THE LITTLE WHITE HARE

Timaru Herald, Volume CXLIII, Issue 20669, 6 March 1937, Page 13 (Supplement)

THE LITTLE WHITE HARE

Once, in a forsaken, desolate place there lived an old man, nobody knew how old, wrinkled and bent with age. Old Lonesome, they called him. His house was on the border of an oozy swamp, where nothing but thorns and nettles struggled through the dark, cold earth. Strangely, every winter a clump of snowdrops lanced the snow-carpet in the old man’s garden and grew greenly, but never a flower blossomed on them; indeed, it was hard to imagine why snowdrops should grow at all in the midst of such desolation. One crisp, cold night in winter, as Lonesome sat cosily dreaming by his fire of crackling, dried birch, there came a hasty rat-tat at the foot of his door. The old man unfastened the door as quickly as he could, and there stood a hare, all trembling and panting, surrounded by a host of squirming, giggling goblins. When the bright ray from within fell upon them they slunk, muttering away. It was a dear little hare with a long, white, silky coat. All night long old Lonesome soothingly stroked its delicate pink ears so that by daylight it was as frisky as ever. “Kind friend, some buds shall come on your snowdrops and you shall see a wonder. But keep it safe and secure from the goblins,” Is said as It loped whisking over the snow. Lonesome ran eagerly to the clump of snowdrops, and sure enough, glistening buds shone there. Slowly, day by day, the crumpled budlets unfolded till at last, one still evening, they opened into shimmering, ice-white snowdrop bells. Old Lonesome gazed fascinated, when from the largest and most beautiful of them all dropped a laughing little girl, white as the snow, with sunny curls and sky-blue eyes; her dress was the facsimile of a drooping snowdrop. “Who are you, my pretty dear—are you a dream, or true?” he asked. “My name is Snowdrop. I’ve come to live with you.” The poor old man’s heart was jubilant. Snowdrop made all his days seem glad and turned all his work into play. One afternoon when a heavy fog

coiled its damp tentacles over the swamp fen and old Lonesome was tending his garden with labour and care, Snowdrop wandered along the bank of the marsh stream, treading gingerly here and there. A sudden cry, scores of lean, bony figures clutched her hair, her dress, tore it to fragments, pinched her. The old man heard his darling’s cry and remembered with remorse what the white hare had said. “Keep it safe and secure from the hobgoblins.” He had not been diligent enough in his care. A minute and she would be snatched away forever. He called, nobody answered. He stood there in utter despair when a light touch fell on his sleeve—it was the little white hare. “The goblins have her,” it said anxiously, “but you may save her yet. At midnight you must go to the goblins’ garden and scatter over them the magic potion which I shall give you. The way is through mud and mire, duckweed and slime, but you can go in your little boat.” The clock at last struck twelve. Lonesome pushed off his boat from the bank of the marshy stream. Through mud and mire, duckweed and slime, he guided it till he heard a tittering and taunting, and saw dim, derisive forms. This must be the goblins’ garden, and they were torturing little Snowdrop. Old Lonesome was so infuriated by this thought that he forgot his age and infirmity and dashed into their midst, scattering the magic potion. There was a white flash, a low rumble, and that desolate swamp was no more. Instead, a garden, clear-cut and crystal as a frosty night, colourful as a sunset in summer, joyous as a spring morning, and mellow as an autumn noon. Snowdrop was a princess, spritely yet graceful like a snowdrop princess should be. The hare was no longer a white hare, but a prince, handsome as a young Apollo. Lonesome had lost at least 20 years of his age. Everybody was happy, except, of course, the goblins, whose power had vanished.