By this time Giroflé was whining. She took him by the scuff of the neck and shook him. “If I did what was right, I should leave you to perish in the nearest ditch,” said she.
But, all the same, he was so small that she had not the heart to let him die, so she took him up, and ran to the stable, where the old man had laid himself down for the night beside Amulet and his mule. Giroflé whined and snarled all the time.
There was nothing for it but to start off again; they could not even remain in the stable, for the landlord was shouting from the window to a couple of men to turn them out. All they could do was to mount and ride towards the forest, where at least the branches would give them some shelter from the pouring rain.
When they entered it, the darkness was such that they could scarcely see their way. There were no stars to guide them, so, after stumbling about for some time, they began to search for a place in which they could be sheltered from the wind. By the light of the little lantern that the old man carried with him, they saw a bank covered with distorted tree-roots, some of which had been torn from the ground in a gale. They spread leaves and bracken in a hollow underneath one of these, and the Princess lay down to rest, with her cloak drawn about her, and Giroflé, who was by this time much subdued, curled himself at her feet. The old man and his mule disposed themselves a little way off, and Amulet stood in as snug a spot as he could find. The noise of the swishing branches overhead sounded like the waves of the sea.
But at last the wanderers fell asleep, and the storm had abated and the moon come out when the Princess heard Amulet plunging and stamping, and sat up, rubbing her eyes. By the light of the crescent showing through a gap in the trees, she saw a host of dark creatures surrounding them on all sides. She could not imagine what they were. Their great wings were outlined sharply against the moonlight, and, though their faces were hidden, she was aware of their bright eyes fixed upon her. One figure in their midst came towards them holding a tall spear; a crown of pale green flickering flame was on his head. Giroflé jumped up barking and then fled to his mistress’s skirts, his tail between his legs. In a moment the tall figure strode after him and pierced him to the heart with his spear. As he bent over his victim, the Princess could see that he had the face of a bat.
Then, at a signal from him, the whole host came about them; they were seized, and Amulet, who had tried to attack the Bat-King with his teeth, was taken also; for, gallop and stamp as he might, the fluttering wings closed him round on every side, so that there was no escape. The mule fled at once.
When they were all safely secured, the Bat-King went on before them and his people followed, leading their prisoners into the heart of the forest.
And there we must leave them, for we must return to the King, and hear what happened to him after his parting with the old man.
* * * * *
When he reached home, the King threw himself into his old pursuits as if nothing had happened; but his heart was so sore that they gave him little joy, and, instead of spending his spare hours in hunting with his lords and gentlemen, he only longed to be alone. When he had leisure he would ride off by himself for days at a time, searching for new scenes and new thoughts. He would go out across the borders of his kingdom, by towers and rivers and high castles, sometimes wandering through towns and sometimes passing nights alone in the waste places of the hills.
One evening he came to the foot of a chain of rocky mountains, and stopped, looking up at the crags which towered above his head. Their shapes were so weird that he wondered whether their spires and pinnacles had been carved out by human hands, or whether an earthquake had cast them up in the likeness of men’s work. A track wound up and disappeared among them, and he turned his horse’s steps into it.
He had reached a considerable height when he came suddenly to a chasm so deep that he could not see its bottom. The rock on either side was worn smooth, as though with the passing of many feet, and the opening was narrow enough for a man to stride across without difficulty. The horse stopped, and the rein being loose on his neck, snuffed delicately at the strange gash that divided his path; then he picked his way over it, snorting and cocking his ears. They were scarcely ten yards on the farther side when there was a loud cracking noise, and, looking back, the King saw that the chasm had split wider asunder and now yawned behind him like the mouth of a pit. The horse dashed forward, and had gone some distance before his rider could check him. When at last they stood still, they had come to a smooth face of high rock, with a wide ledge at its foot, over which the track went.
Crowning its summit, some feet above their heads, ran a battlemented wall, and on it sat a woman who looked down at the King while she supported herself with one white arm. Whirling vapour floated behind her, through which appeared the outline of a fantastic castle whose towers seemed to climb to heaven. Her hair was bound about with cords of silver and livid purple poppies. Their petals were dropping down and falling in the King’s path. A dull dark blue garment was wound round her which left only her bare arms free and trailed over the wall below her feet, mixing with her heavy plaits and the silver tassels at the ends of them.
She smiled, bending forward till she looked as though she must fall from her high place; she was like some great unearthly gull poised upon a wave’s crest.
“Soon it will be too dark to travel among these precipices,” she cried. “Come up, O King, before the light falls. The way winds up to my gates.”
And, indeed, the path took a turn at the end of the ledge, and, twisting like a ribbon, vanished in the vapour.
There was no going back, for the chasm was behind him, and the light, as she said, was failing; so he rode upwards till he came to a gate whose top was lost in the clouds. It opened, disclosing a castle, and inside it the lady was coming to meet him, her draperies trailing behind her and the silver tassels on her plaits making a tinkling sound as they swept the stones. A noiseless person came from a doorway and led away his horse.
She was very beautiful. Her pale face and scarlet lips and her heavy-lidded eyes made him think of things he had seen in dreams, and a faint misgiving touched him as he followed her. Before the castle was a terrace, on the wall of which he had seen her sitting above him as he entered. He passed through stone galleries, over whose sides he thought he could see wild faces staring; the misgiving deepened with every step.
She went before him to a chamber hung with curtains, and when she had left him, another silent servant brought him fresh clothes and began to unbuckle his spurs. When he had put off his belt and sword, the servant took them from him and turned to the door.
“Give me my sword,” said the King; “I never part with that.”
He stretched out his hand to take it, but as he did so his companion vanished on the spot where he had stood. Then he saw that the walls were hung with images of demons, and that snakes’ heads peered from the corners. He looked out of the window, to see nothing but whirling vapours. When a messenger came to tell him that the lady awaited him to sup with her, he followed gloomily, for he knew he was in the stronghold of an Enchantress.
She was sitting at a table, on which a feast was spread, and she made him as welcome as though he had been some long-expected guest. Her voice was mellow as the voice of pigeons cooing in the woods, but it seemed to him that a gleam of cruelty lurked in her eyes. After dark, a chill fell in the air, and they drew close to a fire of logs which glowed at one end of the hall. A silent-footed company of musicians came, playing on instruments the like of which he had never seen, and one in their midst began to sing:
“Boughs of the pine, and stars between,In woods where shadows fill the air—Oh, who may rest that once hath beenA shadow there?“Sounds of the night, and tears between,The grey owl hooting, dimly heard:Can footsteps reach these lands unseen,Or wings of bird?“Days of the years, and worlds between—Oh, through those boughs the stars may burn;The heart may break for lands unseen,For woods wherein its life has been,But not return!”
“Boughs of the pine, and stars between,In woods where shadows fill the air—Oh, who may rest that once hath beenA shadow there?“Sounds of the night, and tears between,The grey owl hooting, dimly heard:Can footsteps reach these lands unseen,Or wings of bird?“Days of the years, and worlds between—Oh, through those boughs the stars may burn;The heart may break for lands unseen,For woods wherein its life has been,But not return!”
“Boughs of the pine, and stars between,In woods where shadows fill the air—Oh, who may rest that once hath beenA shadow there?
“Boughs of the pine, and stars between,
In woods where shadows fill the air—
Oh, who may rest that once hath been
A shadow there?
“Sounds of the night, and tears between,The grey owl hooting, dimly heard:Can footsteps reach these lands unseen,Or wings of bird?
“Sounds of the night, and tears between,
The grey owl hooting, dimly heard:
Can footsteps reach these lands unseen,
Or wings of bird?
“Days of the years, and worlds between—Oh, through those boughs the stars may burn;The heart may break for lands unseen,For woods wherein its life has been,But not return!”
“Days of the years, and worlds between—
Oh, through those boughs the stars may burn;
The heart may break for lands unseen,
For woods wherein its life has been,
But not return!”
The King sat listening, his head leaning upon his hand, and when he looked up, the Enchantress’s eyes were fixed on him with the cruel look he could not fathom. He sprang up and begged leave to retire; he was weary, he said, for he had ridden a long distance. At the door of the hall he asked her to tell her servants to return his sword. “We have never been parted yet,” said he.
She broke into a laugh. “To-morrow,” she said, waving him away. And when he would have spoken again, he found himself alone.
He rose very early next day and left the castle without meeting anyone; the gates were open, and he went all round the walls, hoping to come across some path which would take him out of the hills and lead him to the plains below. He was now sure that he was a prisoner. He remembered with a shudder how the rock on either side of the chasm was worn by the feet that had passed over it; and, having found only precipices on the north side of the castle, he determined to follow the track by which he had come, and see if some path, no matter how dangerous, might be found by which he could escape.
Coming down towards the chasm, he could hardly believe his eyes, for the sides had closed together, and it was no wider than when he had first seen it. He ran forward, but as he reached the brink it opened with the cracking noise he had heard before, and he found himself standing on the edge, looking into a gulf of mist. He turned back, disheartened; and as he crossed the ledge under the wall, he looked up to see the Enchantress, perched upon her height, watching him and smiling.
Day after day he lived on, a free prisoner. Each evening when he left her he asked for his sword, and each evening her laugh was the only answer he got. He did not know that the Enchantress had sat countless years upon the ramparts of her castle, waiting, like a spider, for her prey; that all her life had been spent in entrapping and imprisoning men. Some she had slain, some she had kept in dungeons, and some had dashed themselves down into the ravines or perished among them in their efforts to escape.
But she had no intention of killing the King or of casting him into a dungeon; of all those she had entrapped, he was the one she liked best, and every day she fell more deeply in love with him. She would stand by him on the highest tower of the castle, showing him all the wonders of the landscape and telling him tales which almost made him forget his captivity; she gave him rich gifts, and plied him with such wines and delicacies as, King though he was, he had never tasted. Each morning a servant brought him new clothes and jewels to choose from, but it only made him long more fervently for his russet leather and his sword. Each evening she would send for her musicians and sit by him till far into the night, listening to the unearthly melodies they played. But he cared neither for her nor for them.
His thought was always of escape, but, to throw her off her guard, he behaved as though life was growing endurable. He kissed her hand night and morning, he sought her company, he did all that he could to flatter her; but in reality he hated her false smile and soft voice, and only the hope of releasing himself made him able to play his part.
On the first night of every week the Enchantress would disappear, going out in a car drawn by great owls, and not returning till dawn. He longed to go with her, because he was weary for a change of scene, and because he thought it possible that he might find some chance of escape. So one evening, seeing that she was about to depart, he sighed heavily.
“Lady,” he said, “if you knew how long these evenings seem to me when you are away, you would never have the heart to go.”
“Are not all my dancing-girls and musicians here to while away the time?” replied she, looking very softly at him.
“What do I care for them?” said he. “Is there one who has a voice like yours, or a face to be compared with yours? No, no. If I have to part with you, my only wish is to be alone.”
The Enchantress was delighted.
“I must go, nevertheless,” she said. “For a long time past I have spent the first night of every week in a visit to the Bat-King, who rules over an enchanted forest some leagues from here. If I were to disappoint him, he would never forgive me. I have to go after dark and return before sunrise, as he can only see at night, and spends his days sleeping among the trees.”
The King made as though he were jealous.
“And who is this Bat-King that he should rob me of you?” he cried in an angry voice.
“Well, well,” said the Enchantress, laughing, “there is only one thing for it—you must come too. For I cannot vex the Bat-King by my absence, and you can delight yourself with my company while we go and come.”
Then, as though she guessed his thoughts, she continued: “If I did not know you loved me, I would tell you that you need not hope to escape from me in the forest. The Bat-King has millions of subjects, and he has only to sign to them to put you to death should you attempt it.”
They went out, and on the ramparts her chariot waited her. The King could not tell what it was made of, but it looked like one of those clouds that cross the setting sun before a stormy night; six enormous owls were harnessed to it and stood ready for a flight, their yellow eyes fixed on space. A servant handed a long scourge of plaited twigs to the Enchantress. When she and the King had seated themselves, the car rose into the air, and they were soon rushing across the sky.
Away they went, leaving the earth far under them; they flew over towns twinkling with lights and rivers which lay in the darkness like shining snakes. Sometimes a heavy bird of prey would pass on its way beneath them, and sometimes the cry of a nightjar would come up from below. At last they came upon a dark mass covering many miles, which the Enchantress told him was the forest of the Bat-King. A curious twilight shone through the branches, caused by the presence of many glow-worms. The owls lit upon an open patch among the trees, and she got out of the car, telling the King to remain beside her as he valued his life. The owls crouched near, ruffling as they settled.
In a short time they saw a dark-winged figure coming towards them, whose crown of pale flame threw furtive shadows on the tree-trunks. The Enchantress went to meet him, and for some time the two friends walked up and down at a little distance from the King. He looked above and around for some chance of escape. Once he thought of springing into the owl chariot, but the Enchantress had taken her whip of plaited twigs with her, and he feared that without it the owls might refuse to fly. He felt under his doublet for a dagger which he had managed to lay hands on after his sword had been taken, and which he had kept carefully hidden ever since. Then a sound made him glance upwards, and he saw that the boughs of the trees were a mass of gigantic figures, winged and carrying long nets; they jibbered and laughed, making as though they would throw them over him. It was plain that there was no hope of escape, and that his only chance would be on the homeward way, when he might stab the Enchantress, and with her plaited switch force the owls downwards to earth. But he shuddered at the thought of killing a woman, even though she were a fiend. He turned over these things in his mind till he heard her calling.
“Come!” she was saying. “It may please you to see some of your own kind. His Majesty has got two prisoners he is keeping in the forest, and I am going to look at them. You need not think we shall leave you. I hear that the woman is beautiful, so you can tell me if you think her as beautiful as I am.”
They followed the Bat-King for some distance. The thickness of the forest was surprising; twisted roots were woven together in the most wonderful manner, and starry blossoms swayed to and fro in the night wind. The Bat-creatures came crowding behind, close on their footsteps.
At last they reached a place where some trees stood round a grassy circle; in the centre of it were two figures.
“See,” said the Bat-King, “here are my prisoners. In the night, when my people are awake, they are watched on all sides, and in the day, while we sleep, one touch of my spear raises such a wall of bush and brier that they may try for ever to get through it in vain.”
His eyes gleamed with malice. “Stand, woman!” he cried, “stand up and let the Enchantress see you!”
A lady rose and stood before them, and, as she looked up at her tormentor, her eyes met those of the King. For a moment he remained dumb with horror, then, with a shout, he sprang upon the Bat-King, hurling him to the ground and battering his head against the earth.
The Enchantress shrieked and the Bat-people came round in dozens. They overpowered the King, dragging his enemy from under him, and in another moment he also found himself a prisoner.
The Bat-King, who was now on his feet, rushed at him with his spear, but the Enchantress threw herself between them.
“No, no!” she cried, “you shall not kill him! He is mine! No one shall harm him. I love him and he loves me!”
At this the King, beside himself with rage, turned upon her.
“I would sooner die than be near you another day,” he cried. “I hate you as I hate sin itself! There is only one person in the world I love, and that is this Princess.”
The Enchantress’s face grew white; all her beauty seemed to have faded. She pressed close to him, her fingers opening and shutting, as though she would tear him to pieces.
“I hate you!” he exclaimed again. “Woman though you are, if my hands were free, I would kill you.”
“You all shall die,” said the Enchantress. “First you shall see the woman die, you traitor; then her companion; then you shall die yourself. No one lives to offend me twice.”
Then she turned to the Bat-King. “Send for your subjects,” she cried, “and let us kill them before I leave this forest. I will not go back to my castle till I have seen them slain with torments.”
The Bat-King held up his spear, and his creatures came flocking from every thicket till the place looked like a billowy sea of black wings.
The King’s heart sank; he cared little for torment and pain or the loss of his own life, but he could not bear the thought of seeing the Princess die. But she looked bravely at him.
“We have met again,” she said, “so I am happy. And now we are going to die for each other.” Then she turned to the old man. “Giroflé is dead,” said she, “and they have taken Amulet—I know not where; but you have stayed to the end with me. I have nothing to reward you with, but I will do all I can for you. Lady,” she continued, “neither I nor the King would ask for our lives, even if you were willing to grant them. But this old man, my faithful servant, has done you no harm. I beg you to spare him.”
“He shall die first, that you may see it,” replied the Enchantress, with a look of hatred.
But at this moment there was a sudden movement among the Bat-people, and all their dark arms were raised, pointing in one direction. For, far away eastward, beyond the tree-trunks, the first pale streaks of morning lay along the edge of the world.
“It is too late,” cried the Bat-King. “In a few minutes the dawn will be upon us, and we shall not be able to see.”
Even as he spoke the Bat-creatures were hurrying back to their trees, blinking in the growing light. His eyes were getting dimmer every moment, and the Enchantress saw that she must put off her vengeance.
“When I return, this night week, we will kill them,” said she. “Keep them for me, for I will not lose the sight for twenty kingdoms.”
And she went off in haste, for she feared that her owls might not reach the castle ere the full blaze of day.
Before the Bat-King left his prisoners, he struck his spear on the ground, and a wall of briers rose around them, shutting them in. As soon as they were alone, the King, who still had his dagger hidden upon him, began to try and cut a way through with it. But as fast as he cut one stem, another grew in its place, and he found his work useless; there seemed nothing to do but to sit and wait for the end. In a week the Enchantress would return to see them put to death, and he could only promise himself that, while he had his concealed weapon, he would sell all their lives dear. Neither he nor the Princess had any hope of escape, for even should they be able to get through the tangled walls, they knew that the Bat-creatures could easily prevent their getting out of the forest.
At night, when the Bats were astir, the Bat-King would make the wall disappear, for he liked to look at his captives and tell them how little time they had left. In this way several days went by.
Now, the Princess had worn her white wreath till every bit of blossom had fallen, so that by the time she arrived in the forest it was scarcely more than a twist of withered leaves. She had taken it off reluctantly and thrown it down close to the place where they were now confined, and one day, as she and her lover paced their prison, they saw that the damp earth had revived the dying shoots and that they had put forth fruit. It lay on the earth, ripe and purple, and when night had fallen, and the Bat-King walked abroad, he saw what he took to be a spray of plums lying tossed at the foot of a tree. He ate one, and, finding it delicious, did not stop till he had devoured the whole.
That night the Bats rushed up and down the forest in dismay, for they could not think what had happened to their monarch. He would suffer none to approach him. No one could do his bidding fast enough to escape his wrath; no one was fit to stand in his presence; no one could make a low enough obeisance as he passed. But the strangest thing of all was that, when dawn broke, instead of hastening to his tree till the light should be gone, he protested that he was able to see as well in the sunshine as in the dark. To one so great as himself, he said, day and night were the same. He stumbled about, feeling the way with his spear, and by the time the Bats were asleep he came to the place where the Princess and her companions were. He had forgotten the wall he should have raised round them; he had forgotten how dangerous it was to approach the King unguarded; he had forgotten everything but his own fancied greatness.
The King watched him come; his hand was on his dagger, his eyes on fire. As he drew near he sprang upon him and stabbed him to the heart—once—twice. It was all over in a moment, quietly, and the Bat-King died without a groan, for his enemy’s hand was over his mouth.
By noon they had dug a hole deep enough for his body, and, having taken his clothes, his wings and his spear, they laid him in it, treading down the earth and covering the place with leaves.
Then they took the old man and dressed him in the Bat-King’s garments. They fastened the wings to his shoulders in as natural a way as they could. They put the spear in his hand, the flaming crown on his head, and with the dagger they cut off his long beard. With flint and steel they lit a fire, and, burning some wood, smeared his face with the ash till it was as dark as that of their dead enemy. His own clothes they rolled up and hid in a hole. When all this was done the old man made a whistling noise, such as he had heard the Bat-King make to call his subjects, and the evil creatures trooped round, staggering blindly about in the daylight.
When they were gathered at a little distance, he told them, in a voice as like that of their leader as he could make it, that the Princess’s servant was dead. He showed them the mound in the grass, under which, he said, he had made the other two prisoners bury him. A murmur of approval ran through the Bat crowd. The creatures could scarcely see the speaker, but they were anxious to keep their Sovereign in a good temper, so they pretended to understand everything. It was evident that they had no suspicions.
“If we are to escape,” said the Princess, under her breath, “I must have my dear Amulet back, I will never consent to leave him here.”
“Now!” cried the old man, “bring me the white horse that the woman rode upon. Fetch him immediately, for I intend to go afoot no more.”
“To-night, your Majesty, to-night?” cried they, astonished. “We cannot see in this blinding light!”
“Obey me at once,” roared the old man, “or I will have fifty of you executed after sunset! Is the greatest monarch on earth to walk like the lowest of his people?”
The Bats disappeared in all directions, for the Bat-King had kept the horse tied up in a distant spot; in their alarm they strayed all over the forest, but at last some of them got to the place where he was tethered.
The Princess watched eagerly for her favourite. “Dear Amulet,” she whispered to him when he arrived, “have no fear and we shall yet escape. I have sent for you that I may free you. Do all you are bid, for he who you think is the Bat-King is our friend who has come all the way with us.”
Then the old man mounted; he dismissed the crowd, but kept back one of the Bat-creatures, whom he drove before him with his spear to guide him to the edge of the enchanted forest. The Bat could scarcely see, but when he stopped, he beat him with the spear-shaft till he found the way again.
The King and Princess remained behind; they feared to rouse the suspicions of their enemies by going with him, as evening was far spent and the time when they would see clearly was drawing near. Besides which, they did not know how far distant the forest’s edge might be, nor whether the Princess would be able to reach it on foot by dark.
Before long the old man returned. He had freed Amulet at the borders, bidding him stay near the wood’s outskirts till his mistress should be able to join him. He had then slain the guide with his spear, lest he should bring word to his fellows of what had happened. The Princess rejoiced that her dear Amulet was safe, and the three companions sat down to discuss their escape. The King had a plan which they hoped to carry out that night, for the week had gone by and the Enchantress was coming.
The glow-worms were shining and the Bats going about again with open eyes when the owl-chariot was seen. The old man took a dark cloak which had belonged to the Bat-King, and, muffling his head and face with it, went to meet the Enchantress. As she stepped out of her car he cried: “Alas, lady! I have bad news. The old man is dead, and the pleasure of slaying one of these wretches is lost. I kept him alive as long as I could, but his captivity told on him and he died.”
“That is of no consequence,” said she. “It is the other two who concern me most. We will make it yet worse for them. But why do you keep your face hidden?”
“Fair one,” replied he, “flying in the daylight, I bruised my cheek against a tree, and I would not that you should see it.”
She laughed. “And why is your voice so strange?” she asked again.
“It is the folds of the cloak that muffle it,” said he.
“And how is it,” she went on, seating herself on the grass, “that you have made no preparations for the execution?”
“All is ready,” he said; “only wait till I call up my people, and you shall choose the manner of their deaths.”
Then he gave a call, and the Bat-creatures surrounded them.
“Bats!” he cried, pointing to the Enchantress, “fall upon this woman and slay her where she stands.”
And almost before she had time to scream they had set upon her, and while she raved and struggled they beat her with their heavy wings, smiting her till she died.
Then the King and Princess sprang into the owl-chariot, the old man following. Before the Bats discovered how they had been deceived, the King took the plaited switch which was lying in the car and lashed the owls till they flew up far above the heads of the tossing crowd. The Bat-creatures rose with one accord into the air and followed in a great flight, but the owls were swifter, and soon the forest was passed and the pursuers fell back, fearing the open country.
* * * * *
When the lovers and their companion came down to earth and lit on the ground, they found Amulet waiting near the place where the old man had left him, and they passed the rest of the night peacefully under the stars.
Next day they began their homeward journey, and in time reached the city in the plain where the Princess lived; and there she was married to her lover with great splendour. Amulet and the old man went with her to her husband’s kingdom, and on the way thither they stopped to see the Tree of Pride cut down.
Then they rode on, the King and his Queen side by side, and disappeared over the plain and beyond the blue hills into their new life.
THE STORY OF FARMYARD MAGGIE
One Saturday afternoon when the miller had let his man go out, he was standing at the mill door above the steps, with the white dust whirling behind him like a mist. He saw Peter and his sister near the witch’s cottage, and he waved his hand and shouted to them to come. He was smoking, but knocked the ashes out of his pipe, for he was certain that little Peter would ask for a story. He liked telling him stories better than reading out of his grandmother’s book, because he could look at Janet all the time, instead of keeping his eyes upon the words. He began to rack his brains for something new.
“A story! a story!” cried little Peter, as soon as he had got within earshot.
“But I have none left in my head,” said the miller, teasing him.
“Then there is the book,” said Peter. “I’ll go for it.”
It was a long time since he had stopped being afraid of the tall man in the white hat.
“No! no! no!” cried the miller. “Come here and sit on the sacks, and I’ll think of something. We’ll go up and shut the sluice in a few minutes, and by that time no doubt something new will come into my mind.”
Janet came in and sat down, and the dust settled on her yellow hair till she looked like a snow-powdered fairy on the top of a Christmas cake. The miller thought it beautiful. As for little Peter, the creaking machinery was enough to keep him happy, and when they went to shut the sluice-gate, he danced and jumped the whole way there.
“So here we’ll stay,” said the miller, when the water was turned off and they were sitting on a fallen tree at the edge of the mill-dam. “I have just remembered the story of Farmyard Maggie.”
Long before you were born, and before I was born either (began the miller), there lived at the farm over yonder a little girl. She was an orphan, like you, but she had not even a grandmother to share her roof with her. In summer she slept by the hedge, and in winter she would slip into the stable and lie by the farm horses. And when it was autumn, and the stacks stood in rows in the rickyard waiting to be threshed, she would crawl in under them through the little hole that is left for the air to pass through and to keep them from heating. There she slept as snug as if she were in a house. She was called “Farmyard Maggie,” because it was her business to look after the fowls in the yard.
Poor little body! she had not a very happy life of it. They were rough folk at the farm, for the farmer was miserly and his wife was cruel, and often she did not get enough to eat. But the farm men were kind and would sometimes give her a crust of bread or a bit of cheese from their own dinners; and once, when it was cold, a ploughman brought her a pair of shoes that belonged to his own little girl, for he did not like to see her poor little toes on the frosty ground. The horses were kind always, and were careful not to kick her or tramp on her when she took refuge in their stalls; but, unfortunately, they were proud, and when they had on their fine harness with the brass crescents that swung between their ears, they would not notice her. They were high creatures.
Maggie took care of the poultry well. She knew all the cocks and hens and little chickens, and even the waddling, gobbling, ducks, whom she fetched home each evening from the pond at the foot of the hill, thought well of her—that is, when they had time to think of anything but their own stomachs, which was not often, certainly. But she had two great friends who loved her dearly. One was a little game-fowl who was as straight on his legs as a sergeant on parade, and the other was a large Cochin-China cock who looked as if he wore ill-fitting yellow trousers that were always on the verge of coming off. The gamecock despised the Cochin-Chinaman a little, for he thought him vulgar, but he was a great deal too well-bred to show it. Besides which, their affection for Maggie made the two birds quite friendly.
One autumn afternoon, when the mist hung over the stubble and the brambles were red and gold, Maggie sat crying just over there by the roadside. She was most dreadfully unhappy, for a duck was lost and the farmer’s wife had told her that she must go away and never come back any more. She had turned her out of the yard without so much as a sixpence or a piece of bread to keep her from starving.
Presently the Cochin-China cock passed by, and when he saw she was in trouble, he came running towards her as hard as he could, with great awkward strides and his neck stuck out in front of him.
“Oh, whatisthe matter?” he cried. And Maggie put her arms round him and told him everything.
When he knew what had happened he was in as great a taking as herself, and he walked up and down, flapping his wings distractedly and making the most heartrending noises in his throat.
“I must go for Alfonso,” he said at last.
Alfonso was the gamecock.
I can tell you there was a to-do when the birds got at the bottom of the affair! They stood, one on either side of their poor friend, begging her not to cry; and Alfonso was anxious to fight everybody, from the bantam up to the great bubbly-jock who scraped his wings along the ground and turned blue about the neck if you whistled to him. All the fowls knew that something terrible had happened.
“But what is the use of your fighting, dear Alfonso?” said Maggie. “It would do me no good, and the poultry are all innocent. They have done me no harm.”
“I am not so sure about those sly fat huzzies of ducks. What business have they to look after themselves so badly? I have a good mind to go down and have a few words with the drake.”
“No, no—pray don’t,” said Maggie. “The best thing I can do is to go away and be done with it.”
The Cochin-Chinaman was weeping hoarsely: he had no dignity.
“I never thought to leave my family,” he cried, “but this is the last they’ll see of me. I shall go with you.”
Alfonso was rather shocked, for he had very proper ideas.
“And leave your wife?” he exclaimed.
“She is in love with the Dorking cock, so she can stay with him. I have known it for some time. There he is, standing on one leg by the wood-pile.”
“I will come too,” said the game-fowl, who was a bachelor, “but do you go on. I will just go and break every bone in the drake’s body, and I can catch you up before you are out of sight.”
“Oh, no! no! Promise you won’t do that!” implored Maggie.
It took some time to persuade him to be quiet, but at last it was done.
“It is better to get the business over at once,” said the Cochin-China cock. “If Alfonso is ready, we will start.”
“And pray, who says I am not ready for anything?” inquired the other. “Anyone who wants to eat his words has only to come to me!”
“But nobody says it,” replied Maggie soothingly. “I am sure no one ever had two such dear, brave friends as I have.”
And with that the three set forth on their travels.
They went up the road that runs north, round the other side of the dam, for they were anxious to get as far as possible without being seen, in case anyone should come after them to try and make the cocks go back. Sometimes they ran, they were in such a hurry. At last they came to where the old gipsy track crosses the way, and turned into it; feeling much safer for the shelter of the whins and bushes in that green place.
All round them there were tangles of bramble, red and copper and orange, and fiery spotted leaves. Where it was damp the dew still lay under the burning bracken and the yellow ragwort stood up like plumes and feathers of gold. Here they went slower, pushing through the broom, whose black pods rattled as they passed. In front of them a little string of smoke was rising, and when they reached it, they found that it came from the chimneys of a caravan which was drawn up in a clearing.
Maggie and her two friends crouched down and looked at it through the bracken. They saw a large blue van and a battered-looking green one, which stood with their shafts resting on the ground. A couple of horses grazed, unharnessed, a few yards away. In a circle of stones burned a fire, over which hung a black caldron, and a woman, with a string of red beads round her neck, was nursing a baby on the top step of the blue van.
“Oh, what a lovely baby!” whispered Maggie, as she gazed at them.
“So it is,” replied the Cochin-China cock amiably. Alfonso turned up his beak, for he had no domestic tastes.
“I must go a little nearer,” said Maggie. “Oh, look! the woman can see us. I really will ask her to show it to me.”
“Ma’am,” she said, making a curtsey, “may I look at your little child?”
Girl holds baby.“MAGGIE TOOK IT AND BEGAN TO ROCK IT ABOUT.”
“MAGGIE TOOK IT AND BEGAN TO ROCK IT ABOUT.”
The woman exchanged glances of rather contemptuous amusement with a man who had come out of the van and stood behind her. Then she held the baby out to Maggie, and Maggie took it and began to rock it about as if she had minded babies, and not poultry, all her life.
“Well, I never!” said the man. He wore small gold rings in his ears.
At this moment there arose a most furious noise from some fowls that were wandering about among the van wheels, where a fight was beginning. Alfonso had already managed to pick a quarrel with someone of his own sex, and the hens were screeching as the two birds crouched opposite to each other, making leaps into the air and striking out until the feathers flew.
“Alfonso! Alfonso! stop this moment!” screamed Maggie. “Oh! what a way to behave!”
But she could not get at him because of the baby she held.
“He has dreadful manners,” moaned the Cochin-China cock. But he would not have said that if Alfonso had been able to hear him.
“Well,” said the man, vaulting down the steps, “that’s the finest little game-bird I ever saw.”
And without more ado he separated the fighters and pushed Alfonso under a basket that stood upside down near the van. There was a hole in it, and through this Alfonso stuck his head and crowed at the top of his voice.
“What are you doing to him?” cried Maggie. “He is my friend, and we are travelling together.”
“He’s mine now,” replied the man, “for I’m going to keep him.”
“But I can’t part from him—you have got no right to take him away.” And the tears rushed to Maggie’s eyes at the thought.
“Best come along too,” said the woman, who spoke little.
“Oh yes—and perhaps I could mind the baby,” exclaimed Maggie.
“You’d have to,” said the woman. “We don’t keep people for nothing.”
“But there’s him too,” said Maggie, pointing to the Cochin-Chinaman. “I can’t leave him either. He always goes with Alfonso and me.”
The man laughed. “You’re the queerest lotIever saw,” said he. “But I suppose we must have you all.”
And so it was settled.
Maggie was very much relieved to find that the party was to move away early next morning, and she took care to keep as much out of sight as possible. But the rest of the evening passed without their hearing or seeing anything of the people at the farm, and she hoped that no one had discovered their absence. As soon as it was light next day the horses were harnessed, and the three truants set out with their new friends.
There was another member of the party who came back to the camp just as they were starting, and who drove the green van. His name was Dan, and he was the brother of the man with the gold earrings, a clean-shaved brown young fellow, with dark smooth hair which came forward in a flat lock over either ear. He wore a cap made of rabbit-skin, and he looked after the two horses. Though he took little notice of Maggie she was not afraid of him, for he had a self-contained, serious face, and was so good to the beasts that she knew he must be kind.
Besides this work he did nothing in the camp. His brother was a tinman, but Dan left the pots and pans alone; and it was only when the party was at village fairs that his talents came into play. The horse which drew the smaller van and did the lighter work was a bright chestnut with a fine coat, which Dan groomed ceaselessly. Both animals followed him like dogs, and he could do whatever he pleased with the chestnut, which could jump almost anything. When he rode him, barebacked, at the big fairs, the crowd would look on open-mouthed, shouting as he cleared the hurdles and dropping their pence into the rabbit-skin cap when it was carried round. Once an ill-natured fellow had stuck a thorn into the horse’s flank as he was led by, and Dan had blacked both his eyes before leaving the fair. When the vans were settled in one place, he would often be absent for days together, and nobody knew where he went.
Maggie soon found out that they were making for some woods a few days’ journey off. She was very happy, for she had seen so little of the world outside the farmyard that every new place amused her. The woman was friendly to her in her silent way when she found how careful she was of the baby. Maggie soon learnt to dress and tend it; and she swept out the vans, lit the fires, and in the evening sat on the top step, talking to Alfonso and the Cochin-China cock. They were quite contented too, though they did not live so well as they had done at the farm.
They travelled on, by villages and hill-sides, by moors and by roads. The trees flamed with autumn, and the rose-hips were turning red. At last they drew up in a grassy track which ran through an immense wood, where the sighing of the air in the fir-branches rose and fell in little gusts, and grey-blue wood-pigeons went flapping away down the vistas of stems. Maggie had never imagined such a place, and when the camp was set out and she lay down, tired, to sleep, she promised herself that, if she had a free moment on the morrow, she would go and see more of it.
It was the next afternoon that her chance came, and off she set, looking back now and then, to make sure of finding her way home. How tall the bracken was! The bramble, that in woods keeps its living green almost into the winter, trailed over the path, and there were regiments of table-shaped toadstools, crimson and scarlet and brown. The rabbits fled at her step, diving underground into unseen burrows, and the male-fern stood like upright bunches of plumes. She was so much delighted by all this that she went on, and on, until the sound of a voice singing to a stringed instrument made her stand still to listen.
Not far off was another camp, much like the one she had left. There were several tents, and people were moving about; but the music came from close by, on the other side of an overturned fir whose roots stood up like wild arms. She stole up and peeped round the great circle of earth which the tree had torn out with it in its fall, and in which ferns and rough grass had sown themselves. Shewassurprised!
On his face in the moss lay Dan, his elbows on the ground, his chin in his hands. His rabbit-skin cap was pulled over his eyes, and the gold rings which, like his brother, he wore in his ears gleamed against his dark neck.
A girl sat near him, playing on a little stringed instrument, such as Maggie had never seen before. Her voice reminded her of the wood-pigeons, and the twang of the strings as she struck them was both sharp and soft at once. The blue of her eyes and the pale pink colour of her cheeks made Dan look almost like an Indian by contrast with her. She had ceased singing, but Maggie kept as still as possible in hopes of hearing some more.
“It’s a good thing I left Alfonso at home,” she thought; “he would have never stayed quiet. I won’t breathe, and perhaps she’ll begin again.”
Dan was silent too, though he never took his eyes off his companion’s lips. Soon she touched the strings again and played a few notes that sounded like a whisper.
“This is called ‘The Wind in the Broom,’ ” she said: