Part 10

At five was tea-time: jam on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays; jelly on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays; and both on Sundays. From six to seven there were “Lessons,” and when the little Pigtails were really tired, which was always before nine, they just slipped off to bed. Some of them had munched their supper biscuits and were snug in bed indeed even before the rest had sung the evening hymn. And the evening hymn was always “Eternal Father”—for being all of them so extremely happy they could not but be “in peril on the deep.” For happiness in this world may fly away like birds in corn, or butterflies before rain. And on Sundays they sang “Lead, kindly light” too, because Miss Rawlings’s mother had once been blessed by the great and blessed Cardinal Newman. And one Pigtail played the accompaniment on her fiddle, and one on the sweet-tongued viola, and one on the harpsichord; for since Miss Rawlings had read “Barbara Allan” she had given up pianofortes. And then, sleepy and merry and chattering, they all trooped up to bed.

So this was their Day. And all night, unseen, the stars shone in their splendour above the roof of Trafford House, or the white-faced moon looked down upon the sleeping garden and the doves and the pigs and the lambs and the flowers. And at times there was a wind in the sky among the clouds; and at times frost in the dark hours settled like meal wheresoever its cold brightness might find a lodging. And when the little Pigtails awoke, there would be marvellous cold fronds and flowerets on their windowpanes, and even sometimes a thin crankling slat of ice in their water-jugs. On which keen winter mornings you could hear their teeth chattering like monkeys cracking nuts. And so time went on.

On the very next June 1, there was a prodigious Garden Party at Trafford House, with punts on the lake and refreshments and lemonade in a tent in the park, and all the Guardianesses and Aunts and Stepmothers and Matrons and Female Friends were invited to come and see Miss Rawlings’s little Pigtails. And some brought their sisters, and some their nieces and nephews. There were Merry-go-Rounds, Aunt Sallies, Frisk-and-Come-Easies, a Punch and Judy Show, a Fat Man, a Fortune-Teller, and three marvellous acrobats from Hong Kong. And there were quantities of things to eat and lots to see, and Kiss-in-the-Ring, and all broke up after fireworks and “God Save the Queen” at half-past nine.

The house, as I keep on saying, was called Trafford House, but the _Home_ was called “The Home of all the little Barbara Allans and such like, with Brown Eyes, Narrow Cheekbones, Beaver Hats, and Pigtails, Ltd.” And it was “limited” because there could be only thirty of them, and time is not Eternity.

And now there were only three things that prevented Miss Rawlings from being too intensely happy to go on being alive; and these three were as follows: (_a_) She wanted to live always at the House—but how could the Parish get on without her? (_b_) What was she going to do when the Pigtailers became 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, etc., and grown-up? And (_c_) How could she ever possibly part with any of them or get any more?

For, you see, Miss Rawlings’s first-of-all Barbara Allan was aged 10, and had somehow managed to stay there. But because, I suppose, things often go right in this world when we are not particularly noticing them, and don’t know how, all these difficulties simply melted away at last like butter in the sun.

In the first place, Miss Rawlings did at last (in 1888, to be exact, one year after Queen Victoria’s first Jubilee), did, I say, at last go to live at the Home of all the little Barbara Allans and such like with Brown Eyes, Beaver Hats, and Pigtails, Ltd. She was called The Matron’s Friend, so as not to undermine the discipline. When her Parish wanted her, which was pretty often, the Parish (thirty or forty strong) came to see her in her little parlour overlooking the pond with the punts and the water-lilies.

Next, though how, who can say, the little Pigtails somehow did not grow up, even though they must have grown older. Something queer happened to their Time. It cannot have been what just the clocks said. If there wasn’t more of it, there was infinitely more _in_ it. It was like air and dew and sunbeams and the South Wind to them all. You simply could not tell what next. And, apart from all that wonderful learning, apart even from the jam and jelly and the Roast Beef of Old England, they went on being just the right height and the right heart for ten. Their brown eyes never lost their light and sparkle. No wrinkles ever came in their three-cornered faces with the high cheek-bones; and not a single grey or silver hair into their neat little pigtails that could at any rate be seen.

Next, therefore, Miss Rawlings never had to part with any of them or to search or advertise for any more.

Yet another peculiar thing was that Miss Rawlings grew more and more like a Pigtail herself. She grew younger. She laughed like a school-girl. Her face became a little narrower, even the cheek-bones seemed not to be so wide. As for her bonnets, as time “went on,” they grew up instead of broadwise. And when she sat in Church with the Thirty, in the third pew down from Mrs. Tomlington’s, you might almost have supposed she herself was a widish pigtail, just a little bit dressed up.

It is true that in the very secretest corner of her heart of hearts she was still looking for the one and only absolute little Barbara Allan of her life-long day-dream; but that is how things go. And the thought of it brought only a scarcely perceptible grave glance of hope and enquiry into her round brown eyes. But underneath—oh dear me, yes—she was almost too happy and ordinary and good-natured and homely a Miss Rawlings to be telling this story about at all.

We all die at last—just journey on—and so did Miss Rawlings. And so did the whole of the Thirty, and the matron, and the chief nurse, and Mr. Moffat, and Dr. Sheppard, and the Man with whiskers at the park gates, _and_ the Boy who cleaned the button-boots; parlour-maids, tweeny-maids, Mrs. Tomlington and all.

And if you would like to see the Old House and the little graves, you take the first turning on the right as you leave the Parish Church on your left, and walk on until you come to a gate-post beyond the mile-stone. A path crossing the fields—sometimes of wheat, sometimes of turnips, sometimes of barley or oats or swedes—brings you to a farm in the hollow with a duck-pond, guinea-fowl roosting in the pines at evening, and a lovely old thatched barn where the fantailed doves croon in the sunshine. You then cross the yard and come to a lane beside a wood of thorn and hazel. This bears a little East, and presently after ascending the hill beyond the haystack you will see—if it is still there—The Home of all the little Barbara Allans and such like with Brown Eyes, Beaver Hats and Pigtails, Ltd.

And not very far away is a little smooth-mown patch of turf with a beautiful thatched wall round it, which Mr. Moffat consecrated himself. And there, side by side, sleep the Little Thirty, with their pigtails beside their narrow bones. And there lie the tweeny-maids, the parlour-maids, the Man with whiskers at the park gate, and the Boy who cleaned the button-boots. And there Miss Rawlings, too. And when the last trump sounds, up they will get as happy as wood-larks, and as sweet and fresh as morning mushrooms. But if you want to hear any more about _that_, please turn to the Poems of Mr. William Blake.

[Illustration]

THE PERFECT HOST

(_From Lady Trenchard’s Visitor’s Book_)

SIR WALTER RALEIGH

What is it makes the Perfect Host? Not wine and coffee, eggs and toast, For these you can get just as well In any dreary good hotel; Not resolute attempts to please, For money will procure you these. The Perfect Host thinks vastly less Of comfort than of happiness. He’s happy; and the overflow Belongs to those who come and go. Within his house you’ll hear no quarrels And very little talk of morals, He does not lead a perfect life, He sometimes has a perfect wife. But this of all his points is best— He does not want a perfect guest; And even when you go too far He’s friendly with you as you are.

The Spark

A. PEMBURY

The daylight was fading, and shadowy gloom Was creeping and crawling all over the room, When out of the fire, like a star in the dark, There leapt to the fender a bright little spark.

“Ha, ha, little children!” it chuckled with glee, “I’ve something to tell you, so listen to me! This morning, Tom Dull, whom I never admire, Was sitting in front of this very same fire; And, as it burned dimly, was heard to remark: ‘Oh, Mary! There’s nothing in here but a spark!’

“The spark was myself, and I thought, Well-a-day! It’s hard to be judged in that impudent way. But stuck to my labours, and shortly, you know, Had warmed up the coals to a beautiful glow.

“I called from their slumbers, the fairies of flame, And out on the carpet they merrily came, And up all the curtains, a marvel to view, They climbed as no others are able to do.

“They peeped in the corners where shadows lay hid, And chuckled: ‘We’ve found you! Come out!’ and they did. Thus, darting about in the liveliest play, They caught all the shadows and drove them away.

“I’m certain they laughed, though you think it absurd; For never a sound of that laughter was heard. Yet where is the wonder, for who will dispute That hearts often laugh when the lips are quite mute?

“That’s all. But in parting, oh, take it from me That sparks of endeavour, though tiny to see, May quickly grow stronger and end, as you guess, In lighting the beautiful fire of success. My task is accomplished. Good-bye!” said the spark— And, giving one flash, he went out in the dark.

[Illustration]

Theophania

ADELAIDE PHILLPOTTS

Peter-Wise was a clever young peasant who lived in a little village that looked like a dimple in the hillside. He owned fifty mooing cows, one hundred baaing sheep, forty grunting pigs, two hundred clacking fowls—and a bellowing bull. And he prophesied that in ten years’ time he would have doubled these numbers. But with all this wealth, Peter-Wise lacked the most important creature of all—a wife. Without a wife, what is the use of fifty cows, one hundred sheep, forty pigs, two hundred fowls—and a bull?

Now Peter-Wise declared that he would not marry a maiden who was less than seventeen or more than twenty-two years old, and in the village there were only six girls between these ages who were not already betrothed or wed. Of these six, therefore—all of whom, being brought up on cream and honey and wheaten bread and saffron cake and wild strawberries, were bonny and plump and fair to see—Peter-Wise decided to choose the cleverest, who, nevertheless, must be just the least bit less clever than he was. So, to discover which was the cleverest, for, busy man that he was with his cows and his sheep and his pigs and his fowls—and his bull, he had not the time to woo each separately, he resolved to set them three tasks: one to try their fingers; one to try their brains; one to try their imaginations; and to marry her who succeeded best in the three.

[Illustration: “I WILL MARRY WHICHEVER OF YOU CAN PERFORM THREE TASKS”]

So Peter-Wise summoned Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy, and Theophania, called Tiffany for short—these were the names of the girls—and said to them:

“Children, I will marry whichever of you can perform to the best advantage these three tasks: first, to darn a hole in the heel of a sock; secondly, to open, without touching the keyhole, the big barn door which is always locked; thirdly, to catch the moon and put it into a wash-tub.”

Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy said:

“Oh, the sock is easy enough, but the door and the moon——”

Theophania, called Tiffany for short, said: “The door and the moon should be easy enough, but the sock——”

The three trials were to take place in the morning, afternoon and evening respectively. So in the morning the six maidens assembled in Peter-Wise’s parlour—Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy in their best flowered-prints—Tiffany in a green smock; Tiffany had brown eyes, but the eyes of the others were five different shades of blue: speedwell, cornflower, lupin, forget-me-not, and chicory.

Peter-Wise gave them each a sock, out of which he had cut the heel, and left them for an hour to darn the hole. When he came back the six socks were lying on the table in a heap, finished. He examined them carefully. Then he said:

“Five of these socks are so perfectly darned that not one exceeds another in excellence. The sixth, however, is very badly done—a mere cobble. Come forward in turn, and let her who darned _this_ sock claim it.”

Mary tripped forward, looked at the sock, turned up her nose a little and shook her pretty head. “Not mine,” said she. Then came Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy, also turning up their noses a little and shaking their pretty heads and saying: “Not mine,” “Not mine,” “Not mine,” “Not mine.” Lastly, with a twinkle in her eye, came Theophania, called Tiffany for short.

“Mine,” she said. “I never, never shall be able to darn.”

“The first task is over,” announced Peter-Wise. “This afternoon meet me outside the big barn door which is always locked, at three o’clock.”

And away trotted Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy and Tiffany.

At three o’clock they met outside the big barn door, wearing pink and yellow and blue and white and green sunbonnets, and fluttering together like butterflies, except Tiffany, who did not wear a bonnet at all, and she stood by herself, thinking.

Peter-Wise said:

“This door, as you know, is always kept locked. Here is the key. Now, let me see which of you can open it without touching the keyhole, for I assure you it can quite easily be done.”

“How can we open a locked door without a key?” said Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy in dismay, and each thought—“It is useless trying the handle—besides, I should look so foolish, and the others would jeer.”

But Tiffany—who always thought her own thoughts, not other people’s—thought something quite different.

“We give it up,” sorrowfully said Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy.

“And you?” asked Peter-Wise of Tiffany.

Tiffany thought: “Because the door has always been locked before, that doesn’t prove it is locked to-day. Anyhow, here goes!” And she marched up to the big barn door, turned the handle, and—opened it wide!

“Oh!” cried Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy. “But it is always locked!”

“It wasn’t to-day,” said Theophania, called Tiffany for short; and she could not help laughing, kindly, at the five expressions of surprise on the five fair faces.

“The second task is over,” said Peter-Wise. “Now go and borrow your mothers’ wash-tubs, wait till the moon rises, catch it, and put it in the tub. Then come and fetch me.”

“But,” said Tiffany, “there is only one moon.”

“Exactly,” he replied, “therefore only one of you can succeed.”

Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy whispered together.

“He is making sport of us,” they agreed. “Not even Tiffany can catch the moon. We must give it up.” And each of them said in her heart: “After all, so-and-so would make a much better husband.”

So they gave it up.

[Illustration: “THERE, SURE ENOUGH, WAS THE ROUND, SILVER MOON”]

But in the evening Tiffany came to Peter-Wise and said:

“I have caught the moon and put it into mother’s wash-tub. Come and see.”

“Caught the moon!” exclaimed Peter. “But there it is up in the sky!”

“Not at all,” replied she. “That is not the moon.”

The night was still and warm. Peter-Wise followed Tiffany to a water-meadow, in the middle of which was her mother’s wash-tub.

“There!” she cried, pointing. “Go and see if the moon isn’t in that tub.”

So he went up to it, looked over the edge, and there, sure enough, was the round, silver moon shining up at him.

“Well, but there are not two moons,” he said, looking at the other moon in the sky.

“How foolish you are!” said Tiffany. “That moon in the sky is just the reflection of the real moon in this tub.”

Peter-Wise was determined to make sure, so he took a penny out of his pocket and dropped it into the tub. It fell through the moon with a splash.

“Oh ho!” he exclaimed. “Whoever heard of a penny falling through the moon? This moon is made of water.”

“Nobody ever tried to throw a penny through before,” said Tiffany.

Then Peter-Wise kicked the tub, and the moon began to wobble. A piece of it splashed over the edge on to his boots.

“Whoever heard of the moon being spilt?” he asked.

“Nobody ever tried to spill it before,” said Tiffany.

Peter-Wise stroked his chin.

“I have it!” he cried, and grasping the tub, heaved it sideways and upset the mock moon on to the grass, where with little watery sighs it slowly disappeared.

“So much for your moon,” said he. “And behold its reflection is still in the sky!” But Tiffany only laughed and laughed and laughed.

“Yes,” said Peter to himself, “she is certainly the cleverest girl in the village, but just the least bit less clever than I am. I will marry her.” And aloud he said:

“Theophania, you shall, in spite of the sock and the moon that was not a moon, be my wife.”

“Peter-Wise,” she answered, “you shall not win me so easily. There is a task that _you_ shall perform for _me_ before I will marry you.”

“Well, that is only fair after all,” said he, rather taken aback.

“It is quite out of the question for me to marry you before I can darn a sock,” she continued, “but in six years I shall have perfected myself in that difficult art. Will you wait for me six years?”

This she said to try his love.

“I will wait,” said he, who really loved her, and knew something about women.

Now, at the end of three months Peter-Wise was still waiting for Theophania, and she realised that he would keep his word for the rest of the six years. But meanwhile she had learnt to darn as beautifully as Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy, who by this time were betrothed respectively to John and James and William and Tom and Adam. So she came to him one day with an example of her darning, and said:

“Peter, it has not taken me so long to learn to darn as I thought it would. How would it be if we were married _before_ the six years are up?”

“We will get married whenever you please, dear heart,” he said, not surprised.

“Well then,” she replied, “—to-morrow.”

And they were married at eleven o’clock the next morning.

The Weasel in the Storeroom

(_La Fontaine, Fables, III._, 17)

EDWARD MARSH

Into a storeroom once Miss Weasel came, Through a small hole squeezing her lank lean frame: From illness she had grown so slender. Once in, she made complete surrender To her capacious appetite, Nibbling and guzzling day and night. The life she led, Lord only knew, Or the amount of bacon she got through— Small wonder she grew chubby, plump, and sleek! After this diet for a week, She heard some noise which made her wish to egress. Where was the hole? She scuttled to and fro. Surely ’twas this one? No—then this? Still less. “Well, bless my soul!” she said, “’twas here, I know, I wriggled through, hardly a week ago.” A rat perceived how she was troubled. “Since you’ve been here,” said he, “your paunch has doubled. Thin you came in, and thin you must go out.”

This has been said to others, I’ve no doubt; But Reader, be it far from you or me To press the delicate analogy.[2]

Footnote 2:

The allusion is to the tribunal set up by Colbert to enquire into the peculations of the Financiers.

[Illustration]

Love the Jealous

W. H. DAVIES

I praised the daisies on my lawn, And then my lady mowed them down. My garden stones, improved by moss, She moved—and that was Beauty’s loss. When I adored the sunlight, she Kept a bright fire indoors for me. She saw I loved the birds, and that Made her one day bring home a cat. She plucks my flowers to deck each room, And make me follow where they bloom. Because my friends were kind and many, She said—“What need has Love of any?” What is my gain, and what my loss? Fire without sun, stones bare of moss, Daisies beheaded, one by one; The birds cat-hunted, friends all gone— These are my losses: yet, I swear, A love less jealous in its care Would not be worth the changing skin That she and I are living in.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

The Magic Medicine

BY DENIS MACKAIL

Once upon a time there was a very naughty little girl called Freda. She was what is known as an only child, and so you might have thought that her father and mother and her grandparents and her uncles and aunts and her nurse would have had all the more time for teaching her to be good. But though this was perfectly true, and they all worked very hard at saying “Don’t do that, Freda,” or “Put that down at once!” she continued to be extremely naughty.

She never tried to be polite to anybody, she used to tear her clothes on purpose, she used to break her toys, and walk in puddles, and snatch things from other children, and say things that weren’t true, and eat gravel and blow bubbles in her milk. If there are any other naughty things that I have forgotten to mention, then she did them too. And when she was scolded, instead of saying she was sorry, she used to lie down on the ground and bellow at the top of her voice.

For this reason the people who knew her best grew to be rather careful about scolding her—especially in the Park, where her behaviour had often attracted quite a crowd; but, of course, the only result of this was that she became far naughtier than ever.

Is that perfectly clear? Well, now we come to the story.