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Title: The fairy caravan
Author: Beatrix Potter
Release date: April 20, 2026 [eBook #78504]
Language: English
Original publication: Washington Square: David McKay Company, 1929
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78504
Credits: Fiona Holmes and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FAIRY CARAVAN ***
Transcriber’s Note
Changes made are noted at the end of the book.
[Illustration: Louisa Pussycat Sleeps Late]
_The_
Fairy Caravan
_By_
BEATRIX POTTER
_Author of_
THE FAMOUS
“PETER RABBIT” BOOKS
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA
DAVID McKAY COMPANY
WASHINGTON SQUARE
Copyright, 1929, by David McKay Company
TO HENRY P.
PREFACE
As I walk’d by myself,
And talked to myself,
Myself said unto me—
Through many changing seasons these tales
have walked and talked with me. They were
not meant for printing; I have left them in the
homely idiom of our old north country speech.
I send them on the insistence of friends beyond
the sea.
BEATRIX POTTER.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. TUPPENNY 9
II. THE TRAVELLING CIRCUS 21
III. MOVING CAMP 28
IV. PONY BILLY IN THE POUND 35
V. THE MISSES PUSSYCATS’ SHOP 45
VI. LITTLE MOUSE 54
VII. SPRINGTIME IN BIRDS’ PLACE 59
VIII. THE PIGMY ELEPHANT 66
IX. BY WILFIN BECK 73
X. THE SHEEP 85
XI. HABBITROT 97
XII. ACROSS THE FORD 105
XIII. CODLIN CROFT ORCHARD 112
XIV. DEMERARA SUGAR 123
XV. PONY BILLY’S SEARCH 136
XVI. THE EFFECT OF TOADSTOOL TARTLETS 145
XVII. FAIRY HORSE-SHOES 151
XVIII. THE WOODS BY MOONLIGHT 163
XIX. MARY ELLEN 174
XX. IKY SHEPSTER’S PLAY 183
XXI. THE VETERINARY RETRIEVER 196
XXII. CUCKOO BROW LANE 206
XXIII. THE FAIRY IN THE OAK 216
[Illustration]
THE FAIRY CARAVAN
CHAPTER I
In the Land of Green Ginger there is a town called Marmalade, which is
inhabited exclusively by guinea-pigs. They are of all colours, and of
two sorts. The common, or garden, guinea-pigs are the most numerous.
They have short hair, and they run errands and twitter. The guinea-pigs
of the other variety are called Abyssinian Cavies. They have long hair
and side whiskers, and they walk upon their toes.
The common guinea-pigs admire and envy the hair of the Abyssinian
Cavies; they would give anything to be able to make their own short
hair grow long. So there was excitement and twittering amongst the
short-haired guinea-pigs when Messrs. Ratton and Scratch, Hair
Specialists, sent out hundreds of advertisements by post, describing
their new elixir.
The Abyssinian Cavies who required no hair stimulant were affronted by
the advertisements. They found the twitterings tiresome.
During the night between March 31st and April 1st, Messrs. Ratton and
Scratch arrived in Marmalade. They placarded the walls of the town with
posters; and they set up a booth in the market place. Next morning
quantities of elegantly stoppered bottles were displayed upon the
booth. The rats stood in front of the booth, and distributed handbills
describing the wonderful effects of their new quintessence. “Come buy,
come buy, come buy! Buy a bottleful and try it on a door-knob! We
guarantee that it will grow a crop of onions!” shouted Messrs. Ratton
and Scratch. Crowds of short-haired guinea-pigs swarmed around the
booth.
[Illustration]
The Abyssinian Cavies sniffed, and passed by upon their toes.
They remarked that Mr. Ratton was slightly bald. The short-haired
guinea-pigs continued to crowd around, twittering and asking questions;
but they hesitated to buy. The price of a very small bottle holding
only two thimblefuls was ten peppercorns.
And besides this high charge there was an uncomfortable doubt as to
what the stuff was made of. The Abyssinian Cavies spread ill-natured
reports that it was manufactured from slugs. Mr. Scratch emphatically
contradicted this slander; he asserted that it was distilled from the
purest Arabian moonshine; “And Arabia is quite close to Abyssinia,”
said Mr. Scratch with a wink, pointing to a particularly long-haired
Abyssinian Cavy. “Come buy a sample bottle can’t you! Listen to
these testimonials from our grateful customers,” said Mr. Ratton.
He proceeded to read aloud a number of letters. But he did not
specifically deny a rumour that got about; about a certain notorious
nobleman, a much married nobleman, who had bought a large bottle
of the quintessence by persuasion of the first of his eight wives.
This nobleman—so the story ran—had used the hair stimulant with
remarkable results. He had grown a magnificent beard. But the beard
was blue. Which may be fashionable in Arabia; but the short-haired
guinea-pigs were dubious. Messrs. Ratton and Scratch shouted themselves
hoarse. “Come buy a sample bottle half price, and try it for salad
dressing! The cucumbers will grow of themselves while you are mixing
the hair oil and vinegar! Buy a sample bottle, can’t you?” shouted
Messrs. Ratton and Scratch. The short-haired guinea-pigs determined to
purchase one bottle of the smallest size, to be tried upon Tuppenny.
Tuppenny was a short-haired guinea-pig of dilapidated appearance. He
suffered from toothache and chilblains; and he had never had much hair,
not even of the shortest. It was thin and patchy. Whether this was
the result of chilblains or of ill-treatment is uncertain. He was an
object, whatever the cause. Obviously he was a suitable subject for
experiment. “His appearance can scarcely become worse, provided he does
not turn blue,” said his friend Henry P.; “let us subscribe for a small
bottle, and apply it as directed.”
[Illustration]
So Henry P. and nine other guinea-pigs bought a bottle and ran in a
twittering crowd towards Tuppenny’s house. On the way, they overtook
Tuppenny going home. They explained to him that out of sympathy they
had subscribed for a bottle of moonshine to cure his toothache and
chilblains, and that they would rub it on for him as Mrs. Tuppenny was
out.
Tuppenny was too depressed to argue; he allowed himself to be led away.
Henry P. and the nine other guinea-pigs poured the whole bottleful
over Tuppenny, and put him to bed. They wore gloves themselves while
applying the quintessence. Tuppenny was quite willing to go to bed; he
felt chilly and damp.
Presently Mrs. Tuppenny came in; she complained about the sheets. Henry
P. and the other guinea-pigs went away. After tea they returned at
5.30. Mrs. Tuppenny said nothing had happened.
The short-haired guinea-pigs took a walk; they looked in again at 6.
Mrs. Tuppenny was abusive. She said there was no change. At 6.30 they
called again to inquire. Mrs. Tuppenny was still more abusive. She
said Tuppenny was very hot. Next time they came she said the patient
was in a fever, and felt as if he were growing a tail. She slammed the
door in their faces and said she would not open it again for anybody.
Henry P. and the other guinea-pigs were perturbed. They betook
themselves to the market place, where Messrs. Ratton and Scratch were
still trying to sell bottles by lamplight, and they asked anxiously
whether there was any risk of tails growing? Mr. Scratch burst into
ribald laughter; and Mr. Ratton said—“No sort of tail except pigtails
on the head!”
During the night Messrs. Ratton and Scratch packed up their booth and
departed from the town of Marmalade.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Next morning at daybreak a crowd of guinea-pigs collected on Tuppenny’s
doorstep. More and more arrived until Mrs. Tuppenny came out with a
scrubbing brush and a pail of water. In reply to inquiries from a
respectful distance, she said that Tuppenny had had a disturbed night.
Further she would not say, except that he was unable to keep on his
nightcap. No more could be ascertained, until, providentially, Mrs.
Tuppenny discovered that she had nothing for breakfast. She went out to
buy a carrot.
Henry P. and a crowd of other guinea-pigs swarmed into the house, as
soon as she was round the corner of the street. They found Tuppenny
out of bed, sitting on a chair, looking frightened. At least,
presumably it was Tuppenny, but he looked different. His hair was
over his ears and nose. And that was not all; for whilst they were
talking to him, his hair grew down onto his empty plate. It grew
something alarming. It was quite nice hair and the proper colour; but
Tuppenny said he felt funny; sore all over, as if his hair were being
brushed back to front; and prickly and hot, like needles and pins; and
altogether uncomfortable.
And well he might! His hair—it grew, and it grew, and it grew; faster
and faster and nobody knew how to stop it! Messrs. Ratton and Scratch
had gone away and left no address. If they possessed an antidote
there was no way of obtaining it. All day that day, and for several
days—still the hair kept growing. Mrs. Tuppenny cut it, and cut it,
and stuffed pincushions with it, and pillow cases and bolsters; but as
fast as she cut it—it grew again. When Tuppenny went out he tumbled
over it; and the rude little guinea-pig boys ran after him, shouting
“Old Whiskers!” His life became a burden.
[Illustration]
Then Mrs. Tuppenny began to pull it out. The effect of the quintessence
was beginning to wear off, if only she would have exercised a little
patience; but she was tired of cutting; so she pulled. She pulled
so painfully and shamelessly that Tuppenny could not stand it. He
determined to run away—away from the hair pulling and the chilblains
and the long-haired and the short-haired guinea-pigs, away and away, so
far away that he would never come back.
So that is how it happened that Tuppenny left his home in the town of
Marmalade, and wandered into the world alone.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II
In after years Tuppenny never had any clear recollection of his
adventures while he was running away. It was like a bad mixed up dream
that changes into morning sunshine and is forgotten. A long, long
journey: noisy, jolting, terrifying; too frightened and helpless to
understand anything that happened before the journey’s end. The first
thing that he remembered was a country lane, a steep winding lane
always climbing up hill. Tuppenny ran and ran, splashing through the
puddles with little bare feet. The wind blew cold against him; he
wrapped his hands in his mop of hair, glad to feel its pleasant warmth
over his ears and nose. It had stopped growing, and his chilblains had
disappeared. Tuppenny felt like a new guinea-pig. For the first time
he smelt the air of the hills. What matter if the wind were chilly; it
blew from the mountains. The lane led to a wide common, with hillocks
and hollows and clumps of bushes. The short cropped turf would soon
be gay with wild flowers; even in early April it was sweet. Tuppenny
felt as though he could run for miles. But night was coming. The sun
was going down in a frosty orange sunset behind purple clouds—was
it clouds, or was it the hills? He looked for shelter, and saw smoke
rising behind some tall savin bushes.
Tuppenny advanced cautiously, and discovered a curious little
encampment. There were two vehicles, unharnessed; a small shaggy pony
was grazing nearby. One was a two-wheeled cart, with a tilt, or hood,
made of canvas stretched over hoops. The other was a tiny four-wheeled
caravan. It was painted yellow picked out with red. Upon the sides were
these words in capital letters—“ALEXANDER AND WILLIAM’S CIRCUS.”
[Illustration]
Upon another board was printed—The Pigmy Elephant! The Learned Pig!
The Fat Dormouse of Salisbury! Live Polecats and Weasels!
The caravan had windows with muslin curtains, just like a house. There
were outside steps up to the back door, and a chimney on the roof. A
canvas screen fastened to light posts sheltered the encampment from the
wind. The smoke which Tuppenny had seen did not come from the chimney;
there was a cheerful fire of sticks burning on the ground in the midst
of the camp.
Several animals sat beside it, or busied themselves with cooking. One
of them was a white West Highland terrier. When he noticed Tuppenny he
commenced to bark. The pony stopped grazing, and looked round. A bird,
who had been running up and down on the grass, flew up to the roof of
the caravan.
The little dog came forward barking. Tuppenny turned and fled. He heard
yap! yap! yap! and grunt, grunt, grunt! and pattering feet behind him.
He tripped over his hair, and fell in a twittering heap.
A cold nose and a warm tongue examined Tuppenny and turned him over.
He gazed up in terror at the little dog and a small black pig, who
were sniffing all over him. “What? what? what? Whatever sort of animal
is it, Sandy?” “Never saw the like! it seems to be all hair! What do
you call yourself, fuzzy wig?” “P-p-please sir, I’m not a fuzzy wig, a
fuzzy pig, a please sir I’m a guinea-pig.” “What, what? a pig? Where’s
your tail?” said the little black pig. “Please Sir, no tail, I never
had—no guinea-pig—no tail—no guinea-pigs have tails,” twittered
Tuppenny in great alarm. “What? what? no tails? I had an uncle with no
tail, but that was accidental. Carry him to the fire, Sandy; he is cold
and wet.”
Sandy lifted Tuppenny delicately by the scruff of the neck; he held his
own head high and curled his tail over his back, to avoid treading on
Tuppenny’s hair. Paddy Pig scampered in front; “What! what! we’ve found
a new long-haired animal! Put more sticks on the fire Jenny Ferret! Set
him down beside the dormouse, Sandy; let him warm his toes.”
The person addressed as Jane Ferret was an oldish person, about twelve
inches high when she stood upright. She wore a cap, a brown stuff
dress, and always a small crochet crossover. She filled up the teapot
from a kettle on the fire, and gave Tuppenny a mug of hot balm tea and
a baked apple. He was much comforted by the warmth of the fire, and by
their kindness. In reply to questions he said his name was “Tuppenny”;
but he seemed to have forgotten where he came from. Only he remembered
vaguely that his hair had been a grievance.
The circus company admired it prodigiously. “It is truly
mar-veel-ious,” said the Dormouse stretching out a small pink hand, and
touching a damp draggled tress. “Do you use hairpins?” “I’m afraid, I’m
sorry, I haven’t any,” twittered Tuppenny apologetically. “Let hairpins
be provided—hair—pins,” said the Dormouse, falling fast asleep. “I
will go fetch some in the morning if you will lend me your purse,” said
Iky Shepster the starling, who was pecking a hole in the turf to hide
something. “You will do nothing of the sort. Bring me my teaspoon,
please,” said Jenny Ferret. The starling chittered and laughed, and
flew to the top of the caravan where he roosted at night.
The sun had set. The red fire-light danced and flickered round the camp
circle. The pony dozed beside the caravan, lazily whisking his long
tail. Sandy was lying stretched before the fire and panting with the
heat. He watched Tuppenny with bright brown eyes, through his shaggy
white eyebrows. “Tuppenny, where are you going to?” “I have forgotten.”
“What do you intend to do with yourself?” “I don’t know.” “Let him ride
in the tilt-cart,” said Pony Billy; they were the first words that he
had spoken. “Tuppenny, will you come with us? You shall have your share
of fun, and peppercorns, and sugar candy. Come with us and join the
circus, Tuppenny!” cried all the little animals. “I think I would like
to, yes please, thank you,” twittered Tuppenny shyly. “Quite right,
quite right! what! what!” said the small black pig, “Lucky you found us
today; we will be over the hills and far away tomorrow.”
“Wake up, wake up! Xarifa Dormouse! get into your sleeping box. And
you, Tuppenny, shall go to bed in this hamper. Good night!”
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III
Tuppenny fell asleep at once, and slept for many hours. He awoke
in the dark, and he bumped his head against the lid of the hamper.
The tilt-cart was jolting and rumbling. “Don’t be frightened,” said
a pleasant little voice from a neighbouring nest-box, “we are only
moving camp. Sleep again—sleep—” said the dormouse. Tuppenny
stopped twittering. Presently there was a still more violent lurch;
Tuppenny squeaked loudly. The cart stopped, and the black pig pushed
back the canvas curtain of the hood. “What? what? what? squeaking!
twittering? at 3 o’clock in the morning? You will wake the dormouse!”
“Please—please, Mr. Paddy Pig, I dreamed I was in a ship.” “What?
what? a ship? Sea-sick, sea-sick? It’s only me pulling the cart. Go
to sleep again directly, little guinea-pig man!” Tuppenny obediently
curled himself up in his hay bed.
When he woke again, it was broad daylight, and a bright windy morning.
The caravan company was snugly encamped on a green level sward near
an old stone quarry. There was a semi-circle of high gray rocks;
topped with broom bushes, that swayed and bobbed in the rushing east
wind. White clouds raced overhead; and Jenny Ferret’s fire puffed and
sputtered, in spite of comparative calm down below in the quarry. At
the foot of the rocks for many years the Big Folk had been tipping
rubbish; old pots and pans, fruit tins, jam pots, and broken bottles.
Jenny Ferret had built a stone fireplace; she was cooking with an
old frying pan, and some sardine tins; in fact, she was trying which
tins would hold water with a view to carrying off a stock of cooking
utensils. Paddy Pig was stirring the porridge for breakfast. Pony Billy
grazed on the rough grass on the quarry bank. Sandy was nowhere to be
seen.
“Wake up! wake up! Xarifa!” whistled the starling, “wake up, new
long-haired animal! My! what a mop of hair; it’s full of hay seeds.”
“What, what! you meddlesome bird! His hair is beautiful! It will draw
crowds when he is dressed up,” said Paddy Pig, stirring vigorously.
[Illustration]
“If I had hair like that, I could play ‘Sleeping Beauty,’” said the
dormouse. She sat on the step of the caravan washing her face and hands
rapidly, and cleaning her sleek chestnut coat. She had black beady
eyes, very long whiskers, and a long furry tail with a white tip. Her
nose and eyebrows were turning gray; she was a most sweet person, but
slumberous. “Madam, you sleep, and you are beautiful!” said Paddy Pig,
turning round and bowing low, with the wooden thivel in his hand. The
little fat old dormouse laughed till she shook like jelly. “Never mind,
Tuppenny; I will brush it for you. Where is Sandy?” “Gone to buy a
fiddle string, gone to buy fine clothes for Tuppenny!” whistled the
starling. “I trust he will remember hairpins. Have you a pocket-comb,
Tuppenny?” “I have no pocket, no comb, no comb, pocket-comb I
forgot.” “You appear to have forgotten most things, Tuppenny,” said
Pony Billy, “you may borrow my curry comb if it is not too large.” “I
fear it would scrape him, Pony William; but we are obliged to you. Come
Tuppenny, fetch a porridge saucer and sit beside me,” said Xarifa.
Tuppenny was rather silent during breakfast. He kept looking at the
large print letters on the caravan. He pointed at them with his wooden
spoon. “Xarifa,” he whispered, “is it full of polecats?” Paddy Pig
rolled on the ground with laughing. “Where is the Pigmy Elephant?”
“That’s a secret,” said Jenny Ferret. “Here, Iky Shepster, help me to
tidy up. Xarifa will be busy all morning combing out those tangles.”
So then began the brushing of the hair of Tuppenny, which became a
daily task. At first there were pulls and twitches and squeaks; even
some hopeless tangles which had to be snipped out with Xarifa’s small
scissors. But after it was combed through it was easily kept in order.
The brushing became a pleasure to the two little barbers. Tuppenny
combed in front, and Xarifa brushed behind. Whenever the brushing
stopped, Tuppenny looked over his shoulder, and discovered that Xarifa
had fallen fast asleep.
She told him stories to keep herself awake; and she answered his many
questions. “Who plays the fiddle, Xarifa?” “Paddy Pig; Sandy plays the
bagpipes; and each of them does step dancing. Paddy Pig dances jigs,
and Sandy dances reels; and all of us do country dances. No, no, I am
not too old and fat!” said Xarifa, laughing. “I can dance ‘Hunsdon
House,’ and I can dance a minuet with Belinda Woodmouse. Perhaps we may
be dancing this evening; but there is not much room in the quarry. We
will soon be moving on again.” “Do we always move in the night, Xarifa?
Oh! oh! that hurts!” “I shall have to snip it Tuppenny, give me my
scissors. When we travel along the high roads we usually move in the
dark; because the roads are deserted at night; very few of the Big Folk
are stirring.” “Would they chase us Xarifa?” “No, indeed! they cannot
see us, while we carry fern seed in our pockets.” “I have not got a
pocket.” “It will be easy to plait a little packet of fern seed into
your hair, like Pony Billy’s. He carries one in his mane, in a plait
that we call a witch’s stirrup. But he once had an adventure when he
lost his fern seed.” “I did not lose it. It was stolen for mischief,”
said Pony William with a snort; he was grazing near them. “Anyway he
was not invisible; he had no fern seed; so the Big Folk could see him.
Now Tuppenny sit still, while I finish brushing your hair, and you
shall hear the story. Only you must understand that I did not see it
happen. I do not travel with the circus in winter weather. I go to live
with the Oakmen.” “Who are they, Xarifa?” “One thing at a time. Hold
your head still and listen.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV
It happened one winter there was a long spell of snow. The circus
company was camping in a lonely barn. During real hard weather they
usually preferred accessible places, near farms and villages; but this
snowstorm had caught them unexpectedly. Indeed, the little caravan
itself was fast in a snowdrift under a hedge. The tilt-cart had been
dragged up to the barn, and the baggage had been carried inside. The
building was dry, and fairly comfortable; but unfortunately, the great
double doors could not be opened; so poor Pony Billy had to remain
outside. The others, including Paddy Pig, contrived to squeeze between
the upright wooden bars of an unglazed low window. There was dry
bracken bedding in the barn; but no hay.
Pony Billy ate rough grass that grew through the snow upon the banks;
he even did some digging with his forefeet, like the sheep. But when
the snow continued day after day, it became necessary for him and
Sandy to go foraging. They borrowed a sledge belonging to the charcoal
burners, and they fetched a load of provisions; but they could only
carry a very little hay as well. Pony Billy made no complaint about
sleeping out. His shaggy coat was inches long; he was warm, even if
he woke up half buried with snow in the morning. But he did feel as
if he wanted a good feed. So one afternoon in the early darkening he
announced that he intended to sup, and possibly stay a night or two,
with the gypsy’s donkey, Cuddy Simpson.
Sandy was not pleased. He did not mind Pony Billy going; but
he—Sandy—would have liked to go, too, and spend a merry evening with
Eddy Tin Cur and the gypsy lurchers.
[Illustration]
Pony William considered the donkey a harmless, respectable animal,
certainly very hardworking; but the tinker dogs were another matter.
They were suspected of all manner of crimes, including sheep stealing
and poaching. Therefore, he said, firmly, that it was Sandy’s duty to
stop with the caravan.
Iky Shepster, the starling, joined in the argument. He said people who
were not sharp enough to look after their own property deserved to lose
it. He ran up and down on Pony Billy’s back, and twitched his mane, and
chittered. Pony Billy set off at dusk, walking up the lane that led
to the main road. There was deep drifted snow against the walls and
hedges. The lane was blocked for carts; only in the middle there was a
beaten trod. The Big Folk from a farm further south had been using it;
and the postman had followed it as a short cut.
Pony Billy got out onto the main road with a scramble and a jump over a
frozen bank of snow, which the snow plough had cast up across the mouth
of the lane. Where the plough had travelled, the road was scraped and
smoother and slippery. Pony Billy walked fast without trying to trot.
He picked up his neat little feet; the snow was too dry to ball in his
hoofs. The night was dark, but there was a ground light from the snow.
He walked forwards up the hill.
Voices came towards him on the road. Pony Billy was not concerned. The
Big Folk could not see him. He had complete confidence in the fern seed
which he carried. He was accustomed to walk and trot invisible. But he
had not reckoned with the mischief-making of Iky Shepster. He thought
that his precious packet was safely plaited into his mane; instead of
which it had been stolen, and hidden by the starling in a mouse hole in
the barn.
Two tall figures approached out of the darkness to meet him. Pony Billy
came on, as bold as bold. He knew that his shoes would not clink in
the snow. He believed himself to be invisible; and there was plenty of
room to pass. Even when he recognized that the patrollers were two very
large policemen—Pony Billy still advanced.
The large policemen halted. “What’s this, Constable Crabtree?” Then
at length Pony Billy stopped, too. He stood motionless; puzzled. “It
looks to me to be a large hairy black pig, Sergeant.” Pony Billy
was considerably startled; but still he stood his ground. Constable
Crabtree flashed a bull’s-eye lantern upon him. “It’s a pony. No bigger
than a big dog,” said the Sergeant. Without warning, the constable
sprang at the amazed Pony William, and seized him by the forelock.
Pony Billy boxed desperately; but he was overpowered by the two large
policemen. And alas! the sergeant in his overcoat pocket carried a
piece of strong cord, which they twisted into a rough halter.
Pony Billy threw himself down; he rolled; he kicked; he tried to bite.
But all in vain! They forced him along; and the more he jibbed—the
more those large policemen laughed. “Whoa, pony! Whoa there! He is a
spirited little nag! Do you recognize him, Constable Crabtree?” “I do
not, Sergeant Nutbush. There is a galloway at Hill Top Farm; but it’s
taller. Matter-of-fact, it’s a little mare, that one; they call it
Mabel.” “Is he the pony from Swiss Cottage?” “He is not, Sergeant. That
one is a fell pony. It has nicked ears, same like a herdwick sheep;
under key-bit near and cropped far.” “Well, well, well! Put him in
the Pound! Give him a bite of hay. We can advertize him in next week’s
Gazette.”
Pony Billy felt that things were getting extremely serious. It was so
unfortunately dark; there were no other animals out upon the roads;
nobody to carry news of his predicament to Sandy. It was serious.
The Pound, or Pinfold, was a round enclosure, with a high circular
wall, built of cobblestones. After thoughtfully providing an armful of
hay, Constable Crabtree locked up Pony Billy, and left him. The oak
door was ancient, but strong. It was padlocked. The key hung upon a
nail at the police station. Pony Billy had a satisfying meal at last.
Next day he tramped many, many miles, round and round inside the
pinfold wall. The constable looked in, with another supply of hay, and
remarked that it was funny that nobody claimed him. Pony Billy ate as
much hay as he could manage to tuck in. Then he resumed his tramping
round and round upon the dirty snow in the Pinfold. He neighed loudly
and repeatedly. Nobody answered. The walls were very high; not the
tallest Clydesdale horse could have looked over the top of those
cobblestones. No living thing did he see till the second afternoon,
when a small flock of starlings flew over. They wheeled round in the
air, after the manner of starlings; and one bird flew back and alighted
on the wall. It was Iky Shepster. He ran along the top of the wall, and
sputtered and chittered with laughter. Pony Billy ate hay and pretended
not to see him. Then, just as Iky Shepster spread his wings to rejoin
the flight of starlings, Pony William remarked that he wished to see
Sandy on particular business. “Is that so?” said Iky Shepster. Pony
Billy was left in uncomfortable doubt whether the message would be
delivered or not.
In the meantime, Sandy had no suspicion but that Pony Billy was safe
with the gypsy’s donkey, who spent the worst of winter eating mouldy
hay and taed-pipes in an open-fronted shed on the marshes. It was a
most unpleasant surprise when Iky Shepster flew in with the news that
Billy was fast in the Pound. “Whose doing is that, I wonder?” said
Jenny Ferret. “He must have lost his fern seed. I shall have to get
him out somehow,” said Sandy. “Lost, stolen, or strayed,” said Jenny
Ferret. Paddy Pig suggested trying to borrow the key of the padlock
from the Sergeant’s black Manx cat: but it was a doubtful expedient;
and it would involve calling at the police station. “It would be
simpler to pick the lock. If Mettle will only come with me we will soon
have him out.”
Sandy waited till moonrise; then he scampered off to the smithy in the
village. The Big Folk had all gone to bed, in the clear of the moon;
but the forge was still working.
Mettle, the blacksmith’s yellow terrier was doing a job on his own;
opening the links in a dog chain. Another dog was blowing the bellows.
They greeted Sandy, “Come along and warm yourself at the hearth,
Sandy!” “I’m in a hurry, I cannot wait. And you must come with me,
Mettle. Poor old Billy is fast in the Pound.” “Whew-w!” whistled
Mettle. He damped down the fire, gathered up some tools, and they
hurried off together.
Pony Billy was dozing in the Pinfold. He was awakened by the sound of
sniffing and scratching under the door; something was being done to
the padlock. Within a few minutes he was free; trotting back towards
the village with the dogs racing at his heels. When the constable came
next morning, the mysterious pony had vanished. The Pinfold was empty.
“So you see, Tuppenny,” said Xarifa, “it is most important to carry
fern seed when we go upon the roads, and pass near the Big Folks; and
you must always take great care that it is not lost.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V
While the caravaners were encamped in the quarry, Sandy had gone
shopping to the market town. It was an old-fashioned town with funny
crooked streets and little old squares hidden away round corners;
there were archways opening under houses, leading from square to
square. Sandy made several small purchases at the grocer’s and at
the saddler’s. But his most important piece of shopping was to buy
something pretty to make a costume for Tuppenny, who was worthy of
considerable outlay by way of dressing up. His remarkable hair, and
the rarity of guinea-pigs, combined to make him an acquisition to the
circus company. “Choose something bright and fanciful; I will shape it
and sew it. And pray remember hairpins!” said the Dormouse Xarifa, who
was clever with her needle. So Sandy in the course of his shopping paid
a visit to the milliner’s.
The Misses Matilda and Louisa Pussycat kept shop in a tiny steep
three-storied house, with an overhanging upper floor. Each floor came
forward over the story below; it made the shop rather dark for matching
ribbons.
In the attic Matilda Pussycat, leaning out of the window, could talk
to Tabby Whitefoot across the way, at the staircase window of the post
office opposite. The street door opened down a step into the house. On
the right-hand side of the passage was a tiny parlour, containing a
polished mahogany table and three chairs with horse-hair seats. On a
side table were the tea tray and the best tea service, and some shells
and coral under a bell glass. By the fireplace were two wicker chairs
with pink cushions. Some black silhouette portraits of cat ancestors
hung on the wall; and on the mantelpiece stood a pot snuffbox figure,
shaped like an owl. Its head took off, and the box body contained pins
and buttons; not snuff. The muslin curtains were spotlessly white.
On the other side of the passage was the milliner’s shop, and a dark
little kitchen behind it. The Misses Pussycats lived principally in
the kitchen. It was well supplied with the usual assortment of pots
and pans, shelves, milk jugs, crooks for hanging things, a deal table,
stools, and a corner cupboard. The only unusual feature in the kitchen
was a small window under the plate rail. This window did not look out
of doors like other windows; it looked into the shop. If a customer
came in, Miss Louisa Pussycat applied her eye to the window, to see who
it was. Once when she looked through, she saw a duck who had come into
the shop without quacking.
Sandy came in from the street and lifted the latch of the shop door;
it had a tinkling bell—“Bow, wow! Shop there! Bow wow!” barked
Sandy, rapping on the counter. Miss Louisa Pussycat’s eye appeared
at the little window. She put on a clean apron and came in behind
the counter. “Good morning, Mr. Alexander! I hope I see you well?
What can I have the pleasure of showing you?” “First rate, Miss
Louisa! And how’s yourself and Miss Matilda this cold weather?” “I
am very well, I thank you, Mr. Sandy; but I regret to say that my
sister, Miss Matilda Pussycat has neuralgia. A fishbone, Mr. Sandy, a
fishbone embedded between her wisdom teeth; it has caused a gumboil or
abscess, accompanied by swelling. She has eaten nothing but slops for
a fortnight.” “That would disagree with me,” said Sandy. “Indeed, my
poor sister Matilda is becoming as ‘thin as a cat’s lug,’ as the saying
is. But the spring fashions are a great divertissement and alleviation,
Mr. Sandy. See here what a sweet thing in collars, Mr. Sandy; and these
neckties and tabby muslins—quite the latest from Catchester. Is it for
yourself or for a lady, Mr. Alexander?” “Well, it’s for a guinea-pig,
to tell you the truth, Miss Louisa.” “A guinea-pig! is that a species
of wild boar, Mr. Sandy? Does it bite?” “No, no! A most genteel and
timid little animal, Miss Louisa. He is going to play in our circus,
and we want to dress him up; something bright coloured and tasty—” “I
feel confident that we can supply every requisite article of apparel.
[Illustration]
What is his complexion? And what character will he impersonate?”
inquired Miss Louisa Pussycat; she liked long words. “e is lemon
and white. We thought of calling him the Sultan of Zanzibar.
How about a bandana pocket handkerchief? Can you show me any?”
“Excellent. We have a choice selection. Scarlet and gold would
become him admirably. And permit me to suggest a yellow sash and a
green turban; quite the height of fashion,” said Miss Louisa Pussycat,
opening cardboard boxes and unwrapping packages. “I don’t think a
turban would stick on, he has such a lot of hair. We were going to
roll it up on the top of his head, with a hatpin stuck through it. By
the bye, that reminds me, I am forgetting hairpins—hairpins with a
bend in them, Miss Louisa; he has difficulty in doing up his hair.”
“Dear me, how remarkable! Cannot he have it shingled? But it would
be bad for trade. You would be surprised how the sale of hairpins has
diminished; we are seldom asked for them.” Miss Louisa clattered open
numbers of little drawers behind the counter in search of hairpins.
Finally she called through the window into the kitchen—“Sister!
Sister Matilda! Where are the hairpins?” “Miaw! miaw! oh, bother!”
moaned Miss Matilda, “I put them away in the attic; they are never
wanted.” She was heard climbing the staircase.
Sandy chose a scarlet, gold and chocolate coloured pocket handkerchief,
and a green sash ribbon. “Allow me to recommend the purchase of this
hatpin with a glass knob; it will shimmer in the sunshine like a
diamond,” said Miss Louisa, who was greatly interested in the Sultan’s
costume.
Miss Matilda came downstairs with a packet of hairpins. “Here! take
them. Mi-i-a-ow! Oh, my poor mouth!” Her face was swelled like a
cabbage, and she had a strip of red flannel pinned round her head. “Let
me look at it; I have had experience of bones sticking fast,” said
Sandy. “If I were sure you would not scratch me, I believe I could get
it out.” “Indeed, _I_ should be thankful; she mews all night,” said
Miss Louisa Pussycat. “I’ll scratch both of you if you touch me,” said
Matilda. “Matilda, this is folly. Open your mouth.” “Louisa, I won’t,”
replied Matilda. “Oh, all right; please yourself,” said Sandy. “Will
you make out my bill, Miss Louisa.” “Let me see—half a yard of ribbon
at 9 peppercorns a yard, 4½. One crystal hatpin, 7 peppercorns; one
pocket handkerchief, 11 peppercorns; that makes 22½ peppercorns.”
“Miaw! You have forgotten to charge for the hairpins, Louisa.”
“Hairpins, 1½ peppercorns. That gets rid of the half. Small change
is troublesome, is it not, Mr. Alexander? Twenty-four peppercorns
exactly, thank you.”
“By the bye, what is the smallest size you stock in fancy slippers,
Miss Louisa?” “Kitten quarter two’s, Mr. Sandy,” said Miss Louisa,
reaching up towards the top shelf. “I’m afraid that would be too large;
no, don’t trouble please to get them down; I know they would be too
large, Miss Louisa.”
At this point Miss Matilda again mewed dismally, “Miaw! mi-a-aw! Oh, my
poor face.” “I am out of patience with that wearisome fishbone. Sister,
why will you not allow our obliging customer to examine it?” “What do
you want me to do?” asked Matilda crossly. “Put on these wash-leather
gloves so that you cannot scratch; sit back in this chair—so—now
open your mouth.” Matilda opened it wide with the intention of spitting
at them. Instantly Miss Louisa wedged a spoon between her jaws. “Quick,
Mr. Sandy! Get the sugar tongs off the tea tray in the parlour. That’s
it! Quick, before she scratches us! She is kicking her slippers off
to scratch!” After a brief struggle Sandy held up the fishbone in the
sugar tongs, while Matilda Pussycat made loud howls. “Indeed, Mr.
Sandy, the firm is under a great obligation to you; she had not trimmed
one hat during the last fortnight; besides disturbing my rest. Pray do
us the favour to accept this short length of blue ribbon, which I will
enclose in your parcel as a present from us both.” “Speak for yourself,
Sister, I hate dogs!” said Matilda Pussycat, spitting and sputtering.
“Good morning, Mr. Alexander.” “Good morning, Misses Pussycats.” And
so Sandy was bowed out at the front door with his parcel. It was
quite three days before the swelling disappeared; and when the Misses
Pussycats had friends to tea next Saturday, the sugar tongs were
discovered to be somewhat bent.
Sandy’s purchases were much approved by the rest of the circus company;
especially the hatpin.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI
Xarifa the dormouse sat upon a hazel twig that lay upon the moss;
she stitched busily. She was making the gold and scarlet pocket
handkerchief into a robe for Tuppenny. Tuppenny sat opposite to the
dormouse, holding two sides of the handkerchief while she sewed them
together. “It is a long seam, Xarifa.” “Shall I tell you a story to
pass the time?” “That would be lovely, Xarifa.” “Let me see, what shall
it be? I will tell you about Little Mouse.” “Who was Little Mouse,
Xarifa?” “I don’t know, Tuppenny; she was just a little mouse, and
she was asked to a wedding.” And she said ‘What shall I wear? What
shall I wear? There is a hole in my old gray gown, and the shops are
shut on a Wednesday.’ (You see, Tuppenny, it was the day before the
wedding and the shops were not open.) So she said—‘What shall I wear?
What shall I wear?’ And while Little Mouse was wondering there came
to the door of her little house an old buff green-striped caterpillar
man, with a band across his shoulder and a pack upon his back. And he
sang, ‘Any tape, any buttons, any needles, any pins? Any hooks, any
eyes, any silver safety-pins? Any ribbons, any braid, any thread of any
shade, any fine spotty muslin today, M’mm?’ He turned the band over his
head and stood the pack open on the doorstep, and showed Little Mouse
his wares. And she bought fine spotty muslin from the caterpillar man.
Little Mouse spread the muslin on her table, and she cut out a mob-cap
and tippet. Then she said ‘I have scissors and thimble and needles and
pins; but no thread. How shall I sew it? How shall I sew it?’
[Illustration]
Then by good luck there came to the door of her house a hairy brown
spider with eight little eyes. He, too, had a pack, a tin box on his
back; and his name was Webb Spinner. He sang ‘Spinneret, spinneret! the
best you can get! Reels and bobbins, bobbins and reels! White thread
and black, the best in my pack! Come buy from Webb Spinner!’ So Little
Mouse bought white thread, and she sewed her cap and tippet. (Hold it
straight please, Tuppenny.)
And while Little Mouse was sewing, a large moth came to the door,
selling—‘Silk, spun silk! Silk spun fine! Woven by the silk moth,
who’ll buy silk of mine?’ Her silk was apple-green, shot with thread of
gold and silver; and she had gold cord, and silken tassels, too. Little
Mouse bought silk enough to make herself a gown, and she trimmed it
with gold cord and tassels.
And when she was dressed, attired all in her best, she said—‘How can
I dance? how can I dance with the Fair Maids of France, with my little
bare feet?’
Then the wind blew the grass and whispered in the leaves; and the
fairies brought Little Mouse a pair of lady’s slippers. And Little
Mouse danced at the wedding.
“That is lovely, Xarifa,” said Tuppenny, “I would have liked to see the
dancing. Who were the Fair Maids of France, Xarifa?” “Little prim white
flowers with white double ruffs and green stockings.” “And the lady’s
slippers, were they flowers, too?” “Yes, Tuppenny; and so are the
Lambs’ toes, and Lady’s smocks, and Fox gloves.” “Do foxes wear gloves,
Xarifa?” “Perhaps. But their real name is folk’s gloves; fairy gloves.
The good folk, the fairies, wear them.” “Tell me about the fairies,
Xarifa.” “Another time I will, Tuppenny; my seam is finished, and Jenny
Ferret is boiling the kettle for tea.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII
Spring advanced. The caravan wandered along green ways. Primroses were
peeping out at the edge of the coppice; the oaks showed a tinge of
gold; the wild cherry trees were snow-white with blossom. Beech trees
and sycamores were bursting into leaf; only the ash trees remained
bare as in midwinter. The ash is the last to don her green gown, and
the first to lose her yellow leaves; a short-lived summer lady. On
the topmost bare branch of an ash sat a throstle, singing loud and
clear—so clear that he seemed to sing words. “Fly here! fly here!
fly here! Will-he-do-it? Will he do it?” shouted the throstle: “Come
bob-a-link, come bob-a-link! Sky high! Sky high! so—so—so.” “Oh
greenwood tree sweet pretty lea!” warbled a blackbird softly. “Spring
is here! is here!” shouted the throstle, on his tree top.
Xarifa and Tuppenny sat listening on a sunny bank below: “Birds; sweet
singers all! The coppice is full of birds. Hark to the blackbird in the
hawthorn; see his yellow bill. Now he pauses, waiting for an answering
blackbird, far away in the wood. It reminds me of Birds’ Place in
spring.” “Where is Birds’ Place, Xarifa?” “Listen while he sings his
song again.” The blackbird sang. A soft cloud dimmed the sunshine; a
few large raindrops fell. The birds interrupted their singing and flew
down onto the grass; all except little Dykey Sparrow, singing to his
wife, while she sat on her blue speckled eggs.
“Where is Birds’ Place, Xarifa?” “Birds’ Place that I remember was
in Hertfordshire, long ago when I was young. Perhaps the elms and
chestnuts have been felled; the passing swallows say the cedar is blown
down. Birds’ Place had been the garden of an old, old manor house. No
brick, no stone was standing; but still the straggling damask roses
bloomed, and garden flowers grew amongst the tall untidy grass. Currant
and gooseberry bushes had run wild in the thicket; they bore the
sweetest little berries that the blackbirds loved. No one pruned the
bushes, or netted them against the birds; no one except birds gathered
the strawberries that were scarcely larger than wild white strawberries
of the woods. It was a paradise of birds.”
The outer side of the grove was bounded by a high close-latticed wooden
fence, gray green and lichen grown; with rusty nails along the top,
that kept out village boys and cats. Birds and butterflies and flowers
lived undisturbed in that pleasant green wilderness that had once been
a garden. And in the middle of the mossy grass plot stood the glory of
the garden—the great cedar. Its head towered high above the self-sown
saplings of the grove; its wide spreading lower branches lay along
the mossy grass, where orange-tip butterflies flitted, and red-tailed
velvety bees gathered honey from the cowslip flowers.
Spring following spring a pair of missel thrushes built their nest
upon a branch low down, and the ring doves nested and cooed higher up.
Starlings and nuthatches reared their broods in holes about the trunk;
the great cedar was large enough for all. The grove was carpeted with
flowers, ground ivy, forget-me-nots, blue periwinkle. Amongst the
bushes grew peonies and sweet-smelling day-lilies of the old garden,
along with wild flowers; cow parsley, and white stitchwort that we
called ‘milk maids,’ and pink ragged-robin, and cuckoo pint that is
called ‘lords and ladies’; and everywhere primroses amongst the moss.
There, in a nest thatched with brown chestnut leaves, I was born; I
and my little dormouse sister and brother. “What were their names,
Xarifa?” But Xarifa continued—“Never, never anywhere have I seen so
many flowers or listened to so many birds. Even at night when it was
dark, and our mother had closed up the opening of our nest with plaited
leaves and grass—even in the deep black velvety darkness came the low
slow note of a bird. I do not think that the nightingale’s is actually
sweeter than a blackbird’s song; but it is weird and wonderful to
hear it in the black silence of the night. There are no nightingales
up here in the north, Tuppenny; but there are bonny songsters
never-the-less. Father Blackbird in the hawthorn bush made me think
about Birds’ Place.”
[Illustration]
“Tell me about the nest and your little dormouse brother and sister?”
But Xarifa did not answer; she had fallen fast asleep, dreaming
peacefully of springtime in Birds’ Place.
“Tuppenny! Tuppenny!” called Jenny Ferret, “come and help me to spread
the tea things underneath the caravan; spring showers can be uncommonly
wetting.” “Tuppenny,” said Pony William, munching mouthfuls of grass
between his words, “Tuppenny do not—ask Xarifa questions about her
dormouse sister and brother—she suffered from a distressing want of
appetite—when she first travelled with us. It is unwise—to remind her
of Adolphus.” “I am sorry, no, yes, certainly,” twittered Tuppenny, “I
am not to, who was Adolphus, not to talk about; how many teaspoons will
I fetch for you, Mrs. Jenny Ferret?” “Only three teaspoons this time,
Tuppenny; for you and me and Xarifa. Pony Billy does not use a spoon;
and Paddy Pig drinks his tea without stirring; and Iky Shepster is not
here, thank goodness.” “Where has he flown to, Jenny Ferret?” “Up and
down, and round about; scattering handbill leaves to tell the Little
Folk all about our circus show tomorrow in the morning early.”
The leaves were green leaves, veined and pencilled, like as if marked
by leaf tunnelling insects; but the birds and beasts of the woods and
fields know how to read them. Mice, squirrels, rabbits, and birds, as
well as the larger farm animals picked up the leaves; and they knew
where to look for the Circus.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VIII
Paddy Pig was an important member of the circus company. He played
several parts—the Learned Pig that could read, in spectacles; the
Irish Pig that could dance a jig; and the Clown in spotty calico. And
he played the Pigmy Elephant. It was done in this way. He was the right
elephant colour—shiny black, and he had the proper flap ears, and
small eyes. Of course, his nose was not nearly long enough and he had
no tusks. So tusks were shaped from white peeled sticks out of the
hedge, and a black stocking was stuffed with moss for a trunk. The
tusks and trunk were fastened to a bridle, which Paddy Pig wore on his
head. His own nose was inside the stocking, so he could move the sham
trunk a little bit. One time when there was too much moss stuffing in
the stocking, Paddy Pig started sneezing, and he sneezed so violently
that he sneezed the stocking off altogether. Fortunately, this happened
at Fold Farm where the audience was only calves and poultry; they
knew so little about elephants that they thought it was part of the
performance. Paddy’s thin legs were clothed with black calico trousers,
long enough to hide his small feet, and he learned to walk with a slow
swinging gait. His worst fault was forgetting to let his tail hang down.
Upon his back he carried a howdah made of a brightly coloured tin tea
caddy. The lid was open; and inside upon a cushion sat the dormouse, as
“Princess Xarifa.” She had a doll’s parasol, a blue dress and a crimson
shawl; and a lace handkerchief across her nose, with her black beady
eyes peeping over it (provided she was not asleep).
After Tuppenny joined Alexander and William’s Circus, he rode on the
elephant’s neck in front of the howdah, holding on by the bridle, as
Paddy Pig was slippery. Tuppenny’s get-up was gorgeous as the Sultan
of Zanzibar; he wore the scarlet bandana handkerchief robe, a brass
curtain-ring round his neck, a green sash with a wooden sword stuck in
it, and the crystal-headed pin stuck in his turban of rolled up hair;
and at gala performances his whiskers were dyed pink! No one would have
recognized him for the miserable, ill-used little guinea-pig who ran
away from his home in the City of Marmalade.
And most audiences were completely deceived by the Pigmy Elephant. It
is true there was once some dissatisfaction. It was on an occasion when
other pigs were present. During the first part of the programme they
behaved well. They squealed with delight when Sandy stood on his head
on the back of Billy the pony; and when the pony jumped through a hoop,
rolled a barrel about, and went down on one knee—the four little pig’s
applauded vociferously.
[Illustration: The Circus Show]
Pony William and Sandy went out of the ring at a canter, and
disappeared under the canvas flap door of the tent. There was rather a
long interval. (The fact was a brace button had come off the elephant’s
trousers; and Xarifa, the dormouse, who did all the mending, was sewing
it on again.)
The four little pigs began to fidget and play jinks; they tickled one
another and disturbed several hens and two rabbits who were sitting
in the front row. Then one of them jumped up and ran to the tent, and
peeped under the flap. Sandy bit his nose.
Whether because he had seen something, or because his nose smarted,
it is certain the four little pigs commenced to behave badly. The
entrance of the Pigmy Elephant drew exclamations of awe from the rest
of the audience; but the four little pigs sniffed, and whispered
together. “I say, Mister!” said a pig to Sandy, as he stalked past,
leading the elephant by a string, “I say, Mister! What’s the matter
with your elephant’s tail?” Sandy ignored the question; but as soon
as they were out of hearing at the opposite side of the ring, he
whispered to the elephant—“Uncurl it, Paddy, you stupid! hang your
tail down!” The elephant obediently allowed his tail to droop. “I say,
Mr. Elephant!” said another little pig as the procession marched round
a second time—“I say, Mr. Elephant! have a potato?” Now Paddy Pig
would have liked to accept the potato which they offered to the toe
of his stocking trunk, but he was quite unable to grasp it. “There is
something funny about that elephant!” exclaimed all four little pigs;
and they started shouting, “Give us back our peppercorns!” (that was
their entrance money)—“Give us back our peppercorns! We don’t believe
it is an elephant!” “Do be quiet behind there!” expostulated the
rabbits and poultry; “Oh, how sweetly pretty! Look at the Princess’s
parasol!” The Princess Xarifa in the howdah beamed down on the admiring
hens.
“That is not a proper elephant at all. Give us back our peppercorns!”
shouted all four little pigs, scrambling over the turf seats into the
ring, and sniffing at Paddy’s calico trousers. Then Sandy lost his
temper; he barked and he bit the four little pigs, and chased them
out. The elephant and his riders galloped away under the tent flap in
such a hurry that Tuppenny and Xarifa were nearly pulled off by the
canvas.
Then Jane Ferret was led round in a heavy chain and a large wire
muzzle, to impersonate the “Live Polecats and Weasels,” mentioned
on the posters. Jenny Ferret lived on bread and milk and she had
not a tooth in her head, being, in fact, cook-housekeeper to the
circus company, but the rabbits scrambled hastily into back seats. Of
course that was part of the performance that they had paid for and
expected; if they had not had a fright for their peppercorns, they
would have been dissatisfied too. In the meantime the elephant had
changed his clothes; he came back as Paddy Pig himself, and he danced
a jig to perfection, while Sandy fiddled. The four little pigs, quite
restored to good humour and polite behaviour, applauded loudly and
threw potatoes at him; and the audience went home at 4.30 a. m. well
satisfied. And two hours later the farmer, who owned the four little
pigs, when he fed them, remarked—that ‘For sure they were doing a deal
of grunting and talking together that morning’; and there were a lot
of little pig-foot-marks in the lane. But they were shut up all right
in the sty when he brought them their breakfast, so he never guessed
that they had been to Sandy and William’s Circus to see the Pigmy
Elephant.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IX
All upon a day in the month of April, the circus company crept slowly
through soft green meadows. It was early morning. Long shadows from the
woods lay across the grass. Birds sang to greet the rising sun. Iky
Shepster, the starling whistled, and fluttered his wings on the roof of
the caravan.
Pony Billy bent to the collar. The dew splashed from his shaggy
fetlocks as he lifted his feet amongst the wet grass. Paddy Pig toiled
between the shafts of the tilt-cart, assisted by the panting Sandy,
harnessed tandem. “We shall stick fast, Sandy! Let us go back to Pool
Bridge.” “Yap! yap! we will try the next ford higher up.” “Get out of
my way,” said Pony Billy, coming up behind them, steadily pulling the
caravan.
They were trying to cross a stream that ran through the middle of the
valley. In summer it was a little brook, but spring rains had filled it
to the brim. The forget-me-nots waved to and fro, up to the waist in
water; the primroses on the banks drew up their toes; the violets took
a bath. Wilfin Beck was in high flood.
Paddy Pig disliked water. The ford which they should have crossed, had
proved to be a swirling stream, instead of a broad rippling shallow. He
wished to turn back and go round by the bridge.
The proprietors of the circus refused. “If we cross the stream as far
down as Pool Bridge, there will be two days’ toilsome march through
the woods. We broke a spring of the caravan last time we went by the
drift road; and the wagoners have been snigging timber since then,”
objected Sandy. “Go on to the Ellers ford,” said Pony Billy. So Paddy
Pig pulled, grunting, through the fast-asleep buttercups and daisies.
Xarifa and Tuppenny, in the cart, were fast asleep too. Jenny Ferret
was awake inside the caravan. A pot had hit her on the head, when the
wheel sank into a drain and caused the caravan to lurch.
When Tuppenny woke up and peeped out, the procession had halted, and
unharnessed, beside the beck. Sandy was rolling on the grass. Paddy Pig
was smoking a pipe and looking pig-headed, which means obstinate. “You
will be drowned,” said he to Pony Billy. The pony was pawing the water
with his forefeet, enjoying the splashes, and wading cautiously step
by step further across. “Drowned? Poof!” yapped Sandy, taking a flying
leap splash into the middle; he was carried down several yards by the
current before he scrambled out on the further bank. Then he swam back.
“It’s going down,” said Sandy, sniffing at a line of dead leaves and
sticks which had been left stranded by the receding flood. Pony Billy
nodded. “Let us pull round under the alder bushes and wait.” “Then you
will not go back by Pool Bridge?” “What! all across those soft meadows
again? No. We will lie in the sun behind this wall, and talk to the
sheep while we rest.”
So they pitched their camp by the wall, where there is a watergate
across the stream, and a drinking place for cattle. Pony Billy’s collar
had rubbed his neck; Sandy was dog tired; Jenny Ferret was eager for
firewood; everyone was content except Paddy Pig. He did his share of
camp work; but he wandered away after dinner, and he was not to be
found at tea time. “Let him alone, and he’ll come home,” said Sandy.
“Baa baa!” laughed some lambs, “let us alone and we’ll come home, and
bring our tails behind us!” They frisked and kicked up their heels.
Their mothers had come down to Wilfin Beck to drink. When their lambs
went too near to Sandy, the ewes stamped their feet. They disapproved
of strange dogs—even a very tired little dog, curled up asleep in the
sun.
The sheep watched Jenny Ferret curiously. She was collecting sticks and
piling them in little heaps to dry; short, shiny sticks that had been
left by the water.
[Illustration: Eller-Tree Camp]
Xarifa and Tuppenny were at their usual occupation, giving Tuppenny’s
hair a good hard brushing. Xarifa was finding difficulty in keeping
awake. The pleasant murmur of the water, the drowsiness of the other
animals, the placid company of the gentle sheep, all combined to
make her sleepy. Therefore, it fell to Tuppenny to converse with the
sheep. They had lain down where the wall sheltered them from the wind.
They chewed their cud. “Very fine wool,” said the eldest ewe, Tibbie
Woolstockit, after contemplating the brushing silently for several
minutes. “It’s coming out a little,” said Tuppenny, holding up some
fluff. “Bring it over here, bird!” said Tibbie to the starling, who was
flitting from sheep to sheep, and running up and down on their backs.
“Wonderfully fine; it is finer than your Scotch wool, Maggie Dinmont,”
said Tibbie Woolstockit to a black-faced ewe with curly horns, who lay
beside her. “Aye, it’s varra fine. And its lang,” said Maggie Dinmont,
approvingly. “It would make lovely yarn for mittens; do you keep the
combings?” asked another ewe, named Habbitrot. “I have a little bag,
there is only a little in it, yes please, I put it in a little bag,”
twittered Tuppenny, much flattered by their approbation.
“Baa! baa! black sheep! Three bags full!” sang the lambs, kicking up
their heels.
“Now, now! young lambs should be seen, not heard. Take care, you will
fall in!” said Tibbie Woolstockit, severely. Three more ewes hurried
up, and gave their lambs a good hard bat with their heads; but the
lambs minded nothing.
The ewes, whose names were Ruth Twinter, Hannah Brighteyes, and Belle
Lingcropper, stepped down to the water side to drink. Then they lay
down by the others, and considered Tuppenny. “His hair is as fine as
rabbit wool, and longer. Rabbit wool is sadly short to spin,” said
Habbitrot. “Save all the combings in your little bag, in case you pass
this way again.” “You were not with the circus last time they camped by
the Ellers?” said Tibbie Woolstockit. “What may your name be, little
guinea-pig man?” “Tuppenny.” “Tuppenny? a very good name,” said the
sheep.
At this moment a bunch of lambs galloped across the meadow with such a
rush that they nearly overran the bank into the water. Their mothers
were quite angry. “A perfect plague they are! But never-the-less we
would be sad without the little dears! Now lie down and be quiet, or
you will get into the same scrape as Daisy and Double!” But the lambs
only raced away faster. Xarifa had been awakened by the disturbance.
“Who were Daisy and Double? We love hearing stories, Tibbie
Woolstockit; do tell us!”
Tibbie Woolstockit turned her mild bright eye on the little dormouse.
“Willingly I will tell you. There is not much to tell. Every spring
for four and twenty years we have told that story to our lambs; but
they take little heed. Daisy and Double were the twin lambs of my
great grandmother, Dinah Woolstockit of Brackenthwaite, who grazed in
these pastures, even where we now are feeding. The coppice has been
cut thrice since then; but still the green shoots grow again from the
stools, and the bluebells ring in the wood. And Wilfin Beck sings over
the pebbles, year in and year out, and swirls in spring flood after the
melting snow. That April when Daisy and Double played in this meadow,
Wilfin was full to overflowing, as high as it is now. Take care! you
thoughtless lambs, take care!”
But little heed will you take; no more than Daisy and Double, who
made of the flood a playmate. For it was carrying down sticks and
brown leaves and snow-broth—as the trout-fishers call the cakes of
white fairy foam that float upon the flood water in early spring.
Daisy and Double saw the white foam; and they thought it was fun to
race with the snow-broth; they on the meadowbank and the foam upon
the water; until it rushed out of sight behind this wall. Then back
they raced upstream till they met more snow-broth coming down; then
turned and raced back with it. But they watched the water instead of
their own footsteps—splash! in tumbled Daisy. And before he could stop
himself—splash! in tumbled Double; and they were whirled away in the
icy cold water of Wilfin Beck. ‘Baa! baa!’ cried Daisy and Double,
bobbing along amongst the snow-broth. Very sadly they bleated for their
mother; but she had not seen them fall in. She was feeding quietly, by
herself. Presently she missed them; and she commenced to run up and
down, bleating. They had been carried far away out of sight, beyond the
wall; beyond another meadow. Then Wilfin Beck grew tired of racing;
the water eddied round and round in a deep pool, and laid the lambs
down gently on a shore of smooth sand. They staggered onto their feet
and shook their curly coats—‘I want my mammy! baa, baa!’ sobbed Daisy.
‘I’m very cold, I want my mammy,’ bleated Double. But bleat as they
might, their mother Dinah Woolstockit could not hear them.
[Illustration]
The bank above their heads was steep and crumbly. Green fronds of
oak-fern were uncurling; primroses and wood anemones grew amongst the
moss, and yellow catkins swung on the hazels. When the lambs tried
to scramble up the bank—they rolled back, in danger of falling into
the water. They bleated piteously. After a time there was a rustling
amongst the nut bushes; someone was watching them. This person came
walking slowly along the top of the bank. It wore a woolly shawl,
pulled forward over its ears, and it leaned upon a stick. It seemed to
be looking straight in front of it as it walked along; at least its
nose did; but its eyes took such a sharp squint sideways as it passed
above the lambs. ‘Burrh! burrh!’ said this seeming woolly person with
a deep-voiced bleat. ‘Baa! baa! We want our mammy!’ cried Daisy and
Double down below. ‘My little dears come up! burrh! burrh! come up to
me!’ ‘Go away!’ cried Daisy, backing to the water’s edge. ‘You are not
our mammy! Go away!’ cried Double. ‘Oh, real mammy, come to us!’ Then
the woolly person reached out a skinny black arm from under the shawl,
and tried to claw hold of Daisy with the handle of its stick. Its
eyes were sharp and yellow, and its nose was shiny black. ‘Baa, baa!’
screamed Daisy, struggling, and rolling down the bank, away from the
crook. ‘Burrh! burrh! bad lambs; I’ll have you yet!’
But what was that noise? A welcome whistle and shout—‘Hey, Jack, good
dog! go seek them out, lad!’ The wily one threw off the shawl! and
ran, with a long bushy tail behind him; and a big strong wall-eyed
collie came bounding through the coppice, on the track of the fox. When
he came to the top of the bank, he stopped and looked over at Daisy
and Double with friendly barks. Then John Shepherd arrived, and came
slithering down the bank between the nut bushes. He lifted up Daisy
and Double, and carried them to their mother. But it is in vain that
we tell this tale to our lambs from generation to generation; they are
thoughtless and giddy as of old. Well for us sheep that—
‘There’s sturdy Kent and Collie true,
They will defend the tarrie woo’!’
Sing us the spinning song that the shepherd lasses sang, when they sat
in the sun before the shieling, while they cleaned the tarry fleeces;
carding and spinning—
‘Tarrie woo’, oh tarrie woo’—tarrie woo’ is ill to spin,
Card it weel, oh card it weel! Card it weel ere you begin.
When it’s carded, rolled, and spun, then your work is but half done,
When it’s woven, dressed, and clean, it is clothing for a queen.
It’s up you shepherds! dance and skip! O’er the hills and valley trip!
The king that royal sceptre sways, has no sweeter holy days.
Sing to the praise of tarrie woo’!
Sing to the sheep that bare it too!
Who’d be king? None here can tell,
When a shepherd lives so well;
Lives so well and pays his due,
With an honest heart and tarrie woo’.’
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER X
The sheep lay quietly, chewing their cud. Tuppenny fidgetted, “When
will Paddy Pig come back?” “_I_ don’t know,” said Jenny Ferret crossly,
“I’m only an old body. I’m wanting my tea.” “Ring the bell, Jenny
Ferret,” said Sandy. She clanged a little hand-bell up and down. The
lambs sprang away, startled; the sheep lay unconcerned. The sheep
talked to one another. “A bell? Sheep bells are sweeter! Ruth Twinter,
do you remember the Down ram, telling us about the Cotswold flocks? How
with each flock a two-three sheep go before, wearing bells? When they
lift their heads from nibbling and step forward, the bells ring—ting
ting ting—-tong tong tong—tinkle tinkle tinkle! Why has Mistress Heelis
never given us bells? She will do anything for us sheep?” “I know not,”
answered Ruth Twinter.
“I can tell you from the wisdom of age,” said the old Blue Ewe (sixteen
years gone by since first she nibbled the clover); “I can tell you.
It is because we Herdwicks range singly and free upon the mountain
side. We are not like the silly Southron sheep, that flock after a
bell-wether. The Cotswold sheep feed on smooth sloping pastures near
their shepherd.”
Said the peet ewe, Blindey, “Our northern winds would blow away the
sheep bells’ feeble tinkle. From the low grounds to us comes a sound
that carries further—Old John calling with a voice like a bell;
calling his sheep to hay across the frozen snow in winter.”
Up spoke a dark Lonscale ewe—“Each to their own! The green fields of
the south for them; the high fell tops for us who use to wander, and
find our way alone, through mist and trackless waste. We need no human
guide to set us on our way.” “No guide, nor star, nor compass, to set
us a bee-line to Eskdale!” said the bright-eyed Allonby ewe (her that
had knocked her teeth out when she tumbled down Scaw fell). “Two of you
Lonscales were runaways, in spite of old John’s hay.” “Who can langle
the clouds or the wind? If we want to come back—we will!”
“I wish our pig would do so,” said Pony William; “ring that bell again.”
The sheep resumed their conversation: “Where was it that they drove
you, Hannah Brighteyes?” asked the little ewe, Isabel. “Nay! I did
not stay to learn its place name; I came straight back to my heaf
on the fell! It was eight miles to Corkermouth market, and twelve
beyond.” “What short-wooled sheep could do that?” said Habbitrot, “it
takes strong hemp to langle us.” “We want no bells and collars,” said
Blindey, “they would get caught on rocks and snags.” “A sad death it
must be to die fast,” said Hill Top Queenie, plaintively; “I would not
like to be fast, like poor little Hoggie in the wood. He had eaten
sticks and moss as far as he could reach; but he had not sense to bite
through the cruel bramble that held him, twisted round his woolly ribs.”
“Grown sheep can get crag-fast,” said Belle Lingcropper, “I was fast in
Falcon Crag. I knew each yard of slippery screes; and the chimnies, or
rifts, that lead up to the high ledges. A summer drought had parched
the herb; only where water oozed from the rock face, it was green. I
went up and up, a hundred feet, always feeding upwards. Down below, the
tree tops quivered in the heat; and a raven circled slowly. Dizziness
is unknown to Herdwick sheep; I fed along a narrow ledge.”
“A rock gave way beneath my feet. It clattered down into the abyss. I
sprang across the gap, and went on feeding. The grass was longer; it
seemed as though no sheep had bitten it. Nor had we! Our turning spot
had been upon the stone that fell. I could not turn.”
“I lived thirty days upon the ledge; eating the grass to the bone;
parched by the sun and wind. Only a welcome thunder shower brought
moisture that I licked on the stones. I bleated. No one heard me,
except the raven. In the fourth week a shepherd and his dog saw me
from below. He shouted; I rose to my feet. He watched me for a time;
then he went away, and left me. Next day he came again and shouted. I
staggered along the ledge. Again he left me; fearing that I might leap
away from him to death, if he approached too near. On the last day,
three shepherds came and watched. I was too weak to rise; I dozed upon
the ledge. They climbed round the hillside; and they came sideways
above the crag. I could hear their voices faintly, talking overhead.
One came down on a rope; he swung inward onto the ledge, and tied
another rope to me—a woolly fleece and rattling bones! They drew me
up. Still I can feel the hot breeze, and smell the wild sage, as they
slung me past the face of the rock. I was carried to the farm, and
given warm milk. Within a week I was well.”
“A brave shepherd, truly: one who would go through fire and water and
air to save his sheep.”
“Our shepherds face rough times,” said White Fanny, “dost remember
hearing tell of the lad who parted from his fellow shepherd when the
early winter sunset was going down over the snow? The other one came
home at tea time; but he did not come. His folks turned out to seek for
him; some went along the tops; others searched below the crags. There
they saw marks of a rush; and his collie Bess watching by a snowdrift.
Just in time; just and so!” “Our men take risks with their eyes open:
they know that they cannot live underneath snow like us.”
Then Ruth Twinter spoke up cleverly: “I and three sisters were buried
twenty-three days beside the Dale Head wall.” “Nought to brag on!” said
the Lonscale ewe scornfully; “could you not feel it coming? or were the
gates shut?”
“Nay, they stood open. The wind went round suddenly, after a plash of
rain. A fall came out of the east. Then it turned to frost.” “I doubt
you _were_ a twinter, or a two-shear at most!” said the Blue Ewe; “the
low east brings the heaviest falls.”
“Indeed, and indeed we were hurrying,” said Ruth Twinter; “we came
down the fell, strung out in single file. I mind me we met a fox at
Blue Ghyll, going up. Then we met a blizzard that blew us into the
wall. A blinding yellow storm of dithering powdery flakes. Belle
Lingcropper’s mother went over a bank into the beck; she was dashed
against the stones and drowned. The rest of us cowered by the wall. We
were quickly snowed over. It drifted level with the cams. We stirred
ourselves under the drift, like the mowdie-warps and field voles. Our
breath melted the snow somewhat; it caked over our heads, a blue green
frozen vault. We ate all the bent-grass that we could reach; all the
grey moss on the wall. The dogs found us at last: dogs scratching, and
shepherds prodding the drift with the long handles of their crooks.”
“You would feel it colder when you came out?” “Yes,” said Ruth Twinter,
“it was warm and stuffy under the snow. Although we came out into
spring sunshine, the air outside felt colder than it did inside the
great white drift that lay on the grass along the Dale Head wall. We
came out quite lish and cheerful. Two of us never heard the cuckoo
again. Such things will happen,” said Ruth Twinter placidly, turning on
her shoulder and chewing her cud. Said old Blindey, “It is a sign of
snow, when the sheep come down to the gates. Sing us the rhyme, Hannah
Brighteyes:
“Oh who will come open this great heavy gate?
The hill-fox yapps loud, and the moon rises late!
There’s snow on the fell, and there’s hay at the farm—
Not that us elder ewes reckon much of hay; not unless we had learned to
eat it while we were hoggie-lambies.”
“You had cause to be grateful to the sheep-dogs, Ruth Twinter,” said
Sandy. “Yes, the dogs are our good friends. Sometimes over rough; but
faithful.”
“They get crag-fast too,” said Sandy. “They do. But they make such a
fine haloobaloo! that they are more quickly found. There was one that
made a bit of noise too loud. That happened in a blizzard. Poor dog,
its position was so bad that it could neither get down nor up; and it
could not be rescued with ropes. Its master tried in vain to get it
out. It cried on the shelf for several days, in sleet and biting wind;
cried so pitifully that the master said he would shoot it with his own
hand, before he would watch it die of cold. He went home for his gun.
When he was returning with the gun—he met Collie Allen in the road!”
“All dogs are not so lucky. Our Brill’s mother got cragged and killed
in Langdale.” “It is always the foremost best hound that goes over with
the fox,” said Sandy; “has Brill come back to the farm?” “Yes,” said
the sheep, “the hunting season is over; the pack is disbanded; the
hounds and terriers have gone back to the farms for the summer.” “If
all the terriers are as cross as Twig—they can stay away!” said Sandy,
shaking his ears. “Our collie Nip can tackle a fox; she has led the
hounds before now, for the first short burst up the quarry pastures.
She can run, can old Nip!”
“Foxes are hateful,” said Tibbie Woolstockit, stamping; “come here, you
lambs, come here! You are straying too far off.”
[Illustration]
“Do you remember, Ruth Twinter, when you and I were feeding above
Woundale; we looked over the edge into Broad How? Far down below us
we could see three little fox cubs, playing in the sun. Sometimes one
would grab another’s tail, like a kitten; then one would sit up and
scratch its ear—” (‘Full of fleas,’ remarked Sandy)—“then another would
roll over on its back, like a fat little puppy dog. The vixen was
curled up asleep on top of a big boulder stone. Presently one of our
shepherds appeared, a long way off, walking along the other side of
the valley. The vixen slipped quietly off the rock; stole away over
Thresthwaite Mouth into Hartsop, a mile away from the cubs. She seemed
to give no sound nor signal; but the little foxes vanished into the
borran.” “Very pretty. Charming! I wonder how many lambs’ tails and
legs there were in the larder?” said Hannah Brighteyes, sourly; “they
took over thirty, one spring: big lambs, too: old enough to be tailed
and marked. They had skinned a lamb with Mistress Heelis’ mark on its
jacket. And there was part of one of Jimmy’s ducks.”
“I love the high places,” said Belle Lingcropper; “I remember, when I
was a lamb, I and my brother twin were feeding on Pavey Ark with our
mother. We were feeding part way up.”
Two climbing men came up, behind us and below. I do not think they
knew that they were driving us before them. We climbed and climbed in
the chimney that had scarcely foot-hold for a goat. We reached a shelf
some four feet from the top. Our mother jumped out nimbly. My brother
followed her with difficulty. Time and again I jumped; only to fall
back upon that ledge above the precipice. Our mother bleated overhead.
She moved to a spot where the wall of rock was lower. I followed
sideways along the ledge; looking up at her and bleating. At the third
trial I jumped out. There was sweet grazing on the top.
Cool is the air above the craggy summit. Clear is the water of the
mountain keld. Green grows the grass in droughty days beneath the
brackens! What though the hailstorm sweep the fell in winter—through
tempest, frost, or heat—we live our patient day’s allotted span.
Wild and free as when the stone-men told our puzzled early numbers;
untamed as when the Norsemen named our grassings in their stride. Our
little feet had ridged the slopes before the passing Romans. On through
the fleeting centuries, when fresh blood came from Iceland, Spain, or
Scotland—stubborn, unchanged, UNBEATEN—we have held the stony waste.
Dunmail; Faulds; Blue Joe; Wastwater Will and Thistle; Rawlins; Sworla;
Wonder—old Pride of Helvellyn—pass the tough lineage forward; keeps
the tarrie woo’ unsoftened! Hold the proud ancient heritage of our
Herdwick sheep.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XI
“Now one more tale before the sun goes down. Come Habbitrot tell us of
the spinner, her that you are named after.” Habbitrot, the sheep, drew
her feet beneath her comfortably, and thus commenced:
Long, long ago, long before the acorn ripened that has grown into
yonder oak—there lived a bonny lass at the farm in the dale, and a
yeoman from Brigsteer came to court her.
Her parents were willing for the match, and Bonny Annot liked the
yeoman well; a brave, handsome fellow and a merry. He had sheep on the
fell, kine in the byre, a horse in the stall, a dry flag-roofed house,
and many a broad acre. For dower her father would give her a cow and a
stirk, a score of sheep, and ten silver merks.
Her mother would give her her blessing; but not without shame and a
scolding. Now this was the trouble—two elder daughters when they
married had had great store of blankets and sheets. For it was a good
old custom in the dale that all menseful lasses should spin flax and
wool, and have the yarn woven by the webster, so that they had ready
against their bridewain a big oak bedding chest well filled with linen
and blankets.
But this youngest daughter, Bonny Annot, was both the laziest and the
bonniest; not one pound of wool had she carded, not one hank of tow had
she spun! ‘Shut thee in the wool loft with thy spindle; go spin, idle
Annot, go spin!’
Bonny Annot spun from morning till noon, from noon till the shadows
grew long. But it was late a-day to commence to spin. ‘My back is
tired, my fingers are stiff, my ears they drum with the hum of the
wheel. Oh well and away to Pringle Wood, to meet my love,’ sighed
Annot. She left her wheel, she lifted the latch, she stole away while
the cows were milking.
In Pringle Wood across the beck the hazels grew as still they grow, and
wind flowers and violets and primroses twinkled. Bonny Annot wandered
through the wood, she knelt on the moss to gather a posey; and herself
was the sweetest of flowers that grow. Blue were her eyes like the wood
violet’s blue, fair were her locks like the mary-bud’s gold, and her
red-and-white dimples like roses on snow! She bent to the flowers and
she heard a low humming. Was it horse’s hoofs on the fell road from
Brigsteer? Trot, trot, habbitrot, trot, trot, trot, trot, trot! She
lifted her head and she listened; but no. She knelt on the moss and
again she heard humming; was it bumbly bees storing their honey below?
She peeped between stones and mossy hazel stumps, beneath a hollow
stone, beneath a mossy stump—and there underground she saw a wee wee
woman spinning—hum, hum! went her wheel; spinning, spinning, spinning.
‘Hey, Bonny Annot!’ said the little gray woman, ‘why art thou so pale
and heavy-eyed?’
‘With spinning, good woman, with spinning!’
‘Spinning is for winter nights, Bonny Annot; why spinnest thou now, in
the pleasant spring?’ ‘Because I was idle, I now must spin in haste.
Alack! my sheets and blankets are to spin.’ She told her tale and cried.
‘Dry your eyes and listen, Bonny Annot,’ said the little gray woman,
‘eyes so blue and tender were never meant for tears. Lazy thou mayest
be, but I know thee kind and true. Step up to the wool-loft in the
moonlight; tie the bags of tow and wool upon the pony; bring them
to old Habbitrot, and she will do thy spinning!’ Even while Annot
thanked her there came the clink of horseshoes along the stony road
from Brigsteer; Bonny Annot forgot her troubles and sprang to meet the
yeoman.
But when he rode away next morning her troubles recommenced—her mother,
with a hazel-rod, drove her up the steps to the loft, ‘It wants but
three weeks to thy wedding—go spin, idle daughter, go spin!’ Many were
the fleeces and the bags of wool and flax. So many that when she took
away a load upon her pony—the wool was never missed; not although she
made four journeys to and fro from Pringle Wood. ‘Bring more, bring
more to old Habbitrot! Thou shalt have wealth of sheets and blankets!’
Down below under the hollow stone there was the noise of spinning; hum,
hum, trot, trot, trot! habbitrot, trot, trot!
Little way made Bonny Annot with her own spinning in the wool-loft; yet
she sang while she turned the wheel. What though the thread broke and
the flax was lumpy, still she sang and laughed while she spun. In the
evening she stole away once more to Pringle Wood, riding barebacked
on her pony—‘Lead him to the Colludie Stone! Up with the bags and
bundles! Wealth for thy wedding, Bonny Annot; she that spoke kindly to
old Habbitrot shall never want for blankets.’
Bonny Annot’s mother expected but little in the morning. She climbed up
to the wool-loft with the broomstick in her hand—‘Say hast thou spun
e’er a pound of wool, or a hank of tow, lazy daughter?’
Wonders will never cease! which of her sisters had ever had such yarn
for the weaver? Worsted so strong and even; or thread so fine and
fair? Her fame as a spinner was spread beyond the dale; it came to the
ears of the yeoman. He, too, had great store of white wool and flax.
Said her mother, ‘See what a housewife thou art marrying! Surely she
will fill thy linen-press and deck thy cupboard!’ But Bonny Annot hung
her head and pouted her lip; thought she—‘He will keep me at spinning
forever.’
The wedding day came. They were a handsome pair. The sun shone; the
bells were rung; all the folk in the dale came to the kirk to see them
married. And the wedding feast at the farm was thronged and merry. The
trenchers were piled with meat; there were cakes and pies and pasties;
the jugs of ale went round, and Bonny Annot kissed the cup.
Someone knocked at the house-door. The bride sprang to open it. At her
feet upon the threshold stood a little ugly woman, a little gray old
woman, with a kindly crooked smile.
‘Good dame, come in! Welcome to my wedding feast!’ Bonny Annot led her
to the table, set chair and footstool and cushion, filled trencher and
cup. The weddingers looked askance at the unbidden guest; they pointed
and they whispered. But still the bonny bride served her, filling
trencher and cup. The old woman munched, and munched, and munched. Now
the bride’s youngest brother was a merry knave, ‘Hey, little woman!’
said he, ‘why hast thou such an ugly ugly mouth, wide and awry with a
long flabby lip?’ ‘Whist, whist, Henry!’ said Bonny Annot, pulling him.
The little woman smiled awry—‘With spinning, my lad, with spinning.’
She wet her finger on her ugly flabby lip, and made as if she twisted
thread; her thumb was broad and flat.
‘Oh ho!’ said the yeoman, ‘is _that_ what comes of spinning?’ He kissed
Bonny Annot’s cherry lips and tapered fingers, ‘Oh ho! so that comes of
spinning?’
The old woman munched and munched and munched. ‘Hey, little woman,’
said Henry, ‘why is thy back so bent, thine eyes so bleared, and
thy foot so flat?’ ‘With spinning, my lad, with spinning!’ She beat
her broad foot up and down upon the flags as though she trod the
treadle—trot, trot, habbitrot, trot, trot, trot trot trot! ‘So ho!’
said the yeoman, who was very fond of dancing, ‘so ho, Habbitrot! if
_that_ comes of spinning—my wife’s foot shall never treadle. No, no,
Habbitrot! When _we_ have wool and flax to spin, my wife shall dance
and sing. We will send for Habbitrot! Habbitrot shall do our spinning;
we will send for Habbitrot.’”
“That story,” said Pony Billy, “has no moral.” “But it is very pretty,”
said Xarifa, the dormouse, suddenly wakening up.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XII
A chill breath rose from the water. The daisies closed their petals.
“We will say good-night,” said the sheep, “it is too cold for our lambs
to sleep beside the stream. Good-night, little dormouse! All friends,
good-night!” The sheep stately and peaceful, moved up the pasture,
feeding as they went; their lambs gambolled beside them. The last beams
of the setting sun shone again upon the flock, when they reached the
heights. Xarifa drew her fur cloak closer. Tuppenny warmed his hands
at the fire; “I wish Paddy Pig would come back. Do you think he has
fallen in, like the lambs?” “Not he! he is too much afraid of water.”
Tuppenny still looked across anxiously at the wood; “I did think I
heard a pig squeal, while Habbitrot was telling us that nice tale.
Would anything bite him, in Pringle Wood?” Sandy sat up; “Why did you
not say so before? No, nothing would bite him.” “I should not choose to
spend a night in Pringle Wood myself,” remarked Jenny Ferret. “Why?”
inquired Tuppenny, “why don’t you like Pringle Wood? It was a kind
fairy that helped Bonny Annot in the story. Does she live there yet?”
“Tuppenny,” said Pony William, “do you not remember that I observed
that the tale recounted by Habbitrot had no moral?” “But it was very
pretty,” said Xarifa, who had been to sleep again.
Supper was eaten; Tuppenny and Xarifa were put to bed; Pony Billy lay
down behind the wall; Sandy went to sleep in his straw underneath the
caravan—but neither at supper, at bed-time, nor at breakfast-time was
there any sign of Paddy Pig.
[Illustration]
“It is useless to wait any longer,” said Pony Billy next morning; “the
flood has gone down eight inches; we can cross the ford. If Tuppenny
really heard Paddy Pig squealing in Pringle Wood, we are more likely
to find him on the other side of the stream. It is a mystery how
he got over dry shod; and he hates getting wet,” said Jenny Ferret.
“The wood itself is a mystery,” said Pony Billy, “we had better get
through it by daylight. Xarifa, you know the reputation of Pringle
Wood. Be very careful that Tuppenny does not eat anything in there.”
“Why, Xarifa?” asked Tuppenny. “It is undesirable to taste anything
that grows in the wood.” “Is it fairies?” “Hush,” said Xarifa, “we are
going to cross.” “Swim over with the rope, Sandy, and steady us.” Pony
Billy took the caravan safely through the water, which was up to the
axle trees. Then he unharnessed himself, and came back to fetch the
tilt-cart. As there was no Paddy Pig to drag the cart, it had to be
left behind for the present time, under an eller tree beside the stream
on the outskirts of the wood. Tuppenny and Xarifa and the luggage were
packed into the caravan to ride with Jenny Ferret.
[Illustration: The Fairy Hill of Oaks]
It took them four long hours to go through Pringle Wood. Round and
round and round they went, by narrow mossy tracks; always going
roundabout, always pulling steadily.
And yet the wood was no great size; just a little fairy hill of oaks.
The ground beneath the trees was covered with bluebells—blue as
the sea—blue as a bit of sky come down. So steep downhill were the
mossy banks that Sandy had to put the slipper brake under the wheel
to prevent the caravan from running away on top of Pony Billy, who
was nearly flung upon his nose. Then it was uphill, and Pony Billy
toiled and tugged; foam flecked his bit and shoulders; his brown
leather harness creaked; he was so hot with pulling that he was all in
a lather. And no sooner had he gained the top of a bank than it was
downhill again; just as steep, and the caravan was overrunning him, and
pressing into the breeching straps.
Pony Billy snorted. His hoofs slipped on the moss; and if he left the
track the bluebells were so thick that it was difficult to trample
through them. They passed a bed of white anemone flowers—“Why,
surely,” said Sandy, “we have passed this spot already, twice?”
Pony Billy snorted again, and scrambled forward. A shower of
oak-apples from the trees above pelted about his ears, and rattled on
the roof of the caravan. They hopped on the moss like live things;
they bounced like a shower of pelting hailstones. “Look, Xarifa! what
beauties!” cried Tuppenny, trying to catch them, “red oak-apples in
April; have they been stored all winter in a wood mousey’s cupboard?”
“Throw them away, Tuppenny!” exclaimed Xarifa and Jenny Ferret, “throw
them away over your left shoulder!” More and more oak-apples came
pattering and pelting; Tuppenny played ball with them, catching them
and tossing them back. “This one has been bitten, Xarifa; are they good
to eat?” “What is that I hear?” said Pony Billy, laying his ears back,
“none of you on any account may eat anything that grows in Pringle
Wood.” Instantly another pelting shower of oak-apples came rattling
like a hailstorm about Pony Billy’s mane and back. He broke into a
gallop, trampling through the bluebells; and this time he succeeded in
dragging the caravan clear away out of Pringle Wood.
The sunshiny open meadow was refreshing after the sombre shade of
the trees. Cattle and sheep were feeding peacefully; lambs frisked;
swallows skimmed low over the buttercups that powdered Pony Billy’s
hoofs with dusty gold. He drew the caravan across the cheerful green
grass—he took it through a white gate into a lane, which they followed
down to Codlin Croft Farm.
It was a pleasant sunny spot, where the circus had camped before. “Only
it is rather too near the world of the Big Folk, and their cats and
dogs and hens and cocks—especially cocks,” said Sandy, stiffening his
tail.
“There is no help for it,” said Pony Billy, “we cannot proceed further,
and leave Paddy Pig behind us, lost. Besides I must go back for the
tilt-cart.” Tuppenny twittered dolefully, “You will be lost, too, Mr.
Pony William!” “I shall not,” said Pony Billy, “I am not a pig-headed
fool of a pig!” “Now Xarifa and Tuppenny,” said Sandy, “come along!
I am sorry to say you will have to be shut up all the time while we
stop at Codlin Croft. It will not be safe to let you out, with all
these strange dogs and cats—here they come! Cows, calves, dogs, cats,
poultry—all the farm animals!”
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIII
The homestead of Codlin Croft was dominated by Charles, our cock, a
silver campine with handsome white neck hackles, finely barred and
spotted breast, and a magnificent tail. He also had a big red comb; and
spurs. Besides Charles there was a turkey cock of large size; and a
sow still larger; and a cat and three farm dogs. Charles treated them
all alike with contempt. When the caravan arrived in the lane, Charles
and the turkey were having one of their usual combats. Charles was
dancing round and churtling—cluck cur-cuck-cuck-cuck! jumping and
spurring at Bubbly-jock’s painfully red wattles and tassels. The turkey
was bursting with rage; he scrunched the tips of his wings along the
gravel (which spoilt nothing but his own feathers). Whenever he got a
chance he trod heavily upon the spot where Charles had recently stood.
Charles, in the meantime, had darted between the turkey’s legs. When
Charles became short of breath, he slipped nimbly through the narrow
bars of an iron gate, and pretended to be picking up titbits, in full
view of the maddened turkey cock, who was unable to follow him. Then
he scratched up dirt, and crowed. Charles and Sandy never hit it off
very well; they both had a habit of scratching up the earth, and they
mutually irritated one another. But all the same, Charles graciously
did the honours of Codlin Croft, and invited the company into the
orchard through a broken gate.
The orchard which gives Codlin Croft Farm its name is a long
rambling strip of ground, with old bent pear trees and apple trees
that bear ripe little summer pears in August and sweet codlin
apples in September. At the end nearest to the buildings there are
clothes-props, hen-coops, tubs, troughs, old oddments; and pig-styes
that adjoin the calf hulls and cow byres. The back windows of the
farmhouse look out nearly level with the orchard grass; little back
windows of diamond panes not made to open. The far end of the orchard
is a neglected pretty wilderness, with mossy old trees, elder bushes,
and long grass; handy for a pet lamb or two in spring, and for the
calves in summer.
At this time of year, a north country April, the pear blossom was out
and the early apple blossom was budding. The snowdrops that had been
a sheet of white—white as the linen sheets bleaching on the drying
green—had passed; and now there were daffodils in hundreds. Not the
big bunchy tame ones that we call “Butter-and-eggs,” but the little
wild daffodillies that dance in the wind. Through the broken gate at
top of Codlin Croft orchard came Pony Billy with the caravan. He drew
it up comfortably in shelter of Farmer Hodgson’s haystack, which stood,
four-square and prosperous, half in the orchard and half in the field.
“Only, Jenny Ferret, if I put the caravan here you must promise not to
light a fire. We must not burn Farmer Hodgson’s hay for him.” “And how
will I boil the kettle without a fire? Take us further down the orchard
near the well, behind the bour-tree bushes.” “All right,” agreed Pony
Billy, pulling into the collar again; “perhaps it would be safer. I can
come up to the stack by myself for a bite.”
“Cluck-cur-cuck-cuck!” said Charles, “I recommend that flat place
between the pig-stye and the middenstead.” “Yes, indeed, cluck,
cluck! there are lots of worms if you scratch up the manure,” clucked
Selina Pickacorn. “Are they going to put up a tent?” asked the
calves. “Oh, yes, lots of nice red worms,” clucked Tappie-tourie and
Chucky-partlet. “What’s that funny old woman they call Jenny Ferret?
she has got whiskers?” asked an inquisitive cat, sitting on the roof
of the pig-stye. “Quack, quack! stretch your long neck and peep in
at the window, Dilly Duckling.” “I cannot see; quack quack; I cannot
see anything through the curtains.” “Gobble-gobble-gobble!” shouted
the turkey cock, strutting after Charles. Sandy curled his tail
tightly; “Go further down beyond the bour-tree bushes, Pony William,
further away from the farmyard.” When the caravan had been drawn into
position, it became necessary for Sandy to do a large loud determined
barking all round, in order to disperse the poultry.
After pitching camp in the orchard Pony Billy and Sandy held an anxious
consultation, “Did you notice anything while we were coming through
the wood?” “Yes. Pig’s trotter marks.” “How many times did we go round
and round that hill, Pony William?” “We would be going round it yet,
if I had not gone widdershins.” “What shall we do about Paddy Pig?” “I
am going back to fetch him.” “What! into Pringle Wood?” “Yes,” said
Pony Billy; “but first I want a saddle and bridle. And look whether my
packet of fern seed is safe; for I shall have to go amongst the Big
Folk in broad daylight.”
[Illustration]
Pony Billy borrowed several things, by permission of the farm dogs,
Roy, Bobs, and Matt, who were lying lazily in the sun before the stable
door. He asked for the loan of a nosebag containing chopped hay, and
straw, and Uveco; also for two pounds of potatoes; and a saddle and
bridle, and for the chest-strap with brass ornaments belonging to the
cart harness. There were four brass lockets on the strap; a swan,
a galloping horse, a catherine wheel, and a crescent. The last named
is a charm that has been worn by English horses since the days of
the crusaders. The strap was too long; it swung between his knees;
but Pony Billy felt fortified and valiant. “Do you think you will
be chased?” asked the dogs. “I shall not. I am going to the smithy
to have my shoes turned back to front.” “Our mare Maggret is at the
smithy,” said Bobs. “You will have to go past the back door and the
wash-house if you want potatoes,” said Matt. “Nobody can see me,” said
Pony Billy. He clattered across the flags, bold in possession of fern
seed and invisibility. Mrs. Hodgson, inside the house, called to her
maid-servant, “Look out at the door, Grace; is that the master I hear
coming home with the mare?” “I hear summat, but I see nought,” answered
Grace, perplexed.
Pony Billy started on his quest. The farm dogs went to sleep again in
the sun.
Sandy with his tail uncurled trailed back disconsolately to the orchard
camp. The ducks and calves had wandered away; but Charles and
his inquisitive hens were still in close attendance, and conversing
endlessly.
[Illustration]
The conversation was about losing things. Xarifa’s scissors were
missing. Jenny Ferret as usual suspected Ikey Shepster, the starling.
He was not present to deny the charge; he had flown off foraging with
the sparrows.
“Losses,” said Charles, sententiously, “losses occur in the best
regulated establishments. Likewise finds; but finds are less frequent;
and, therefore, more noteworthy. One afternoon I and my hens were
promenading in the meadow. I heard Tappie-tourie—that bird with
the rose comb—-clucking loudly in the ashpit. I inquired of Selina
Pickacorn whether Tappie-tourie had laid an egg? Selina replied that it
seemed improbable, as Tappie-tourie had already laid one that morning
in the henhouse. But hens are fools enough to do anything; I ordered
Selina to proceed to the ashpit, to ask Tappie-tourie whether she had
laid a second egg or not. When one hen runs—all the other hens run
too; being idiots; cluck-cur-cuck cuck cuck!” “Oh, Charles! Charles!”
remonstrated Selina and Chucky-partlet coyly. “Aggravating idiots,”
repeated Charles, who did not believe in encouraging pride amongst
female poultry. “As the whole of my hens continued to cluck in the
ashpit in total disregard of my commands to come out—I stalked across
the field, and I looked in. I said, ‘What are you doing, Tappie-tourie?
you are a perfect sweep. Selina Pickacorn, you are equally dirty.
Chucky-doddie, you are even worse. Come out of the ashpit.’ They
replied, all clucking together—‘Oh, Charles! do look what a treasure
we have found! But none of us know how to stick it on, because it has
no safety-pin.’ They showed me Mrs. Hodgson’s big cairngorm broach
that had been missing for a fortnight. They asked me if it was worth
a hundred pounds. Cock-a-doodle-doo! A hundred pounds, indeed!” said
Charles, swelling with scorn. “I told them it was absolutely worthless
to us who wear no collars; not worth so much as one grain of wheat;
cluck-cur-cuck cuck cuck! Hens always were noodles, and always will be.
Ask them to tell you the tale of the demerara sugar.”
“That?” said Selina Pickacorn, quite unabashed, “oh, that happened long
ago when we were inexperienced young pullets. Besides, it was all
along of the parrot.” “Pray explain to us the responsibility of the
parrot?” said Sandy. Five or six hens all commenced to cluck at once.
Charles interjected cock-a-doodles. Consequently their explanation
became somewhat mixed. Therefore it must be understood that this
story—like the corn in their crops—is a digest.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIV
Upon fine days in spring the parrot’s cage was set out of doors
upon top of the garden wall, opposite the farmhouse windows. In the
intervals of biting its perch and swinging wrong-side up, the parrot
addressed remarks to the poultry in the yard below. The words which
it uttered most frequently in the hearing of those innocent birds
were, “Demerara sugar! demerara sug! dem, dem, dem, Pretty Polly!” The
chickens listened attentively.
When the chickens were feathered, they were taken to live in a wooden
hut on wheels in the stubble field. They picked up the scattered
grain; and grew into fine fat pullets. In autumn the farmer talked of
taking the hen-hut home. But he was busy with other work; he delayed
till winter.
In the night before Christmas Eve there came a fall of snow. When
Tappie-tourie looked out next morning the ground was white. She
drew back into the hut in consternation. Then Selina Pickacorn and
Chucky-doddie looked out. None of them had ever seen snow before; they
were April hatched pullets without a single experienced old hen to
advise them.
“Is it a tablecloth?” asked Chucky-doddie. They knew all about
tablecloths because they had been reared under a hen-coop on the drying
green. They had been scolded for leaving dirty foot-marks on a clean
tablecloth which was bleaching upon the grass.
The hens slid nervously down the hen ladder on to the snow. No; it
was not a tablecloth. Said Tappie-tourie, “I’ll tell you what! I do
believe it is the parrot’s demerara sugar!” (Now the parrot ought to
have told them that demerara sugar is _not_ white.) Selina Pickacorn
tasted a beakful. “It is nothing extra special nice; he need not have
talked so much about it.” “How horribly cold and wet it feels.” Just
then the farmer came into the field with a horse and cart. He drove the
hens back into the hut, fastened the door with a peg, and tied the hut
behind his cart with a rope in order to drag it homewards through the
snow.
The hen-hut did not run smoothly; it had a tiresome little waggling
wheel at one end, that caught in ruts. It bumped along; and the pullets
inside it cackled and fluttered. Before the procession had got clear
of the field—the hut door flew open. Out bounced Tappie-tourie,
Chucky-doddie, Selina Pickacorn, and five other hens. The farmer and
his dog caught five of them, none too gently. But the three first-named
birds flew back screaming to the spot where the hen-hut had stood
originally, before it had been removed.
The farmer was obliged to leave them for the present.
Tappie-tourie, Chucky-doddie, and Selina wandered around in the snow;
the field seemed very large and lost under its wide white covering.
“The hut is gone,” said Tappie-tourie, with a brain wave. “That is so,”
agreed Selina Pickacorn, “we fell out of the hut.” “What shall we do?”
asked Chucky-doddie. “I see nothing for it but a Christmas picnic,”
said Tappie-tourie; “here is sugar in plenty, but where is the tea and
bread and butter?”
Large flakes of snow commenced to fall. “Perhaps this is the bread
and butter coming,” said Tappie-tourie, looking up hopefully at the
darkening sky. “My feather petticoat is getting so wet,” grumbled
Chucky-doddie; “let us try to walk along the top of that wall, towards
the wood.” The wall had a thick white topping of snow; it proved to be
a most uncomfortable walk, with frequent tumblings off. They crossed
Wilfin Beck on a wooden rail. The water below ran dark and sullen
between the white banks. By the time they had reached the wood it was
dusk; for the last hundred yards the hens had been floundering through
snowdrifts. “If this is a Christmas picnic—it is horrid! Let us get
up into that spruce tree, and roost there till morning.” They managed
to fly up. They perched in a row on a branch, fluffing out their
feathers to warm their cold wet feet. They were one speckled hen and
two white hens; only the white hens looked quite yellow against the
whiter snow. “The picnic is a long time commencing,” said the speckled
hen, Tappie-tourie. It was soon black as pitch amongst the spreading
branches of the spruce.
Down below in the glen the waters of the stream tinkled through the
ground ice. Now and then there was a soft rushing sound, as the wet
snow slipped off the sapling trees that bent beneath its weight, and
sprang upwards again, released. Far off in the woods, a branch snapped
under its load, like the sound of a gun at night. The stream murmured,
flowing darkly. Dead keshes, withered grass, and canes stood up through
the snow on its banks, under a fringe of hazel bushes.
Between the stream and the tree where the hens were roosting, there
was a white untrodden slope. Only one tree grew there, a very small
spruce, a little Christmas tree some four foot high. As the night grew
darker—the branches of this little tree became all tipped with light,
and wreathed with icicles and chains of frost. Brighter and brighter
it shone, until it seemed to bear a hundred fairy lights; not like the
yellow gleam of candles, but a clear white incandescent light.
Small voices and music began to mingle with the sound of the water.
Up by the snowy banks, from the wood and from the meadow beyond,
tripped scores of little shadowy creatures, advancing from the
darkness into the light. They trod a circle on the snow around the
Christmas tree, dancing gaily hand-in-hand. Rabbits, moles, squirrels,
and wood-mice—even the half blind mole, old Samson Velvet, danced
hand-in-paw with a wood-mouse and a shrew—whilst a hedgehog played the
bagpipes beneath the fairy spruce.
Tappie-tourie and her sisters craned forward on their branch. “Is the
Christmas picnic commencing? May we fly down and share it? Shall we,
too, join the dance?” They slid and sidled forward, shaking down a
shower of melting snow and ice. “Cluck, cluck!” cackled the hens, as
they clutched and fluttered amongst slippery boughs.
The lights on the Christmas tree quivered, and went out. All was
darkness and silence. “I’m afraid the Christmas picnic was only a
dream; we shall have to roost here till morning.” “Hush! sit still,”
said Tappie-tourie, “it was not us that frightened them away. Something
is stirring near the stream! What is it?” The moon shone out between
the clouds, throwing long shadows on the snow; shadows of the hazels
and tall keshes. A little figure, questing and snuffling, came out
into the moonlight: a small brown figure in a buttoned-up long coat.
He examined the footsteps on the snow round the Christmas tree. Then,
horrible to relate! he came straight up the snowy slope and stood under
the spruce; looking up at the hens. He was a disagreeable fusky musky
person, called John Stoat Ferret. (At this point Charles thought it
necessary to apologize to Jenny Ferret who was knitting on the caravan
steps. She accepted the apology in good part, and said of course she
was not answerable for disagreeable relations—a horrid fusky musky
smelly relation, with short legs, and rather a bushy tail.) First he
tried to climb the tree, but he could not do so. Then he cried, “Shoo!
shoo!” and threw sticks at the hens. And then he butted against the
tree, and tried to shake them down. They clung, cackling and terrified,
in the boughs high over head.
Then John Stoat Ferret thought of another plan; he determined to
make them dizzy. He set to work. He danced. It was not at all nice
dancing. At first he circled slowly; very, very slowly; then gradually
faster, faster, faster, until he was spinning like a top. And always a
nasty fusky musky smell steamed upwards into the tree. Tappie-tourie,
Chucky-doddie, and Selina Pickacorn, overhead, watched him. They had
left off clucking; they watched him in fascinated terrified silence,
craning over their branch. And still he spun round and round and round,
and the fusky smell rose up into the spruce. Tappie-tourie twisted her
head round, following his movements as he danced. And Chucky-doddie
twisted her neck round. And Selina Pickacorn not only twisted her head,
she began to turn round herself upon the branch. All the hens were
growing giddy.
John Stoat Ferret danced and spun more furiously, the fusky musky
smell rose higher. All three hens commenced to turn round dizzily.
In another minute they would fall off. John Stoat Ferret capered
and twirled. But all of a sudden he stopped. He sat up, motionless,
listening. Voices were approaching up the cart road that skirts the
wood.
Upon Christmas Eve it is a pleasant custom amongst the Big Folk for
carol singers to go singing from farm to farm; even to the lonely
cottages on the outskirts of the great woods.
Two small boys, who had been out with the carollers, were going home
to supper. Their Christmas picnic had been more prosperous than poor
Tappie-tourie’s. Their pockets were full of apples and toffy and
pennies.
“George,” said Jimmy, “give us a ginger snap.”
“Na-a!” said George, “it will gummy your teeth tegidder, that you
cannot sing. Whooop!” shouted George, jumping into a snowdrift, sing
another—
“Wassail, wassail! to our town!
The bowl is white, and the ale is brown;
The bowl is made of the rosemary tree, and so is the ale, of the good barlee.
Little maid, little maid, tirl the pin!
Open the door, and let us come in!”
John Stoat Ferret listened intently. “Whooop!” shouted Jimmy, kicking
the snow about, and swinging his candle lantern; sing another one—
“Here us comes a wassailing, under the holly green,
Here us comes a wandering, so merry to be seen.
Good luck good Master Hodgin, and kind Mistress also,
And all the little childer that round the table go!
Your pockets full of money, your cupboards of good cheer,
A merry Christmas, Guizzards, and a Happy New Year!”
“Jimmy!” exclaimed George suddenly, “I smell stoat. Look over the wall
with the lantern.” John Stoat Ferret departed hurriedly. And as if
a spell were broken, Chucky-doddie, Tappie-tourie, and Selina found
their voices. They cackled loudly, up in the tree. “Eh, sithee!” said
George, “them’s our three hens that father lost out of t’ hen-hut.
Fetch ’em down: I’se haud lantern.” “This wall’s gaily slape!” giggled
Jimmy, balancing himself on the slippery top stones. He reached up into
the tree, and got hold of Tappie-tourie first, by the legs. “Ketch!”
said he, and flung her out into the snowdrift in the lane. “Here’s
another fat ’un!” He threw Chucky-doddie across. Selina flew after
them of her own accord. The boys picked the hens out of the snow, and
trudged homewards; George, with a hen tucked under each arm; and Jimmy,
with one hen and the candle lantern. It was an inglorious ending to
Tappie-tourie’s Christmas picnic; but at one time it looked like ending
much worse—“very much worse, Cluck-cur-cuck-cuck-cluck!” said Charles
the cock.
Sandy looked thoughtful. “Was the parrot an elderly bird?” “Very aged
by his own account, if truthful,” replied Charles.
“I wonder whether he was the same parrot who had an adventure with a
hawk, long ago. The parrot, which I am referring to, belonged to Squire
Browne of Cumberland. The Squire also had a chestnut cob on which he
went out riding; and he employed an old groom-gardener, named John
Geddes. When Squire Browne came downstairs on fine mornings, he called
through the open staircase window to John Geddes in the stable-yard. He
said, ‘I’m riding today, John Geddes!’ Then he scratched the parrot’s
head, and read the newspaper, and had breakfast.
“Now the parrot was so tame that he was allowed to come out of his
cage; and one day he was waddling about on the lawn, when—shocking to
say—a large hawk swooped down from the sky, and seized poor Polly in
its claws. The hawk rose into the air, over the house and stable-yard;
and the parrot, looking down for the last time at its home, saw the old
groom-gardener sweeping with the yard broom. ‘I’m riding to-day, John
Geddes!’ shouted Polly. Whereupon the hawk was so startled that it let
go the parrot, who skimmed downwards from the clouds to safety.”
“Cuck, cuck, cluck! I think I have heard that anecdote before,” said
Charles. “Possibly,” replied Sandy, bristling up his moustache,
“possibly. But Squire Browne’s parrot was the first one it happened
to.” Xarifa intervened hastily, in the cause of peace, “Was it not Miss
Browne, a very, very old lady, who told us the story?” “It was,” said
Sandy, eyeing Charles, the cock. “And did she not tell us other pretty
stories?” continued Xarifa, “the story of the fairy clogs; and that
pretty tale about the water-lilies? How they went adrift and sailed
away, along the lake and down the river? In each water-lily flower
was a fairy sitting, with golden curls, in the white lily flowers;
and a fairy in green, on each broad round leaf, rowing with oars made
of rushes?” “What was the end of that story, Xarifa?” asked Tuppenny.
“Unfortunately, I do not remember. I don’t think it had any end; or
else I fell asleep.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XV
Whilst Sandy and the poultry were entertaining each other in the
orchard, Pony Billy, saddled and bridled, trotted away in search of the
truant Paddy Pig. He passed in front of the farmhouse windows, clink!
clink! went his shoes on the cobblestones in the yard. Mrs. Hodgson
darning stockings in the sunny window-seat looked up and listened.
Nothing could she see; she threaded her needle in and out, out and in,
through the stocking foot. Pony Billy passed by the sweet-smelling
wallflowers in the old-fashioned garden, where beehives, all a-row,
stood on a deep stone shelf of the wall that faced the sun. The
bees were stirring busily after their drowsy winter’s sleep. He
came along a cart-track, and through a gate, on to the public road.
Little sunshiny whirly winds had powdered white dust upon the king
cups under the hedge; belated March dust in April. The cows looked
over the hedge at Pony Billy. Said White-stockings to Fancy, “There
goes a brave little saddle pony! Look how proudly he arches his neck,
and tosses his cunning head! See the brass lockets glittering in the
sun, and the stirrup irons, and the saddle leather. Look at his long
flowing tail; and how gaily he picks his steps! He lifts his feet as
prettily as Merry-legs or Cricket, who won the prize at Helsington.
Where is he trotting to, think you?” said Buttercup Cow to Nancy. Pony
Billy trotted along. It was dinner time with the Big Folk. He met
nobody except old Quaker Goodman, jogging leisurely homeward in a low
two-wheeled tub. The fat Quaker pony could see Pony Billy in spite of
fern seed; it swerved across the road to leave him room to pass. Old
Mr. Goodman laid his whip very gently along the ribs of the fat pony,
as it were patting her with the handle of the whip, “What Daisey! Why,
Daisey? What is thee shying at, Daisey? Tch-tckk-tckk!” Staid iron-gray
Daisey plodded steadily on; her thick bob-tail swung from side to side.
Horses can see things where the Big Folk can see nothing—nothing but a
silly white stone, or a stump on the roadside bank. But horses can see.
So likewise can little young children. Two toddling youngsters at play
in the dust caught a fleeting glimpse of the fairy pony; they prattled
baby talk, and clapped their dirty chubby hands. Pony Billy breasted
the hill at a canter; he slackened his pace to a walk as he came along
over the croft. He pricked his ears and looked down at the village. The
Big Folk were all indoors at dinner. Maggret, the Codlin Croft mare,
dozed under the pent-house at the smithy. Farmer Hodgson was gossiping
at the inn, whilst he waited for the blacksmith.
Pony Billy came down the croft at a quick, high-stepping trot; his
brass lockets shone in the sun; his bright eyes sparkled. He hailed
the smithy with eager neighings, “Hinny ho! Mettle! Bellows and shoes,
Mettle! Hinny ho!”
Out came Mettle, barking; a hard-haired yellow terrier, wearing a
little leather apron, “Good-day to you, Pony Billy! So the caravan is
round again? What can I do for you this time? Another hoop? Another new
circus trick?” “I wish to have my shoes removed and put on backwards.”
“Certainly; four removes; we will soon have them off,” said Mettle,
“it does not sound very comfortable; but just as you please. I will
blow up the fire (c-r-e-a-k, puff; Mettle leaned upon the handle of the
bellows, c-r-e-a-k, puff, puff), they will require a little fitting.
(Mettle turned the shoe upon the hearth amongst the small hot coal,
puff, puff.) I will take it out in tickets; and treat our smithy cat
to an outing (puff, puff!). I owe her one. I pulled her tail. She did
scratch me (puff, puff)! Why did I do it? (C-r-e-a-k, puff, puff!) I
did it because she was black. I thought she was a stray black cat! She
went up the chimney tortoise-shell and white, and she came down black!
Cheesebox, our smithy cat.”
Farmer Hodgson’s mare yawned dismally. “I am sorry, Maggret, I cannot
offer to fit your shoes; your feet are so large I could not lift
them.” (The mare laid her ears back.) “No offence to a lady! My master
says he likes a horse with a big open foot.”
Mettle took the white-hot horseshoe from the hearth with a little pair
of tongs and hammered it daintily on the anvil; “Now your shoes are
little fairy shoes, Pony Billy”; tick, tock, tap, tock! hammered Mettle
merrily and sang, “Shoe the horse and shoe the mare, but let the little
colt go bare! Now lift up your foot till I fit it. Have you ever gone
short of fern seed since that night in the snow, Pony Billy?” “Never,”
said Pony Billy, shaking his mane to feel the precious packet nestling
against his neck. Tap, tap, tap! hammered Mettle, “Here a nail and
there a trod; now the horse is well shod! Yes, Cheesebox and I will be
coming to the circus this evening.”
Then Maggret pricked her ears and whinnied at sound of hob-nailed
boots; her master and the blacksmith came into the pent-house together.
Just then Pony Billy came out. Farmer Hodgson did feel as though he had
bumped against something soft; but there was nothing to be seen. It
might have been the door-post.
Pony Billy walked up a stony lane picking his footsteps carefully.
It is not agreeable to trot amongst stones with four newly-shod
back-to-front shoes. He stepped in the softest places. By banks
and hollows and turnings, by muddy places and dry, always leaving
back-to-front horseshoe marks behind him, as though he had come down
the lane, instead of having gone up. He turned into another lane,
crossed a shallow ford; came roundabout behind the wood, and looked
over a tumble-down wall.
Pringle Wood lay before him, silent, still; crowned with golden green
in a pale spring afternoon. Almost silent, almost still; save for a
whispering breath amongst the golden green leaves, and a faint tingle
ringle from the bluebells on the fairy hill of oaks. How blue the
bluebells were! a sea of soft pale blue; tree behind tree; and beneath
the trees, wave upon wave, a blue sea of bluebells. Below the low
stone wall, between it and the wooded hill, was a tangly boggy dell,
matted with brambles and wild raspberry canes, and last year’s withered
meadow-sweet and keshes. Young larch trees and spruces struggled
through the briars; a little stream slid gently round the hill,
beneath ellers and hazel bushes.
Pony Billy came over a gap in the wall, and pushed his way through the
tangle, leaving back-to-front footsteps as he squelched through the
black earth and moss. Briars tugged his mane; raspberry canes pulled
his tail as though they were fingers; he left tufts of his shaggy coat
upon the brambles. He whinnied, “Hinny ho! where are you hiding, Paddy
Pig?” No one answered. Only there seemed to be a faint tingle ringle of
laughing from the thousands of bluebells in the wood.
Pony Billy got out of the bog with a jump and a scramble up the steep
grassy slope of the hill. Round and round and round he went underneath
the oaks; always going widdershins, contrary to the sun; always leaving
back-to-front misleading marks behind him. Six times round he went; and
he saw nothing but the bluebells and the oaks. But the seventh time
round he saw a little Jenny Wren, chittering and fussing round an old
hollow tree. “What are you scolding, you little Jenny Wren?” She did
not stay to answer; she darted through the wood twittering gaily. “I
had better go and look inside that hollow tree myself,” thought Pony
Billy. He walked up to it, and looked in. “Ho, ho! what are you doing
in there, Paddy Pig? Come out!” “Never no more,” replied Paddy Pig. He
was sitting huddled up inside the tree, with his fore-trotters pressed
against his tummy; “never again. I cannot break through the ropes.”
“Ropes? don’t be silly! there is nothing but cobwebs.” “What, what? no
ropes?” “Come out at once,” said Pony William, stamping. “I am ill,”
replied Paddy Pig; he pressed his trotters on his waistcoat. “What have
you been eating?” “Tartlets.” “Tartlets in Pringle Wood! more likely to
be toadstools. Come out, you pig; you are keeping the circus waiting.”
“Never no more shall I return to the go-cart and the caravan.” Pony
Billy thrust his head through the spider webs in the opening, seized
Paddy Pig’s coat-collar with his teeth, and jerked him out of the tree.
“What, what? no ropes? but it is all in vain.” He sat upon the grass
and wept. “Try a potato? I brought you some on purpose.” “What, what?
potatoes! but is it safe to eat them?” “Certainly it is,” said Pony
Billy, “they did not grow in Pringle Wood. Eat them while I have my
nosebag. Then I will carry you home again pig-a-back.” “We will be
chased. And I will fall off.” He ate all the potatoes; “I feel a little
better; but I know, I will fall off. Oh, oh, oh! Something is pinching
my ears!”
Whatever might be the matter, Paddy Pig’s behaviour was odd. He got
up on a tree-stump, and he tried to climb into the saddle. First he
climbed too far and tumbled over the other side; then he climbed too
short and tumbled; then he fell over the pony’s head; then he slipped
backwards over the crupper, just as though someone were pulling him. He
sat upon the ground and sobbed, “Leave me to my fate. Go away and tell
my friends that I am a prisoner for life in Pringle Wood.” “Try once
more. Sit straight, and hold on to the strap of lockets,” said Pony
Billy, trampling through the bluebells.
He came out from under the trees into the sunshine. He trotted across
the green grass of the open meadow, and carried Paddy Pig safely back
to camp.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XVI
It was four o’clock of the afternoon when Pony Billy trotted into
Codlin Croft orchard with Paddy Pig. Sandy and the farm dogs barked
joyfully; the turkey cock gobbled; Charles crowed; and Jenny
Ferret waved a dishcloth on the caravan steps. Even Tuppenny and
Xarifa—dolefully confined in hampers—clapped their little paws in
welcome. Paddy Pig took no notice of these greetings. He slid from the
saddle, and sat by the camp fire in a heap.
“He looks poorly,” said Sandy, anxiously, “fetch a shawl, Jenny
Ferret.” “Ill; very ill,” said Paddy Pig. They wrapped him in the
shawl and gave him tea; he was thirsty, but he had no appetite. The
raw potatoes appeared to have disagreed, on top of the tartlets. As
evening closed in, he shivered more and more. The company plied him
with questions—how did he get across the water into Pringle Wood?
“Over a plank.” “I don’t remember any plank bridge,” said Pony Billy,
“perhaps it might be a tree that had been washed down by the flood?”
“Why did you not come back the same way?” “It was gone,” said Paddy
Pig, swaying himself about. “What did you do in the wood?” “I tumbled
down. Things pulled my tail and pinched me, and peeped at me round
trees,” said Paddy Pig, shuddering. “What sort of things?” “Green
things with red noses. Oh, oh, oh!” he squealed, “there is a red nose
looking at me out of the teapot! Take me away, Pony Billy! I’m going
to be sick!” “He is very unwell,” said Jenny Ferret, “he should be put
to bed at once.” But where? In an ordinary way, Paddy Pig and Sandy
slept in dry straw underneath the caravan. But everybody knows that
it is unsafe to allow a delirious pig to sleep on the cold ground.
“Do you think we could squeeze him through the door into the caravan,
if I pulled and you pushed?” said Sandy. Jenny Ferret shook her head,
“He is too big. We might have crammed him into the go-cart; but it is
not here; it was left behind, by the ford.” “He must sleep indoors
somehow,” said Sandy. “Why all this discussion?” said Charles the cock.
“Let our honored visitor, Mr. Patrick Pig, sleep in the middle stall of
the stable. It is empty. Maggret, our mare, stands in the stall next to
the window. And there is hay, as well as straw. I, myself, scratched
it out of the hay-rack. Cock-a-doodle doo! And there is even a horse
rug. A large buff, moth-eaten blanket, bound with red braid,” said
Charles, swelling with importance. “The very thing! provided Maggret
has no objection,” said Sandy. “Come, Paddy Pig.” The invalid rose
stiffly to his feet. But he flopped down again, nearly into the fire
(which would have caused another red nose for certain, had he fallen
into it). It was necessary to borrow a wheelbarrow; also the stable
lantern, as by this time it was dark. Fortunately, Farmer Hodgson had
bedded up the mare, and fed all for the night. He was having his own
supper, quite unconscious that his stable had been requisitioned as
a hospital for sick pigs. He supped in the kitchen; and the windows
looked another way. Mrs. Hodgson had occasion to go to the pantry for
cheese and a pasty. She glanced through the small diamond panes towards
the orchard and the warm glow that was Jenny Ferret’s stick fire, “’Tis
a red rising moon. Will it freeze?” “Bad for the lambs if so be,” said
Farmer Hodgson, cutting the apple pasty. Paddy Pig did not improve; he
became worse. His mind wandered. He talked continually about red noses;
and he thought that there were green caterpillars in the manger. He
was so obsessed with red-nosed peepers that he would have bolted out
of the stable if his legs had been strong enough. “Someone must sit up
with him,” said Jenny Ferret, “I am no use; I’m only an old body. And
you, Sandy, ought to remain on guard at the camp. What is to be done?”
“I should esteem it a privilege to be permitted to act as nurse; I am
accustomed to night watching,” said Cheesebox, the smithy cat. She
had arrived with Mettle, hoping for a circus show; but the company
were so anxious about Paddy Pig that they felt unable to give any
performance. “I should esteem it a privilege to sit up with Mr. Patrick
Pig. At the same time I should prefer to have a colleague to share the
responsibility. Send for Mrs. Scales’ Mary Ellen. She has an invaluable
prescription for sick pigs. And she understands worm-in-tail,” said
Cheesebox; “had it been the time of the moon, we would have hung up
rowan berries in the stall. But failing that propicious season, she has
medicinal herbs of great virtue. Send for Mary Ellen!” Sandy looked
doubtful; “I presume she is another cat? I am afraid she might refuse
to come with me, if I went to fetch her. Could _you_ go, Pony Billy?
Are you too tired?” Pony Billy sighed the sigh of a weary horse; “Not
tired; not at all; but my shoes are past bearing. And here is Mettle
out for a lark; otherwise I would have gone to the smithy and had them
altered. In any case I was intending to fetch the tilt-cart.” “Go for
the cart before your shoes are changed, Billy. You left it over near to
Pringle Wood. I will undertake to have the hearth hot, long before you
will reach the smithy.”
Pony Billy paced across the meadow in the starlight. The hill of oaks
rose dark and black against the sky. On the ground beneath the trees
a few lights were twinkling: whether they were glowworms or red-noses
is uncertain, as Pony Billy did not go to look! On the outskirts of
the wood, under an eller bush, he found the little cart where he had
left it. He placed himself between the shafts and pulled—once, twice,
again—what a weight! Yet the baggage had all been lifted out, as well
as Xarifa and Tuppenny. Pony Billy tugged and pulled till he moved it
with a sudden plunge, that took both the cart and himself over the
bank into running water. Thousands of oak-apples washed out of the
cart-kist, and changed into sparkling bubbles. They floated away down
Wilfin Beck, dancing and glittering in the star-light. He crossed the
ford, and made his way to the smithy, without any further adventure.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XVII
The smithy was all aglow with a roaring fire on the hearth. Sparks were
flying. Hot fire-light flickered on the rafters overhead. It shone
upon a crowd of dogs and horses, and upon the gypsies’ donkey, Cuddy
Simpson, who was dozing in a corner. His head drooped; he rested a
strained fetlock wearily. Dogs barked; horses stamped; there was even
the merry feedle tweedle of a fiddle, to which the collies, Meg, and
Fly, and Glen warbled a treble chorus. And through all the din sounded
the tap, tap, tap! of Mettle’s little hammer on the anvil, and the
creaking of the bellows that another dog was blowing. The dog was Eddy
Tinker, the gypsy lurcher; and the hand-hold of the bellows was made of
a polished ox-horn. “Welcome, Pony Billy! but wait for Cuddy Simpson.
He has cast a foreshoe, and he is lame and weary. Wait till I fit him
with fairy shoes that will make him as lish as new legs. That’s why
the donkeys never die! They know the road to the fairy smithy!” “I can
wait,” said Pony Billy, who was fond of Cuddy Simpson.
Creak, creak! went the bellows, keeping time to the tune of Black Nag.
Louder still barked the dogs, and the horses stamped on the floor.
They talked of the good old days, when roads were made for horses,
“None of this tarry asphalt like a level river of glass; none of
this treacherous granite where we toil and slip and stumble, dragged
backward by our loads. None of these hooting lorries that force us
against the wall. Shrieking, oily, smelly monsters! and everybody has
one—the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker—even the fisherman
and the farmer. Where are the patient horses? Where is butcher’s
Ginger? and fishcart Fanny? and baker’s Tommy? Where is the hog-maned
mare with the shrapnel marks? Gone, gone—all gone to Oxo! I, Queeny
Cross, I, poor old mare, am the last nag left in a huckster’s cart. But
happen you like them, Mettle? you that work amongst iron and nails and
bolts?”
[Illustration]
“_I_ like them?” snarled Mettle, banging the hammer on the anvil,
“_I_ like those snorting juggernauts? I hate them as much as you do,
old Queen. They run over us dogs; they lame our cattle; they kill
our sheep.” (Ragman and Roy growled low.) “Think of the noble horses
in the grand old days of the road! Who needed a starting handle? Who
required to wind up a thoroughbred? Breed—give me breed!” barked
Mettle, “Will-Tom’s team in the Coniston coach for me! Now it’s rattle,
rumble, rattle, rattle, shriek, shriek, shriek! Gone are the pleasant
jog-trot days of peace. They have ruined the smithies and stolen the
roads. Shame upon the Big Folks!” said Mettle, banging on the anvil,
“even Mistress Heelis—her that was so fond of ponies—serve her right
to lose her clog!” “Where did she lose it, Mettle?” “Nay, that is a
mystery! It seemed to have clog danced right away and back. It came
home by Hawkeshead and it had been to Graythwaite. As to the how—”
(here Mettle interrupted his story to throw a shovelful of small coal
onto the hearth)—“as to the how she came to lose it, it was this
a-way. She had been on a long, long journey in one of these here
rattletraps; and when she got home and unpacked her luggage, she left
her clogs upon the shelf.” “What shelf was that, Mettle?” “What the
Big Folk that ride in motors call a ‘footboard,’ quite appropriate
for clogs. When the car went forth next morning there sat the pair
of clogs, still upon the footboard. They looked proud.” “One thing
surprises me,” interrupted white collie Fan, “does Mistress Heelis
really ever take her clogs off? I thought she went to bed in them?”
“They were off that day, sure,” said Mettle, leaning on the bellows
handle, “I saw them pass the smithy. They grinned at me; their buckles
winked. But when the car came home in the afternoon, there was only
one clog on the footboard, sitting by itself. The other one had fallen
off.” “Which foot’s clog was it, Mettle?” “Her best foot that she
puts foremost. She was sad. She inquired all over for her right-foot
clog; and she put a notice—LOST, A CLOG—in the window of the village
shop. The clog came home again after a while. My word! it had seen
some fun. Now it happened this a-way,” continued Mettle, turning the
donkey shoe with the tongs, and blowing white flame through the small
coal, “it happened this way.” The car took the bumpy road through the
woods by Eesbridge. The clogs joggled on the footboard; joggled and
giggled and nudged each other with their elbows; until—bump, bump,
bump! over a rise of the road, they came in sight of Joshy Campbell’s
tin-can-dinner-box and his big green gingham umbrella.
[Illustration]
Joshy was an old man with a reddish gray beard, who tidied the sides
of the roads. Always took out with him his tin-can-dinner-box, and his
great big bunchy umbrella. I never saw him use his umbrella; he carried
it always rolled up, to keep it out of the rain. All day, while Joshy
worked, the umbrella sat by the dyke, bolt upright and serious, with
a long, curved, hooky nose. And snuggled up beside it sat the dumpy
tin-can-dinner-box. When the clogs saw the umbrella they bounced up
with a shout—who-op! The left-foot clog bounced back upon the board and
continued to joy-ride; but the right-foot clog bounced right off. It
bounced onto the road and ran back—back, back, back! back to old Joshy
Campbell’s umbrella. The umbrella made a bow and stepped out of the
ditch; the dinner-box made a bob; the clog made a gambol; and away down
the road they all ran, hoppitty hop! without ever a stop, stoppitty
stop! or the slightest consideration for old Joshy Campbell. They ran
and they ran, and they hopped and they hopped. For a mile or two they
ran, and it was night before they stopped. Mettle drew the coal over
the donkey shoe with a little colrake, and plied the bellows.
“Where did they hop to; and stop at, Mettle?” “They hopped as far as
the middle of the great wood. It was darkish; but they could see to
follow the woodland track. For a long, long way they followed it,
winding amongst the bushes; until at length before them in the distance
they saw a pool of light. It was silvery, like moonlight; only it was
always streaming upwards; up from the ground, not downwards from the
sky above. The shining space was level, like the floor of a great
pitstead; it shone like a moonlit mere.
And on that shining floor were dancers—strange dancers they were!
Hundreds of filmy glittering dancers, dancing to silvery music;
thousands of tinkling, echoing murmurs from silver twigs and withered
leaves. And still from the dance floor a white light streamed, and
showed the dancing shoes that danced thereon—alone.
They tell me that in France there is a palace—a fairy palace; and
in that court, long mournful and deserted, there is a Hall of Lost
Footsteps, the Salle de Pas Perdus, where ghosts dance at night. But
this dance amongst the oak-woods was a dance of joyous memories. If
no feet were in the footgear, the shoes but danced more lightly. And
what shoes were not there? Shoes of fact and fable! Queen amongst the
dancers was a tiny glass slipper—footing it, footing it—in minuet
and stately gavotte. She danced with a cavalier boot; a high boot with
brown leather top. Step it, step it, high boot! Step it, little glass
slipper! The chimes will call you at midnight; ‘Cinderella’s carriage
stops the way! Room for the Marquis, the Grand Marquis of Carabas!
Make way for Puss-in-Boots!’ These two danced one-and-one; but beside
them danced a pair—Goody-two-shoes’ little red slippers. How they did
jet it, jet it, jet it in and out! And round about them danced other
shoes, other shoes dancing in hundreds. Broad shoes of slashed cloth;
and long-toed shoes with bells, that danced the milkmaid’s morris;
broad-toed shoes, and high-heeled shoes; jack-boots, and buckled shoes,
and shoes of Spanish leather, and pumps and satin sandals that jigged
in and out together.
And round about them—clump, clump, clump!—danced Mistress Heelis’
clog, clog dancing like a good one, with Joshy Campbell’s dinner-box
and the tall green gingham umbrella!
Only those two were different; all the other dancers were shoes; and
the main of them were horseshoes—shoes of all the brave horses that
ever were shod, in the good old days of the road. There were little
shoes of gallowways, and light shoes of thoroughbreds, and great shoes
of Clydesdales; and the biggest were the wagoners! “On they came
galloping, Ha halloo! Ha halloo! (Brill, the foxhound, lifted up her
voice—Ha halloo, ha halloo!)—galloping, galloping, Black Nag come
galloping! Hark to the timber wagons thundering down the drift road!”
shouted Mettle, banging on the anvil, “hark the ringing music of the
horseshoes—here’s—
‘Tap, tap, tappitty! trot, trot, trod!
Sing Dolly’s little shoes, on the hard high road!
Sing Quaker Daisey’s sober pace,
Sing high-stepping Peter, for stately grace.
Phoebe and Blossom, sing softly and low, dear dead horses of long ago;
Jerry and Snowdrop; black Jet and brown
Tom and Cassandra, the pride of the town;
Bobby and Billy gray, Gypsy and Nell;
More bonny ponies than I can tell;
Prince and Lady, Mabel and Pet;
Rare old Diamond, and Lofty and Bet.’
“Now for the wagoners! Hark to the trampling of the wagoners!” shouted
Mettle, banging on the anvil—“here’s—
‘Dick, Duke, Sally, and Captain true,
Wisest of horses that ever wore shoe,
Shaking the road from the ditch to the crown,
When the thundering, lumbering larch comes down.’”
“Ah, good old days! ah, brave old horses! Sing loud, sing louder, good
dogs!” barked Mettle, “sing, Pony Billy; sing up old Queenie, thou
last of the nags! Sing the right words, dogs, none of that twaddle! Now
sing all together; Keep time to the bellows—”
“‘D’ye ken John Peel with his coat so grey?
D’ye ken John Peel at the break of day?
D’ye ken John Peel when he’s far, far away,
With his hounds and his horn in the morning.
’Twas the sound of his horn call’d me from my bed.
And the cry of his hounds has me oft times led;
For Peel’s view halloa would ’waken the dead,
Or a fox from his lair in the morning.’”
Louder and merrier rose the hunting chorus, floating round the rafters
with the eddying smoke from the forge. Till the Big Folk, that slept up
above in Anvil Cottage, turned on their feather beds and dreamed that
they were fox hunting.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XVIII
The moon had risen by the time that Pony Billy—properly shod—trotted
away from the village smithy to fetch Mary Ellen. The empty tilt-cart
rattled at his heels; jumping forward into the harness like a live
thing downhill; trundling gaily along the level. The pebbles on the
road sparkled in the dazzling moonlight. Pony Billy blew puffs of
white breath from his nostrils, and he stepped high—tap-tap-tappitty!
prancing to the tune of the smithy song.
He amused himself with step-dancing over the shadows of the hedgerow
trees; black shadows flung across the silver road from hedgebank to
hedge. Down below in the reed beds a wild duck was quacking. A roe-deer
barked far off in Gallop Wood. White mist covered the Dub; the woods
lay twinkling in the moonlight.
Up hill and down hill, Pony Billy trotted on and on; and the woods
stretched mile after mile. The tall, straight tree-trunks gleamed
in white ranks; trees in hundreds of thousands. Pony Billy glanced
skeerily right and left. Almost he seemed to hear phantom galloping
horseshoes, as his own shoes pattered on the road. Almost he seemed to
see again the fairy dancers of Mettle’s story by the forge.
Shadows of a shadow! Was that the shadow of a little hooded figure,
flitting across a forest ride? and a dark prowling shadow that followed
her? Was the trotting shadow on the road beside him the shadow of
himself? Or was it the shadow of another pony? A little bay pony in
a pony trap, with an old woman and a bob-tailed dog, caught in a
snowstorm in the woods?
[Illustration]
But this white road was not white with snow; and they were real
overtaking footsteps that caused Pony Billy to spring forward with a
start of panic. Three roe-deer cantered by. Their little black hoofs
scarcely touched the ground, so lightly they bounded along. They made
playful grunting noises, and dared Pony Billy to catch them; he arched
his neck and trotted his best, while he “hinnied” in answer to the
deer. They bore him merry company for longer than a mile; sometimes
gambolling alongside; sometimes cantering on before.
On and on they travelled; through many miles of woods. Past the black
firs; past the sele bushes in the swamp; past the grove of yew trees
on the crags; past the big beech trees; uphill and down. Sometimes a
rabbit darted across their path. And once they saw two strange dwarfy
figures crossing the road in front of them—stumpy, waddling figures,
broad as they were long; running, running. The second trundled a
handbarrow; the foremost pulled it with a rope—there go the Oakmen!
Are those pissamoor hills in the glade? or are they tiny charcoal
settings on the pit-steads? The gambolling roe-deer kick up their
heels. They know the weight of Oakman Huddikin’s sledge in winter! But
this is spring. The dwarfy red-capped figures, running like two little
fat badgers, disappeared in the moonlight behind the Great Oak.
At length the woods grew thinner. There began to be moonlit clearings;
small parrocks where the Big Folk last summer had hung white streamers
on sticks, to scare the red stags from the potato drills. The friendly
roe-deer turned aside and left him, leaping a roadside fence, with a
flicker of white scuts.
Pony Billy by himself reached a lonely farm-steading; he was pleasantly
warm after his long brisk trot. He turned up a narrow yard between
manure heaps and a high stone building, that showed a white-washed
front to the moon. He passed the doors of byres. Sleepy cows mooed
softly; their warm sweet breath smelled through the door-slats. A
ring-widdie clinked, as a cow turned her head to listen to the wheels.
Pony Billy passed several more doors. Old Tiny, the sow, was snoring
peacefully behind one of them. He drew the cart round the end of the
shippon into a cobble-paved yard, where the wheels rumbled over the
stones. He went up to the back door of the house. There was no light
upstairs; the window panes twinkled in the moonlight. A faint red glow
showed through the kitchen window and under the back door.
Mary Ellen, the farm cat, sat within; purring gently, and staring at
the hot white ashes on the open hearth; wood ash that burns low, but
never dies for years. She sat on a dun-coloured deer-skin, spread on
the kitchen flags. Pots and pans, buckets, firewood, coppy stools,
cumbered the floor; and a great brown cream mug was set to warm before
the hearth against the morrow’s churning. The half-stone weight
belonging to the butter scales was on the board that covered the mug;
Mary Ellen had not been sampling the cream. She sat before the hot wood
ash and purred. Crickets were chirping. All else was asleep in the
silent house.
[Illustration]
Mary Ellen listened to the sounds of wheels and horseshoes, which
came right up to the porch. Pony Billy’s soft nose snuffled about the
latch. He struck a light knock on the door with a forward swing of his
forefoot. Mary Ellen arose from the hearth. She went towards the
door, and looked through a crack between the door and the door-jamb.
“Good-evening, good Pony; good-evening to you, Sir! I would bid you
come in by, only the door is locked. Snecks I can lift; but the key is
upstairs.” Pony Billy explained his errand through the crack.
“Dear, dearie me! poor, poor young pig!” purred Mary Ellen, “and me
shut up here, accidental-like, with the cream! Dearie, dearie me, now!
to think of that! Asleep in the clothes-swill, I was, when the door got
locked. Yes! indeed, I do understand pig powders and herbs and clisters
and cataplasms and nutritions and triapharmacons etcy teera, etcy
teera!” purred Mary Ellen, “but pray, how am I to be got out, without
the door key?” Pony Billy pawed the cobblestones with an impatient hoof.
“Let me see, good Mr. Pony, do you think that you could push away that
block of wood that is set against a broken pane in the pantry window?
Yes? Now I will put on my shawly shawl; so,” purred Mary Ellen, “so! I
am stout, and the hole is small. Dearie, dearie me! what a squeeze! I
am afraid of broken glass. But there is nothing like trying!” purred
Mary Ellen, safely outside upon the pantry window-sill. “Now I can jump
down into your cart, if you will back, under the windy pindy.” “First
rate! Are you ready, M’mam?” said Pony Billy, backing against the wall
with a bump.
“Oh, dearie me! I have clean forgotten the herbs; I must climb in
again! Bunches and bunches of herbs!” purred Mary Ellen, pausing on the
window-sill, above the cart. “My Mistress Scales grows a plant of rue
on purpose for poor sick piggy-wiggies. Herb of Grace!” purred Mary
Ellen, “what says old Gerard in the big calfskin book? ‘St. Anthony’s
fire is quenched therewith; it killeth the shingles. Twelve pennyweight
of rue is a counter-poison to the poison of wolfs-bane; and mushrooms;
and TOADSTOOLS; and the bite of serpents; and the sting of scorpions,
and hornets, and bees, and wasps; in-so-much that if the weasel is to
fight the serpent, she armeth herself by eating rue.’ Toadstools! it
says so in the big book! the very thing!” purred Mary Ellen, squeezing
inside, and disappearing into the pantry. “Bunches and bunches of
herbs,” she purred, struggling out again through the broken window;
“bunches and bunches hanging from the kitchen ceiling! And a pot of
goose-grease on the jam board; and a gun. And onions. And a lambing
crook. And a fishing rod. And a brass meat-jack that winds up.”
“Am I to take all these things, M’mam?” inquired Pony Billy. “Bless
me no! only the herbs,” purred Mary Ellen, seating herself in the
cart. But no sooner had Pony Billy turned it in the yard, preparing
to start homewards, “Oh, dearie, dearie me! I’ve forgot my fur-lined
boots! No, not through the window this time. I keep my wardrobe in the
stick-house. And I would like an armful of brackens in the cart-kist,
to keep my footsies warm, please Mr. Pony Billy.” “We shall get away
sometime!” thought Pony William.
Once set off, Mary Ellen sat quietly enough; never moving anything
excepting her head, which she turned sharply from side to side, at the
slightest rustle in the woods, hoping to see rabbits. The roe-deer
did not show themselves again. The journey back to Codlin Croft Farm
was uneventful. Mary Ellen was set down safely at the stable door.
Cheesebox welcomed her effusively.
After assuring himself that Paddy Pig was still alive and kicking, Pony
Billy dragged the tilt-cart into the orchard, and tipped it up beside
the caravan. Himself he went up to the haystack for a well-earned bite
of supper. Afterwards he lay down on the west side of the stack; and
slept there, sheltered from the wind.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIX
Mary Ellen was a fat tabby cat with sore eyes, and white paws, and an
unnecessarily purry manner. If people only looked at her she purred,
and scrubbed her head against them. She meant well; but she drove Paddy
Pig wild. “Was it a leetle sick piggy-wiggy? was it cold then?” purred
Mary Ellen, working her claws into the horseblanket and squirming it
upwards. The result was that the top of the blanket got into Paddy
Pig’s mouth, whilst his hind feet were left bare and cold.
“Bless its little pettitoes! No, it must not kick its blanket off its
beddee beddee!” “What, what, what? I’m snuffocated! Sandy! Sandy! Take
away this cat! I’m skumfished!” “Was it a leetle fidgetty pidgetty—”
“Sandy, I say! Take away this awful cat!” screamed Paddy Pig.
At that moment Cheesebox entered the stable carrying a jug of rue tea,
“He sounds very fractious. Keep him flat, Mary Ellen.” Paddy Pig sat up
violently under the blanket, “Bring me a bucketful of pig-wash! None
of your cat lap!” “Rue tea,” purred Mary Ellen; “my Mrs. Scales always
prescribes nice rue tea in a little china cuppy cuppy, for poor sick
piggy-wiggies with tummyakies.”
Paddy Pig swallowed the rue tea, under protest. He was sick immediately
in spite of the expostulations of the two cats. Maggret, the mare in
the next stall, blew her nose and stamped. After he had exhausted
himself with kicking and squealing, Paddy Pig sank into uneasy slumber.
But every time he turned over he kicked off the blanket, and there was
another cat fight.
Towards midnight he grew quieter. The cats sat up all night; wide awake
and watchful. There were noises of rats in the old walls of the stable;
and noises of night birds without. Twice during the small hours of the
morning Sandy’s black nose appeared under the stable door. He listened
to the patient’s uneasy breathing, and then returned to his straw bed
underneath the caravan.
At 2 A. M. the cats made themselves a dish of tea (proper tea, made of
tea leaves). It enlivened them to endless purring conversations. They
gossiped about other cats of their acquaintance. About our cat Tamsine,
and her fifteenth family of kittens. And how Tamsine once was lost for
a whole week, and came home very thin. And after all, she had been no
further off than the next-door house, which was shut up empty, while
the tenants had gone away for a week’s holiday. But what had Tamsine
been doing to get herself locked up in the next-door pantry, I wonder?
“Perhaps she was catching dear little mousy mousies,” purred Mary
Ellen. “She did not look as though she had eaten many. And to think
that her people had heard her mewing, and had searched for her high
and low, never guessing that the next-door house was locked up empty!”
“And there was Maidie, too! oh, what a sad, sad accident! Caught in a
rabbit trap, poor love! She has limped about on only three footsies
ever since.” “That comes of rabbitting,” said Cheesebox, who was a
stay-at-home cat; “I used to know a black cat called Smutty, who caught
moles alive, and brought them into the kitchen.” “What, what, what!
Will you be quiet, you horrid old cats? I want to go to sleep!”
“A sweet pussy pussy is Tamsine. Whose kitten was she?” resumed Mary
Ellen, after renewed struggles with the patient and the blanket. “Whose
kitten? She was Judy’s kitten, only, of course, she was not Judy’s.
Judy had a fat big kitten of her own in the hayloft; and one day she
brought in a much younger young kitten, the smallest that ever was
seen. It was so very tiny it could sit inside a glass tumbler. Goodness
knows where Judy had picked it up! She carried it into the house and
put it down before the fire on the hearth rug. Judy nursed it, and it
grew up into Tamsine; but it was not Judy’s kitten.” “She was a fine
cat, old Judy; such a splendid ratter.” “Tamsine is a rubbish; she
will not look at a rat; and she plays with mice, which is as silly as
trying to educate them. Did you ever hear of Louisa Pussycat’s mouse
seminary?” “No? Never! does she bury the dear little things? I always
eat them.” “I did not say ‘cemetery,’ I said ‘seminary.’ ‘Seminary’ is
the genteel word for school; Miss Louisa Pussycat is very genteel.
“One night I went to town to buy soap and candles, and I thought I
might as well call at the Misses Pussycats’ shop, as I was passing.
On my way through the square I saw Louisa coming down the steps from
the loft over the stores. She had purchases in a basket, and she was
on her way homewards. We passed the time of night, and inquired after
each other’s kittens. Then, as I had hoped, she invited me to step
in and drink a cup of tea, and inspect the latest spring fashions
from Catchester. As we went along the cat-walk, she told me how she
had commenced to keep a mouse seminary in addition to conducting the
millinery business.”
[Illustration]
She said, ‘It is remarkable how character can be moulded in early
youth; you would scarcely credit the transformation which I achieve
with my mice, Cheesebox.’ I inquired, ‘Do you use porcelain moulds
or tin, Louisa?’ ‘Character, Cheesebox; I refer to the amelioration
of disposition and character; not to compote of mouse. I mould and
educate their minds. I counteract bad habits by admonition, by rewards,
and—a’hem—by judicious weeding out. Recalcitrant pupils whose example
might prove deleterious are fried for supper by Matilda. _I_ never
have any trouble with dunces or drones. My pupils excel especially in
application, and in exemplary perseverance. This very night I have left
the whole seminary industriously occupied with the task of sorting two
pounds of rice, which I have inadvertently poured into the moist sugar
canister. Think of the time which it would have cost me to retrieve
those grains of rice myself! But—thanks to my indefatigable mice—I
am free to go out shopping; and my sister Matilda is drinking tea with
friends, whilst my mouse seminary is sorting rice and sugar under the
superintendence of my favourite pupil, Tilly-dumpling. I have also
taught my mice to count beans into dozens, and to sift oatmeal into a
chestnut.’ ‘Dear me, Louisa,’ said I, getting a word in edgeways, ‘are
their fingers clean enough to handle groceries? I always think one can
smell mice in a store cupboard?’ ‘_My_ mice, Cheesebox, _always_ lick
their fingers before touching food.’ ‘Really? and can you trust them
with cheese?’ ‘We have—a’hem—a china cheese cover, which the mice are
unable to raise. But for ordinary household duties—such as tidying and
dusting—their assistance is invaluable. And they call me punctually at
8.30—I should say 7.30—I sit up late, you know, trimming bonnets.’
“At this point of the conversation, we turned a corner, and came in
sight of the milliner’s shop; a little steep, three-storied house
with diamond panes in the windows. (They call it Thimble Hall.) The
house was lighted up; not only the shop, but also the parlour, which
the Misses Pussycats only used on Sundays. ‘Dear me, Louisa, do you
allow your mice to burn candles?’ ‘A’hem—no. It is an indiscretion,’
said Louisa, feeling in her pocket for her latchkey. Even before
the key was in the lock, we could hear patterings, squeakings, and
shrill laughter. ‘Your pupils seem to be merry, Louisa?’ ‘It must
be that little wretch Tilly Didlem, who eats comfits in school. I
will have mouse sausage for supper,’ said Louisa, opening the house
door hurriedly. As we entered the passage, we encountered a smell of
toffee; and something boiled over on the parlour fire with a flare-up.
There was pitter pattering and scurrying into mouse-holes; followed
by silence. We looked into the parlour; the fire had been lighted
upon a weekday; and upon the fire was a frying-pan. ‘Toffee! Mouse
toffee! Toffee with lemon in it. I’ll toffee you! I will bake the whole
seminary in a pasty!’ ‘When you catch them, Louisa. After all—when the
cat’s away the mice will play!’
“I fancy that was the end of the Misses Pussycats’ mouse seminary.
Since then they have been content to manage the bonnet shop.”
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XX
Paddy Pig continued to be poorly all next day; poorly and very
feverish. The circus company were concerned and worried. It added to
their anxiety that they should be detained so long at Codlin Croft
Farm. The farm animals and poultry were becoming troublesome; Sandy was
almost as tired of Charles the cock, as Paddy Pig was of Mary Ellen the
cat.
“A change of air might do Paddy Pig good. It strikes me his illness
is largely imagination and temper; listen how he is squealing!” said
Sandy to Pony Billy. “I do not like to take the responsibility of
removing him without advice,” said the cautious pony, “suppose it
should prove to be measles?” Sandy had an inspiration, “Could we not
consult the veterinary retriever?” “Would he come, think you? You and
your friend, Eddy Tinker, bit him rather shabbily, two of you at once.”
“Perhaps he would come if _you_ asked him, Pony William. If you would
ask him nicely; and take my apologies with this large bone.” “Where did
you find that large bone, Alexander?” “In the ashpit, I assure you,
William, it smells.” “It does,” said Pony Billy; “I’m tired of trotting
on the roads; but I suppose it must be done. The sooner we get away to
the moors the better for all of us.”
“Jenny Ferret says Xarifa has rubbed her nose with gnawing the wires
of her cage; and Tuppenny’s hair is all tangled again for want of
being brushed. But it is not safe to let them out, with all these
strange dogs and cats; and Charles is not to be trusted for pecking.
Look at the poultry crowding round the caravan! Mrs. Hodgson has been
calling ‘chuck! chuck!’ all the afternoon, but the hens won’t go home
to lay. And the worst of it is they are all clamouring to see the
Pigmy Elephant.” “Tell them he has caught a cold in his trunk.” “That
would be too near the truth; they must not guess that Paddy Pig is the
elephant.”
Pony Billy thought for a moment. “Say the elephant has gone to
Blackpool.” “Now that’s a good idea! And if Charles asks me any more
impertinent questions, I’ll pull his tail feathers out.”
Pony Billy looked serious; “Such a proceeding would be a poor return
for the hospitality of Codlin Croft. Give them some sort of a show,
Sandy, while I am away. Consult Jenny Ferret.”
So Pony Billy trotted away once more; and Sandy and Jenny Ferret
determined to give the best performance that could be arranged under
the circumstances. Iky Shepster flew round with invitations gratis;
and there was quite a “full house” in the orchard. There were ducks,
pigs, poultry, turkeys, two farm dogs, and the cat, (which was a great
disappointment for the mice who had counted upon coming). And there
were also four calves, a cow, a pet lamb, and a number of sparrows.
“It would have meant a good bit of corn for us if they had all paid for
tickets,” said Sandy, regretfully, “but then the sparrows would not
have come; and I have doubts about Charles. He would never have taken
tickets for all those hens.”
Sandy was inspecting the audience through a hole in an old curtain
which was hung on the line between two clothes-props. Behind the
curtain was a small platform (in fact, a box wrong-side up); and
behind the platform were the steps of the caravan. So the stage was
conveniently situated in front of the caravan door. Iky Shepster
directed the performance from the roof above.
“Are you all seated? (Pull the curtain, Sandy.) Cow! pigs, poultry!
and gentlemen—” (murmurs and churtlings from Charles) “dogs, cat,
poultry, and gentlemen, I beg to explain that a concatenation of
unforeseen circumstances has caused this performance to be curtailed
gratis” (hear, hear, chirped the sparrows) “because Mr. Pony William
isn’t here, and Mr. Patrick Pig is unwell, and the Pigmy Elephant has
gone to Blackpool, wherefore—” “Cluck, cur, cluck, cuck-cluck! when
do you expect him back?” interrupted Charles. “—has gone to Blackpool
for a month, wherefore the rest of us will present a dramatic sketch
in six scenes accompanied by recitation. I should also say the Live
Polecats and Weasels are poorly but the Fat Dormouse of Salisbury will
be exhibited in a cage on account of that cat; likewise the Sultan—”
“Cluck, cur, cluck, cluck, cluck! my hens would prefer not to see the
polecats.” “You ain’t going to see them. Act I, Scene I,” said Iky
Shepster.
The door of the caravan opened and Jenny Ferret came down the steps on
to the stage. She did always dress like an old woman, but this time she
was dressed more so; she wore a white-frilled mutch cap and spectacles.
She carried a plate and was followed by Sandy. Iky Shepster up above
recited—
“Old Mother Hubbard she went to the cupboard,
To get her poor doggie a bone,
When she got there—the cupboard was bare,
And so the poor doggie had none!”
Jenny Ferret looked inside an up-ended, perfectly empty biscuit
canister (which was the only piece of furniture on the stage); in dumb
show she condoled with Sandy, who was begging pathetically. Then they
both bundled up the steps out of sight into the caravan. “Cluck, cur,
cluck, cluck, cluck! I’ve heard that before,” said Charles. “Did not he
act it natural?” said one farm-dog to the other. “Not a single crumb!
Fye! what bad housekeeping!” cackled the hens. “Scene II,” said Iky
Shepster.
“She went to the barber’s to buy him a wig,
When she came back he was dancing a jig!”
For this scene Sandy came on first by himself; he danced a lively “pas
seul,” spinning round and pirouetting. Jenny Ferret came out on the
steps with a wisp of gray horse-hair in her hand to represent the wig;
she stood in an attitude of admiration watching Sandy. Then she retired
into the caravan; and after a few more twirls, Sandy fell flop upon the
stage with all his legs in the air. “What’s the matter with him? is he
ill?” asked the ducks. “Cuck, cur, cluck—” began Charles. “Scene III,”
said Iky Shepster, hastily,
“She went to the baker’s to buy him some bread,
When she came back the poor dog was dead!”
Jenny Ferret wrung her hands over the prostrate Sandy. The cow appeared
deeply shocked. “Scene IV,” said Iky Shepster, after Jenny Ferret had
gone back into the caravan, carrying the unwanted loaf wrapped in
newspaper.
“She went to the joiner’s to buy him a coffin,
When she came back the poor dog was laughing!”
“Cuck, cur, cluck! I’ve heard the whole of this before,” said Charles.
“She went to the butcher’s to buy him some tripe,
When she came back, he was smoking a pipe!”
“Cuck, cur, cluck! that, I have certainly heard,” said Charles. Sandy
was becoming so angry that he could scarcely hold the pipe in his
mouth, or restrain himself from jumping off the stage at Charles.
“Scene VI,” said Iky Shepster severely, to the audience, who, however,
were all listening with respectful attention, excepting Charles. “Scene
VI, which _none_ of you can have heard before, because I only invented
it this minute (play up, Sandy!).”
“She went to the grocer’s to buy him some cheese,
When she came back the poor dog did sneeze!”
Sandy relieved his indignation by letting off a terrific “K’tishoo!”
“Scene VII and last,” said Iky Shepster.
“The dame made a curtsey, the dog made a bow,
The dame said, ‘Your servant’; the dog said ‘Bow-wow!’”
“Cluck, cluck, cluck! very good, very good!” said Charles the cock;
while the birds clapped their wings, and the dogs barked applause.
“Now, Charles, get on the platform yourself and give us something.”
“Certainly, with pleasure,” said Charles. Up he flew and commenced—
“This is the cock that crowed in the morn,
That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,
That married the man all tattered and torn.
That kissed the maiden all forlorn,
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,
That tossed the dog that worried the cat,
That killed the rat that ate the malt,
That lay in the house that Jack built.”
“Well done, Charles! A tale that was told in the city of Ur, of the
Chaldees; and none the less interesting, although we _have_ heard it
before!”
The entertainment concluded with a few conjuring tricks performed by
Iky Shepster, who was an adept at causing things to disappear. Xarifa’s
scissors were still missing, and the teaspoons were a short count.
Jenny Ferret was indignant; she reproached the bird continually. “If
you scold me any more I shall fly away without giving notice,” said
Iky Shepster, sulkily. “That is a loss we could put up with!” grumbled
Jenny Ferret; “it is my belief you are feathering your nest with
teaspoons. And what for are you picking off red currant blossoms? You
and that hen starling? Is it a wedding?”
Iky Shepster laughed and chittered and flew to the top of the chimney
stack. He fluttered his wings and whistled to the setting sun, and to
a very pretty speckled starling, perched on the next chimney pot. The
ducks waddled home from the orchard. The hens became tired of waiting
for the Pigmy Elephant and came home to roost. The camp was left in
peace. There were white violets under the orchard hedge, they smelled
very sweet in the evening.
“Jenny Ferret—please—please let me out! I want to brush Tuppenny’s
hair; I want to come out, Jenny Ferret!” said Xarifa, scrubbing her
nose between the wires of her cage, and tugging at the bars with little
pink hands.
“I cannot let you come out, Xarifa. The farm cat is sitting on the
pig-stye roof; it sits there all day long, watching us.” “Is that why
the mice could not come?” “Yes, it is. The sparrows said so. Four mice
had come from Hill Top Farm on purpose to see the circus; and five
others came from Buckle Yeat and the Currier. They are in the granary
now, hiding behind a corn-bin.” Xarifa gnawed the bars with vexation.
“I did want to see those Hill Top mice again, Jenny Ferret; Cobweb and
Dusty and Pippin and Smut. Is there no way of asking them to tea?” “You
would not like the cat to catch them, Xarifa.” A tear trickled down
Xarifa’s nose.
Jenny Ferret was a good-natured old thing. She said Xarifa and Tuppenny
deserved a treat—that they did! and Sandy agreed with her. So he
consulted Tappie-tourie, the speckled hen. Tappie-tourie talked to
the sparrows who roost in the ivy on the walls of the big barn. And
the sparrows twittered through the granary window, and talked to
the mice, behind the corn-bin. They told the mice that it would be
quite—quite—safe, on Sandy’s word of honour, to tie themselves up in
a meal bag, which Sandy would carry to the caravan.
In the meantime Jenny Ferret had made preparations for a mouse party;
cake, tea, bread and butter, and jam and raisins for a tea party; and
comfits, and currants, lemonade, biscuits, and toasted cheese for a
dance supper party to follow. She brewed the tea beforehand, because
the teapot would be too heavy for the dormouse; so she covered it up
with a tea-cosey. Then she unfastened Xarifa’s cage and Tuppenny’s
hamper, and the string of the meal-bag; bolted the windows of the
caravan, and came out; she locked the door on the outside, and gave the
key to Sandy. Sandy had business elsewhere; and Jenny Ferret was quite
content to spend the night curled up in a rug on top of the caravan
steps, listening to the merriment within.
And a merry night it was! One of the mice had brought a little fiddle
with him, and another had a penny whistle, and all of them were
singers and dancers. They came tumbling out of the bag in a crowd, all
dusty-white with meal. No wonder Sandy had found the sack rather heavy!
There were four visitor mice from Hill Top Farm, and five from Buckle
Yeat and the Currier; and there were no less than nine from Codlin
Croft.
While they tidyed and dusted themselves, Xarifa brushed Tuppenny’s
hair. When they were all snod and sleek, she peeped under the
tea-cosey, “The tea is brewed, we will lift the lid and ladle it out!
I will use my best doll’s tea service. Please, Pippin and Dusty, sing
us a catch, while Tuppenny and I set the table. First we will have
songs and tea, and then a dance and a supper, and then more singing and
dancing, and you won’t go home till morning!”
Pippin clapped his little paws, “Oh, what fun! how good of old Jenny
Ferret, to cheat the pig-stye cat!” And he and Dusty sang with shrill
treble voices—
“Dingle, dingle, dowsie! Ding, dong, dell!
Doggie’s gone to Hawkshead, gone to buy a bell!
Tingle, ringle, ringle! Ding, dong, bell!
Laugh, little mousie! Pussy’s in the well!”
Then Cobweb sang, “Who put her? Little Tommy Thin!” and Pippin
repeated, “Who put her in? Who pulled her out?” (“Who put her in?”
chimed in Dusty.) “Who pulled her out? Little Tommy Stout!” sang Smut.
(“Who pulled her out?”) Then all the mice sang together—
“What a naughty boy was that,
For to drown our pussy cat;
Who never did him any harm,
And caught all the mice in Grand-da’s big barn!”
“But Pussy did not catch quite all of us!” laughed Pippin. He started
another glee—
“Dickory, dickory, dock! the mouse ran up the clock!”
(Each mouse took up the song a bar behind the last singer—Dickory,
dickory, dock!) The clock struck one—(The mouse ran up the clock) Down
the mouse run—(The clock struck one) Down the mouse run—dickory,
dickory, dock!
There was singing and laughing and dancing still going on in the
caravan when Sandy came back in the morning.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXI
Now while the mice were merry-making in the caravan, all sorts of
things were happening in the stable. Paddy Pig continued to be feverish
and restless; he kicked off the blanket as fast as the cats replaced
it. “His strength is well maintained,” said Cheesebox after a renewed
struggle, “we must keep him on a low diet.” “What! what! what? I’m
hungry,” squealed the patient; “fetch me a bucketful of pig-wash, I
say! I’m hungry!” “Possibly he might be granted a teeny weeny bit of
fish; the fisher-cart comes round from Flookborough on Wednesdays,”
purred Mary Ellen. “I won’t eat it! flukes are full of pricky bones.
Fetch me pig-wash and potatoes!” “I could pick it for you if you
fancied a little fish—” “I don’t want fish, I tell you. I want
potatoes!” grumbled Paddy Pig. He closed his eyes and pretended to
snore. “He sleeps,” purred Mary Ellen. “Which of us shall sit up first?
We might as well take turns,” said Cheesebox, who was growing a trifle
tired of Mary Ellen’s purring. “I will watch first, dear Cheesebox,
while you take forty winky peepies.”
Mary Ellen composed herself beside Paddy Pig with her paws tucked under
her. Paddy Pig sulked. Maggret, the mare, dozed in the stall nearest to
the window. There was some reflected moonlight through the small dusty
panes, but the stable was very dark.
Cheesebox jumped nimbly onto the manger, and thence into the hay-rack,
wherein was some foisty hay, long undisturbed, to judge by three
doubtful eggs in a forgotten hen nest. Cheesebox curled herself up
in the hay. Over head cobwebs hung from the broken plaster of the
ceiling; there were cracks between the laths, and holes in the floor of
the loft above.
The stable had been well appointed in old days. The tailposts of the
stalls were handsomely carved, and on each were nailed the antlers
of deer. The points served as pegs for hanging up the harness. But
all had become neglected, broken, and dark; the corn-bin was patched
with tin, and the third backmost stall was full of lumber. A slight
noise amongst the lumber drew the attention of Cheesebox; a climbing,
scratching noise, followed by the pattering of rat’s feet over the
loft above. Mary Ellen, in the stall below, stopped purring. Cheesebox
listened intently. There were many pattering footsteps. More and more
rats were assembling. “There must be a committee meeting; a congress
of rats,” thought Cheesebox, very wide awake. The noise and squeaking
increased, until there was a sound of rapping on a box for silence. “I
move that the soapbox-chair be taken by Alder-rat Squeaker. Seconded
and carried unanimously.” “First business?” said old Chair Squeaker,
in a rich suetty voice. “First business, please?” But there seemed to
be neither first nor last; all the rats squeaked at once, and the
Chair-rat thumped in vain upon the soapbox. “One at a time, please!
You squeak first! No, not you. Now be quiet, you other rats! I call
upon Brother Chigbacon to address the assembly. Now, Brother Chigbacon,
squeak up!” “Mr. Chair-rat and Brother Rat-men, I rise from a sense
of cheese—I should say duty, so to squeak. I represent the stable
rats, so to squeak, what is left of us, so to squeak, being only me
and Brother Scatter-meal. Mr. Chair-rat, we being decimated. A horrid
squinting, hideous old cat named Cheesebox—” (Mary Ellen looked up at
the hay-rack and grinned from ear to ear; Cheesebox’s tail twitched)
“—a mangy, skinny-tailed, scraggy, dirty old grimalkin, is decimating
us. What is to be done, Mr. Chair-rat and Brother Rat-men? We refer
ourselves to the guidance of your united wisdom and cunning!”
[Illustration]
The loud, noisy squeaking recommenced; all the rats squeaked different
advice, and old Chair Squeaker thumped upon the soapbox. At length
amongst the jumble of squeaks, a resolution was put before the meeting
by Ratson Nailer, a pert young rat from the village shop. He proposed
that a bell be stolen and hung by a ribbon round the neck of that
wicked green-eyed monster, the ugliest, greediest, slyest cat in the
whole village; “But with a bell round her neck we would always hear her
coming, in spite of her velvet slippers.”
Every rat voted for this proposal except old Chair Squeaker. He was a
rat of many winters, renowned for extracting cheese from every known
make of rat-trap without setting off the spring. “Why don’t you vote?
What’s your objection, old Chair Squeaker?” inquired Ratson Nailer,
pertly. “No objection,” replied old Chair Squeaker, “none whatever! But
tell me—who is going to bell the cat?” No one answered.
Cheesebox reached up, standing on her hind legs in the hay-rack;
she-applied her green eyes to a crack between the boards of the loft
floor. Instantly there was a rush, a scurry, and the assembly of rats
dispersed.
Cheesebox jumped down into the stall; her tail was thick, her fur stood
on end. Mary Ellen very unwisely was still shaking with laughter.
Cheesebox walked up to Mary Ellen. She boxed Mary Ellen’s ears with her
claws out. Mary Ellen, with a howl, jumped into the hay-rack; Cheesebox
followed her. They sat in the hay, making horrible cat noises and
cuffing each other, to the intense annoyance of the mare in the stall
below.
As for Paddy Pig—who had really been enjoying a good sleep at
last—Paddy Pig screamed with rage and yelled for Sandy.
While the uproar was at its height, the stable door opened, and Sandy
came in carrying a lantern, and followed by the veterinary retriever
and Pony Billy. The retriever was a large, important dog with a
hurrying, professional manner, copied from his master. He came rapidly
into the stall, wearing a long blue overcoat, and examined the patient
through a pair of large horn spectacles. The cats glared down at him
from the hay-rack.
“Put your tongue out and say R.” “What, what, what? It’s bad manners?”
objected Paddy Pig. “Put your tongue out, or I’ll bite you!” “What,
what, what?”
“The patient does not appear to be amenable to treatment; but I can
perceive no rash; nothing which would justify me in diagnosing measles”
(dognosing, he pronounced it). “I am inclined to dog-nose iracundia,
arising from tormenta ventris, complicated by feline incompatibility.
But, in order to make certain, I will proceed to feel the patient’s
pulse. Where is the likeliest spot to find the pulse of a pig, I
wonder?” “Try feeling his tail,” suggested Pony William. “I have no
watch,” said the retriever, “but the thermometer will do just as well.
Hold it to the lantern, Sandy, while I count.” “It does not seem to go
up,” said Sandy, much mystified. “That settles it,” said the retriever,
“I felt sure I was not justified in dog-nosing measles, We will now
proceed to administer an emetic—I mean to say an aperient. Has anybody
got a medicine glass?” “There is a drenching horn in that little
wall cupboard behind the door,” said Maggret, who was watching the
proceedings with
[Illustration: Poor Paddy Pig!]
much interest over the side of her stall. “Capital!” said the
retriever, “hold the bottle please, Sandy, while I dust the horn. It’s
chock-full of cobwebs.” Sandy shook the bottle; “I partly seem to know
the smell,” said he. He held it beside the lantern and spelled out the
label—“Appodyldock. What may that be?”
The retriever displayed some anxiety to get the bottle away from him.
“Be careful; the remedy is extremely powerful.”
“Excuse me,” purred a cat’s voice from the hay-rack overhead, “excuse
me—appodyldock is not for insides. My poor dear Granny-ma, Puss Cat
Mew, had appodyldock rubbed on her back where she got burnt by a hot
cinder while she was sitting in the fender. Appodyldock is poison.”
“In spite of our differing I agree with you,” said another cat’s voice
in the hay-rack, “appodyldock is for outward application only.” “Stuff
and nonsense!” said the veterinary retriever, drawing the cork out of
the bottle with his teeth. “Stuff and nonsense! Here goes—” “What!
what! what! if you poison me again, I’ll scream!” remonstrated the
patient. “I seem to remember the smell,” said Sandy. “Quite likely,”
said the retriever; “since there is going to be all this fuss I may as
well tell you it’s castor oil that I have in the bottle.” “What, what?
Castor—ugh! ugh! ugh!” choked Paddy Pig, as they poked the drenching
horn into the corner of his mouth and dosed him.
“A good, safe, old-fashioned remedy, Paddy Pig,” said Pony William.
“Now go to sleep, and you will wake up quite well in the morning. As
a matter of fact, I don’t think there is much wrong with you now.” “I
think one dose will cure me. But, Pony Billy, come here, I want to
whisper. For goodness sake—send away those cats!” Pony Billy took
the hint, and acted with tact; “Mary Ellen, we are extremely obliged
to you for your invaluable attention to the invalid. I shall be
pleased to trot you home to Stott Farm, provided you can go at once,
before the moon sets. Cheesebox, we are equally indebted to you for
your self-sacrificing devotion. I may tell you there are four rats
quarreling in the granary, and one of them sounds like Ratson Nailer.”
Cheesebox jumped out of the stable window without another word.
Mary Ellen—after making sure that the veterinary retriever had
left—Mary Ellen climbed down into the stall and tucked up the patient
for the last time. “Was it a poor leetle sick piggy then—” “What,
what, what! Here, I say! Sandy, Sandy!” “Lie still then. I’m only
seeking my fur-lined boots, they are somewhere in poor piggy’s beddee
beddee.” “Come, Mary Ellen; the moon is setting. Good-night, Paddy Pig,
and pleasant dreams.”
“Now we shall have some peace! Those two are worse than the rats,” said
Maggret, lying down heavily in her stall. Paddy Pig was already snoring.
The sun rose next day upon a glorious May morning. Paddy Pig, a little
thinner than usual, sat by the camp fire, displaying a hearty appetite
for breakfast.
“No more toadstool tartlets for me! Give me another plateful of
porridge, Jenny Ferret!”
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXII
It is never quite dark during spring nights in the north. All through
the twilight night Charles kept crowing. He was calling the circus
company to breakfast, strike camp, and away, before the sun came up.
Jenny Ferret’s fire still smouldered; she heaped on sticks to boil the
kettle. There was hustling, and packing up, and clucking of hens, and
barking of dogs. “Is all taken back that we borrowed?” asked Sandy, “I
am answerable to honest old Bobs. What about that meal-bagful of mice,
Xarifa?” “Please, Sandy, the Codlin Croft mice are tied up ready.”
“Why only the mice of Codlin Croft? where are the other nine?” “Please,
please, Sandy, might they ride to the top of Cuckoo Brow? Then they
could run home all the way inside the fence. They were afraid of owls.
And besides, I did so want them to meet Belinda Woodmouse, we are sure
to see her.” “In short, they have remained; and they must be pulled,”
said Pony Billy, good-humouredly. “Here’s a worse difficulty! Who is
going to pull the tilt-cart? Paddy Pig is not fit for it,” said Jenny
Ferret, hurrying up with an armful of circus trappings. “That’s all
arranged,” said Pony Billy, “come along, Cuddy Simpson!”
The gypsies’ donkey walked into the orchard, on Mettle’s four new
shoes. “Here come I, fit and ready to pull a dozen pigs! Good friends,
I’ll go with you to the hills for a summer’s run on the grass. Fetch me
a straw rope, Sandy; I’m too big for Paddy Pig’s breast-straps.”
“Sandy! Sandy!” cried Jenny Ferret, “the tent-pole has been forgotten,
and our little bucket at the well. Bother that crowing cock! Where is
Iky Shepster?” The starling laughed and whistled; but he refused to
leave the chimney stack.
Paddy Pig was installed in the cart, to ride in state; he was wrapped
in a shawl and treated like an invalid; but he was in the highest
possible spirits. He played the fiddle, and squealed and joked. Sandy
marched in front of the procession with his tail tightly curled. The
cavalcade set off up the lane amidst the acclamations of the poultry
and dogs.
Cuckoo Brow Lane is a bonny spot in spring, garlanded with hawthorn and
wild cherry blossom. It skirts the lower slopes of the hill that rises
behind Codlin Croft. The meadows on their left were bathed in pearly
dew; the lane still lay in the shadow of dawn; the sun had not yet
topped the Brow. As it rose, its beams touched the golden tops of the
oak trees in Pringle Wood; and a faint smell of bluebells floated over
the wall, Paddy Pig fiddled furiously, “I’ll play them ‘Scotch Cap’!
I’ll pop the weasel at them! Never again will I cross plank bridges
into that abominable wood. Gee up, gee up! get along, Cuddy Simpson!”
The gypsies’ donkey trundled the cart through the dead leaves in the
lane; steadily pulling in the wake of the caravan.
Tuppenny, Xarifa, and the visitor mice were all peeping through the
muslin curtains. “Is the wood full of fairies, Xarifa?” “Hush, till
we get across the water; then I will tell you!” “Here, you mice,
let me brush up the crumbs, I want to open all the windows.” (Jenny
Ferret was so accustomed to travel that no amount of jolts upset her
housekeeping.) “I might as well take down the curtains, as we are going
up to Goosey Foot.” “Where is that, Jenny Ferret?” “Spring cleaning,”
replied Jenny Ferret briefly.
Xarifa commenced to explain about the washerwomen up at the tarn; but
Jenny Ferret bundled everybody out on to the caravan steps.
Tuppenny rolled off, under the surprised nose of Cuddy Simpson, who was
brought to a sudden standstill, whilst Tuppenny was picked up amidst
squeaks of laughter. He was put to ride in a basket, one of several
that were slung at the back of the caravan. Xarifa sat in the doorway;
and the visitor mice hung on anywhere, like Cinderella’s footmen
behind the pumpkin coach. They set up an opposition fiddling, and joked
with Paddy Pig and the donkey. Indeed, Pippin fiddled so sweetly that
presently they all joined in concert together, and the little birds in
the trees sang to them also as they passed along. First a robin sang—
“Little lad, little lad, where was’t thou born?
Far off in Lancashire under a thorn,
Where they sup sour milk, in a ram’s horn!”
Pippin did not know that tune, so he began another—
“I ploughed it with a ram’s horn,
Sing ivy, sing ivy!
I sowed it all over with one peppercorn,
Sing holly go whistle and ivy!
I got the mice to carry it to the mill
Sing ivy, sing ivy!”
Then he changed his tune, and the chaffinches sang with him—
“I saw a little bird, coming hop, hop, hop!”
Then he played another; and Xarifa pelted him with hempseeds—
“Madam will you walk, madam will you talk—
Madam will you walk and talk with me?”
And then he heard a cuckoo and he played,
“Summer is icumen in!”
[Illustration]
The music did sound pretty all the way up Cuckoo Brow Lane.
Where they crossed the beck there was a row of stepping stones, with
the water tinkling merrily between them. On a stone, bobbing and
curtseying, stood a fat, browny-black little bird with a broad white
breast. “Bessie Dooker! Bessie Dooker! Tell all the other little birds
and beasties that there will be a circus show this evening. Bid them
come to the big hawthorn tree, near the whin bushes by High Green
Gate.” Bessie Dooker bobbed her head; she sped swiftly up the beck,
whistling as she flew.
The lane was steep after crossing the stream; as they climbed they met
the early sunbeams. The bank on their right was full of wild flowers;
wood sorrel, spotted orchis, dog violets, germander speedwell, and
little blue milkwort. “See!” cried Xarifa, “the milkwort! the milk is
coming with the grass in spring; the grass is coming with the soft
south wind. Listen to the lambs! they are before us in the other lane.”
Sandy had been in advance of the procession; he turned back. “Wait a
little while, Pony Billy; wait with a stone behind the wheel. The
sheep are going up to the intake pastures in charge of Bobs and Matt.
Let them gain a start before us at the meeting of the lanes; it is slow
work driving lambs. How they bleat and run back and forward! Their own
mothers’ call, but they run to each other’s mothers, and bawl and push!”
“Here under this sunny hedge I could pleasantly eat a bite and rest,”
said Cuddy Simpson; “put stones behind the wheels, and unharness the
cart.”
“May we get down and play? we have been shut up so long, me and
Tuppenny?” “Yes, yes! go and play; but do not get left behind.”
Xarifa clapped her little hands, “Oh, look at the flowers.” “What is
that peeping at us, Xarifa? with bright black eyes?” said Tuppenny,
pointing to something that rustled amongst the hedge. “It is my dearest
Belinda Woodmouse! Oh, what a happy meeting!”
Belinda was a sleek brown mouse; she was larger than the house mice;
and more active than Xarifa. Tuppenny turned shy, and stared at her
very solemnly; but her sprightliness soon reassured him. Xarifa
introduced her to Tuppenny, Pippin, Cobweb, Dusty, and Smut—“Rufty
Tufty I am unable to introduce, because she has stayed at home to
rock the cradle. But here are enough of us to dance a set to-night on
the short-cropped turf by the hawthorn bush.” “More mice to pull!”
laughed Pony Billy. “Oh, oh! Mr. Pony William, you have swallowed three
violets!” “Well?” said Pony Billy, “what then? I must eat!” “I do not
think they liked it,” said Xarifa, doubtfully, “could you not eat young
nettles, like Cuddy Simpson?”
Pony Billy rubbed his nose against his foreleg, and gave it up! He
moved a little further up the lane, and went on nibbling.
[Illustration: Xarifa’s Fairy Tale!]
“Can the flowers feel, Xarifa?” whispered Tuppenny. “I do not know how
much or how little; but surely they enjoy the sunshine. See how they
are smiling, and holding up their little heads. They cannot dart about,
like yonder buzzing fly, nor move along the bank, like that big yellow
striped queen wasp. But I think they take pleasure in the gentle rain
and sun and wind; children of spring, returning from year to year;
and longer-lived than us—especially the trees. Tuppenny, you asked me
about fairies. Here on this pleasant sunny bank, I can tell you better
than in the shadowed woods.” “Are they good fairies, Xarifa?” “Yes;
but all fairies are peppery. The fairy of the oak tree was spiteful
for a while. Sit you round on the moss, Belinda, and Tuppenny, and
visitor mice; and I will try to tell you prettily a tale that should be
pretty—the tale of the Fairy in the Oak.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XXIII
There is something glorious and majestic about a fine English oak. The
ancient Britons held them sacred; and the Saxons who came after revered
the Druids’ trees. William the Norman Conqueror ordered a record of
all the land. Because there were no maps they wrote down landmarks; I
remember an oak in Hertfordshire, that had been a landmark for Doomsday
Book.
This north country oak of my story was less old than the Doomsday Oak.
It had been a fine upstanding tree in Queen Elizabeth’s reign. For
centuries it grew tall and stately, deep-rooted amongst the rocks, by a
corner above an old highway that led to a market town.
How many travellers had passed the tree, since that road was a forest
track! Hunters, robbers, bowmen; knights on horseback riding along;
pikemen, jackmen marching; country folk and drovers; merchants,
peddlars with laden pack-horses.
At each change the road was mended and widened. There began to be
two-wheeled carts. Then farmers’ wives left off riding on pillions; the
gentry drove gigs and coaches; and alas! there came the wood wagons.
Other oak trees were carried to the sea-port to make ships’
timbers—old England’s wooden walls—but the fairy’s oak towered out of
reach. No wood-feller clambered up to it.
Now our ships are built of steel, and iron horses rush along our roads;
and the District Council decided to remove the rocks and corner, to
widen the road for motor cars.
Surely it is cruel to cut down a very fine tree! Each dull, dead thud
of the axe hurts the little green fairy that lives in its heart. The
fairy in the oak had been a harmless timid spirit for many hundred
years. Long ago, when the oak was a sapling, there had been wolves;
and the dalesmen hunted them with hounds. The hunt swept through the
forest; the frightened fairy leaped into the oak branches. She found
the tree a place of refuge; therefore she loved it and made it her
home. Because it had a guardian fairy, that oak grew tall and strong.
And each of the finest trees in the forest had a fairy of its own as
well.
There were birch fairies, beech fairies, alder fairies, and fairies of
the fir trees and pines; all were dressed in the leaves of their own
special trees; and in spring when the trees had new leaves, each fairy
got herself a new green gown.
They never went far from the trees that they loved; only on moonlight
nights they came down, and they danced together on the ground. In
autumn when the leaves fell off and the trees were left bare and cold,
each fairy withdrew into the heart of its tree, and slept there, curled
up, till spring.
Only the pine and fir fairies kept awake, and danced upon the snow,
because the firs and pines do not lose their needle-like evergreen
leaves; and that is why the fir trees sing in the wind on frosty
winter’s nights.
The oak fairy had danced with the pine fairies beneath the hunter’s
moon, because oak trees keep their leaves much later than birch or
beech; but the last of the russet oak leaves were blown off by a
November gale. She settled herself to sleep. The oak was enormous; tall
and bold. It held up its head against wind and snow; and scorned the
wintry weather.
But the Surveyor of the District Council has no sentiment; and no
respect, either, for fairies or for oaks!
The pine fairies were awake and saw what happened from their tree-tops
further back in the wood. The pine trees swayed, and moaned, and
shivered. But the oak fairy slept through it all. There arrived the
surveyor, his assistant with the chain links, two men who carried the
theodolite with three legs; a woodmonger; and four members of the
Council. They did much measuring with the chains; they made notes
in their pocketbooks; they squinted through the theodolite at white
and black sticks. Then they clambered up the rocks, and stared at
the fairy’s oak. The woodmonger measured it with a tape measure; he
measured near the foot of the butt; he measured again six foot up; he
reckoned the quarter girth; they did calculations according to Hoppus.
The councillors said that the tree had an enormous butt; thirty foot
run of clean timber to the first branch, with never a knot. They looked
at the rocks; and did sums. Then they went away.
Nothing happened for six weeks; except a gale that blew down an ash
tree. It crashed amongst the rocks. Its fairy fell out, shrieking. She
ran up and down in tattered yellow leaves, till she found an empty
bird-nest, and hid in it.
In January a number of men arrived; they had tools, and wheelbarrows,
and carts, and a wooden hut. They were quarrymen, navvies,
wood-fellers; and carters and wagoners with horses. They cleared
away the underwood; they drilled and blasted the rocks. The noise of
blasting was like thunder; it awoke every fairy in the wood.
And they felled the fairy’s oak.
For three days they hacked and sawed and drove wedges; the wood was as
hard as iron. Their axes broke; their saws were nipped; they lost their
wedges overhead in the cuts. But day after day they laboured, and swung
their heavy axes; and drove iron wedges with sledge hammer blows into
the great tree’s heart. Then one climbed the tree and tied a wire rope
to its head; and they pulled with a wagon horse. The tree swayed and
groaned, and the hawser broke. Again they wielded their axes; and the
little fairy sobbed and cried with pain.
Suddenly, with a rending shriek and a roar, the oak thundered down
amongst the rocks!
It lamed a horse, and it did the men a mischief.
All next day they hacked and sawed; they cut off its head and arms.
They left the trunk lying overnight beside the road. The fairy stayed
beside it, and caused another accident, upsetting a farmer’s cart. His
horse in the dusk saw a thing like a little green squirrel that scolded
and wrung its hands.
Next day came the wagoners to hoist the great tree; and then again
there was disaster. The three legs slipped; the chains broke
twice—was it the fury of the little angry spirit that beat against the
chains and snapped them?
At length the tree was loaded. They drew away the wagon with two extra
pairs of horses; and the fairy, sullen and exhausted, sat huddled upon
the log. They swept the top stones off the walls; they had every sort
of trouble; but at last they reached the summit of the moor. Ten chain
horses were unhooked; leaving one trembling thill-horse in the shafts.
The brake was screwed on hard, to face the steep descent.
Down below the hill there sounded a humming, whirring sound—the noise
of the sawmill. The fairy sprang from her tree, and fled away into the
woods.
All winter she wandered homeless. One day she climbed into one tree;
another day she climbed into another tree. She always chose an oak
tree; but she could not settle to sleep. Whenever a load of sawn timber
came back up the road from the sawmill, the fairy came down to the road.
She looked at it wistfully; but it was always larch, or ash, or plane;
not oak.
She wandered further afield in spring time, into the meadows outside
the woods. There was grass for the lambs in the meadows; on the trees
young green leaves were budding—but no new green leaves for the oak
fairy. Her leaf-gown was tattered and torn.
One day she sat on a tree-top, and the west wind blew over the land. It
brought sounds of lambs bleating; and the cuckoo calling. And a strange
new sound from the river—clear ringing blows upon oak.
‘Men do not fell trees in May, when the sap rises. Why does this sound
stir my heart, and make my feet dance, in spite of me? Can I hear cruel
hammers and saws upon oak-wood, and feel glad?’ said the fairy of the
oak.
She came out of the wood, and her feet danced across the meadow,
through the cuckoo flowers and marsh mary-golds, to the banks of the
flooded stream, where men were building a bridge. A new bridge to the
farm, where none had been before; a wooden bridge with a broad span
across the rushing river; and the straight brave timbers that spanned
it were made of the fairy’s oak!
“Is that all, Xarifa?” She had come to a stop.
“All except that she was happy again, and she made her home in the
bridge. She lives there, contented and useful; and may live there for
hundreds of years; because hard-grown oak lasts forever; well seasoned
by trial and tears. The river sings over the pebbles; or roars in
autumn flood. The bridge stands sure and trusty, where never before
bridge stood. Little toddling children take that short cut to the
school; and Something guards their footsteps by the bank of the flowery
pool. The good farm-horses bless the bridge that spares them a weary
road; and Something leads them over, and helps to lighten their load.
It wears a russet-brown petticoat, and a little hodden gray cloak—and
that is the end of my story of the Fairy in the Oak.”
“Very sweet, Xarifa, albeit longwinded. Now mount the steps and away!
White clouds sail across the blue heaven. The sheep and their lambs
are on the fell; the plovers and curlews are calling. Tune up little
fiddlers; begone!”
They harnessed up, they trailed away—over the hills and far away—on
a sunny windy morning. But still in the broad green lonnin going up to
the intake, I can trace my pony’s fairy footsteps, and hear her eager
neighing. I can hear the rattle of the tilt-cart’s wheels, and the
music of the Fairy Caravan.
[Illustration]
Transcriber’s Notes
Page 64—changed carpetted to carpeted
Page 109—changed spining to spinning
Page 155—changed stifly to stiffly
Page 222—changed climed to climbing
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