Let me help to cut the grass"I wish thoo'd let me help thoo to cut the grass."Click toENLARGE
"Iliketo be busy. I wish thoo'd let me help thoo to cut the grass," said Ted, eyeing David wistfully, as he started his big scythe, for the old gardener knew nothing of mowing machines, and would most likely have looked upon them with great contempt. But he stopped short a moment to look down at wee Ted, staring up at him and wishing to be in his place.
"No, indeed, Master Tedbach!" he said; "you soon have your cliver little legs and arms cut to pieces, if you use with my scythe, Master Ted—ay, indeed, d'rectly. It look easy, to be sure, but it not so easy even for a cliver man like you, Master Ted—no, indeed. But I tell you what you shall do. You shall help to make the grass to a heaps, and then I put it in a barrow and wheel it off. Ay, indeed; that be the best."
This proposal was very much to Ted's taste. Chevie and he, at a safe distance from David's scythe, thought it great fun to toss about the soft fine grass and imagine they were helping David tremendously. And after a while, when Chevie began to think he had had enough of it, and with a sort of condescending growl by way of explanation, stretched himself out in the sunshine for a little forenoon sleep, David left off cutting, and, with Ted's help of course, filled the barrow and wheeled it off to the corner where the grass was to lie to be out of the way. It was beginning to be rather hot, though still quite early, and Ted's face grew somewhat red with his exertions as he ran beside David.
"You better ride now; jump in, Master Ted," said the gardener, when his barrow was empty. So he lifted him in and wheeled him back to the lawn, which wasquiteafter Ted's own heart.
"Isn't thoo going to cut with thoo's big scissors?" said Ted after a while.
"It is want oiling," said David, "and I forget to do them. I shall leave the borders till after dinner,—ay, sure," and he was going on with his scything when suddenly a voice was heard from the house calling him.
"David, David, you're wanted," said the voice, and then the cook made her appearance at the side of the house. "There's a note to take to——."
They could not hear to where, but David had to go. He glanced round him, and, afraid of Ted's experiments, shouldered his scythe and walked off with it for fear of accidents.
"Are you going in, Master Ted?" he asked.
"Nurse is going to call me when she's ready," said Ted composedly, and knowing that the little fellow often played about by himself for a while, good David left him without any more anxiety. He had got his scythe safe, he never thought of the big pair of shears he had left lying in the grass!
Now these gigantic "scissors" as he called them had always had a wonderful attraction for Ted. He used to think how funny they would look beside the very tiny fine pair his mother worked with—the pretty scissors that lay in her little case lined with velvet and satin. Ted had not, in those days, heard of Gulliver and his strange adventures, but if he had, one might have imagined that to his fancy the two pairs of scissors were like a Brobdignag and a Lilliputian. And no sooner had David disappeared than unfortunately the great scissors caught his eyes.
"Zem's still sticked fast," he said to himself. "David says zem needs oil. Wiss I had some oil. P'raps the fissy oil to make Ted grow big would do. But the scissors is big enough. Ted wonders if the fissy oil would make zem bigger. Zemcouldn'tbe much bigger."
Ted laughed a little to himself at the funny fancy. Then he sat and stared at the scissors. What did they remind him of? Ah yes, they were like the shears of "the great, long, red-legged scissor man," in the wonderful story of "Conrad Suck-a-thumb," in his German picture-book. Almost, as he gazed at them, it seemed to Ted that the figure of the scissors man would suddenly dart out from among the bushes and seize his property.
"But him wouldn't cutTed'sfumbs," thought the little man to himself, "'cos Tedneversucks zem. What a pity the scissors is sticked fast! Poor David can't cut with zem. P'raps Ted could oilen zem for poor David! Ted will go and get some fissy oil."
No sooner thought than done. Up jumped Ted, and was starting off to the house when a growl from Cheviott made him stop. The dog had just awakened, and seeing his little master setting off somewhere thought it his business to inquire where to and why. He lifted his head and gave it a sort of sleepy shake, then growled again, but gently of course.
"What did thoo say, Chevie?" said Ted. "Did thoo want to know where I was going? Stay here, Chevie. Ted will be back in a minute—him's on'y going to get some fissy oil to oilen poor David's scissors."
And off he set, though a third growl from Cheviott followed him as he ran.
"What does Chevie mean?" thought Ted. "P'raps him's thinking muzzer said Ted mustn't touch zem big scissors. But muzzer on'y meant Ted wasn't to cutten with zem. Muzzer wouldlikeTed to help poor David," and, his conscience quite at rest, he trotted on contentedly.
Children."Here are the nails, and may we help?Jessie.You shall if I should want help.Children.Will you want it then?Please want it—we like helping."
There was no one in the nursery, fortunately for Ted's plans.Unfortunately rather, we should perhaps say, for if nurse had been there, she would have asked for what he wanted the little bottle which had held the cod-liver oil, that he had lately left off taking, but of which a few drops still remained.
Ted climbed on to a chair and reached the shelf where it stood, and in two minutes he was off again, bottle in hand, in triumph. He found Cheviott lying still, where he had left him; he looked up and yawned as Ted appeared, and then growled with an air of satisfaction. It was sometimes a little difficult for Chevie to decide exactly howmuchcare he was to take of Ted. After all, a little two-legged boy that could talk was notquitethe same as a lamb, or even a sheep. He could not run round him barking, to prevent his trotting where he wished—there were plainly some things Ted had to do with and understood which Chevie's dog-experience did not reach to.
So Cheviott lay there and blinked his honest eyes in the sunshine, and stared at Ted and wondered what he was after now! For Ted was in a very tip-top state of delight! He sat down cross-legged on the grass, drew the delicious big shears to him—they were heavy for him even to pull—and uncorking the bottle of "fissy" oil, began operations.
"Zemissticked fast, to be soore," he said to himself, adopting David's favourite expression, as he tugged and tugged in vain. "If thoo could hold one side and Ted the other, they would soon come loosened," he observed to Cheviott. But Cheviott only growled faintly and blinked at his master sleepily, and after a good deal more tugging Ted did manage to open the shears, which indeed at last flew apart so sharply that the boy toppled over with the shock, and rolled for a moment or two on the grass, though happily not on the shears, before he recovered his balance.
Laughing merrily, he pulled himself up again. Luckily the bottle had not been overturned. Ted poured a drop or two carefully on to his fingers, quite regardless of the fishy smell, and proceeded to anoint the scissors. This he repeated several times, polishing them all over till they shone, but not understanding thattheplace where the oil was needed was the hinge, he directed the best of his attention to the general shininess.
Then he sat and looked at them admiringly.
"Won'tDavid be p'eased?" he said. "Zem's oilened all over now. Ted must see if they don't sticken fast now."
With nearly as much difficulty as he had had to open them, Ted now managed to shut them.
"Zem's better," thought the busy little man, "but Ted must see how they cut."
He laid them flat on the grass, at a place where the blades had not been completely sheared by the scythe. Tug number one—the oil had really done some good, they opened more easily—tug number two, behold them gaping—tug number three, they bite the grass, and Ted is just going to shout in triumph when a quick shock of pain stabs through him. He had been kneeling almostonthe shears, and their cruel jaws had snipped, with the grass, the tender fleshy part of his poor little leg!
It was not the pain that frightened him so much as the feeling held fast by the now dreadful scissors.
"David, David," he cried, "oh, please come. Nurse, please come. Ted has cuttened hisself."
His little voice sounded clear and shrill in the summer quiet of the peaceful garden, and nurse, who had been hastening to come out to him, heard it from the open window. David too was on his way back, and poor Ted was soon released. But it was a bad cut—he had to be carried into the house to have it bathed and sponged and tenderly bound up by mother's fingers. He left off crying when he saw how sorry mother looked.
"Ted issosorry to t'ouble thoo," he said.
"And mother is sorry for Ted," she replied. "But, my dear little boy," she went on, when the poor leg was comfortable and its owner forgetting its pain on mother's knee, "don't you remember that mother told you not to touch David's tools?"
"Oh ses," he replied. "Ted wouldn't touch zem for hisself, but it was tohelp David," and the innocent confidence with which he looked up in her face went to his mother's heart.
"Butstill, dear Ted, you must try to understand that what mother says, you must do exactly. Mother likes you to be kind and helping to people, but still mother knows better than you, and that is why, when she tells you things, you must remember to do what she says."
Ted looked grave and a little puzzled, and seeing this his mother thought it best to say no more just then. The lesson of obedience was one that Ted found rather puzzling, you see, but what his mother had said had made a mark in his mind. He thought about it often, and as he grew bigger other things happened, as you will hear, to make him think of it still more.
It was rather a trial to Ted not to be able to run about as usual that afternoon, for had he done so, the cut might have begun to bleed again, so he had to sit still in the nursery, looking out at the window and hoping and hoping that Percy would soon come back. Once David and his barrow passed underneath, and the gardener called up to know if Master Ted's leg was better. Ted shook his head rather dolefully.
"Him's better," he said, "but Ted can't run about. Ted's so sad, David. Muzzer's got letters to write and Percy's out."
A kind thought struck David. He went round to the drawing-room window and tapped at it gently. Ted's mother was writing there. Might he wheel Master Ted in his barrow to the part of the garden where he was working?—he would take good care of him—"the little gentleman never cut himself if I with him—no, indeed; I make him safe enough."
And Ted's mother consented gladly. So in a few minutes he was comfortably installed on a nice heap of dry grass, with Cheviott close beside him and David near at hand.
"You never touch my tools again, Master Ted, for a bit; no, to be sure; do you now?" said David.
"No," said Ted. "Muzzer says I mustn't. But wasn't the big scissors nicely oilened, David?"
"Oh, fust rate—ay," said David. "Though I not say it is a cliver smell—no. I not like the smell, Master Ted."
"Never mind," replied Ted reassuringly. "Ted will ask muzzer for some cock-alone for thoo. Thoo can put some on the scissors."
"What's that, Master Ted?" inquired David, who was not at all above getting information out of his little master.
"Cock-alone," repeated Ted. "Oh, it's somesing that smells very nice. I don't know what it is. I thing it must be skeesed out of f'owers. I'll run and get thoo some now, David, this minute," and he was on the point of clambering to his feet when the stiff feeling of his bandaged leg stopped him. "Oh, I forgot," he exclaimed regretfully.
"Yes indeed, Master Ted. You not walk a great deal to-day, to be sure—no, indeed—for a bit; ay."
Ted lay still for a minute or two. He was gazing up at the sky, which that afternoon was very pure and beautiful.
"Who paints the sky, David?" he said suddenly.
"Well indeed, Master Ted, I not think you ask me such a foolis' question, Master Tedbach!" said David. "Who's make a sky and a sea and everything so?"
"'Dod," said Ted. "Oh, I know that. But I thoughtened p'raps 'Dod put somebody up there to paint it. It wassopitty last night, David—alltolours—Ted tan't say zem all. Why isn't there many tolours now, David?"
"I not know for sure," said David, stopping a moment in his work and looking up at the sky.
"Tedthought," continued the little fellow slowly, "Tedthoughtp'raps 'Dod's paints was getting done. Could that be why?"
David was rather matter-of-fact, and I don't know that that made him any the worse a companion for Ted, whose brain was already quite full enough of fancies. So he did not smile at Ted's idea, but answered quite gravely,
"No indeed, Master Ted, I not think that untall."
"If on'y Ted could fly," the child continued in a minute or two, as just then a flock of birds made their graceful way between his gazing eyes and the clear blue vault above. "How pittily birds flies, don't they, David? If Ted could fly he'd soon find out all about the sky and everysing. And it wouldn't matter then that him had hurt his leg.Couldn'tTed learn to fly, David?"
Ted was soaring too far above poor David's head already for him to know what to answer. What could he say but "No indeed, Master Ted," again? He had never heard tell of any one that could fly except the angels. For David was fond of going to church, or chapel rather, and though he could not read Ted's Bible, he could read his own very well.
"Angels," said Ted. The word started his busy fancy off in a fresh direction. He lay looking up still, watching now the lovely little feathery clouds that began to rise as the sun declined, and fancying they were angels with wings softly floating hither and thither in the balmy air. He watched one little group, which seemed to him like three angels with their arms twined together, so long, that at last his eyes grew rather tired of watching and their little white blinds closed over them softly. Little Ted had fallen asleep.
"So, so; dear me, he tired," said old David, as, surprised at the unusual silence, he turned to see what Ted was about. "Bless him, he tired very bad with his cliver talk and the pain; ay—but, indeed, he not one to make fuss—no. He a brave little gentleman, Master Ted—ay, indeed," and the kind old man lifted the boy's head so that he should lie more comfortably, and turned his wheelbarrow up on one side to shade him from the sun.
Ted smiled in his sleep as David looked at him. Shall I tell you what made him smile? In his sleep he had got his wish. He dreamt that he was flying. This was the dream that came to him.
He fancied he was running down the garden path with Chevie, when all at once Chevie seemed to disappear, and where he had been there stood a pretty snow-white lamb. With an eager cry Ted darted forward to catch it, and laid his hand on its soft woolly coat, when—it was no lamb but a little cloud he was trying to grasp. And wonderful to say, the little cloud seemed to float towards him and settle itself on his shoulders, and then all of himself Ted seemed to find out that it had turned into wings!
"Ted can fly, Ted can fly!" he cried with delight, orthoughthe cried. In reality it was just then that David lifted his head, and feeling himself moving, Ted fancied it was the wings lifting him upward, and gave the pleased smile which David noticed. Fly! I should think so. He mounted and mounted, higher and higher, the white wings waving him upwards in the most wonderful way, till at last he found himself right up in the blue sky where he had so wished to be. And ever so many—lots and lots of other little white things were floating or flying about, and, looking closely at them, Ted saw that they were not little clouds as they seemed at first, but wings—all pairs of beautiful white wings, and dear little faces were peeping out from between them. They were all little children like himself.
"Come and play, Ted, come and play. Ted,Ted,Ted!" they cried so loud, that Ted opened his eyes—his real waking eyes, not his dream ones—sharply, and there he was, lying on the soft grass heap, not up in the sky among the cloud-children at all!
At first he was rather disappointed. But as he was thinking to himself whether it was worth while to try to go to sleep again and go on with his dream, he heard himself called as before, "Ted,Ted,Ted."
And looking up he forgot all about everything else when he saw, running down the sloping banks as fast as his legs would carry him, Percy, his dear Percy!
Ted jumped up—even his wounded leg couldn't keep him still now.
"Was it thoo calling me, Percy?" he said. "I was d'eaming, do thoo know—sucha funny d'eam? But I'm so glad thoo's come back, Percy. Oh, Tedisso glad."
Then all the day's adventures had to be related—the accident with the scissors and the drive in the wheelbarrow, and the funny dream. And in his turn Percy had to tell of all he had seen and done and heard—the shops he had been at in the little town, and what he had had for luncheon and—and—the numberless trifles that make up the interest of a child's day.
"Does thoo think there's any shop where we could getwings, Percy?" asked Ted. He had the vaguest ideas as to what "shops" were, but Percy had been telling him of the beautiful little boats he had seen at a toy-shop in the market-place, "boats with white sails and all rigged just like real ones;" and if boats with white sails were to be got, why not white wings?
"Wings!" exclaimed Percy. "What sort of wings do you mean, Teddy?"
"Wings for little boys," Ted explained. "Like what I was d'eaming about. It would be so nice to fly, Percy."
"Beautiful, wouldn't it?" agreed Percy. "But nobody can fly, Ted. Nobodycouldmake wings that would be any use for people. People can't fly."
"But little boys, Percy," persisted Ted. "Little boys isn't so very much bigger than birds. Oh, you don't know howlovelyit feels to fly. Percy,dolet us try to make some wings."
But Percy's greater experience was less hopeful.
"I'm afraid it would be no use," he said. "People have often tried. I've heard stories of it. They only tumbled down."
"Did they hurt themselves?" asked Ted.
"I expect so," Percy replied.
Just then David, who was passing by, stopped to tell the boys that some one was calling them in from the house.
"Is it your papa, Master Ted; yes, I think," he said.
Ted's leg was feeling less stiff and painful now. He could walk almost as well as usual. When they got to the house-door his father was waiting for him. He had heard of Ted's misfortune, and there was rather a comical smile on his face as he stooped to kiss his little boy.
"I want you to come in to see Mr. Brand," he said. "He says he hasn't seen you for a long time, little Ted."
Ted raised his blue eyes to his father's face with a rather puzzled expression.
"Whom's Mr. Brand?" he asked.
"Why, don't you remember him, Teddy?" said Percy. "That great big gentleman—so awfully tall."
Ted did not reply, but he seemed much impressed.
"Is him a diant?" he asked, gravely.
"Very nearly, I should say," said Percy, laughing, and then, as he had already seen Mr. Brand, who had met Ted's father on his way back from A——, Percy ran off in another direction, and Ted followed his father into the drawing-room.
Mr. Brand was sitting talking to Ted's mother, but just as the door opened, he rose from his seat and came forward.
"I was just going to ask you if—ah! here's your little boy," he said to Ted's father. Then, sitting down again, he drew Ted between his knees and looked kindly at the small innocent face. He was very fond of children, but he did not know much about them, and Ted, looking and feeling rather overawed, stood more silently than usual, staring seriously at the visitor.
He was very tall and very big. Whether he quite came up to Ted's idea of a "diant" I cannot tell. But queer fancies began to chase each other round the boy's brain. There had been a good deal to excite and upset the little fellow—at no time a strong child—that day, and his dream when lying asleep on the grass had added to it all. And now, as he stood looking up at big Mr. Brand, a strange confusion of ideas filled his mind—of giants tall enough to reach the sky, to catch and bring down some of the cloud-wings Ted wished so for, interspersed with wondering if it was "fissy oil" that had made this big man so very big. If he, Ted, were to take a great, great lot of fissy oil, wouldhegrow as big and strong? Would he be able to cut the grass like David perhaps, to run faster than Percy—to—to I don't know what—for at this moment Mr. Brand's voice brought him back from his fancies.
"What an absent-minded little fellow he is," Mr. Brand was saying, for he had been speaking to Ted two or three times without the child's paying any attention.
"Not generally," said Ted's mother. "He is usually very wide-awake to all that is going on. What are you thinking of, Ted, dear?"
"Yes," said Mr. Brand. "Tell us what you've got in your head. Are you thinking that I'm a very tiny little man—the tiniest little man you ever saw?"
"No," said Ted solemnly, without the least smile, at which his mother was rather surprised. For, young though he was, Ted was usually very quick at seeing a joke. But he just said "No," and stared again at Mr. Brand, without another word.
"Then what were you thinking—that I'm the verybiggestman you ever did see?"
"Ses," said Ted, gravely still, but with a certain light in his eyes which encouraged Mr. Brand to continue his questions.
"And what more? Were you wishing you were as big as I am?"
Ted hesitated.
"I'dratherfly," he said. "But Percy says nobody can fly. I'd like to be big if I could get up very high."
"How high?" said Mr. Brand. "Up to the top of the mountain out there?"
"Is the mountain as high as the clouds?" asked Ted.
"Yes," said Mr. Brand; "when you're up at the very top, you can look down on the clouds."
Ted looked rather puzzled.
"I'll tell you what," the gentleman went on, amused by the expression of the child's face, "I'll tell you what—as I'm so big, supposing I take you to the top of the mountain—we'll go this very afternoon. I'll take a jug of cold water and a loaf of bread, and leave it with you there so that you'll have something to eat, and then you can stay there quite comfortable by yourself and find out all you want to know. You'd like that, wouldn't you? to be all by yourself on the top of the mountain?"
He looked at Ted in a rather queer way as he said it. The truth was that Mr. Brand, who though so big was not very old, was carried away by the fun (tohim) of watching the puzzled look on the child's face, and forgot that what to him was a mere passing joke might be very different to the tender little four-years-old boy.
Ted's face grew rather white, he edged away a little from this strange gentleman, whom he could not make out, but who was so big that Ted felt it impossible to doubt his being able to do anything he wished.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he repeated, quite gravely, and glancing at Ted with slightly knitted brows which made the boy suddenly think of some of the "ogre" stories he had heard.
"No," said Ted bluntly. But he was afraid to say more. Ogres didn't like to be contradicted, and perhaps—perhapsthis strange man really thought hewouldlike it, and really meant to please him. Any way, it would never do to answer rudely, though Ted's face grew still paler, when his glance fell on the mountain peak clearly to be seen out of the window from where he stood, and a little shiver ran through him when he thought that perhaps he would have to go, whether he liked it or not. He edged away still farther, but it was no use. Mr. Brand had put his arm round him, and there was no getting away, when suddenly a noise outside the window caught the gentleman's attention and he started up. It was his dog barking loudly, and Mr. Brand, fearing he might have got into some mischief, stepped out through the glass door to see. Ted was on the alert, and before any one in the room had noticed him he was off.
Where should he go to? He dared not hide in the garden, for there he might be seen, especially as Mr. Brand was running about after his dog; he would not go up to the nursery, for nurse would ask him why he had not stayed downstairs; he did not even wish to find Percy, for though he could not have explained why, he felt that it would be impossible for him to tellany oneof the strange terror that Mr. Brand's joke had awakened. He felt ashamed of it, afraid too that if, as he vaguely thought might be the case, the offer had been made in real earnest and with a wish to please him, his dislike to it would be ungrateful and unkind. Indeed poor Ted was more troubled than he ever remembered to have been in his whole little life—he could think of nothing for it but to hide till all danger was past.
A brilliant idea struck him—he would go and pay a visit to cook! It was not very often he went into the kitchen, and no one would look for him there. And cook was kind, very kind when not very busy. So with a slight shudder as, running past the open front-door, he caught sight of the well-known mountain peak, frowning at him, as it seemed now, for the first time in his life, Ted made his way to cook's quarters.
She was not in the kitchen, but hearing some one coming, she called out from the back kitchen where she was. That was better still, every step the farther from the drawing-room, or from Mr. Brand rather, was a gain. So Ted trotted into the back kitchen, and to prevent cook's thinking there was anything the matter asked her if he might play with the cat. He found a piece of string, to which cook tied a cork, and as pussy was really more of a kitten than a cat, he amused himself for some time by making her run after it, whistling now and then to keep up his heart, though had cook looked at him closely she could have seen how white he was, and how every now and then he threw frightened glances over his shoulder.
"Your leg's better, Master Ted?" said cook.
"Oh ses, zank thoo," said Ted. "Him's much better."
"You'll have to take care never to touch sharp tools again, won't you?" she went on, as she bustled about with her work.
"Ses," he said again. But he did not speak with his usual heartiness, and cook, who, like all the servants, loved the bright, gentle little fellow, looked at him rather anxiously. Suddenly a sound was heard—wheels on the gravel drive.
"What's that, cook?" said Ted, starting.
"Only the gentleman's dog-cart—the gentleman that's been to see your papa. He's going away," said cook composedly.
Ted hurried into the kitchen. From the window the drive could be seen by big people, though not by him.
"Lift me up on the table, please, cook," he said, and when cook good-naturedly did so, and he saw the giant really, actually driving away, Ted could almost have cried with pleasure. But his fears and his relief he kept in his own little heart.
"Zank thoo, cook," he said gravely, but with the pretty courtesy he never forgot. "Zank thoo, and please lift me down again."
"He's a funny little fellow," said cook to herself, as she watched Ted trot off. "I wonder what he'd got in his mind, bless him."
Ted reappeared in the drawing-room.
"Where have you been, dear?" said his mother. "We were looking about for you to say good-bye to Mr. Brand. Where did you go to?"
"Ted were in the kitchen, 'peaking to cook," he replied.
"But why did you go away, dear, while Mr. Brand was here?" asked his mother. "Were you frightened of his dog?"
"No," said Ted, "Ted's never frightened of dogs."
"No, dear, I know you're not," said his mother. But she did not feel satisfied. Her little boy did not look the same as usual somehow. Still she felt it was better to ask no more—after a while Ted would perhaps tell her of himself. And she did well, for it would have been almost impossible for him to tell his mingled feelings.
"Muzzer likes that big man," he was thinking to himself. "Muzzer thinks he's kind. It's naughty and unkind of Ted to be frightened," and so the loyal little man kept silence.
And it was not for a long time—not till Ted himself had learnt to "understand" a little better, that even his mother understood the whole.
"Of course he was the giant,With beard as white as snow."
But whenever Mr. Brand, poor man, came to call, Ted was sure in some mysterious way to disappear. After a while his mother began to notice it, though, as Mr. Brand did not come very often, she did not do so all at once. She noticed, however, another thing which she was sorry for. Ted took a dislike to the big mountain. It was a great pity, for before that he had been so fond of it—so fond of watching the different expressions, "looks" Ted called them, that it wore according to the time of day, or the time of year, or the weather. And his father and mother had been pleased to see him so "noticing," for such a little boy; they thought it showed, as indeed it did, that he was likely to grow into a happy-minded and happy-hearted man.
But now it was quite different. When he sat on his mother's knee in the drawing-room he would turn his little face to the side away from the window so that he should not see the towering mountain-head. He would never laugh at his old friend's putting on his nightcap of mist, as he used to do, and all his pretty fancies about being able to reach the dear little stars if he were up on the top peak of all, were spoilt.
"Something has frightened Ted," said his mother to his father one day. "I wonder what it can be. I knowyouwouldn't frighten him, dear," she added, turning to Percy who was in the room, though of courseTedwas not there, otherwise his mother would not have said it, "but still, has there been anything in your play that could have done so? Have you been talking about mountains, or telling stories about them?"
"No," said Percy, thoughtfully; "I'm sure there has been nothing. Shall I ask Ted about it? Perhaps he wouldn't mind telling me, not even as much as——" Percy stopped and grew a little red. He was a boy of nice feelings, not rough and knock-about in his ways like many schoolboys.
"Not even as much as tellingme, you were going to say," said Ted's mother, smiling. "Never mind, dear. I daresay itwouldbe easier for him to tell you, and I am very glad my little boy has such a kind Percy to talk to. But I think perhaps it is better to say nothing to him. We may find it out by degrees, and if it is only a sort of fancy—he may have seen the mountain looking gloomy some evening—it may fade away of itself more quickly if we don't notice it."
That day was a very bright and lovely one. Ted's mother thought to herself she would like to do something to make Ted, and Percy too, "extra" happy, for the weeks had been running on fast—it would soon be time for Percy, not being a little fish, to go back to school. And Percy's big sister was with them too just then. She was even bigger than Percy, so of course Ted thought herquitegrown up, though in reality she was a good many years off being so. She was very nice any way, with a gentle pretty face and kind eyes, and though she was not very old she was very clever at telling stories, which is a most delightful thing in a big sister or cousin—is it not? And she was also able to sing very prettily, another delightful thing, or at least so Ted thought, for hewasso fond of singing. This big girl's name was Mabel.
And after thinking a while and talking about it to Mabel, Ted's mother thought the nicest thing would be to have tea in a lonely little nesty place in the gorge between the mountains that I have told you of. We were to go there with Ted and Cheviott some day, by the by, were we not? Well, never mind, Cheviott shall be—that is to say hewas—of the gipsy tea-party, so that will come to the same thing, will it not?
They all set off—Ted's father and mother, another gentleman and lady who were staying for the summer in a cottage not far off, that they might be near their friends, their daughter who wasreallygrown up, and Mabel and Percy and Ted. You can fancy the bread and butter there was to cut, the home-made cake, the tea and sugar and cream that must not be forgotten. And when all the baskets were ready and everybody was helping and planning how to carry them, who do you think got hold of the biggest of all and was trying to lug it along? Who but our four-years-old Ted?
"My boy, my boy," cried his mother, laughing, for he did look comical—the basket being really very nearly as big as himself and his little face already quite red with the exertion, "you cannot possibly take that basket. Why,Icould scarcely carry it."
"But boys is stronger than muzzers," said Ted gravely, and it was really with difficulty that they could persuade him to give it up, and only then by letting him carry another whichlookednearly as important but was in reality much lighter, as it only held the tablecloth and the teapot and teaspoons.
I have not told you about the gorge—not told you, I mean, how lovely it was. Nor if I talked about it for hours could I half describe its beauty. In spring time perhaps it was the prettiest of all, for then it was rich in the early blossoms and flowers that are so quickly over, and that seem to us doubly precious after the flower famine of the winter. But not even in the early spring time, with all the beauty of primroses and violets, could the gorge look lovelier than it did this summer afternoon. For the ferns and bracken never seemed dusty and withered in this favoured place—the grass and moss too, kept their freshness through all the hot days as if tended by fairy fingers. It was thanks to the river you see—the merry beautiful little river that came dancing down the centre of this mountain-pass, at one part turning itself into a waterfall, then, as if tired, for a little flowing along more quietly through a short space of less precipitous road. But always beautiful, always kindly and generous to the happy dwellers on its banks, keeping them cool in the hottest days, tossing here and there its spray of pearly drops as if in pretty fun.
On each side of the water ran a little footpath, and here and there roughly-made rustic bridges across it tempted you to see if the other side was as pretty as this, though when you had stood still to consider about it you found it impossible to say! The paths were here and there almost completely hidden, for they were so little trodden that the moss had it all its own way with them, and sometimes too it took a scramble and a climb to fight one's way through the tangled knots and fallen fragments of rock which encumbered them. But now and then there came a bit of level ground where the gorge widened slightly, and then the path stopped for a while in a sort of glade from which again it emerged on the other side. It was in one of these glades that Ted's mother arranged the gipsy tea. Can you imagine a prettier place for a summer day's treat? Overhead the bluest of blue skies and sunshine, tempered by the leafy screen-work of the thickly growing trees; at one side the soft rush of the silvery river, whose song was here low and gentle, though one could hear in the distance the boom of the noisy waterfall; at the other side the mountain slope, whose short brown slippery turf seemed to tempt one to a climb. And close at hand the wealth of ferns and bracken and flowers that I have told you of—a little higher up strange gleaming balls of many kinds of fungus, yellow and orange, and even scarlet, flamed out as if to rival the softer tints of the trailing honeysuckle and delicate convolvulus and pink foxglove below. It was a lovely dream of fairyland, and the knowing that not far away the waves of the broad blue sea were gently lapping the sandy shore seemed somehow to make it feel all the lovelier.
The tea of course was a great success—when was a gipsy tea, unless people areverycross-tempered and fidgety and difficult to please, anything else? The kettle did its duty well, for the water boiled in it beautifully on the fire of dry sticks and leaves which Percy and Mabel, and busy Tedof course, had collected. The tea tasted very good—"not 'moky at all," said Ted; the slices of bread and butter and cake disappeared in a wonderful way, till at last everybody said "No, thank you, not any more," when the boys handed round the few disconsolate-looking pieces that remained.
And after this there was the fun of washing up and packing away, in which Ted greatly distinguished himself.Hewould not leave the least shred of paper or even crumbs about, for the fairies would be angry, he said, if their pretty house wasn't left "kite tidy." And Percy and Mabel were amused at his fancy, and naturally enough it set them talking about fairies and such like. For the children were by themselves now—the ladies had gone on a little farther to a place where Ted's mother wanted to sketch, and the gentlemen had set off to climb to the nearest peak, from whence there was a beautiful view of the sea. It would have been too much for Ted, and indeed when his father had asked him if he would like to go part of the way with them, both his mother and Percy noticed that a troubled look came over his happy face, as he said he would rather stay where he was, which was strange for him, for though such a little boy, he was always eager for a climb and anxious to do whatever he saw any one else doing. So kind Percy, mindful of Ted's mother's words, said he would not go either, and stayed with the others, helping them to tidy up the fairies' house.
"Now," said Ted at last, sitting down on the grass at Mabel's feet, "now Isinkthe fairies will be p'eased. It's all kite tidy. Fairies is always angry if peoples is untidy."
"I thought fairies were always in a good humour," said Percy. "I didn't know they were ever angry."
"Oh, I think Ted's right," said Mabel. "They are angry with people who are dirty or untidy. Don't you remember a story about them coming to work in a house where the kitchen was always left tidy at night? And they never would come to the next house because it was always in a mess."
"P'ease tell me that story, Mabel," said Ted.
"I'm afraid I don't remember it very well," she replied.
"Do you remember," said Percy, who was lying on the ground staring up at the sky and the bit of brown mountain peak that could be seen from where he was, "do you remember, Mab, the story of a little boy that fell asleep on the top of a mountain, and the fairies spirited him away, and took him down to their country, down inside the mountain? And he thought he had only been away—when he came home again, I mean, for they had to let him out again after a while—he thought he had only been away a day or two, and, fancy, it had been twenty years! All the children had grown big, and the young people middle-aged, and the middle-aged people quite old, and none of them knew him again. He had lost all his childhood. Wasn't it sad?"
"Yes,very" said Mabel; "I remember the story."
"I think it's dedful," said Ted. "I don't like mountains, and I don't like diants. I'll never go up a mountain, never."
"But it wasn't the mountain's fault, Ted," said Percy. "And it wasn't giants, it was fairies."
"I sink p'raps it was diants," persisted Ted. "I don't like zem. Mr. Brand is a diant," he added mysteriously, in a low voice.
Percy had been thinking of what Ted's mother had said. Now he felt sure that it was something to do with Mr. Brand that had frightened the little fellow. But Mabel did not know about it.
"I like mountains," she said. "Indeed I love them. I am always so glad to live where I can see their high peaks reaching up into the sky."
"But it wouldn't be nice to be alone, kite alone, on the top of one of zem, would it?" said Ted.
"No, it wouldn't be nice to be alone in any far-off place like that," said Percy, "but of course nobody would ever stay up on the top of a mountain alone."
"But if zem wasmadeto," said Ted doubtfully. "I wouldn't mind so much if I had Chevie," he added, putting his arm round the dear doggie's neck and leaning his little fair head on him, for of course Chevie was of the party.
"Poor Ted," said Percy, laughing. "No one would ever makeyoulive up all alone on the top of a mountain. Mabel, I wish you'd tell us a story," he said to his sister. "It's so nice here. I shall go to sleep if somebody doesn't do something to keep me awake."
He was lying at full length on the soft mossy grass, in the same place still, and gazing up at the blue sky and brown mountain peak. "Tell us a story, Mab," he repeated lazily.
"I haven't got any very nice ones just now," said Mabel. "I have been so busy with my lessons, you know, Percy, that I haven't had time for any stories."
"Can't you make them up yourself?" said Percy.
"Sometimes I do, a little," she replied. "But I can't make them all quite myself. Sometimes in our German reading-books there are funny little bits of stories, and I add on to them. There was one—oh yes, I'll tell you one about a giant who lived on the top of a mountain."
Ted drew nearer to Mabel, and nestled in to her side.
"A diant on the top of a mountain," he repeated. "Is it very f'ightening, Mabel?"
"Oh no. Listen and I'll tell you. Once, a long time ago, there was, a long way off, a strange country. There were lots and lots of forests in it, and at the side of the biggest forest of all there rose a chain of high mountains. The people who lived in this forest were poor, simple sort of people—they hadn't much time for anything but work, for it was difficult to gain enough to live on. Most of them were charcoal-burners, and there were not very many of them altogether. Of course in a forest there wouldn't be much room for cottages and houses, would there? And their cottages were none of them near together. Each family had its own hut, quite separated from the others, and unless you belonged to the forest you could hardly find your way from one part of it to the other. The poor people, too, were so busy that they had not much time for going to see each other, or for amusing themselves in any way. They all had a pale sad look, something like the look that I have heard papa say the poor people in some parts of England have—the people in those parts where they work so awfully hard in dark smoky towns and never see the sun, or the green fields, or anything fresh and pretty. Of course the forest people were not as badly off asthat—for their work any way was in the open air, and the forest was clean—not like dirty factories, even though it was so dark. It was the want of sunshine that was their worst trouble, and that gave them that white, dull, half-frightened look. The forest was too thick and dense for the sun to get really into it, even in winter, and then, of course, the rays are so thin and pale that they aren't much good if they do come. And the mountains at the side came so close down to the edge of the forest that there was no getting any sunshine there either, for it was the north side there, the side that the sunshine couldn't get to. So for these reasons the place had come to be called 'the sunless country.'"
"What was there at the other side of the forest?" said Percy; "couldn't they have got into the sunshine at that side?"
"No," said Mabel. "I think there was a river or something. Or else it was that the forest was so very, very big that it would have been quite a journey to get out at any other side. I think that was it. Any way they couldn't. And they just had to live on without sunshine as well as they could. Their fathers had done so before them, and there was no help for it, they thought. They were too poor and too hard-worked to move away to another country, or to do anything but just go through each day as it came in a dull sad way, seldom speaking even to each other.
"But do you know, it hadnotalways been so in the sunless forest, though the better times were so long ago that hardly any of the poor people knew it had ever been different. There had, once upon a time, been a way into the sunshine on the other side of the mountain, and this way lay right through the great hill itself. But the mountain belonged to a great and very powerful giant"—at this Ted edged still closer to Mabel—"who lived in it quite alone. Sometimes he used to come out at a hole in the top, which was his door, and stay up there for a while looking about him, staring at the black forest down at his feet, and smiling grimly to himself at the thought of how dark and dull it must be for the people who lived in it. For he was not a kind giant at all. It was he that had shut up the passage through which the poor forest people used to pass to their bright cottages on the other side, for in those days they didn'tlivein the forest, they only went there for their work, and on Sundays and holidays they were all happy and merry together, and the little children grew up rosy and bright, quite different from the poor little wan-faced creatures that now hung sadly about at the hut doors in the forest, looking as if they didn't know how to laugh or play."
"Why did the naughty diant shut up the way?" asked Ted.
"Because he had a quarrel with the forest people. He wanted them to let their little boys and girls, or some of them, come to him to be his servants, but they wouldn't, and so he was so angry that he shut up the door. But that was so long ago now that the people had almost forgotten about it—the children that the giant had wanted to be his servants were old grandfathers and grandmothers now, and some of them were dead, I daresay, so that the real history of their troubles was forgotten by them but not by the giant, for whenever he came out at the top of the mountain to take some air, he used to look down at the forest and think how dull and miserable they must be there."
"Nasty diant," said Ted.
"Yes, he was very unkind, but still I think you would have been rather sorry for him too. He was old and all alone, and of course nobody loved him. The people in the forest hardly ever spoke of him. They knew he was there, or that he used to be there, and now and then some of the children who had heard about him used to feel afraid of him and whisper to each other that he would eat them up if he could catch them, but that was about all the notice they took of him. They seemed to have forgotten that he was the cause of their sad, gloomy lives, and indeed I am not sure that any except some very old people really knew. Among these very old people there were a man and his wife who were almost the poorest of all in the forest. They were so poor because they were almost past work, and they had no children to work for them. All that they had was a little granddaughter, who lived with them because her father and mother were dead. And it was a queer thing that she was quite different from the other poor children in the forest. They were all pale and sad and crushed-looking like their parents. This little girl was bright-haired and bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked. She was the one merry happy creature in the forest, and all the poor people used to stand and look at her as she flitted about, and wish that their children were the same. I don't know what her real name was; the story didn't tell, but the name she got to have among the forest people was Sunshine—at least it was Sunshine in German, but I think 'Sunny' is a nicer name, don't you?"
"Yes," said Percy; and
"Ses," said Ted, "'Sunny' is nicest."
"Well, we'll call her 'Sunny.' The reason that she was so different was partly that she hadn't been born in the forest. Her father, who was the son of these old people, had gone away, as some few of the forest people did, to another country, and there he had married a bright-haired, pretty girl. But she had died, and he himself got very ill, and he had only strength to bring his baby girl back to the forest to his parents when he too died. So Sunny's history had been rather sad, you see, but still it hadn't madehersad—it seemed as if the sunshine wasinher somehow, and that nothing could send it away."
Mabel stopped. Voices and steps were heard coming near.
"They're coming back," she said. "I'll have to finish the story another time. I didn't think it would take so long to tell."
"Ohdogo on now, dear, dear Mabel, ohdo!" cried Ted beseechingly.
But Mabel's fair face grew red.
"I couldn't, Ted, dear," she said, "not before big people," and Percy sympathised with her.
"We'll hear the rest in the garden at home," he said.
"Thoo won't tell it without me, not without Ted, p'ease," asked the little fellow.
"No, no, of course not, darling," said Mabel as she kissed his eager face.
Just then a ray of bright evening sunshine fell on Ted's brown hair, lighting it up and deepening it to gold, and as the little fellow caught it in his eyes, he looked up laughing.
"There's Sunny kissing Ted too," he said merrily.