Farmer Hodgson’s mare yawned dismally. “I am sorry, Maggret, I cannot offer to fit your shoes; your feet are so large I could not lift them.”(The mare laid her ears back.) “No offence to a lady! My master says he likes a horse with a big open foot.”

Mettle took the white-hot horseshoe from the hearth with a little pair of tongs and hammered it daintily on the anvil; “Now your shoes are little fairy shoes, Pony Billy”; tick, tock, tap, tock! hammered Mettle merrily and sang, “Shoe the horse and shoe the mare, but let the little colt go bare! Now lift up your foot till I fit it. Have you ever gone short of fern seed since that night in the snow, Pony Billy?”  “Never,”said Pony Billy, shaking his mane to feel the precious packet nestling against his neck. Tap, tap, tap! hammered Mettle, “Here a nail and there a trod; now the horse is well shod! Yes, Cheesebox and I will be coming to the circus this evening.”

Then Maggret pricked her ears and whinnied at sound of hob-nailed boots; her master and the blacksmith came into the pent-house together. Just then Pony Billy came out. Farmer Hodgson did feel as though he had bumped against something soft; but there was nothing to be seen. It might have been the door-post.

Pony Billy walked up a stony lane picking his footsteps carefully. It is not agreeable to trot amongst stones with four newly-shod back-to-front shoes. He stepped in the softest places. By banks and hollows and turnings, by muddy places and dry, always leaving back-to-front horseshoe marks behind him, as though he had come down the lane, instead of having gone up. He turned into another lane, crossed a shallow ford; came roundabout behind the wood, and looked over a tumble-down wall.

THE FAIRY HILL OF OAKS

Pringle Wood lay before him, silent, still; crowned with golden green in a pale spring afternoon. Almost silent, almost still; save for a whispering breath amongst the golden green leaves, and a faint tingle ringle from the bluebells on the fairy hill of oaks. How blue the bluebells were! a sea of soft pale blue; tree behind tree; and beneath the trees, wave upon wave, a blue sea of bluebells. Below the low stone wall, between it and the wooded hill, was a tangly boggy dell, matted with brambles and wild raspberry canes, and last year’s withered meadow-sweet and keshes. Young larch trees and spruces struggled through the briars; a little stream slid gently round the hill, beneath ellers [13] and hazel bushes.

Pony Billy came over a gap in the wall, and pushed his way through the tangle, leaving back-to-front footsteps as he squelched through the black earth and moss. Briars tugged his mane; raspberry canes pulled his tail as though they were fingers; he left tufts of his shaggy coat upon the brambles. He whinnied, “Hinny ho! where are you hiding, Paddy Pig?”No one answered. Only there seemed to be a faint tingle ringle of laughing from the thousands of bluebells in the wood.

Pony Billy got out of the bog with a jump and a scramble up the steep grassy slope of the hill. Round and round and round he went underneath the oaks; always going widdershins, contrary to the sun; always leaving back-to-front misleading marks behind him. Six times round he went; and he saw nothing but the bluebells and the oaks. But the seventh time round he saw a little Jenny Wren, chittering and fussing round an old hollow tree. “What are you scolding, you little Jenny Wren?” She did not stay to answer; she darted through the wood twittering gaily. “I had better go and look inside that hollow tree myself,” thought Pony Billy. He walked up to it, and looked in. “Ho, ho! what are you doing in there, Paddy Pig? Come out!”  “Never no more,” replied Paddy Pig. He was sitting huddled up inside the tree, with his fore-trotters pressed against his tummy; “never again. I cannot break through the ropes.”  “Ropes? don’t be silly! there is nothing but cobwebs.”  “What, what? no ropes?”  “Come out at once,” said Pony William, stamping. “I am ill,” replied Paddy Pig; he pressed his trotters on his waistcoat. “What have you been eating?”  “Tartlets.”  “Tartlets in Pringle Wood! more likely to be toadstools. Come out, you pig; you are keeping the circus waiting.”  “Never no more shall I return to the go-cart and the caravan.” Pony Billy thrust his head through the spider webs in the opening, seized Paddy Pig’s coat-collar with his teeth, and jerked him out of the tree. “What, what? no ropes? but it is all in vain.” He sat upon the grass and wept. “Try a potato? I brought you some on purpose.”  “What, what? potatoes! but is it safe to eat them?”  “Certainly it is,” said Pony Billy, “they did not grow in Pringle Wood. Eat them while I have my nosebag. Then I will carry you home again pig-a-back.”  “We will be chased. And I will fall off.” He ate all the potatoes; “I feel a little better; but I know I will fall off. Oh, oh, oh! Something is pinching my ears!”

Whatever might be the matter, Paddy Pig’s behaviour was odd. He got up on a tree-stump, and he tried to climb into the saddle. First he climbed too far and tumbled over the other side; then he climbed too short and tumbled; then he fell over the pony’s head; then he slipped backwards over the crupper, just as though someone were pulling him. He sat upon the ground and sobbed, “Leave me to my fate. Go away and tell my friends that I am a prisoner for life in Pringle Wood.”  “Try once more. Sit straight, and hold on to the strap of lockets,” said Pony Billy, trampling through the bluebells.

He came out from under the trees into the sunshine. He trotted across the green grass of the open meadow, and carried Paddy Pig safely back to camp.

CHAPTER XVI

The Effect of Toadstool Tartlets

It was four o’clock of the afternoon when Pony Billy trotted into Codlin Croft orchard with Paddy Pig. Sandy and the farm dogs barked joyfully; the turkey cock gobbled; Charles crowed; and Jenny Ferret waved a dishcloth on the caravan steps. Even Tuppenny and Xarifa – dolefully confined in hampers – clapped their little paws in welcome. Paddy Pig took no notice of these greetings. He slid from the saddle, and sat by the camp fire in a heap.

“He looks poorly,” said Sandy, anxiously, “fetch a shawl, Jenny Ferret.”  “Ill; very ill,” said Paddy Pig. They wrapped him in the shawl and gave him tea; he was thirsty, but he had no appetite. The raw potatoes appeared to have disagreed, on top of the tartlets. As evening closed in, he shivered more and more. The company plied him with questions – how did he get across the water into Pringle Wood? “Over a plank.”  “I don’t remember any plank bridge,” said Pony Billy, “perhaps it might be a tree that had been washed down by the flood?”  “Why did you not come back the same way?”  “It was gone,” said Paddy Pig, swaying himself about. “What did you do in the wood?”  “I tumbled down. Things pulled my tail and pinched me, and peeped at me round trees,” said Paddy Pig, shuddering. “What sort of things?”  “Green things with red noses. Oh, oh, oh!” he squealed, “there is a red nose looking at me out of the teapot! Take me away, Pony Billy! I’m going to be sick!”  “He is very unwell,” said Jenny Ferret, “he should be put to bed at once.” But where? In an ordinary way, Paddy Pig and Sandy slept in dry straw underneath the caravan. But everybody knows that it is unsafe to allow a delirious pig to sleep on the cold ground. “Do you think we could squeeze him through the door into the caravan, if I pulled and you pushed?” said Sandy. Jenny Ferret shook her head, “He is too big. We might have crammed him into the go-cart; but it is not here; it was left behind, by the ford.”  “He must sleep indoors somehow,” said Sandy. “Why all this discussion?” said Charles the cock. “Let our honored visitor, Mr. Patrick Pig, sleep in the middle stall of the stable. It is empty. Maggret, our mare, stands in the stall next to the window. And there is hay, as well as straw. I, myself, scratched it out of the hay-rack. Cock-a-doodle-doo! And there is even a horse rug. A large buff, moth-eaten blanket, bound with red braid,” said Charles, swelling with importance. “The very thing! provided Maggret has no objection,” said Sandy. “Come, Paddy Pig.” The invalid rose stiffly to his feet. But he flopped down again, nearly into the fire (which would have caused another red nose for certain, had he fallen into it). It was necessary to borrow a wheelbarrow; also the stable lantern, as by this time it was dark. Fortunately, Farmer Hodgson had bedded up the mare, and fed all for the night. He was having his own supper, quite unconscious that his stable had been requisitioned as a hospital for sick pigs. He supped in the kitchen; and the windows looked another way. Mrs. Hodgson had occasion to go to the pantry for cheese and a pasty. She glanced through the small diamond panes towards the orchard and the warm glow that was Jenny Ferret’s stick fire, “’Tis a red rising moon. Will it freeze?”  “Bad for the lambs if so be,” said Farmer Hodgson, cutting the apple pasty. Paddy Pig did not improve; he became worse. His mind wandered. He talked continually about red noses; and he thought that there were green caterpillars in the manger. He was so obsessed with red-nosed peepers that he would have bolted out of the stable if his legs had been strong enough. “Someone must sit up with him,” said Jenny Ferret, “I am no use; I’m only an old body. And you, Sandy, ought to remain on guard at the camp. What is to be done?”  “I should esteem it a privilege to be permitted to act as nurse; I am accustomed to night watching,” said Cheesebox, the smithy cat. She had arrived with Mettle, hoping for a circus show; but the company were so anxious about Paddy Pig that they felt unable to give any performance. “I should esteem it a privilege to sit up with Mr. Patrick Pig. At the same time I should prefer to have a colleague to share the responsibility. Send for Mrs. Scales’ Mary Ellen. She has an invaluable prescription for sick pigs. And she understands worm-in-tail,” said Cheesebox; “had it been the time of the moon, we would have hung up rowan berries in the stall. But failing that propitious season, she has medicinal herbs of great virtue. Send for Mary Ellen!” Sandy looked doubtful; “I presume she is another cat? I am afraid she might refuse to come with me, if I went to fetch her. Could you go, Pony Billy? Are you too tired?” Pony Billy sighed the sigh of a weary horse; “Not tired; not at all; but my shoes are past bearing. And here is Mettle out for a lark; otherwise I would have gone to the smithy and had them altered. In any case I was intending to fetch the tilt-cart.”  “Go for the cart before your shoes are changed, Billy. You left it over near to Pringle Wood. I will undertake to have the hearth hot, long before you will reach the smithy.”