With only about a year to live (the average age for a wild rabbit) Master Oryctolagus cuniculus, had to make the most of things. So every day, at the crack of dawn he’d leave his underground burrow via a maze of tunnels, to go to school and learn everything he could.

     Master Oryctolagus (for short) loved history and today was all about the Romans.

     ‘They came to England a long time ago,’ said the teacher, a very stern looking rabbit with lopsided glasses and a twitchy nose, ‘and in their luggage were rabbits!’

     ‘Rabbits?’ said one little kit (baby rabbit). ‘Why did they have rabbits?’

     ‘To eat them of course,’ said the teacher and the little rabbits held their breath. ‘But many years later, the Romans left England and there were no more rabbits.’ The young bunnies breathed again.

      ‘Then the Normans brought them back to England!’ said Master Oryctolagus grinning. ‘And some of them escaped and took over the country!’ All the rabbits laughed. with the exception of the teacher. 

      The teacher frowned and his nose twitched and he was about to say something when a sudden thump came from just outside the door. Now all rabbits know that this is a sign of danger.

     ‘We must be silent and hide in the corner,’ said the teacher so Master Oryctolagus and the kits ran and hid themselves.

     ‘Do you think it’s a fox or a stoat or a buzzard?’ said one wee rabbit.

     ‘Hush!’ whispered the teacher, ‘it could be anything!’

     ‘I hope it’s not a man with a gun,’ thought Master Oryctolagus. That was how his mother died and his father too.

      Without warning, Master Oryctolagus felt something warm on his head and he turned sharply around. It was Fern, the new girl in the burrow. ‘It will be ok,’ she said sweetly and he noticed she had the longest eye lashes he had ever seen. His tummy went all strange and he forgot the danger they were in.

       Moments later they had the all clear. It was nothing more than some innocent people walking by. Not all humans were out to get them. So they settled down to a lunch of grass and plants, topped with some of their faeces which gave them extra nourishment (by the way, this process is known as refection). And all the while, Fern and Master Oryctolagus looked into each other’s eyes.  

      The following morning at dawn, the two young rabbits played in the woodlands before school. They ran and jumped in the air, twisting their bodies and flicking their feet. They were very happy bunnies indeed!

Young Alfie was born to be a soldier but he wanted nothing more than to be a honey farmer and milk the aphids that lived on the stems of plants beneath the sun. Until now, his days were spent underground dreaming of his herds of whiteflies, blackflies and greenflies. But he knew that they would soon take him to join the army.

     ‘Don’t you want to be a soldier or marry a princess like all the other ants?’ said the old worker.

     Alfie shook his head. ‘Not at all,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t want slaves to work for me and I would never make a soldier. No, I’m going to be a farmer.’

     ‘In that case,’ said the old worker, ‘You’ll need to find the best rose bushes and nurture your stock and milk them regularly!’

     ‘Is the honeydew as good as they say it is?’ asked Alfie softly.

     The old worker laughed and nodded his head. ‘It’s better than anything you have ever tasted. It’s the sweetest thing!’

      ‘But how will I get the honeydew?’ asked Alfie.

      ‘You have to stroke the aphids back gently, with your antenna and then open your mouth to let the drips fall in. It’s as simple as that!’

      Alfie closed his eyes and listened to the beat of his heart that ran all the way from his brain to his abdomen. He imagined the sun shining on his roses and his herd of aphids feeding off the sap. He could taste the sweet liquid in his mouth. He would nurture his herd and let them take shelter in his nest when times are hard.      

              The old worker looked worried. He knew that poor Alfie was destined for the army and looking at Alfie’s face, as he dreamed of being a farmer, saddened him.

       ‘I’ve heard stories,’ said Alfie to the old worker, ‘ of our relatives in faraway places called Africa and Asia, marching in their thousands, killing almost anything that gets in their way, including horses,  and human babies, so they tell me!’ He clenched his little fists and said, ‘that’s not for me, I would rather die first!’

       And so the day dawned and they came for poor Alfie. He stood in the back row nervously. The sergeant picked out the strongest looking ants then turned to face him.

       ‘I’ve been watching you, young fellow,’ he said, ‘and I have decided that you will tend to my farm instead. That is, if you don’t mind not being in the army! However, the job in hand is very similar to being a soldier. You have to protect the herd from predators! ’

       Alfie opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. So he nodded his head instead, and smiled. He saw the old worker winking at him on the other side of the nest.

       ‘You must keep up the good work,’ said the sergeant, ‘we’ve been farmer millions of years longer than humans. So don’t let the side down, will you?’

       Young Alfie straightened his back and held his head high. He was the proudest ant in the entire nest. He shook the old worker ants hand as he passed him. Then he marched to his honey farm and to the roses above ground. He would protect the aphids from the ladybirds that try to feed off them and become the best soldier farmer they had ever seen.

‘Where’s my mummy?’ cried the baby seagull.

     ‘You are not my mummy,’ she said to the crow.

     The crow looked up at the big baby bird. ‘You’re too big to be a baby!’ he laughed.

     ‘Where’s my mummy?’ the seagull cried to the robin.

      'You're too big to be a baby,' said the robin

      ‘Have you seen my mummy?’ the seagull looked down from the roof at a little girl. She looked up at him.

     ‘Have you seen my mummy?’ the little girl said to the baby seagull. Her ice-cream dripped on the floor. ‘I went to get an ice-cream and lost my mummy.’

    The baby seagull was hungry and he stared at the ice-cream. It was rude to stare his mother once told him, but he longed for some food and his tummy rumbled.

     The baby seagull began to squawk and the little girl began to cry.

     ‘What if I am lost forever?’ cried the little girl.

     ‘What if I die from hunger?’ said the baby seagull.

 She dropped the ice-cream and wiped her sticky hands in her yellow dress. Then she wiped her eyes.

      The seagull flew down awkwardly from the roof and gobbled up the ice-cream cone.

       'You're too small to be without a mummy,' the little girl said.

       'You're too small to be without a mummy,' the seagull said. 

       ‘You naughty seagull,’ shouted a lady and scooped the little girl up in her arms.

       ‘You good baby,’ squawked a big grownup seagull and tapped the baby seagulls head with her beak.

       ‘I found my mummy,’ said the little girl.

       ‘I found my mummy,’ said the baby seagull.

  I saw this baby seagull on the roof of our shed this morning....his mummy found him!

 Colonel Cinnabar (Tyria jacobaeae) lives by the sea on a bright yellow plant called ragwort. Every day he looks at himself in the mirror to see if his black wings with red patches, are up to scratch. 'I can see how they mistake me for a butterfly,' he chuckled. You see, Colonel Cinnabar is not a butterfly at all, but a detective moth and he guards the larvae and young caterpillars that depended on the ragwort for its food.  These little creatures are poisonous so are seldom eaten by predators but there is one monster that Colonel Cinnabar guards them from and that is the Cuckoo!

      With relatives all across Europe and western and central Asia plus a few in New Zealand, Colonel Cinnabar is never short of letters to read and he spends the summer replying to them. Quite often, he will do this whilst on duty.

      One day when Colonel Cinnabar was writing a letter to his uncle in Europe, he didn’t appear to notice that he was being watched. Now this was rather strange, because it is usually the detective that does the watching. However, in this case it was the dreaded Cuckoo! He had his beady eyes on the hairy and poisonous caterpillars. ‘This will be easy,’ said the Cuckoo, ‘some detective he is!’  But Colonel Cinnabar wasn’t daft. He knew that the Cuckoo was watching him and had prepared a trap.

       Just as the cuckoo was about to steal a young caterpillar, the Colonel gave the signal and the Tyria jacobaeae’s Army flew down and pushed the Cuckoo off course. The Cuckoo was dumbstruck!

       ‘Take that as a warning,’ said the Colonel. ‘And as punishment for trying to steal young caterpillars, you will take my letter to my uncle, on your way back to Africa!’

       The Cuckoo nodded his head gratefully, so happy that he had a head left to nod with!

Featherpin began her life in a battery farm where she endured gross neglect, pain and suffering. She was the weakest of a hundred hens we rescued that night, many, many years ago. If it hadn’t been for her dear friend ‘Sandwich’ I might never have seen her, lying dying in the corner of her iron bar cage.

    I tucked her bloodied and featherless body into my jacket and took her to our home for waifs and strays. I didn’t expect her to make the journey, let alone the next six years.

    Featherpin and her best friend Sandwich (I called her this because there was more meat in a sandwich than there was on her) made us realise that chickens are much more than egg layers, they have compassion for one and other and characters that can make you laugh one minute and cry the next.

    The weeks and months that followed their rescue consisted of many visits to the vets and a lot of tender loving care. ‘At the very least,’ I prayed daily, ‘let them feel the sun on their backs and the rain on their faces. Let them wake up in the morning knowing they are free to roam and sleep at night knowing that they are safe and well loved.’

    My kind and unassuming husband and I had only recently married and I wondered what he thought about my time and our home being taken over by these loveable creatures. I needn’t have worried however, they won him over and he loved and cared for them as much as anyone ever could. So our ‘home for waifs and strays’ was born.

    And not to give too much away, as the in-between years are written as a book for children (almost completed) though I shall tell you this, they lived to see many summers and were loved beyond belief. They grew feathers to be proud of and laid eggs as though eternally grateful for their rescue. They each had names and characters and were wonderful companions. They made us laugh and cry so many times. They filled a gap in my life, I never knew was there.

    Sadly today, Featherpin, the last of that rescue, didn’t wake up. She was eight years old.  This Irish blessing is you Featherpin and all your feathered friends....