Cuckoo Brow Lane is a bonny spot in spring, garlanded with hawthorn and wild cherry blossom. It skirts the lower slopes of the hill that rises behind Codlin Croft. The meadows on their left were bathed in pearly dew; the lane still lay in the shadow of dawn; the sun had not yet topped the Brow. As it rose, its beams touched the golden tops of the oak trees in Pringle Wood; and a faint smell of bluebells floated over the wall. Paddy Pig fiddled furiously, “I’ll play them ‘Scotch Cap’! I’ll pop the weasel at them! Never again will I cross plank bridges into that abominable wood. Gee up, gee up! get along, Cuddy Simpson!” The gypsies’ donkey trundled the cart through the dead leaves in the lane; steadily pulling in the wake of the caravan.

Tuppenny, Xarifa, and the visitor mice were all peeping through the muslin curtains. “Is the wood full of fairies, Xarifa?”  “Hush, till we get across the water; then I will tell you!”  “Here, you mice, let me brush up the crumbs. I want to open all the windows.” (Jenny Ferret was so accustomed to travel that no amount of jolts upset her housekeeping.)“I might as well take down the curtains, as we are going up to Goosey Foot.”  “Where is that, Jenny Ferret?”  “Spring cleaning,” replied Jenny Ferret briefly.

Xarifa commenced to explain about the washerwomen up at the tarn; but Jenny Ferret bundled everybody out on to the caravan steps.

Tuppenny rolled off, under the surprised nose of Cuddy Simpson, who was brought to a sudden standstill, whilst Tuppenny was picked up amidst squeaks of laughter. He was put to ride in a basket, one of several that were slung at the back of the caravan. Xarifa sat in the doorway; and the visitor mice hung on anywhere, like Cinderella’s footmen behind the pumpkin coach. They set up an opposition fiddling, and joked with Paddy Pig and the donkey. Indeed, Pippin fiddled so sweetly that presently they all joined in concert together, and the little birds in the trees sang to them also as they passed along. First a robin sang—

“Little lad, little lad, where was’t thou born?

Far off in Lancashire under a thorn,

Where they sup sour milk, in a ram’s horn!”

Pippin did not know that tune, so he began another—

“I ploughed it with a ram’s horn,

Sing ivy, sing ivy!

I sowed it all over with one peppercorn,

Sing holly go whistle and ivy!

I got the mice to carry it to the mill

Sing ivy, sing ivy!”

Then he changed his tune, and the chaffinches sang with him—

“I saw a little bird, coming hop, hop, hop!”

Then he played another; and Xarifa pelted him with hempseeds—

“Madam will you walk, madam will you talk—

Madam will you walk and talk with me?”

And then he heard a cuckoo and he played,

“Summer is icumen in!”

The music did sound pretty all the way up Cuckoo Brow Lane.

Where they crossed the beck there was a row of stepping stones, with the water tinkling merrily between them. On a stone, bobbing and curtseying, stood a fat, browny-black little bird with a broad white breast. “Bessie Dooker! Bessie Dooker! Tell all the other little birds and beasties that there will be a circus show this evening. Bid them come to the big hawthorn tree, near the whin bushes by High Green Gate.” Bessie Dooker bobbed her head; she sped swiftly up the beck, whistling as she flew.

The lane was steep after crossing the stream; as they climbed they met the early sunbeams. The bank on their right was full of wild flowers; wood sorrel, spotted orchis, dog violets, germander speedwell, and little blue milkwort. “See!” cried Xarifa, “the milkwort! the milk is coming with the grass in spring; the grass is coming with the soft south wind. Listen to the lambs! they are before us in the other lane.”

Sandy had been in advance of the procession; he turned back. “Wait a little while, Pony Billy; wait with a stone behind the wheel. The sheep are going up to the intake pastures [23] in charge of Bobs and Matt. Let them gain a start before us at the meeting of the lanes; it is slow work driving lambs. How they bleat and run back and forward! Their own mothers’ call, but they run to each other’s mothers, and bawl and push!”

“Here under this sunny hedge I could pleasantly eat a bite and rest,”said Cuddy Simpson; “put stones behind the wheels, and unharness the cart.”

“May we get down and play? we have been shut up so long, me and Tuppenny?”  “Yes, yes! go and play; but do not get left behind.”

Xarifa clapped her little hands, “Oh, look at the flowers.”  “What is that peeping at us, Xarifa? with bright black eyes?” said Tuppenny, pointing to something that rustled amongst the hedge. “It is my dearest Belinda Woodmouse! Oh, what a happy meeting!”

Belinda was a sleek brown mouse; she was larger than the house mice; and more active than Xarifa. Tuppenny turned shy, and stared at her very solemnly; but her sprightliness soon reassured him. Xarifa introduced her to Tuppenny, Pippin, Cobweb, Dusty, and Smut – “Rufty Tufty I am unable to introduce, because she has stayed at home to rock the cradle. But here are enough of us to dance a set tonight on the short-cropped turf by the hawthorn bush.”  “More mice to pull!” laughed Pony Billy. “Oh, oh! Mr. Pony William, you have swallowed three violets!”  “Well?”said Pony Billy, “what then? I must eat!”  “I do not think they liked it,” said Xarifa, doubtfully, “could you not eat young nettles, like Cuddy Simpson?”

Pony Billy rubbed his nose against his foreleg, and gave it up! He moved a little further up the lane, and went on nibbling.

XARIFA’S FAIRY TALE

“Can the flowers feel, Xarifa?” whispered Tuppenny. “I do not know how much or how little; but surely they enjoy the sunshine. See how they are smiling, and holding up their little heads. They cannot dart about, like yonder buzzing fly, nor move along the bank, like that big yellow striped queen wasp. But I think they take pleasure in the gentle rain and sun and wind; children of spring, returning from year to year; and longer-lived than us – especially the trees. Tuppenny, you asked me about fairies. Here on this pleasant sunny bank, I can tell you better than in the shadowed woods.”  “Are they good fairies, Xarifa?”  “Yes; but all fairies are peppery. The fairy of the oak tree was spiteful for a while. Sit you round on the moss, Belinda, and Tuppenny, and visitor mice; and I will try to tell you prettily a tale that should be pretty – the tale of the Fairy in the Oak.”

CHAPTER XXIII

The Fairy in the Oak

There is something glorious and majestic about a fine English oak. The ancient Britons held them sacred; and the Saxons who came after revered the Druids’ trees. William the Norman Conqueror ordered a record of all the land. Because there were no maps they wrote down landmarks; I remember an oak in Hertfordshire, that had been a landmark for Doomsday Book.

This north country oak of my story was less old than the Doomsday Oak. It had been a fine upstanding tree in Queen Elizabeth’s reign. For centuries it grew tall and stately, deep-rooted amongst the rocks, by a corner above an old highway that led to a market town.

How many travellers had passed the tree, since that road was a forest track! Hunters, robbers, bowmen; knights on horseback riding along; pikemen, jackmen marching; country folk and drovers; merchants, pedlars with laden pack-horses.

At each change the road was mended and widened. There began to be two-wheeled carts. Then farmers’ wives left off riding on pillions; the gentry drove gigs and coaches; and alas! there came the wood wagons.