Untitled drawing from Lives of Game Animals by Ernest Thompson Seton
As you will no doubt know, the apologia (defense) has been an important literary form for the past 2500 years. Perhaps no writer in that time has matched Seton for vigor in standing up for what he believes. In this case, a Rabbit. In this confusing time in the public life of this country (Gimme Shelter!), we may look to him for guidance, a public figure who models for us how to stand tall in support of integrity and the ones we love. Here is his essay on the Lagomorpha from Lives of Game Animals, published 1928.
A Private Letter Greenwich, Conn., Jan. 23, 1927
To Mrs. Molly Cottontail, The Brier Patch, Wild State, U.S.A.
Dear Molly:
I have just finished writing a long account of you for the children of America. I have tried to be very true and restrained, because I know that the children will show the chapter to their teachers, and it will come before the stern critics of the Biological Survey. But there is no use trying to hide from those men the fact that I am your friend.
Dear little Molly, I love you. And I wish I could, in honesty, exalt you to a high place in the world of intellect. Alas, I fear I cannot. You are but a sweet, dull-witted thing. You can scarcely be tamed, and cannot be taught at all. You have nothing but a Rabbit wit at best; and all attempts to domesticate and educate you, have scarcely robbed you of an insane and energetic desire to get away and hide.
“Harmless as a Rabbit” is an old adage; and, of all the soft, pretty things that roam our woods, you, Molly, most nearly live a blameless life. I would like to hold you above all reproach, but we cannot ignore the testimony of many naturalists—good friends of yours, like John Bachman, and his following. They maintain or admit, that you do at times destroy young orchards. Destroy orchards! Pah! I have looked fully into the charges, Molly, and find that sometimes a few orchard trees are peeled on your home rage. Yes, it is so. But in none cases out of ten, it was done by Mice.
They hold that you cut off orchard twigs as high as you can—far beyond Mouse reach. Sometimes, no doubt, you do. But who wants orchard twigs growing so low as two feet from the ground? Pretty poor gardeners, I call any who do.
THEY SHOOT COWS, DON’T THEY?
The truck farmers in Pennsylvania charge you with ruining their cabbage patches. The calamity-howlers! You took maybe one or two cabbages. Why don’t they fence their cabbages, if they are so precious? Cows will eat cabbages; but is that a reason to go and shoot all the Cows?
They say that, if not you, at least your husband with your approval, has often broken into a quarrelsome rage, and even murdered some neighbor whose ways were not to his liking. To this, I reply, first, it was not proven; and second, we are not discussing your husband.
They say that your intelligence never soared above tricks to save yourself or your children from hawk or hound. Well, what of it? To what better use could your wits be put? Show me a stronger guarantee of your right to live.
I have held against selfish men that, unlike most wildwood things, you care nothing for fruits or berries. You dig no holes to menace Horses’ legs or water dams. You have no evil habits that can be a curse to other dwellers on your range. Your orchard toll is trifling. You have never bitten no scared a child; you have never worried a Sheep. And certainly, you never robbed a bird’s nest in all your life.
FALSE ACCUSATION
In short, dear Molly, every charge, trumped up or founded, has been proven false or silly. We have defeated the enemy. The children are with me in proclaiming yours to be a blameless life. They shouted for joy when they heard how you made a fool of that big Dog that was trying to kill you.* And more than that that, Molly, we all love you for your courage; the brave way in which you defended your baby from the black snake made for you millions of friends. It was noble—heroic. We are all for you—that is, we young folks.
You have won, and will ever hold a foremost place in our fields, our stories, and our affections—that is, as long as America has children to show the parents the better way. And if ever the time comes that I cannot see you at sundown, near my house, I shall feel that the woods has lost one of the pleasantest things it has held for me, a daily joy I had learned to count on.
Your devoted admirer, THE AUTHOR
P.S. If I can do more, drop me a line.
*“Raggylug, the Story of a Cottontail Rabbit,” Wild Animals I Have Known, 1898.