“Crimp me sails, but he did that, Matthias. Three circuits of the pool on a log. I had me course well charted to keep up with him.”

The warrior mouse handed Streamsleak the cider flagon and ruffled his son’s damp back.

“Well done, Matti. You’d better let that duckweed tiara dry out a bit before you wear it, though.”

“Balderdash, spoils of war, wot?” Basil Stag Hare said through a mouthful of summer vegetable pastie. “You wear it, young feller me bucko, ’twas honorably won.”

Tim Churchmouse came round from the south side of the Abbey, carrying baby Rollo Bankvole on his back.

“Look, everybody, this ruffian has just beaten me to first place in the sack race.”

They laughed aloud as baby Rollo flew a small paper kite on a string that he had been given as a prize by Cornflower. Basil Stag Hare took the infant upon his knee. He gave him a drink from his cider beaker and a bite of his pastie.

“Right, Rollo you young rip. Let’s hear you sing for old Uncle Baz, wot?”

Rollo willingly obliged, piping up in his gruff baby voice,

“Fight a flagon an’ drink a dragon,

Gizzard a lizard an’ split his blizzard,

Ride a spider for good ol’ cider,

Gooooood oooooold ciderrrrrrrr!”

Suddenly Basil deposited the infant on the steps and shot up to the west ramparts. Mrs. Lettie Bankvole was seen bustling across from the gatehouse doorway, where she had been folding napkins for the table.

“Ooh, you villainous lop-eared troublemaker, just let me get my paws on you and I’ll make you sing a different tune.” Basil stood on a battlement peak, trying to reason with the furious mother of Rollo.

“But madam, I can assure you the little chap composes his own verses. Jolly good too, if you ask me. Top hole.”

“How dare you! I’d take a switch to you if I were your mother.”

“Fur forbid, ma’am. If you were my mater I’d chuck meself off the jolly old battlements and save you the trouble.”

Mrs. Lettie Bankvole straightened her pinafore frostily. “And don’t you sit there grinning, Ambrose Spike, you’re as much to blame as that excuse for a rabbit up there. Come here, baby Rollo, this instant!”

The outraged mother swept her offspring up and hurried away, chiding him as she went.

“Now don’t ever let me hear you singing that dreadful song again. Say you’re sorry for upsetting Mama.”

Baby Rollo thought about this for a moment, then broke out into song lustily.

“I’d roll a mole an’ squeeze a sparrow,

Or shoot a rat wiv a big sharp arrow,

For good ol’ bla-ha-ha-hack currant wiiiiiiine!”

Basil descended the stairs, muttering to himself, “Inventive little wretch, must remember that verse, what was it? Strangle a mole with a great big marrow? Talented young blighter, wish we’d had him in the old fifty-seventh foot fighters’ mess.”

*   *   *