whither she went, for she slept her never-waking sleep in the
ice-arms of her friend the Water that tells no tales.

Poor little Molly Cottontail! She was a true heroine, yet only one
of unnumbered millions that without a thought of heroism have
lived and done their best in their little world, and died. She fought
a good fight in the battle of life. She was good stuff; the stuff that
never dies. For flesh of her flesh and brain of her brain was Rag.
She lives in him, and through him transmits a finer fibre to her
race.

And Rag still lives in the Swamp. Old Olifant died that winter, and
the unthrifty sons ceased to clear the Swamp or mend the wire
fences. Within a single year it was a wilder place than ever; fresh
trees and brambles grew, and falling wires made many Cottontail
castles and last retreats that dogs and foxes dared not storm. And
there to this day lives Rag. He is a big strong buck now and fears
no rivals. He has a large family of his own, and a pretty brown
wife that he got I know not where. There, no doubt, he and his
children's children will flourish for many years to come, and there
you may see them any sunny evening if you have learnt their signal
S code, and, choosing a good spot on the ground, know just how
and when to thump it.

BINGO

"Ye Franckelyn's dogge leaped over a style,
And yey yclept him lyttel Bingo,
B-I.N-G-O,