Upon Christmas Eve it is a pleasant custom amongst the Big Folk for carol singers to go singing from farm to farm; even to the lonely cottages on the outskirts of the great woods.
Two small boys, who had been out with the carollers, were going home to supper. Their Christmas picnic had been more prosperous than poor Tappie-tourie’s. Their pockets were full of apples and toffy and pennies.
“George,” said Jimmy, “give us a ginger snap.”
“Na-a!” said George, “it will gummy your teeth tegidder, that you cannot sing. Whooop!” shouted George, jumping into a snowdrift, “sing another—
“Wassail, wassail! to our town!
The bowl is white, and the ale is brown;
The bowl is made of the rosemary tree, and so is the ale, of the good barlee.
Little maid, little maid, tirl the pin!
Open the door, and let us come in!”
John Stoat Ferret listened intently. “Whooop!” shouted Jimmy, kicking the snow about, and swinging his candle lantern; “sing another one—
“Here us comes a wassailing, under the holly green,
Here us comes a wandering, so merry to be seen.
Good luck good Master Hodgin, and kind Mistress also,
And all the little childer that round the table go!
Your pockets full of money, your cupboards of good cheer,
A merry Christmas, Guizzards, and a Happy New Year!”
“Jimmy!” exclaimed George suddenly, “I smell stoat. Look over the wall with the lantern.” John Stoat Ferret departed hurriedly. And as if a spell were broken, Chucky-doddie, Tappie-tourie, and Selina found their voices. They cackled loudly, up in the tree. “Eh, sithee!” said George,“them’s our three hens that father lost out of t’ hen-hut. Fetch ‘em down: I’se haud lantern.” “This wall’s gaily slape!” giggled Jimmy, balancing himself on the slippery top stones. He reached up into the tree, and got hold of Tappie-tourie first, by the legs. “Ketch!” said he, and flung her out into the snowdrift in the lane. “Here’s another fat ’un!” He threw Chucky-doddie across. Selina flew after them of her own accord. The boys picked the hens out of the snow, and trudged homewards; George, with a hen tucked under each arm; and Jimmy, with one hen and the candle lantern. It was an inglorious ending to Tappie-tourie’s Christmas picnic; but at one time it looked like ending much worse – “very much worse, Cluck-cur-cuck-cuck-cluck!” said Charles the cock.
Sandy looked thoughtful. “Was the parrot an elderly bird?” “Very aged by his own account, if truthful,” replied Charles.
“I wonder whether he was the same parrot who had an adventure with a hawk, long ago. The parrot, which I am referring to, belonged to Squire Browne of Cumberland. The Squire also had a chestnut cob on which he went out riding; and he employed an old groom-gardener, named John Geddes. When Squire Browne came downstairs on fine mornings, he called through the open staircase window to John Geddes in the stable-yard. He said, ‘I’m riding today, John Geddes!’ Then he scratched the parrot’s head, and read the newspaper, and had breakfast.
“Now the parrot was so tame that he was allowed to come out of his cage; and one day he was waddling about on the lawn, when – shocking to say – a large hawk swooped down from the sky, and seized poor Polly in its claws. The hawk rose into the air, over the house and stable-yard; and the parrot, looking down for the last time at its home, saw the old groom-gardener sweeping with the yard broom. ‘I’m riding today, John Geddes!’ shouted Polly. Whereupon the hawk was so startled that it let go the parrot, who skimmed downwards from the clouds to safety.”
“Cuck, cuck, cluck! I think I have heard that anecdote before,” said Charles. “Possibly,” replied Sandy, bristling up his moustache,“possibly. But Squire Browne’s parrot was the first one it happened to.”Xarifa intervened hastily, in the cause of peace, “Was it not Miss Browne, a very, very old lady, who told us the story?” “It was,” said Sandy, eyeing Charles, the cock. “And did she not tell us other pretty stories?” continued Xarifa, “the story of the fairy clogs; and that pretty tale about the water-lilies? How they went adrift and sailed away, along the lake and down the river? In each water-lily flower was a fairy sitting, with golden curls, in the white lily flowers; and a fairy in green, on each broad round leaf, rowing with oars made of rushes?” “What was the end of that story, Xarifa?” asked Tuppenny. “Unfortunately, I do not remember. I don’t think it had any end; or else I fell asleep.”
CHAPTER XV
Pony Billy’s Search
Whilst Sandy and the poultry were entertaining each other in the orchard, Pony Billy, saddled and bridled, trotted away in search of the truant Paddy Pig. He passed in front of the farmhouse windows, clink! clink! went his shoes on the cobblestones in the yard. Mrs. Hodgson darning stockings in the sunny window-seat looked up and listened. Nothing could she see; she threaded her needle in and out, out and in, through the stocking foot. Pony Billy passed by the sweet-smelling wallflowers in the old-fashioned garden, where beehives, all a-row, stood on a deep stone shelf of the wall that faced the sun. The bees were stirring busily after their drowsy winter’s sleep. He came along a cart-track, and through a gate, on to the public road. Little sunshiny whirly winds had powdered white dust upon the king cups under the hedge; belated March dust in April. The cows looked over the hedge at Pony Billy. Said White-stockings to Fancy, “There goes a brave little saddle pony! Look how proudly he arches his neck, and tosses his cunning head! See the brass lockets glittering in the sun, and the stirrup irons, and the saddle leather. Look at his long flowing tail; and how gaily he picks his steps! He lifts his feet as prettily as Merry-legs or Cricket, who won the prize at Helsington. Where is he trotting to, think you?”said Buttercup Cow to Nancy. Pony Billy trotted along. It was dinner time with the Big Folk. He met nobody except old Quaker Goodman, jogging leisurely homeward in a low two-wheeled tub. The fat Quaker pony could see Pony Billy in spite of fern seed; it swerved across the road to leave him room to pass. Old Mr. Goodman laid his whip very gently along the ribs of the fat pony, as it were patting her with the handle of the whip, “What Daisey! Why, Daisey? What is thee shying at, Daisey? Tch-tckk-tckk!” Staid iron-gray Daisey plodded steadily on; her thick bob-tail swung from side to side.
Horses can see things where the Big Folk can see nothing – nothing but a silly white stone, or a stump on the roadside bank. But horses can see. So likewise can little young children. Two toddling youngsters at play in the dust caught a fleeting glimpse of the fairy pony; they prattled baby talk, and clapped their dirty chubby hands. Pony Billy breasted the hill at a canter; he slackened his pace to a walk as he came along over the croft. He pricked his ears and looked down at the village. The Big Folk were all indoors at dinner. Maggret, the Codlin Croft mare, dozed under the pent-house at the smithy. Farmer Hodgson was gossiping at the inn, whilst he waited for the blacksmith.
Pony Billy came down the croft at a quick, high-stepping trot; his brass lockets shone in the sun; his bright eyes sparkled. He hailed the smithy with eager neighings, “Hinny ho! Mettle! Bellows and shoes, Mettle! Hinny ho!”
Out came Mettle, barking; a hard-haired yellow terrier, wearing a little leather apron, “Good-day to you, Pony Billy! So the caravan is round again? What can I do for you this time? Another hoop? Another new circus trick?” “I wish to have my shoes removed and put on backwards.” “Certainly; four removes; we will soon have them off,” said Mettle, “it does not sound very comfortable; but just as you please. I will blow up the fire (c-r-e-a-k, puff; Mettle leaned upon the handle of the bellows, c-r-e-a-k, puff, puff), they will require a little fitting. (Mettle turned the shoe upon the hearth amongst the small hot coal, puff, puff.) I will take it out in tickets; and treat our smithy cat to an outing (puff, puff!). I owe her one. I pulled her tail. She did scratch me (puff, puff)! Why did I do it? (C-r-e-a-k, puff, puff!) I did it because she was black. I thought she was a stray black cat! She went up the chimney tortoise-shell and white, and she came down black! Cheesebox, our smithy cat.”
