"Stop that!" she said quite angrily, "or I'll dump you all in the gutter!"

The threat was enough to send each to a corner of the basket, where they
eyed each other and tried to think up some less boisterous game. It was
beginning to rain steadily outside, and the water trickled through the top
of the basket. Every time a drop hit one, he squealed, but no one dared to
jump and run around.

Now rabbits don't sell very well on rainy days, especially white rabbits.
Their fur gets all wet and roughened up, and they look more like
half-drowned rats than pretty, fluffy bunnies. Fluffy was taken out of the
basket first, but nobody took any notice of her, and when she came back
she was all wet and shivery.

"B-r-r-r, it's awfully wet outside," she said, shaking with the cold. "I'm
glad nobody bought me, for I'd rather be in here safe and warm than in
somebody's arms."

Pickles's turn came next. He had an ingrowing toe nail, which sometimes
made him grouchy and sour, so he was dubbed Pickles. He looked and acted
like his name now. He squealed when the old woman picked him up in her
hand, and when a splash of rain landed on the back of his neck he kicked
both hind legs and wriggled his body free and fell plump back into the
basket.

The old woman was very angry. "You, Pickles," she growled, "you'll go to
bed to-night without any supper."

Somebody passed just then, a lady with an umbrella over her head, and the
woman with rabbits to sell turned to her in her most beguiling way.