“That story,” said Pony Billy, “has no moral.”  “But it is very pretty,”said Xarifa, the dormouse, suddenly wakening up.

CHAPTER XII

Across the Ford

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.

“I SHOULD NOT CHOOSE TO SPEND A NIGHT IN PRINGLE WOOD”

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.

“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.

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!”

CHAPTER XIII

Codlin Croft Orchard

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.