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Outside, the downs were still in the intense, bright heat of noon. The dew and gossamer had dried early from the grass and by mid-morning the finches had fallen silent. Now, along the lonely expanses of wiry turf, the air wavered. On the footpath that led past the warren, bright threads of light - watery, a mirage - trickled and glittered across the shortest, smoothest grass.

The silence returned, but still Hazel lay motionless in the whispering chill of the tunnel. A cold lassitude came over him and he passed into a dreaming, inert stupor, full of cramp and pain. After a time, a thread of blood began to trickle over the lip of the drain into the trampled, deserted ditch.

"..there is a very simple lingua franca of the hedgerow and woodland..."
the hedgerow vernacular ... "'I go fine now. Ving 'e better. Vind finish, den I fly. Fly for you. Find plenty mudders, tell you vere dey are, ya?'
'Why what a splendid idea, Kehaar! How clever of you to think of it! You very fine bird!'

Blackberry, alert and intelligent ... Bigwig, cheerful at the prospect of action. The sready, reliable Silver. Dandelion, the dashing storyteller, so eager to be off ... Buckthorn, perhaps the most sensible and staunch of them all. Pipkin, who looked round for Hazel and then came to wait beside him. Acorn, Hawkbit and Speedwell, decent enough rank and filers ... Last came Fiver, dejected and reluctant

And Frith called after him, 'El-ahrairah, your people cannot rule the world, for I will not have it so. All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you, digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning and full of tricks and your people shall never be destroyed.'