Much of my joy in life comes from the many rabbits and cats with whom I share my life. (You will notice I usually include either a rabbit or cat somewhere in my historical romances!) History and pets actually combine quite well. For your entertainment, I am including a short story I wrote about a Georgian poet, William Cowper, and his pet hares on this page:
Three Hares and a Gentleman Poet
by
Lucy Muir
Keeping rabbits and hares as companions in the home is not a new practice. Rabbits and/or hares were kept as valued indoor pets in Renaissance Italy and in other countries over the last centuries by various persons who recognized and appreciated the delightful qualities of rabbits and their kin. One of these people was William Cowper (1731-1800): poet, hymn-writer, and keen observer of the natural world. The following account, although containing fictionalized details and conversation to make it into a readable story, is based on Cowper’s own words.
William Cowper’s quill pen scratched erratically across the page. “With few associates, and not…” The quill stopped. “And not…and not…and not what?” Cowper muttered, and irritably shot the pen back into the inkstand. It was no use. The melancholy which had set in after his brother’s death two years ago had still not lifted. The words would not flow. It was useless to even try to write. He put his face in his hands and gave in to his dejection, becoming lost in a swirling world of dark thoughts.
“Beg pardon, your honour,” a voice roused Cowper.
“Yes, what is it Coleman?” Cowper asked his servant with a touch of irritation, raising his head.
“It’s your neighbor, your honour, come with something for you. He is waiting in the parlour.”
“Tell him I will be there directly,” Cowper sighed resignedly. He rose from his chair, pulled the wide cuffs of his morning coat straight, and set his shoulders determinedly as he left the room.
“Good morning John,” Cowper said as he entered the parlour where his neighbor sat waiting with a hemp sack near his feet. The sack moved slightly.
“Good morning William,” his neighbor returned the greeting, rising. “I am sorry to disturb you this early, but I have a boon to ask of you. You know my daughters were given a young hare to play with?”
Cowper nodded. He had seen the girls with the hare since midsummer. At first the tiny animal had held the girls’ childish interest with its novelty. But as the weeks passed and the hare had grown they had lost interest as children will, and once but a week or so ago in September he had seen them teasing the poor creature with a stick.
“They pay it little mind any longer, and although it is but a hare, it is one of God’s creatures and it has pained me to see it grow thin and ill with their teasing and neglect,” John continued. “I thought you might take the poor thing and give it a home in your garden. My girls have had their amusement and are happy to relinquish him to you.” He handed the sack to Cowper.
Cowper took the sturdy cloth sack and carefully peeked inside, not wishing to frighten the animal further. A thin young hare cowered at the bottom. Cowper had always had a soft spot for the wild creatures of God’s marvelous creation, and the sight of the poor hare in such a state touched his heart. Certainly there was room here in Orchard Side for one small hare.
“Indeed, John. I shall be pleased to take on his care. I am rather in need of something to engage my attention at this time,” he acknowledged frankly.
“God will reward you for the care of the least of His creatures,” his neighbor commented piously as he straightened his hat and picked up his walking stick. “I had best return home now; I have sermons to write. Good day to you, my friend, and may God bless you.”
After his neighbor left, Cowper gently carried the sack containing the hare to his large back garden, where he set it down and arranged the sack’s folds so the hare could venture out when he wished. Cowper sat on his heels a few paces away, watching. In a few minutes a wiggling nose poked out, followed by two bright eyes and large pink-white ears. He looked at Cowper warily and then, apparently deciding this new being was no threat, hopped free of the sack. Cowper remained still, and the hare approached him slowly, neck outstretched, ears forward, nose wiggling. He sniffed cautiously at Cowper, then visibly relaxed and hopped slowly off to sample some of the garden’s goods.
Cowper watched his new pet, feeling a connection to the young hare. His interest was engaged and he began to make plans. He would study the hare’s needs, be sure they were provided for, tame it, and return it to health. Perhaps this creature was just what he needed to draw himself out of his black melancholy.
When word spread in the town that Cowper had taken a hare in and was keeping him in his garden, others came to offer young hares they had found. Cowper could not take them all, but undertook the care of three whom he named them Puss, Bess, and Tiney. The poet spent hours studying the habits of the hares so he could give them proper care. He sought to provide them a diet that would give sufficient nutrients, beginning with wheaten bread in milk and adding oats, thistles, lettuces, twigs of hawthorn, carrots, and apple peels to their meals over time. Occasionally Cowper would leave the door to the garden open so the hares could come into the house, where he was greatly diverted by their cautious explorations. He rapidly accustomed the hares to his presence, simply by moving slowly and quietly and talking to them in a low, gentle voice. Puss and Bess were more accepting of him than Tiney, who apparently could not forget his early teasing and totally trust a human. But Cowper loved Tiney as well as the other two, despite the occasional nips and stubborn wildness.
“Well, my friends,” he commented one day early in mid-autumn as the three hares poked about his parlour, “it is time you have your own quarters here. I fear the cold of winter is just around the corner. I shall build you your own chambers so you may come inside and escape the winter cold.”
A talented carpenter, Cowper enjoyed designing and constructing a wooden home with three separate chambers and a common hallway. He lined the chambers with straw for the hares’ bedding and moved their new home into the parlour.
“What do you think, my friends? Are your quarters satisfactory?” he asked as the three hares thoroughly sniffed their new home and marked it as their own by rubbing their chins on all the corners. “I shall need to keep you confined in them during the day while I am busy, but you like to doze through midday in any event. I promise you that you shall have every evening to share the parlour with me and days to frolic in garden when the weather is fine.”
The hare Cowper had named Puss hopped over to where Cowper sat on a chair watching them. He eyed Cowper consideringly for a moment, and then, to the poet’s surprise and delight, jumped into his lap.
“Puss, Puss, you are a bold one,” Cowper said, overcome by this obvious expression of gratitude on the part of the hare. Slowly, he dared to raise his hand and stroke Puss’s head and back. Puss graciously allowed this intimacy for several minutes before jumping down and rejoining his companions.
The next evening, during their time out in the parlour, Cowper brought treats of carrots. Tiney, always the most cautious and fearful, snatched his carrot and ran, nipping Cowper’s hand in the process, but Bess and Puss stayed close by while they munched theirs. When they had finished their treat of carrot, they stood up by Cowper’s chair, resting their front paws on his legs, clearly asking for more.
“There are no more, my dears,” Cowper protested, spreading his hands to show they were empty. Puss stared him in the eye and once again jumped into his lap. Cowper stroked his back, murmuring endearments. Puss relaxed, allowing the caresses with obvious pleasure, and then rose on his hind feet and nibbled on the hair falling over the poet’s forehead. After a few more nibbles he settled back down into Cowper’s lap and fell asleep. Had Cowper’s heart not already been entirely captured by his small friends, this expression of affection would have ensured it. Nor could he help loving sweet Puss the most, although he also loved Bess for her intelligence and drollery—and Tiney for his stubborn wildness.
Puss became more and more tame, and soon Cowper was able to carry him about in his arms. Every morning the poet would carry Puss out to the garden and set him down by his favorite cucumber vine. If he was tardy in doing this, Puss would jump into the poet’s lap, sit up, look him in the eye, and drum on his knee with his hind foot. The message was unmistakable: “Garden, now.” Should Cowper be immersed in writing or other business and fail to take the hint, Puss would grab hold of Cowper’s coat with his teeth and jerk, hard: “I said, Garden, NOW.”
Delighted with this show of intelligence the first time it was exhibited, Cowper laughed, “My Puss, you well know how to communicate. Could you but hold a pen, I’ve no doubt you would write as succinctly.”
Despite the exemplary care Cowper gave his new friends, Puss became ill one day. Not knowing what ailed his beloved hare, Cowper did the best he could to restore Puss to health, treating him with various fresh herbs and tending him with great care. Finally one morning it became obvious from Puss’s increased appetite and alertness that the hare had turned the corner and would recover. As Cowper gently stroked his fur, Puss turned his head and carefully licked every inch of the poet’s hand, lapping between every finger. Cowper had no doubt this was an expression of gratitude, and became more convinced than ever of the hare’s basic intelligence, affection, and understanding.
Over the next few years Cowper devoted himself to his hares, finding their behavior a constant source of learning and delight. His melancholy lifted and the words began to flow again. In addition to composing his poems and hymns, Cowper, anxious to share his insights into his hare companions, wrote articles for the popular Gentlemen’s Magazine in which he extolled his hares’ cheerfulness, amiability, gratitude, and enjoyment of life. He became well-known for his unusual companions, and was presented with a beautiful enameled snuffbox on which were painted the portraits of the three hares. The snuffbox became one of Cowper’s most prized possessions.
Every evening the hares’ gamboling on the Turkish carpet in the parlour enchanted him. Cowper never tired of watching the hares as they bounded about the room, kicking their heels, doing amazing jumps and turns, and finally flopping on their sides for a rest. The poet allowed nothing to disturb this established routine, going so far as to have a town official who came to call taken up the back stairs rather than allowing him to go through the parlour and disturb the hares during their evening frolic.
But the best of care is not always enough, and after five years bold Bess died. The tears flowed freely as Cowper buried her in his garden. But although a return of melancholy threatened, Cowper knew he had to continue to care for wild Tiney and gentle Puss and could not give in to the darkness.
So life continued much as before, barring the now-empty space Bess had filled. Every evening Puss and Tiney frolicked in the parlour, and early every fine morning they foraged through the gardens—until one August morning when Puss did not come back when Cowper opened the door and called for the hares to return to the house at the usual hour of nine.
“Richard,” he called his servant, “have you seen Puss? Did you by chance allow her to slip into the house earlier?”
“No, your honour,” the servant replied, “but you might ask Thomas in the kitchen. Sometimes he gives them a treat of parings.”
At that moment Thomas himself came puffing up the garden walk. “Yer honour, yer honour,” he blurted, face red with the exertion of hurrying his well-nourished body, “it’s Puss. He’s got away somehow! I was coming up the street and there he was! I tried to put me hat o’er ‘im to bring ‘im back, but he screamed, he did, and jumped clear o’er my back and is gone toward town.”
Cowper’s heart stood still. Not his beloved Puss! “After him, Richard!” he commanded the younger and fitter servant. “Find him and bring him back, whatever happens.”
As Richard obediently ran down the street after the escaped hare, Cowper searched the garden for a place Puss could have gotten out. He had been certain the garden was secure. But there behind some foxglove the poet found a hole chewed in the lattice, just large enough for the hare to squeeze through.
“Oh Puss,” Cowper sighed. “I kept you here for your safety, but you must ever try the boundaries.” Sadly he patched the hole lest Tiney should also escape, and then awaited his servant’s return in the parlour, pacing back and forth in his agitation. Should he have gone to look for Puss as well? It was true enough he could not have kept up with the young servant, but in verity he had stayed behind because he could not bear the thought of how Puss would be found. He truly had no hope the hare would be returned alive—not with the dogs and the children and the carts in the street. How could he have faced finding Puss’s broken and mutilated body? He would have broken down before the whole town.
Cowper’s agitation increased as the time passed and Richard did not return. Twenty minutes, forty, an hour passed. He could wait no longer. Grabbing a hat from the stand in the hall, he jammed it over his head and started down the street. Just then Richard came into view hastening along the road, a sack hanging at his side.
Cowper’s heart sank as he gazed at the inert sack. No, his Puss could not be gone! He could not bear it! The poet was unable to tear his gaze from the unmoving sack. Then the sack twitched. Puss was still alive! God was merciful! Cowper ran to meet his servant, tearing the sack from Richard’s grasp.
“Here he is, your honour, a bit the worse for wear, but I’ve no fear will be soon on the mend,” Richard said as he released the sack to his master.
Cowper took the sack and hurried back to Orchard Side, Richard close behind. He gently placed the sack on the floor of the parlour, rolled down the sides, and carefully extracted a very wet, bedraggled hare. “Turkish towels, Richard, and warm them,” Cowper commanded.
When Richard returned with the warm towels, he began to narrate his adventures while Cowper dried the wet hare off with great care and tenderness.
“A merry chase he led me, your honour! Right through town, and dogs and children after him as well. I managed to hold the dogs off, they was the greatest danger, but Puss got right away from me several times and clear through town we went, out to the tanning yards where what did he do but tumble into the tanning pit! I thought he was drowned, indeed I did, your honour, but a likely young lad pulled him out by his ears and seeing he was still breathing we dunked him in a bucket of water to rinse off the lime, and put him in the sack so he could not get away again.”
“You did well, Richard,” Cowper praised his servant as he continued to dry off the soaked hare, “and I shall not be forgetting it.”
Over the next few days Cowper devotedly nursed his beloved Puss back to health. Amazingly, the only hurts the hare had taken in his adventures were a torn claw and scratched ear, both of which quickly healed. Soon Puss was as well as ever, once more frolicking with Tiney, begging for his carrot treats, sleeping in the poet’s lap, and nibbling on his hair, always pulling Cowper back from the melancholy that occasionally threatened the poet and forcing him to a smile.
Tiney lived to be eight years old, and when he died, Cowper immortalized him in the poem “Epitaph on a hare.” Puss lived to eleven years, a tribute to Cowper’s understanding of wild creatures and the ever-vigilant, ever-tender care he took of his beloved hares. Although he is not named, it is most likely Puss who is referred to in Cowper’s poem “The Garden.” During the years the poet shared his life with his hares he never fully succumbed to the depression that haunted him throughout his lifetime, but within a few years of Puss’s death he was once again in its grip. Remembered now mostly for the church hymns he wrote in conjunction with John Newton, Cowper was a poet of some note, a skilled essayist/letter-writer, and a remarkable spokesman for wild creatures during an age when such thinking was neither common nor fashionable.
@ 2008 Lucile Moore. Reprinted from Touched by a Rabbit: A Treasury of Stories about Rabbits and their People with permission.
