As he slipped his hand in her breast, she parted her hair and showed him.  Kneeling beside her, he gazed down wonderingly at a thing that he had never seen before.  He could find no name for it.  It was like himself and it was like her also, only it was tiny and no thicker than his fore-arm.  It had wee feet and hands, a rose-bud of a mouth and it was smooth and soft.  Its head, which was the size of an apple, was covered with silky floss.  Lowering his face, he sniffed it all over.  It smelt sweet like the flowers that used to bloom in Eden.

“What is it?”

She shook her head.  “It was here when I wakened.”  Her eyes became bright and immense as stars.  “It’s our’s,” she whispered tenderly.

VIII

It was awkward to have something for which you could find no name, especially when it was something that you had begun to love already.

“We’ll have to ask someone,” the Man said.  “If I knew where He was, I might ask——­”

The Woman’s face blanched.  “Not God,” she begged.  “Because of the fruit we ate, He might take it from us.”

Just then they were disturbed by a rustling of snow.  Looking up, they saw the rabbit, watching them with timid eyes and recovering his breath after the long climb.

“What d’you want?” the Man asked sharply.

The rabbit flicked his white scut and sat up on his hind-legs, his whiskers quivering with excitement.

“I want to see it,” he panted.  “The dog’s been boasting.  I hurried because I wanted to be the first to see it.  I’m so little; I couldn’t do it any harm.”

“Let him see it,” said the Woman.  “He’s gentle.  He might be able to tell us what to call it.”

So the Man told the rabbit that he could have just one peep.  But when the rabbit tried to get his peep by standing against the Woman’s knees, he wasn’t tall enough, so the Man had to lift him till he lay all furry against the little creature that was in the Woman’s arms.

“I can’t suggest anything,” said the rabbit.  “We ought to consult the other animals.  They all want to be friends; they’re so curious.  But there’s one thing I do know:  we’re both small and my coat would just fit it.”

Before they could stop him, he had pulled off his coat and was tucking it snugly about the little stranger.  He was right; it did fit exactly.  So the first garment of the earth’s first baby was a rabbitskin, which accounts for the rhyme which mothers sing about “Gone to fetch a rabbitskin, to wrap the baby bunting in.”

When the rabbit had presented his gift, he hopped down from the Woman’s lap very much thinner.

“And now can I bring the other animals?” he asked.

The Man hesitated.  He was remembering the last visits of the lion and the elephant and the rhinoceros.  “They might find a name for it,” the rabbit pleaded.

Then the Man nodded and the rabbit scuttled off.