Nature Perfected
A long-ago winner of the Newbery Medal, Rabbit Hill deserves a place on our shelves and in our hearts.
Review by Sarah Clark
One of my fondest memories of my mother, who passed away in 2019, is of her reading aloud to my brother and me every night before we went to sleep. She read one chapter every night without fail—never more, never less. Over the years, she must have read us at least a hundred books.
So last fall, when I got to the week in my pregnancy tracker that said, “Your baby can hear and recognize your voice now—you can read aloud to her,” I started to do just that. Though I felt a bit silly reading aloud to my own stomach, and though I knew perfectly well I didn’t need to read her children’s books because she wouldn’t know the difference, I started with The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane. Then Mr. Popper’s Penguins. Next, I read her Robert Lawson’s Rabbit Hill.
I didn’t remember much about Rabbit Hill except that it had been one of my favorites around first grade. Rabbits were my favorite animal. It was first published in 1944 and won the Newberry Medal in 1945; newer editions leave out a minor character from the original, who is portrayed as a stereotype. The book is also beautifully illustrated by the author, so that while not a picture book, it provides plenty of visual interest for children following along while it’s read aloud.
The story opens with a sense of anticipation: “All the Hill was boiling with excitement. On every side there rose a continual chattering and squeaking, whispering and whistling, as the Animals discussed the great news. Through it all could be heard again and again the words, ‘New Folks coming.’” We are then introduced to the Rabbit family, Little Georgie (the youngest child and the only one still at home), Mother (a worrier), and Father (a gentleman). The New Folks in question are coming to inhabit the Big House at the top of the Hill, which in the good old days held a family of “planting Folks” who maintained a large garden. Since they moved away, times have been hard, and finding enough food to put on the table has been a matter of great concern.
Thus, the rumor of New Folks sets the Hill afire with speculation: what kind of Folks will they be? Will they provide a much-needed source of food for their Animal neighbors? Each of the inhabitants of the Hill has his or her own wishes, all the way from the Cutworms underground longing for fresh plant shoots to Gray Fox tired of venturing so far afield for a chicken to Phewie the skunk speculating on the quality of their “garbidge” to the majestic Red Buck craving a nice, fresh tomato. But all of their anticipation is also tinged with fear. Will the New Folks also bring new dangers in the form of traps, guns, poison, and predatory domestic animals? This new bounty may also prove deadly for at least a few of them. But that’s just life—it’s uncertain. It’s the natural order of things.
So many children’s books seem to want to teach children the lesson that Real Life is full of loss and grief.
By a few chapters in, I was expecting the book to contain its fair share of tragedy. So many children’s books seem to want to teach children the lesson that Real Life is full of loss and grief—whether Harry Potter–style, where a few beloved characters have to die just to prove it’s serious for everyone else, or like Old Yeller and Where the Red Fern Grows, where the climax of the whole story is the loss of those we love. Bridge to Terabithia. Tuck Everlasting. The Yearling. The list goes on. Rabbit Hill’s litany of possible dangers suggested to me that it might be aiming for a similar set of lessons.
At first, it’s all good news: the field is plowed, the garden is expanded to double its former size, a new chicken coop is erected. Finally, the New Folks arrive, bringing with them no dogs and only one lazy cat called Mr. Muldoon, who responds to taunting by simply going back to sleep. When Father tests the manners of the New Folks by running in front of their car, they slam on the brakes, then put out a sign that reads, “Please drive carefully on account of small animals.” They forbid the use of guns or poison, and the Man even instructs that the piece of stone wall over Porkey the Woodchuck’s burrow be left alone when the rest of the wall is repaired.
But then disaster strikes. Young Willie the mouse, sent to stand on the rain barrel and overhear what’s to be planted in the garden, falls through a rotten place and into the water. He can’t call loud enough for any of the other Animals to hear, and he’s convinced it’s the end. When Willie fails to report back, a search is instigated, and he’s nowhere to be found. In his grief and rage, Willie’s best friend Mole runs crazy tunnels all over the front lawn. But Willie is alright: the Man and the Lady have rescued him from the rain barrel, warmed and fed him, and then opened the door to set him free. The Man once again refuses to take action against Mole, and the lawn is simply rolled down again.
I was now prepared for the other shoe to drop. And it does: while Little Georgie is out on an errand, a scream echoes over the Hill, followed by the roaring of a car. The Man and the Lady collect a little limp bundle from the road—and “Black grief wrapped the Hill.” Little Georgie was everyone’s favorite, cheerful and willing and brave and smart. His parents are prostrated. No one has the heart to even celebrate the coming Midsummer’s Eve, when the Animals will at last gather their shares from the garden. No matter how good and wise and generous the New Folks are, Real Life has struck at last.
In Christ, there is enough for all.
But then, Willie catches sight of Little Georgie, his leg bound with sticks, resting in the Lady’s lap with Mr. Muldoon washing his face. Most of the animals are relieved and happy, but a few suspect the Folks of holding Georgie hostage against the pillaging of the garden, and nasty quarrels begin to break out. Violent action against the garden and fields is contemplated, and “a seething atmosphere of suspicion, fear, and general unpleasantness” reigns over the Hill. Still, the Animals assemble on Midsummer’s Eve. They don’t know what to expect from the tarpaulin that the Man has erected. They don’t know if Little Georgie is alive or dead.
As the Animals approach, the Man and the Lady are sitting quietly. Little Georgie jumps down from the Lady’s lap, calling for his mother and proclaiming that he is just fine. Then the tarpaulin is withdrawn, and Willie describes the sight for the blind Mole: “Oh Mole, it’s so beautiful. It’s him, Mole, it’s him—the Good Saint!” “Him—of Assisi?” Mole replies. It is St. Francis, and from his hands flow a fountain, and about his feet are stone animals, and a feast is laid out there for each of the Animals who live on the Hill, with a message that Willie carefully reads out: “There—is—enough—for—all.”
This, then, is the message of Rabbit Hill: in Christ, we receive not what we expect, and not even what we most hope for, but more. Not the natural order of things, but all things made new. Not what we deserve, but an overflowing grace that offers, in the words of the Book of Common Prayer, “better things than we can desire or pray for.” In Christ, there is enough for all. And so I will read this book to my daughter again and again as she grows. She’ll learn about Real Life soon enough. I’d like this message to be imprinted on her heart and mind as she does.
Sarah Clark lives in New Hampshire with her husband and daughter. She is a founding editor of Fare Forward and the current editor-in-chief, and she owns Scale House Print Shop, a letterpress printing studio. She graduated from Dartmouth College in 2011 and received an MAR from Yale Divinity School in 2022.
Rabbit Hill was published by the Viking Press in 1944 and received the Newbery Medal for 1945. You can still purchase a copy from Puffin Modern Classics here.
