r so that everybody may see what a wretch you were."

"Thank you," said the weasel, very gratefully, "will you please tell the
hare and all of them that if I could only live I would do everything I
could to make up to them, for all the wickedness I have
committed--oh!--I have not got time to say all I would. Oh! Bevis,
Bevis!"

"Yes, poor thing," said Bevis, now quite melted and sorry for the
wretched criminal, whose life was ebbing so fast, "what is it you want?
I will be sure to do it."

"Then, dear Sir Bevis--how kind it is of you to forgive me, dear Sir
Bevis; when I am dead do not nail me to the door--only think how
terrible that would be--bury me, dear."

"So I will," said Bevis; "but perhaps you needn't die. Stay a little
while, and let us see if you cannot live."

"Oh, no," said the weasel, "my time is come. But when I am dead, dear,
please take me out of this cruel trap in which I am so justly caught,
as I set it for another; take me out of this cruel trap which has broken
my ribs, and lay me flat on the grass, and pull my limbs out straight,
so that I may not stiffen all in a heap and crooked. Then get your
spade, my dear Sir Bevis, and dig a hole and bury me, and put a stone on
top of me, so that Pan cannot scratch me up--oh! oh!--will you--oh!"

"Yes, indeed I will. I will dig the hole--I have a capital spade," said
Bevis; "stay a minute."

But the weasel gave three gasps and fell back quite dead. Bevis looked
at him a little while, and then put his foot on the spring and pressed
it down and took the weasel out. He stroked down his fur where the trap
had ruffled it, and rubbed the earth from his poor paws with which he
had struggled to get free, and then having chosen a spot close by the
wood-pile, where the ground was soft, to dig the hole, he put the weasel
down there, and pulled his limbs out straight, and so disposed him for
the last sad ceremony. He then ran to the summer-house, which was not
far, and having found the spade came back with it to the wood-pile. But
the weasel was gone.

There was the trap; there was the place he had chosen--all the little
twigs and leaves brushed away ready for digging--but no weasel. He was
bewildered, when a robin perched on the top of the wood-pile put his
head on one side, and said so softly and sadly: "Bevis, Bevis, little
Sir Bevis, what have you done?" For the weasel was not dead, and was not
even very seriously injured; the trap was old, and the spring no