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Updated: May 7, 2025
And Peter softly tiptoed away to the nearest sweet-clover patch with his heart almost bursting with pride. Of the doings of Peter and Mrs. Peter Rabbit and their four children there are many more stories, so many that one book will not hold all of them. Besides, Bowser the Hound insists that I must write a book about him, and I have promised to do it right away.
They danced over to him and formed a ring around him while they sang: "Who is it never, never hurries? Who is it never, never worries? Who is it does just what he pleases, Just like us Merry Little Breezes? Jimmy Skunk! Jimmy Skunk!" Now not so far away but that he could hear them very plainly sat Peter Rabbit, just finishing his breakfast in a sweet-clover patch.
Aunt Barbara had a shallow basket and was going to cut the sweet-clover flowers that morning, to dry and put on her linen shelves along with some sprigs of lavender, and this pleasant employment took another half hour. "Aunt Mary was so dear this morning!" said Betty, as they stood on opposite sides of a tall sweet-clover top. "She feels pretty well, then," answered Miss Leicester, much pleased.
Sharp watch she kept when a village she neared, For boys and their mischief our Pussy-cat feared! Often she crept through the grasses so deep To pass by a dog that was lying asleep. Once, as she walked through a sweet-clover field, Something beside her affrightedly squealed, And swift from her path there darted away A tiny field-mouse, with a coat of soft gray.
My father overheard some vainglorious boasts from my lips, one afternoon, when the windows of the little library where he sat were open; and the small girl who listened to me, wide-eyed, and I myself, proud and glad to have reached a thrilling denouement, were standing beside the sweet-clover bed, not dreaming of anything more severe than its white bloom.
The sacredness of the Sabbath, the hidden memory of an unrevealed and unrequited affection, the slow years of gathering and wasting sweetness, are in the smell of the pink and the sweet-clover.
But now all this was changed. You see, there was little Mrs. Peter. At first Peter had been perfectly content to stay with her in the dear Old Briar- patch. He had led her through all his private little paths, and they had planned where they would make two or three more. He had showed her all his secret hiding-places and the shortest way to the sweet-clover patch.
The sacredness of the Sabbath, the hidden memory of an unrevealed and unrequited affection, the slow years of gathering and wasting sweetness, are in the smell of the pink and the sweet-clover.
The evening was one of the pleasantest of the year, in all that nature could contribute; a fine starlight, a transparent atmosphere, a coolness, and a fragrance of sweet-clover blossoms. I had laid my head upon my arm, and shut my eyes, and felt drowsiness come upon me, when something hurtled through the air, and another gun boomed on the stillness.
Now it happened that Peter Rabbit had gone over to the sweet-clover patch, and little Mrs. Peter was quite alone. Somehow she got to thinking of her old home, and for the first time she began to feel just a wee, wee bit homesick. It was just then that she heard a familiar voice. Little Mrs. Peter pricked up her ears and smiled happily.
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