The Velveteen Rabbit
Or How Toys Become Real
by Margery Williams
THERE was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really
splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted
brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with
pink sateen. On Christmas morning, when he sat wedged in the top of the
Boy's stocking, with a sprig of holly between his paws, the effect was
charming.
There were other things in the stocking, nuts and oranges and a toy
engine, and chocolate almonds and a clockwork mouse, but the Rabbit was
quite the best of all. For at least two hours the Boy loved him, and then
Aunts and Uncles came to dinner, and there was a great rustling of tissue
paper and unwrapping of parcels, and in the excitement of looking at all the
new presents the Velveteen Rabbit was forgotten.
Christmas Morning
For a long time he lived in the toy cupboard or on the nursery floor,
and no one thought very much about him. He was naturally shy, and being only made of velveteen, some of the more expensive toys quite snubbed
him. The mechanical toys were very superior, and looked down upon every
one else; they were full of modern ideas, and pretended they were real. The
model boat, who had lived through two seasons and lost most of his paint,
caught the tone from them and never missed an opportunity of referring to
his rigging in technical terms. The Rabbit could not claim to be a model of
anything, for he didn't know that real rabbits existed; he thought they were
all stuffed with sawdust like himself, and he understood that sawdust was
quite out-of-date and should never be mentioned in modern circles. Even
Timothy, the jointed wooden lion, who was made by the disabled soldiers,
and should have had broader views, put on airs and pretended he was
connected with Government. Between them all the poor little Rabbit was
made to feel himself very insignificant and commonplace, and the only
person who was kind to him at all was the Skin Horse.
The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others.
He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams
underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string
bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of
mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and
would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and
wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced
like the Skin Horse understand all about it.
"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying
side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room.
"Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens
to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with,
but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."
"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When
you are Real you don't mind being hurt."
"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by
bit?"
"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It
takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break
easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by
the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things
don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to
people who don't understand."
"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had
not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin
Horse only smiled.
The Skin Horse Tells His Story
"The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many
years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for
always."
The Rabbit sighed. He thought it would be a long time before this
magic called Real happened to him. He longed to become Real, to know
what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and
whiskers was rather sad. He wished that he could become it without these
uncomfortable things happening to him.
(C) 1922 Margery Williams