“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

Little Mouse

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?’

“AN OLD BUFF-GREEN STRIPED CATERPILLAR MAN.”

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

Springtime in Birds’ Place

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.