Transcriber’s Note

Changes made are noted at the end of the book.

Louisa Pussycat Sleeps Late

The
Fairy Caravan

By
BEATRIX POTTER

Author of
THE FAMOUS
“PETER RABBIT” BOOKS

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

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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!”

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.

“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.”

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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?’

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.”

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.”

“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.

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.

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.

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.

Eller-Tree Camp