ody, all brown
and gold and red spots, leaped up out of the water, seized the fly in
his mouth and fell back with a splash which broke the pretty picture
all to pieces.

He shrank back, for he was rather startled, but his mother soon
comforted him. "It was only a little Trout, my dear," she said, "only
a greedy little Trout."

"But he was such a pretty little fellow," he said, for he had quite
got over his fright; "I wish he would jump again."

But the Hind looked grave. "We are never unkind to the Trout," she
said, "for they belong to the peat-stream, but you must never become
familiar with them. Fallow-Deer, I believe, treat them as equals," and
here she looked very proud, "but we do not. They are a lazy lot of
fellows whose forefathers would not take the trouble to go down to the
sea, whereby they might have grown into noble fish, with a coat as
bright as the moon on the water. But they would not, and so they have
remained small and ugly, and they never lose their spots. You must
never be rude to them, for that would be unworthy of a Red-Deer, but
you must never make great friends with them. You may talk to little
Salmon when we see them, for they lose their spots, but not to the
Trout." For the Hind was a great lady, with much pride of race, which
though it made her civil to every one, taught her to be shy of idlers
and low company.

"But, mother," said the poor little Calf, "_I've_ got a spotted coat."

"But you will lose it, my darling," she said tenderly. "No, no, my
child will be a true Red-Deer."

So they left the water, and presently stopped while his mother plucked
at a tuft of sweet grass among the heather; when to his astonishment a
little grey ball of fur came bounding out of a hole in the ground, and
another at his heels, and three more after them. And they ran round
and round and played like mad things. And presently another, far
bigger than they, came up slowly out of another hole, sat up on her
hind-legs, pricked her ears, and began to look about her. Then
catching sight of the Calf she crouched down, and began in a very
shrill voice: "Why, my dear tender heart" (for she was not only a
Rabbit, but a Devonshire Rabbit, and of course spoke broad Devon), "if
it isn't my little maister, and her ladyship too, begging your pardon,
my lady. And sweetly pretty he is, my lady; and butiful you'm looking
too, in your summer coat, so glossy as a chestnut, sure enough. And
dear heart alive, how he groweth.