded hovel. He wriggled about. But he was tied up in taut, unyielding knots. Even Houdini would have failed to free himself from these coils! He mewed for help. But his mouth was imbued with soot and cobwebs. No one could possibly hear him. He was way out of earshot. He was frantic. Panic set in. His situation was hopeless.

A spider appeared. It emerged from a crack in the ceiling. It examined the knots critically. It kept a safe distance. It was a good judge of knots. That’s because it had a habit of tying up bluebottle flies. Oh, the poor, unfortunate flies! The arachnid did not offer to assist Tom. It was a neutral party to this warfare.

Tom wriggled. Tom squirmed. Tom writhed. He was exhausted. Presently, the rats came back. They set to work. Tom pleaded with them. He begged, with a plaintive voice. “Please don’t roast me! Please don’t eat me! I’m too young to die. I have my whole life before me. My family will miss me.”

He prolonged his fruitless argument. “Look! I won’t taste good! I’ll have a gamey flavor. You’ll get a stomachache! I’ll be all gristle. I’ll be too chewy. I’m wiry. My muscles are all sinewy. Your jaws will be sore. You’ll regret eating me! Have mercy! Please let me go!”

Sam mocked Tom. “Boohoo, grouse! Bellyache, whimper. Gripe, snivel, blubber! Such a baby. Cat? Didn’t your mumsy tell you? Life is nasty, brutish, and short. So claimed Thomas Hobbes! Ann, ignore this whiner. I’m starving.” Sam had no conscience. He offered no remorse. He was a sociopath!  

Now, they began to make him into a dumpling. First, they smeared him with butter. Then, they rolled him in the dough. Sam was having some doubts. “Won’t the string be indigestible?” inquired Sam.

Ann said, “No.” She thought that it would be of no consequence.

She kept preparing their dish. But she wished that Tom would hold his head still. He kept disarranging the pastry. He was NOT cooperative. (Good for him! That bought him some time.) But she laid hold of his ears. Her razor-sharp claws almost pierced his skin.

Tom bit. Tom spit. He mewed. He grunted. He wriggled. He caterwauled. The rolling pin went, “roly-poly, roly. Roly-poly, roly!” The rats each held an end. Sam complained. “His tail is sticking out! You did not procure enough dough.”

Ann replied. “I fetched as much as I could haul.”

Sam grumbled. “I’m no longer sure. It might not be an appetizing pudding.” He furrowed his brow. He stared intently at Tom. “He smells sooty. The offensive smell will seep into the meat.” Ann was about to argue the point. But a fracas stopped them. There was a cacophony. The strident sounds were above them. They heard the rasping noise of a saw. They heard a dog. The canine was scratching. He was yelping like a crazed zombie!

The rats dropped the rolling pin. Their antennae were up! They listened attentively. Sam was irritated. He spewed, “DRAT! CURSES!” He snarled, “GRR! We’re discovered. We’re interrupted. We’ve got to hightail it out of here! PRONTO!”

“Collect our property. We must depart at once. We shall be obliged to leave this pudding. I know my opinion is contrary to yours. But I’m persuaded that I’m right. The knots would have proved indigestible. Yes! Definitely troublesome for the stomach.”

Ann spoke up. “Come now, at once. Help me. Tie up some mutton bones. Let’s wrap them in a counterpane. I’ve also got half a smoked ham. I stashed it in the chimney.” The heinous rats made their speedy getaway. They were breathless. They panted. Their tongues hung out. They scuttled away in a frenzied hurry-scurry.

Tom was flabbergasted by all of this. What a tumultuous hurly-burly! But he was relieved! Apparently, he’d be no one’s dinner. Thank goodness!

The sawing went on. Giles Foxx finally got the plank up. They found Tom. They saw the rolling pin. Alas, Tom looked ridiculous. He’d been rolled into a grimy dumpling! But there was a noticeable smell of rats. Giles spent the rest of the morning sniffing and whining. He wagged his tail. He went ’round and ’round the hole. He looked like a gimlet tool. At last, he was satisfied. He nailed the plank down. He put his tools in his bag. He descended the flight of stairs.

The cats had recovered. They invited Giles to dinner. The dumpling had been peeled off of Tom. They made it separately into a bag pudding. They added currants. This was to hide the little pieces of smut.

They’d been obliged to put Tom into a hot bath. That melted the butter off of him. He felt nicely cleansed, now.

Giles smelt the pudding. It gave him hunger pangs. But he regretted that he could not dine with them. He had just made a wheelbarrow. It was for Miss Potter. He had deliver it to her. And she’d contracted with him to build dual hen coops.

What a forenoon it had been! Things calmed down. The day passed. I was going to the post office. It was late in the afternoon. I noticed something. I saw it from the corner of my eye. It was Samuel Whiskers. He was with his wife. The partners were on the run. They had big bundles. They were on a little wheelbarrow. It looked just like mine. Had they stolen it? Thieves! They were turning at a gate. That was Farmer Pickens‘ barn.

Sam was puffing. He was out of breath. Ann was carping at him in shrill tones. What a harpy! What a shrew! It all seemed to be about niggling matters. She seemed to know her way. She was hauling a large quantity of luggage. I really think that it was MY wheelbarrow. I never gave them permission to use it!

They went in the barn. They bound their parcels with string. They tied them to the top of the haymow.

After that, there were no more rats at Tish Twitch’s. What about at Farmer Pickens’? The poor man! He’s been driven nearly distracted. Gazillions of rats moved to his barn. They’re all over it! They gorge themselves on the chicken food. They filch the oats. They pilfer the bran. They champ at the meal bags. They’re all relatives of Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Whiskers. Some are their children. Some are their grandchildren. Some are their great, great grandchildren!! There’s no end to them! And it’s quite a motley crew!

Now, I wager that you are curious. How would our protagonists‘ futures unfold? Much time passed. Much sand had cascaded through the hourglass. Moppet and Mittens grew up. They came to be superb rat-catchers. They go out rat-catching in the village. They find plenty of employment! They charge a reasonable fee for a dozen rats caught. They earn a comfortable living. They hang up the rats’ tails. They exhibit them to the public. It’s masterful advertising! They’re arranged in a row on the barn door. This shows the township how many they’ve ensnared. There are dozens of them!

But what about Tom Kitten? His unpleasant experience gave him a phobia. He has always been apprehensive about a rat. Now, he never durst face anything that is bigger than a mouse!