Watership Down: Chapters 39-Epilogue

On almost any other river, Blackberry’s plan would not have worked. The punt would not have left the bank or, if it had, would have run aground or been fouled by weeds or some other obstruction.

The bridge stretched from bank to bank between two low abutments. It was not arched. Its underside, made of iron girders, was perfectly straight — parallel with the surface and about eight inches above it.

Full of elation and confidence, all his terrors forgotten, Hazel crawled over to Pipkin and together they slipped into the undergrowth.

The rabbit fetched up against the grating, drifted a little way along it, found the bottom and crawled out of the turbid water.

Hazel was disconcerted. From what he had gathered, this was a disgraced prisoner from Efrafa — not even a member of the Owsla, apparently — and he had just said that he felt exhausted.

But the place, he realized, was hopelessly inhospitable. Although there was good cover, it was too wet for rabbits.

Tact was a quality which Blackavar valued about as much as Bigwig did; and now he made the worst possible reply.

What joy it will be to grovel and abase myself before the Queen! How humbly I shall roll upon the ground!

Until that very moment he had shown up strongly, a most formidable adversary.

Day and night they heard the muffled thud of the picks above and dreamt of the collapse of the grotto and of every ghastly eventuality.

His head was a tumult of smells — phlox in bloom, ashes, cow dung, dog, cat, hens, stagnant water.

A poor lot, I’d say — skulking underground, and some of them running away in the night.

He took off his pince-nez and put them in his waistcoat pocket.

Although leaves remained on the beeches and the sunshine was warm, there was a sense of growing emptiness over the wide space of the down. The flowers were sparser.

They are more subject to disease in winter and the cold lowers their vitality.