The sun rose while they were still lying in the
thorn. Already several of the rabbits were asleep,
crouched uneasily between the thick stems, aware
of the chance of danger but too tired to do more than
trust to luck.


Hazel, looking at them, felt almost as insecure as
he had on the riverbank. A hedgerow in open fields was
no place to remain all day. But where could they go?
He needed to know more about their surroundings.


He moved along the hedge, feeling the breeze from the
south and looking for some spot where he could sit
and scent it without too much risk. The smells that came
down from the higher ground might tell him something.


Hazel squatted on his haunches and stared at the
orderly forest of small, glaucous trees with their
columns of black-and-white bloom. He had never seen
anything like this.


Wheat and barley he knew, and once he had been in a
field of turnips. But this was entirely different from
any of those and seemed, somehow, attractive, wholesome,
propitious. True, rabbits could not eat these plants: he
could smell that.


But they could lie safely among them for as long as
they liked, and they could move through them easily and
unseen. Hazel determined then and there to bring the
rabbits up to the beanfield to shelter and rest until
the evening.


He ran back and found the others where he had left them.
Bigwig and Silver were awake, but all the rest were
still napping uneasily. They became widely separated as
they straggled up the slope. Silver and Bigwig led the
way, with Hazel and Buckthorn a short distance behind.


The rest idled along, hopping a few yards and then
pausing to nibble or to pass droppings on the warm,
sunny grass. Silver was almost at the crest when suddenly,
from halfway up, there came a high screaming --
the sound a rabbit makes, not to call for help or to
frighten an enemy, but simply out of terror.


Fiver and Pipkin, limping behind the others, and
conspicuously undersized and tired, were being attacked
by the crow. It had flown low along the ground. Then,
pouncing, it had aimed a blow of its great bill at
Fiver, who just managed to dodge in time.


At the top of the slope Buckthorn was already leading
the way into the beanfield. Hazel reached the hedge,
crossed a narrow turf verge on the other side and
found himself looking straight down a long, shadowy
aisle between two rows of beans.


The earth was soft and crumbling, with a scattering
of the weeds that are found in cultivated fields --
fumitory, charlock, pimpernel and mayweed, all growing
in the green gloom under the bean leaves.


As the plants moved in the breeze, the sunlight
dappled and speckled back and forth over the brown
soil, the white pebbles and weeds. Yet in this
ubiquitous restlessness there was nothing alarming, for
the whole forest took part in it and the only sound
was the soft, steady movement of the leaves.


Far along the bean row Hazel glimpsed Buckthorn's back
and followed him into the depths of the field. Soon
after, all the rabbits had come together in a kind of
hollow. Far around, on all sides, stood the orderly rows
of beans, securing them against hostile approach, roofing
them over and covering their scent.


They could hardly have been safer underground. Even a
little food could be had at a pinch, for here and there
were a few pale twists of grass and here and there a
dandelion.


"We can sleep here all day," said Hazel. "But I
suppose one of us ought to stay awake; and if I take
the first turn it'll give me a chance to have a look at
your paw, Hlao-roo. I think you've got something in it."