He said, "Dance for me" and he said,"You are too beautiful for the windTo pick at, or the sun to burn." He said,"I'm a poor tattered thing, but not unkindTo the sad dancer and the dancing dead."Sidney Keyes, Four Postures of Death"Well done," said Hazel, as Dandelion ended.
"He's very good, isn't he?" said Silver. "We're lucky to have him with us. Itraises your spirits just to hear him.""That's put their ears flat for them," whispered Bigwig. "Let's just see them finda storyteller to beat him."They were all in no doubt that Dandelion had done them credit. Ever sincetheir arrival most of them had felt out of their depth among these magnificent,well-fed strangers, with their detached manners, their Shapes on the wall, theirelegance, their adroit evasion of almost all questions -- above all, their fits of un-rabbitlike melancholy. Now, their own storyteller had shown that they were nomere bunch of tramps. Certainly, no reasonable rabbit could withholdadmiration. They waited to be told as much, but after a few moments realizedwith surprise that their hosts were evidently less enthusiastic.
"Very nice," said Cowslip. He seemed to be searching for something more tosay, but then repeated, "Yes, very nice. An unusual tale.""But he must know it, surely?" muttered Blackberry to Hazel.
"I always think these traditional stories retain a lot of charm," said another ofthe rabbits, "especially when they're told in the real, old-fashioned spirit.""Yes," said Strawberry. "Conviction, that's what it needs. You really have tobelieve in El-ahrairah and Prince Rainbow, don't you? Then all the rest follows.""Don't say anything, Bigwig," whispered Hazel: for Bigwig was scuffling hispaws indignantly. "You can't force them to like it if they don't. Let's wait and seewhat they can do themselves." Aloud, he said, "Our stories haven't changed ingenerations, you know. After all, we haven't changed ourselves. Our lives havebeen the same as our fathers' and their fathers' before them. Things are differenthere. We realize that, and we think your new ideas and ways are very exciting.
We're all wondering what kind of things you tell stories about.""Well, we don't tell the old stories very much," said Cowslip. "Our stories andpoems are mostly about our own lives here. Of course, that Shape of Laburnumthat you saw -- that's old-fashioned now. El-ahrairah doesn't really mean much tous. Not that your friend's story wasn't very charming," he added hastily.
"El-ahrairah is a trickster," said Buckthorn, "and rabbits will always needtricks.""No," said a new voice from the further end of the hall, beyond Cowslip.
"Rabbits need dignity and, above all, the will to accept their fate.""We think Silverweed is one of the best poets we've had for many months,"said Cowslip. "His ideas have a great following. Would you like to hear him now?""Yes, yes," said voices from all sides. "Silverweed!""Hazel," said Fiver suddenly, "I want to get a clear idea of this Silverweed, but Idaren't go closer by myself. Will you come with me?""Why, Fiver, whatever do you mean? What is there to be afraid of?""Oh, Frith help me!" said Fiver, trembling. "I can smell him from here. Heterrifies me.""Oh, Fiver, don't be absurd! He just smells the same as the rest of them.""He smells like barley rained down and left to rot in the fields. He smells like awounded mole that can't get underground.""He smells like a big, fat rabbit to me, with a lot of carrots inside. But I'll comewith you."When they had edged their way through the crowd to the far end of theburrow, Hazel was surprised to realize that Silverweed was a mere youngster. Inthe Sandleford warren no rabbit of his age would have been asked to tell a story,except perhaps to a few friends alone. He had a wild, desperate air and his earstwitched continually. As he began to speak, he seemed to grow less and less awareof his audience and continually turned his head, as though listening to somesound, audible only to himself, from the entrance tunnel behind him. But therewas an arresting fascination in his voice, like the movement of wind and light on ameadow, and as its rhythm entered into his hearers the whole burrow becamesilent.
The wind is blowing, blowing over the grass.
It shakes the willow catkins; the leaves shine silver.
Where are you going, wind? Far, far awayOver the hills, over the edge of the world.
Take me with you, wind, high over the sky.
I will go with you, I will be rabbit-of-the-wind,Into the sky, the feathery sky and the rabbit.
The stream is running, running over the gravel,Through the brooklime, the kingcups, the blue and gold of spring.
Where are you going, stream? Far, far awayBeyond the heather, sliding away all night.
Take me with you, stream, away in the starlight.
I will go with you, I will be rabbit-of-the-stream,Down through the water, the gree............