CONTENTS.

CONTENTS.PageThe Man with the Pan-Pipes7Pig-Betty30The Dormouse's Mistake.51The Christmas Guest.59Olive's Tea-party.67A Live Dummy.76A Queer Hiding-Place83Blue Frocks and Pink Frocks90The Man with the Pan-PipesCHAPTER I.WhenI was a little girl, which is now a good many years ago, there came to spend some time with us a cousin who had been brought up in Germany. She was almost grown-up—to me, a child of six or seven, she seemedquitegrown-up; in reality, she was, I suppose, about fifteen or sixteen. She was a bright, kind, good-natured girl, very anxious to please and amuse her little English cousins, especially me, as I was the only girl. But she had not had much to do with small children; above all, delicate children, and she was so strong and hearty herself that she did not understand anything about nervous fears and fancies. I think I was rather delicate, at least, I was very fanciful; and as I was quiet and gave very little trouble, nobody noticed how constantly I was reading, generally in a corner by myself. I now see that I read far too many stories, for even of good and harmless things it is possible to have toomuch. In those days, fortunately for me, there were not nearly so many books for children, so, as I read very fast, I was often obliged to read the same stories over and over again. This was much better for me than always getting new tales and galloping through them, as I see many children do now-a-days, but still I think I lived too much in story-book world, and it was well for me when other things forced me to become more, what is called, "practical."My cousin Meta was full of life and activity, and after awhile she grew tired of always finding me buried in my books."It isn't good for you, Addie," she said. "Such a dot as you are, to be always poking about in a corner reading."She was quite right, and when mamma's attention was drawn to it she agreed with Meta, and I was given some pretty fancy-work to do and some new dolls to dress, and, above all, I was made to play about in the garden a good deal more. It was not much of a garden, for our home was then in a town, still it was better than being indoors. And very often when kind Meta saw me looking rather forlorn, for I got quickly tired with outdoor games, she would come and sit with me in the arbour, or walk about—up and down a long gravel path there was—telling me stories.That was her great charm for me. She was really splendid at telling stories. And as hitherto she had only done me good, and mamma knew what a sensible girl she was, Meta was left free to tell me what stories she chose. They were all nice stories, most of them veryinteresting. But some were rather too exciting for such a tiny mite as I was. Meta had read and heard quantities of German fairy-tales and legends, many of which I think had not then been printed in books—certainly not in English books. For since I have been grown-up I have come across several stories of the kind which seemed new to most readers, though I remember my cousin telling them to me long, long ago.There were wonderful tales of gnomes and kobolds, of the strange adventures of the charcoal-burners in lonely forests, of water-sprites and dwarfs. But none of all these made quite as great an impression on me as one which Meta called "The Man with the Pan-pipes," a story which, much to my surprise, I found years after in a well-known poem called "The Pied Piper of Hamelin." It was the very same story as to the facts, with just a few differences; for instance, the man in the poem is not described as playing onpan-pipes, but on some other kind of pipe. But though it is really the same, it seems quite, quitedifferent from the story as I heard it long ago. In the poem there is a wonderful brightness and liveliness, and now and then even fun, which were all absent in Meta's tale. As she told it, it was strangely dark and mysterious. I shall never forget how I used to shiver when she came to the second visit of the piper, and described how the children slowly and unwillingly followed him—how he used to turn round now and then with a glance in his grim face which made the squeal of the pipes still more unearthly. There was no beauty in his music, no dancing steps were the children's whom he dragged along by his power; "they justhadto go," Meta would say. And when she came to the mysterious ending, my questions were always the same."Are they still there—shut up in the cave?" I would ask.Meta supposed so."Will they never come out—never, never?" I said.She shook her head."And if they ever did," I said, "would they be grown-up people, or quite old like—like that man you were telling me about. Rip—Rip—""Rip van Winkle," she said."Yes, like Rip van Winkle, or would they havestayedchildren like the boy the fairies took inside the hill to be their servant?"Meta considered."I almostthink," she said, seriously, "they would have stayed children. But, of course, it's only a story, Addie. I don't suppose it's true. You take things up so. Don't go on puzzling about it."I would leave off speaking about it for the time; I was so dreadfullyafraid of her saying she would not tell it me again. And even though I knew it quite well, and could correct Meta if ever she made any part of it the least different, I was never tired of hearing the story. I would ask for it over and over again, and I used to have exactly the same feelings each time she told it, and always at the part where the children began to come out of their houses, some leaving their dinners, some tiny ones waking up out of their sleep, some only half-dressed, but all with the same strange look on their faces, I used to catch hold of Meta's hand and say to her, "Hold me fast, I'm so afraid of fancying I hear him," and then she would burst out laughing at me, and I would laugh at myself. For she was far too kind a girl to think of frightening me, and, indeed, except for a curious "coincidence"—to use a very long word which means something of the same kind as another thing happening at or about the same time—I do not think the story would have really taken hold of my fancy as it did.One of my questions Meta was not able for some time to answer to my satisfaction."What are Pan-pipes?" I asked. The word "pipe" was so mixed up in my mind with white clay pipes, out of which we used to blow soap bubbles, that I could not understand it having to do with any kind of music."Oh," said Meta, "they're made of reeds, you know, all in a row like this," and she held up her fingers to her lips, "and you play them by whistling along them, do you see? It sounds something like when you fasten tissue-paper on a comb and blow along it. And they're called 'Pan'-pipes because—oh, I forgot, of course you haven't learnt mythology yet—'Pan' was one of the old pagan gods, a sort of fairy or wood sprite, you know, Addie, and the pictures and figures of him always show him playing on these reed pipes!"I said "Yes," but I didn't really understand her description. It left a queer jumble in my head, and added to the strange, dreamy medley already there. But, though it was not till years afterwards that I learnt about "Pan," before Meta left us I was able to see for myself a set of his "pipes."CHAPTER II.ITwasjustbefore my merry cousin left us, to return to her own home across the sea.One day several of us were out walking together. Meta was in front with mamma and one of my elder brothers, I was behind with Tony and Michael, the two nearer my own age. Suddenly Meta glanced round."Look, Addie," she called back, "there's a set of Pan-pipes; you wanted to know what they were like. They're a very doleful set, certainly; did youeversee such a miserable object? He must be silly in his head, poor thing, don't you think, aunty? May I give him a penny—or Jack will."For even Meta did not seem inclined to go too near to the poor man, whom she was indeed right in calling "a miserable object."Jack ran forward with the penny, and we all stopped for a moment, so I had a full view of the Pan-pipes. They were fastened somehow on to the man's chest, so that their top just came near his lips, and as he moved his head slowly backwards and forwards along them, they gave out the most strange kind of music, if music it could be called, which you ever heard. It was a sort of faint squeak with just now and then akindof tone in it, like very doleful muffled whistling. Perhaps the sight of the piper himself added to the very "creepy" feeling it gave one. He was not only a piper, he was, or rather had been, an organ-grinder too, for he carried in front of him, fastened by straps round his neck in the usual way, the remains of a barrel organ. It had long ago been smashed to pieces, and really was now nothing but an old broken-in wooden box, with some fragments of metal clinging to it, and the tatters of a ragged cover. But the handle was still there; perhaps it had been stuck in again on purpose; and all the time, as an accompaniment to the forlorn quaver of the reed pipes, you heard the hollow rattle of the loose boards of what had been the barrel-organ. He kept moving the handle round and round, without ever stopping, except for a moment, when Jack half threw, half reached him the penny, which brought a sort of grin on to his face, as he clutched at the dirty old tuft of shag on the top of his head, which he doubtless considered his cap."Poor creature," said mamma, as we turned away. "I suppose he thinks he's playing lovely music.""I've seen him before," said Jack. "Not long after we came here."(Perhaps I should explain that my father was an officer, and we had to go about wherever his regiment was sent.) "But I've not seen him lately. There's some story about him, but I know some of the boys at school declare he's not mad a bit, that he finds it pays well to sham he is.""Any way he doesn't need to be afraid of his organ wearing out," said Tony, gravely, at which the others couldn't help laughing."I shouldn't think it likely he is only pretending," said mamma. "He looks almosttoomiserable.""And sometimes there's quite a crowd of children after him," Jack went on; "they seem to think him quite as good to run after as a proper barrel-organ man.""I hope they don't hoot and jeer at him," said mamma."His Pan-pipes are nearly as bad as his organ," said Meta. "Still, Addie, you know now what they're like, though you can't fancy how pretty they sound sometimes."It did not need her words to remind me of the story. My head was full of it, and I think what Jack said about the crowds of children that sometimes ran after the strange musician, added very much to the feelings and fancies already in my mind. And unfortunately Meta left us the very next morning, so there was no one for me to talk to about it, for my brothers were all day at school and did not know anything about our story-tellings. I do remember saying to Meta that evening, that I hoped we should never meet that ugly man again, and Meta could not think what I meant, till I said something about Pan-pipes. Then she seemed to remember."Oh, he didn't play them at all nicely," she said. "One of the boys at home had a set, and he really made them sound lovely. When you come to Germany, Addie," for that was a favourite castle in the air of ours—a castle that never was built—that I should one day pay a long visit to my cousins in their quaint old house, "Fritz will play to you, and you will then understand the story better."I daresay I should have told her the reason why I so hoped I should never meet the poor man again, if I had had time. But even to her I was rather shy of talking about my own feelings, and it was also not easy to explain them, when they were so mixed up and confused.It was only a few days after Meta left, that we met the man with thePan-pipes again. This time I was out walking with our nurse and the baby, as we still called him, though he was three years old. I don't think nurse noticed the man, or perhaps she had seen him before, but I heard the queer squeal of his pipes and the rattle of his broken box some way off, and when I saw him coming in the distance I asked her if we might turn down a side street and go round another way.She said she did not mind, but though she was kind, she was not very noticing, and did not ask my reason, so for that day it was got over without my needing to explain. But for some time after that, we seemed to be always meeting the poor "silly" organ-man, and every time I saw him, I grew more and more frightened, till at last the fear of seeinghim came quite to spoil the pleasure of my walks, even when I was out with mamma herself. Now I dare say all sensible children who read this will say, "Why didn't Addie tell her nurse, or, any way, her mother, all about it?" and if they do say so, they are quite right. Indeed, it is partly to show this very thing—how much better it is to tell some kind wiser person all about any childish fear or fancy, than to go on bearing it out of dread of being laughed at or called babyish—that I am relating this simple little story. I really cannot quite explain why I did not tell about it to mamma—I think it was partly that being the only girl, I had a particularly great fear of being thought cowardly—for she was always very kind; and I think, too, it was partly that from having read so many story-booksto myself, I had got into the habit of being too much insidemy own thoughts and fancies. I think story-books would often do much more good, and give really much more lasting pleasure if children were more in the habit of reading aloud to each other. And if this calls for some unselfishness, why, what then? is it not all the better?But to return to my own story. There came a day when my dread of the man with the pipes got quite beyond my control—happily so for me.CHAPTER III.Hitherto, every time I had seen the man, it had been either in some large public street where a crowd would not have been allowed to collect, or in one of the quieter roads of private houses, where we generally walked, and where poor children seldom were to be seen.But one day mamma sent Baby and me with nurse to carry some little comfort to one of the soldier's wives, who was so ill that she had been moved to the house of relations of hers in the town. They were very respectable people, but they lived in quite a tiny house in a poor street. Baby and I had never been there before, and we were much interested in watching several small people, about our own size, playing about. They were clean, tidy-looking children, so nurse, after throwing a glance at them, told us we might watch them from the door of the house while she went in to see the sick woman.We had not stood there more than a minute or two when a strange, well-known sound caught my ears, squeak, squeal, rattle, rattle, rattle. Oh, dear! I felt myself beginning to tremble; I am sure I grew pale. The children we were watching started up, and ran some paces down thestreet to a corner, when in another moment appeared what I already knew was coming—the man with the Pan-pipes! But never had the sight of him so terrified me. For he was surrounded by a crowd of children, a regular troop of them following him through the poor part of the town where we were. If I had kept my wits, and looked on quietly, I would have soon seen that the children were not the least afraid, they were chattering and laughing; some, I fear, mocking andhooting at the poor imbecile. But just at that moment the last touch was added to my terror by my little brother pulling his hand out of mine."Baby wants to see too," he said, and off he trotted down the street.My senses seemed quite to go."He's piping them away," I screamed, and then I am ashamed to say I turned and fled, leaving Baby to his fate. Why I did not run into the house and call nurse, I do not know; if I thought about it at all, I suppose I had a hazy feeling that it would be no good, that even nurse could not save us. And I saw that the crowd was coming my way, in another minute the squeaking piping would be close beside me in the street. I thought of nothing except flight, and terrified that I too should be bewitched by the sound, I thrust my fingers into my ears, and dashed down the street in the opposite direction from the approaching crowd. That was my only thought. I ran and ran. I wonder the people I passed did not try to stop me, for I am sure I must have looked quite as crazy as my imaginary wizard! But at last my breath got so short that I had to pull up, and to my great relief I found I was quite out of hearing of the faint whistle of the terrible pipes.Still I was not completely reassured. I had not come very far after all. So I set off again, though not quite at such a rate. I hurried down one street and up another, with the one idea of getting furtherand further away. But by degrees my wits began to recover themselves."I wish I could find our home," I thought. "I can't go on running for always. Perhaps if I told mamma all about it, she'd find some way of keeping me and Baby safe."But with the thought of Baby came back my terrors. Was it too late to save him? Certainly there were no rocks or caves to be seen such as Meta had described in her story. But she had said outside the town—perhaps the piper was leading all the children, poor darling Baby among them, away into the country, to shut them up for ever as had been done in Hamelin town. And with the dreadful thought, all my terrors revived, and off I set again, but this time with themore worthy intention of saving Baby. I must go home and tell mamma so that she would send after him. I fancied I was in a street not far from where we lived, and I hurried on. But, alas! when I got to the end it was all quite strange. I found myself among small houses again, and nearly dead with fatigue and exhaustion, I stopped in front of one where an old woman was sweeping the steps of her door."Oh, please," I gasped, "please tell me where Clarence Terrace is."The old woman stopped sweeping, and looked at me. She was a very clean old woman, though so small that she was almost a dwarf, and with a slight hump on her shoulders. At another time I might have been so silly as to be frightened of her, so full was my head of fanciful ideas. But now I was too completely in despair to think of it. Besides her face was kind and her voice pleasant."Clarence Terrace," she squeaked. "'Tis a good bit from here. Have you lost your way, Missy?""I don't know," I said, "I——" but then a giddy feeling came over me, and I almost fell. The old woman caught me, and the next thing I knew was that she had carried me into her neat little kitchen, and was holding a glass of water to my lips, while she spoke very kindly. Her voice somehow brought things to a point, and I burst into tears. She soothed me, and petted me, and at last in answer to her repeated, "What's ado, then, lovey?" I was able to explain to her some part ofmy troubles. Not all of course, for even upset as I was, I had sense to know she would have thoughtmenot "right in my head," if I had told her my cousin's strange fantastic story of the piper in the old German town."Frightened of old Davey," she said, when I stopped. "Dear dear, there's no call to be afeared of the poor old silly. Not but what I've said myself he was scarce fit to be about the streets for the look of him, though he'd not hurt a fly, wouldn't silly Davey.""Then do you know him?" I asked, with a feeling of great relief.All the queer nightmare fears seemed to melt away, when I heard the poor crazy piper spoken of in a matter-of-fact way."Know him," repeated my new friend, "I should think we did. Bless you he comes every Saturday to us for his dinner, as reg'lar as the clock strikes, and has done for many a day. Twelve year, or so, it must be, since he was runned over by a bus, and his poor head smashed in, and his organ busted, and his pipes broke to bits. He was took to the 'orspital and patched up, but bein' a furriner was against him, no doubt," and the old woman shook her head sagely. "He couldn't talk proper before, and since, he can say nothink asany one can make head or tail of. But as long as he's free to go about with his rattlin' old box as was onst a' orgin, he's quite happy. They give 'im new pipes at the 'orspital, but he can't play them right. And a bit ago some well-intending ladies had 'im took off to a 'sylum, sayin' as he wasn't fit to be about. But he nearly died of the bein' shut up, he did. So now he's about again, he has a little room in a street near here, that is paid for, and he gets a many pennies, does Davey, and the neighbours sees to him, and he's quite content, and he does no harm, and all the town knows silly Davey.""But don't naughty children mock at him and tease him sometimes?" I asked."Not so often as you'd think, and they're pretty sure to be put down if they do. All the perlice knows Davey. So now, my dear, you'll never be afeared of the poor thing no more, will you? And I'll step round with you to your 'ome, I will, and welcome."So she did, and on the way, to my unspeakable delight, we came across nurse and Baby, nearly out of their wits with terror at having lost me. For Baby had only followed the piper a very short way, and did not find him interesting."Him were a old silly, and couldn't make nice music," said sensible Baby.And though we often met poor crazy Davey after that, and many of my weekly pennies found their way to him as long as we stayed in theplace, I never again felt any terror of the harmless creature. Especially after I had told the whole story to mamma, who was wise enough to see that too many fairy stories, or "fancy" stories arenota good thing for little girls, though of course she was too kind and too just to blame Meta, who had only wished to entertain and amuse me.Pig-BettyBy Mrs. MolesworthPART I.IAMgoing to tell you a story that mother told us.Wethink mother's stories far the most interesting and nicest of any we hear or read. And we are trying to write them all down, so that our children, if ever any of us have any, may know them too. We mean to call them "Grandmother's Stories." One reason why they are nice is, that nearly all of them are real, what is called "founded on fact." By the timeourchildren come to hear them, mother says her stories will all have grown dreadfully old-fashioned, but we tell her that will make them all the nicer. They will have a scent of long-ago-ness about them, something like thefaint lavendery whiff that comes out of mother's old doll-box, where she keeps a few of the toys and dolls' clothes she has never had the heart to part with.The little story, or "sketch"—mother says it isn't worth calling a "story"—I am going to write down now, is already a long-ago one. For it isn't really one of mother's own stories; it was told her byhermother, so if ever our book comes to exist, this one will have to have a chapter to itself and be called "Great-grandmother's Story," won't it? I remember quite well what made mother tell it us. It was when we were staying in the country one year, and Francie had been frightened, coming through the village, by meeting a poor idiot boy who ran after us and laughed at us in a queer silly way. I believe he meant to please us, but Francie's fright made her angry, and she wanted nurse to speak to him sharply and tell him to get away, but nurse wouldn't."One should always be gentle to those so afflicted," she said.When we got home we told mother about it, and Francie asked her to speak to nurse, adding, "It's very disagreeable to see people like that about.Ithink they should always be shut up, don't you, mother?""Not always," mother replied. "Of course, when they are at all dangerous, likely to hurt themselves or any one else, it is necessary to shut them up. And if they can be taught anything, as some can be, it is the truest kindness to send them to an asylum, where it is wonderful what patience and skill can sometimes make of them.But I know about that boy in the village. He is perfectly harmless, even gentle and affectionate. He has been at a school for such as he, and has learnt to knit—that is the only thing they could succeed in teaching him. It was no use leaving him there longer, and he pined for home most sadly. So as his relations are pretty well off, it was thought best to send him back, and he is now quite content. I wish I had told you about him. When you meet him again you must be sure to speak kindly—they say he never forgets if any one does so.""Poor boy," said Ted and I; but Francie did not look quite convinced."I think he should be shut up," she repeated, in rather a low voice. Francie used to be a very obstinate little girl. "AndIshan't speak to him kindly or any way."Mother did not answer, though she heard. I know she did. But in a minute or two she said:"Would you like to hear a story about an idiot, that your grandmother told me? It happened when she was a little girl."Of course we all said "yes," with eagerness.And this was the story."'Pig-Betty' isn't a very pretty name for a story, or for a person, is it? But Pig-Betty was a real person, though I daresay none of you have the least idea what the word 'pig' added to her own name meant," said mother. No, none of us had. We thought, perhaps, it was because this "Betty" was very lazy, or greedy or even dirty, but mother shook her head at all those guesses. And then she went on to explain. "Pig," in some parts of Scotland, she told us, means a piece of coarse crockery. It is used mostly for jugs, though in a general way it means any sort of crockery. "And long ago," mother went on—I think I'll give up putting 'mother said,' or 'mother went on,' and just tell it straight off, as she did.Long ago then, whenmymother was a little girl, she and her brothers and sisters used to spend some months of every year ina rather out-of-the-way part of Scotland. There was no railway and no "coach," that came within at all easy reach. The nearest town was ten or twelve miles away, and even the village was two or three. And a good many things, ordinary, common things, were supplied by pedlars, who walked long distances, often carrying their wares upon their backs. These pedlars came to be generally called by what they had to sell, as a sort of nickname. You may think it was avery hard life, but there were a good many nice things about it. They were always sure of a welcome, for it was a pleasant excitement in the quiet life of the cottages and farm-houses, and even of the big houses about, when one of these travelling merchants appeared; and they never needed to feel any anxiety about their board and lodging. They could always count upon a meal or two and on a night's shelter. Very often they slept in the barn of the farm-house—or even sometimes in a clean corner of the cows' "byre." They were not very particular.Among these good people there were both men and women, and poor Pig-Betty was one of the latter.My mother and the other children used always to ask as one of their first questions when they arrived at Greystanes—that was the name of their uncle's country house—on their yearly visit, if Pig-Betty had been there lately, or if she was expected to come soon. One or other was pretty sure to be the case.They had several reasons for their interest in the old woman. One was that they were very fond of blowing soap-bubbles, which they seldom got leave to do in town, and they always bought a new supply of white clay pipes the first time Pig-Betty appeared; another was that she had what children thought very wonderful treasures hidden among the coarse pots and dishes and jugs that she carried in a shapeless bundle on her bent old back. And sometimes, if she were in a very good humour, she would present one of the little peoplewith a green parrot rejoicing in a whistle in its tail, or with a goggle-eyed dog, reminding one of the creatures in Hans Andersen's tale of "The Three Soldiers." And the third reason was perhaps the strongest, though the strangest of all.PART II.TheTHIRDreason why the children were so interested in the old pedlar woman was, I said, the strongest, though the strangest of all. She was an idiot! They were almost too young to understand what being an idiot really meant, but they could see for themselves that she was quite unlike other people, and her strangeness gave her a queer charm and attraction for them—almost what is called "fascination." When she was at Greystanes, where she always stayed two or three days, they were never at a loss for amusement, for they did little else than run here and there to peep at her and tell over to each other the odd way she trotted about, nodding and shaking her head and talking on to herself as if she were holding long conversations. It did not do to let her see they were watching her, for it would have made her angry.Indeed, several times the children had been warned not to do so, and their nurse had been told to keep them out of the old woman's way; but, as everybody knows, children are contradictory creatures, and in the country, nurse could not keep as close a look out on them as in town. Then it was well known that Pig-Betty was very gentle, even when she was angry—and she did have fits of temper sometimes—she had never been known to hurt anyone.And, of course, she was not quite without sense. She was able to manage her little trade well enough and to see that she was paid correctly for the "pigs" she sold. She was able, too, to tell the differencebetween Sunday and other days, for on Sunday she would never "travel," and would often, if she were near a village, creep into the "kirk" and sit in a corner quite quietly. Perhaps "idiot" is hardly the right word to use about her, for there were a few old folk who said they had been told that she had not always been quite so strange and "wanting," but that a great trouble or sorrow that had happened in her family had made her so. The truth was that no one knew her real story. She had wandered into our part of the country from a long way off, thirty or forty years ago, and as people had been kind to her, there she had stayed. No one knew how old she was. Uncle James, himself an elderly man, said she had not changed the least all the years he had known her.Uncle James was one of the people she had a great affection for. She would stand still whenever he passed her with a kindly, "Well, Betty, my woman, and how are ye?" bobbing a kind of queer curtsey till he was out of sight, and murmuring blessings on the "laird." He never forgot her when she was at Greystanes, always giving orders that the poor body should be made comfortable and have all she wanted.One of his little kindnesses to her was the cause of a good deal of excitement to the children when they were with Uncle James. At that time gentlepeople dined much earlier than they do now, especially in the country. At Greystanes four o'clock was the regular dinner hour. The children used always to be nicely dressed and sent down "to dessert." And when Pig-Betty was there, Uncle Jamesnever failed to pour out a glass of wine and say, "Now, who will take this to the old woman?"Pig-Betty knew it was coming, for she always managed to be in the kitchen at that time, and however busy the servants were, they never thought of turning her out. There was a good deal of superstitious awe felt about her, in spite of her gentleness; and the children would look at each other, half-wishing, half-fearing to be the cup-bearer."I will," Johnny would say; and as soon as he spoke all the others followed."No, let me," Hughie would cry, and then Maisie and Lily joined in with their "I will," or "Do let me, Uncle James.""First come, first served," Uncle would reply, as he handed the well-filled glass to Johnny or Maisie, or whichever had been the first. Then the procession of five would set off, walking slowly, so as not to spill the wine, down the long stone passages leading to the kitchen and offices of the old house. And what usually happened was this.As they got to the kitchen door, Johnny—supposing it was he who was carrying the wine—would go more and more slowly."I don't mind, after all, lettingyougive it, Maisie," or "Hughie," he would say."No, thank you, Johnny," they would meekly reply. And Lily, who was the most outspoken, would confess,"I alwaysthinkI'd like to give it her, but I do getsofrightened when I see her close to me, that I really daren't," which was in truth the feeling of all four!So it was pretty sure to end by number five coming to the front. Number five was little Annette, the youngest. She was a sweet, curly-haired maiden, too sunny and merry herself to know what fear meant."I'll dive it poor old Pig-Betty," she always cried, and so she did. Inside the kitchen the glass was handed to her, and she trotted up to the old woman in her corner with it, undismayed by the near sight of the queer wizened old face, like a red and yellow withered apple, and the bright piercing eyes, to be seen at the end, as it were, of a sort of overhanging archway of shawls and handkerchiefs and queer frilled headpiece under all, which Betty managed in some mysterious way to half bury herself in.She always murmured blessings on the child as she drank the wine, and no doubt this little ceremony was the beginning of her devotion to the baby of the family.This devotion was made still greater by what happened one day.There were unkind and thoughtless people at Greystanes as well aseverywhere else. And one summer there came some "new folk" to live in one of the cottages inhabited by Uncle James's farm-labourers. This did not often happen, as he seldom changed his people. These strangers were from some distance, and had never happened to come across the poor half-witted old woman, and there were two or three rough boys in the family who were spoilt and wild, and who thought themselves far above the country people, as they had lived for some time in a small town. And so one day—Oh, dear! I am getting this chapter of mother's story too long. I must begin a new one.PART III.Well, one day, as I was saying, the children, who had not seen old Betty for several weeks, were on their way to the village—two miles off—when near the corner of a lane, they heard a great noise. Loud voices and jeering laughter, and a kind of strange shrill shrieking, which made them stare at each other in wonder and almost fear. Nurse was not with them, they were to meet her further down the road, as she had gone on first with a message to a woman who was ill."What can it be?" said Maisie.They hurried on to see, and the mystery was soon explained. There in the midst of a little group of boys, and two or three girls also, I am afraid, stood the poor old idiot. She was convulsed with rage, screaming, shrieking, almost foaming with fury, while first one then another darted forward and gave a pull to her skirts or jacket from behind, and as quickly as she turned, a fresh tormentor would catch at her from the other side, all shouting together at the top of their voices, "Wha is't this time, my Leddy Betty? Thaur, ye have him noo."They were nothurtingher, but it was the insult she felt so keenly, for she was used to respectful treatment. The Simpson boys, the new comers, were in the front of the fray, of course.For a moment the five Greystanes children stood speechless with horror. Then Johnny darted to the idiot's side, he did it with the best intentions, but Betty, confused and blinded, did not distinguish him from the others, and dealt him a blow which sent him staggering back, as she howled out to him, "Ye ill-faured loon, tak' that.""Run, Johnny, run," shrieked Maisie, which Hughie and Lill, who were twins and always kept together, had already done, not out of cowardice but in search of help. But little Annette rushed forward."Bad boys that you are," she shouted with her little shrill baby voice that seemed to have suddenly grown commanding, "off with you.You shall not torment my guid auld Betty." For though the children's mother was most careful that their speech should be "English," strong excitement would bring out their native tongue. And as the child uttered the last words she flung her arms round the poor woman, who, weak and feeble as soon as her fury began to lessen, tottered to the ground, where they clung together—the sorrow-crushed aged creature and the cherub-faced child—sobbing in each other's arms. For Pig-Betty had known her little friend in an instant."My bonny wee leddy," she murmured, "auld Betty's ain wee leddy," and with her trembling fingers she untied the knotted corners of her bundle of "pigs," and searching for the best of her treasures, the best and biggest of her "whustling polls," she stuffed it into Annette's hands.Strange to say the ruffianly group had already dispersed and were not again seen!It was soon after that that the children went back again for the winter to their London home. Next year saw them once more in the north, and as nurse unpacked their trunks she came upon the green parrot, which Annette would never part from."I wonder if Pig-Betty's still alive," she said.Oh yes—so far as was known at Greystanes, she was rambling about as usual, but she had not been there for some weeks. Fortunately for the children, however, it was near the time for her visit, as you shall hear.A few days after their arrival they were all out together, when they happened to pass by a cottage, whose owner was famed for a very choice breed of dogs he kept."Let's peep over the wall into Sandy's yard, and see if he has any new puppies," said Johnny, and they all did so. No, there were no puppies to be seen, only an older dog which the boys remembered by the name of "Jock," and they called out to him.But Jock took no heed. He was moving about the little enclosure in a queer, restless way, his head hanging down, his tail between his legs."Poor Jock," said Hughie, "how dull he looks! What a shame of Sandy to have gone out and left him alone!" For evidently there was no one at home in the cottage. Truth to tell, Sandy was off for the dog-doctor."Let's let him out," said Johnny, "and cheer him up a bit. He'll know us once he's out."They did not hear a quick but shuffling step up the lane, nor a panting, quavering voice, "Bairns, bairns, dinna ye——"It was Pig-Betty, just arrived that morning, and left by Sandy in charge of his cottage and the suspiciously suffering Jock—a charge she was quite able for.

PageThe Man with the Pan-Pipes7Pig-Betty30The Dormouse's Mistake.51The Christmas Guest.59Olive's Tea-party.67A Live Dummy.76A Queer Hiding-Place83Blue Frocks and Pink Frocks90

WhenI was a little girl, which is now a good many years ago, there came to spend some time with us a cousin who had been brought up in Germany. She was almost grown-up—to me, a child of six or seven, she seemedquitegrown-up; in reality, she was, I suppose, about fifteen or sixteen. She was a bright, kind, good-natured girl, very anxious to please and amuse her little English cousins, especially me, as I was the only girl. But she had not had much to do with small children; above all, delicate children, and she was so strong and hearty herself that she did not understand anything about nervous fears and fancies. I think I was rather delicate, at least, I was very fanciful; and as I was quiet and gave very little trouble, nobody noticed how constantly I was reading, generally in a corner by myself. I now see that I read far too many stories, for even of good and harmless things it is possible to have toomuch. In those days, fortunately for me, there were not nearly so many books for children, so, as I read very fast, I was often obliged to read the same stories over and over again. This was much better for me than always getting new tales and galloping through them, as I see many children do now-a-days, but still I think I lived too much in story-book world, and it was well for me when other things forced me to become more, what is called, "practical."

My cousin Meta was full of life and activity, and after awhile she grew tired of always finding me buried in my books.

"It isn't good for you, Addie," she said. "Such a dot as you are, to be always poking about in a corner reading."

She was quite right, and when mamma's attention was drawn to it she agreed with Meta, and I was given some pretty fancy-work to do and some new dolls to dress, and, above all, I was made to play about in the garden a good deal more. It was not much of a garden, for our home was then in a town, still it was better than being indoors. And very often when kind Meta saw me looking rather forlorn, for I got quickly tired with outdoor games, she would come and sit with me in the arbour, or walk about—up and down a long gravel path there was—telling me stories.

That was her great charm for me. She was really splendid at telling stories. And as hitherto she had only done me good, and mamma knew what a sensible girl she was, Meta was left free to tell me what stories she chose. They were all nice stories, most of them veryinteresting. But some were rather too exciting for such a tiny mite as I was. Meta had read and heard quantities of German fairy-tales and legends, many of which I think had not then been printed in books—certainly not in English books. For since I have been grown-up I have come across several stories of the kind which seemed new to most readers, though I remember my cousin telling them to me long, long ago.

There were wonderful tales of gnomes and kobolds, of the strange adventures of the charcoal-burners in lonely forests, of water-sprites and dwarfs. But none of all these made quite as great an impression on me as one which Meta called "The Man with the Pan-pipes," a story which, much to my surprise, I found years after in a well-known poem called "The Pied Piper of Hamelin." It was the very same story as to the facts, with just a few differences; for instance, the man in the poem is not described as playing onpan-pipes, but on some other kind of pipe. But though it is really the same, it seems quite, quitedifferent from the story as I heard it long ago. In the poem there is a wonderful brightness and liveliness, and now and then even fun, which were all absent in Meta's tale. As she told it, it was strangely dark and mysterious. I shall never forget how I used to shiver when she came to the second visit of the piper, and described how the children slowly and unwillingly followed him—how he used to turn round now and then with a glance in his grim face which made the squeal of the pipes still more unearthly. There was no beauty in his music, no dancing steps were the children's whom he dragged along by his power; "they justhadto go," Meta would say. And when she came to the mysterious ending, my questions were always the same.

"Are they still there—shut up in the cave?" I would ask.

Meta supposed so.

"Will they never come out—never, never?" I said.

She shook her head.

"And if they ever did," I said, "would they be grown-up people, or quite old like—like that man you were telling me about. Rip—Rip—"

"Rip van Winkle," she said.

"Yes, like Rip van Winkle, or would they havestayedchildren like the boy the fairies took inside the hill to be their servant?"

Meta considered.

"I almostthink," she said, seriously, "they would have stayed children. But, of course, it's only a story, Addie. I don't suppose it's true. You take things up so. Don't go on puzzling about it."

I would leave off speaking about it for the time; I was so dreadfullyafraid of her saying she would not tell it me again. And even though I knew it quite well, and could correct Meta if ever she made any part of it the least different, I was never tired of hearing the story. I would ask for it over and over again, and I used to have exactly the same feelings each time she told it, and always at the part where the children began to come out of their houses, some leaving their dinners, some tiny ones waking up out of their sleep, some only half-dressed, but all with the same strange look on their faces, I used to catch hold of Meta's hand and say to her, "Hold me fast, I'm so afraid of fancying I hear him," and then she would burst out laughing at me, and I would laugh at myself. For she was far too kind a girl to think of frightening me, and, indeed, except for a curious "coincidence"—to use a very long word which means something of the same kind as another thing happening at or about the same time—I do not think the story would have really taken hold of my fancy as it did.

One of my questions Meta was not able for some time to answer to my satisfaction.

"What are Pan-pipes?" I asked. The word "pipe" was so mixed up in my mind with white clay pipes, out of which we used to blow soap bubbles, that I could not understand it having to do with any kind of music.

"Oh," said Meta, "they're made of reeds, you know, all in a row like this," and she held up her fingers to her lips, "and you play them by whistling along them, do you see? It sounds something like when you fasten tissue-paper on a comb and blow along it. And they're called 'Pan'-pipes because—oh, I forgot, of course you haven't learnt mythology yet—'Pan' was one of the old pagan gods, a sort of fairy or wood sprite, you know, Addie, and the pictures and figures of him always show him playing on these reed pipes!"

I said "Yes," but I didn't really understand her description. It left a queer jumble in my head, and added to the strange, dreamy medley already there. But, though it was not till years afterwards that I learnt about "Pan," before Meta left us I was able to see for myself a set of his "pipes."

ITwasjustbefore my merry cousin left us, to return to her own home across the sea.

One day several of us were out walking together. Meta was in front with mamma and one of my elder brothers, I was behind with Tony and Michael, the two nearer my own age. Suddenly Meta glanced round.

"Look, Addie," she called back, "there's a set of Pan-pipes; you wanted to know what they were like. They're a very doleful set, certainly; did youeversee such a miserable object? He must be silly in his head, poor thing, don't you think, aunty? May I give him a penny—or Jack will."

For even Meta did not seem inclined to go too near to the poor man, whom she was indeed right in calling "a miserable object."

Jack ran forward with the penny, and we all stopped for a moment, so I had a full view of the Pan-pipes. They were fastened somehow on to the man's chest, so that their top just came near his lips, and as he moved his head slowly backwards and forwards along them, they gave out the most strange kind of music, if music it could be called, which you ever heard. It was a sort of faint squeak with just now and then akindof tone in it, like very doleful muffled whistling. Perhaps the sight of the piper himself added to the very "creepy" feeling it gave one. He was not only a piper, he was, or rather had been, an organ-grinder too, for he carried in front of him, fastened by straps round his neck in the usual way, the remains of a barrel organ. It had long ago been smashed to pieces, and really was now nothing but an old broken-in wooden box, with some fragments of metal clinging to it, and the tatters of a ragged cover. But the handle was still there; perhaps it had been stuck in again on purpose; and all the time, as an accompaniment to the forlorn quaver of the reed pipes, you heard the hollow rattle of the loose boards of what had been the barrel-organ. He kept moving the handle round and round, without ever stopping, except for a moment, when Jack half threw, half reached him the penny, which brought a sort of grin on to his face, as he clutched at the dirty old tuft of shag on the top of his head, which he doubtless considered his cap.

"Poor creature," said mamma, as we turned away. "I suppose he thinks he's playing lovely music."

"I've seen him before," said Jack. "Not long after we came here."(Perhaps I should explain that my father was an officer, and we had to go about wherever his regiment was sent.) "But I've not seen him lately. There's some story about him, but I know some of the boys at school declare he's not mad a bit, that he finds it pays well to sham he is."

"Any way he doesn't need to be afraid of his organ wearing out," said Tony, gravely, at which the others couldn't help laughing.

"I shouldn't think it likely he is only pretending," said mamma. "He looks almosttoomiserable.""And sometimes there's quite a crowd of children after him," Jack went on; "they seem to think him quite as good to run after as a proper barrel-organ man.""I hope they don't hoot and jeer at him," said mamma."His Pan-pipes are nearly as bad as his organ," said Meta. "Still, Addie, you know now what they're like, though you can't fancy how pretty they sound sometimes."

"I shouldn't think it likely he is only pretending," said mamma. "He looks almosttoomiserable."

"And sometimes there's quite a crowd of children after him," Jack went on; "they seem to think him quite as good to run after as a proper barrel-organ man."

"I hope they don't hoot and jeer at him," said mamma.

"His Pan-pipes are nearly as bad as his organ," said Meta. "Still, Addie, you know now what they're like, though you can't fancy how pretty they sound sometimes."

It did not need her words to remind me of the story. My head was full of it, and I think what Jack said about the crowds of children that sometimes ran after the strange musician, added very much to the feelings and fancies already in my mind. And unfortunately Meta left us the very next morning, so there was no one for me to talk to about it, for my brothers were all day at school and did not know anything about our story-tellings. I do remember saying to Meta that evening, that I hoped we should never meet that ugly man again, and Meta could not think what I meant, till I said something about Pan-pipes. Then she seemed to remember.

"Oh, he didn't play them at all nicely," she said. "One of the boys at home had a set, and he really made them sound lovely. When you come to Germany, Addie," for that was a favourite castle in the air of ours—a castle that never was built—that I should one day pay a long visit to my cousins in their quaint old house, "Fritz will play to you, and you will then understand the story better."

I daresay I should have told her the reason why I so hoped I should never meet the poor man again, if I had had time. But even to her I was rather shy of talking about my own feelings, and it was also not easy to explain them, when they were so mixed up and confused.

It was only a few days after Meta left, that we met the man with thePan-pipes again. This time I was out walking with our nurse and the baby, as we still called him, though he was three years old. I don't think nurse noticed the man, or perhaps she had seen him before, but I heard the queer squeal of his pipes and the rattle of his broken box some way off, and when I saw him coming in the distance I asked her if we might turn down a side street and go round another way.

She said she did not mind, but though she was kind, she was not very noticing, and did not ask my reason, so for that day it was got over without my needing to explain. But for some time after that, we seemed to be always meeting the poor "silly" organ-man, and every time I saw him, I grew more and more frightened, till at last the fear of seeinghim came quite to spoil the pleasure of my walks, even when I was out with mamma herself. Now I dare say all sensible children who read this will say, "Why didn't Addie tell her nurse, or, any way, her mother, all about it?" and if they do say so, they are quite right. Indeed, it is partly to show this very thing—how much better it is to tell some kind wiser person all about any childish fear or fancy, than to go on bearing it out of dread of being laughed at or called babyish—that I am relating this simple little story. I really cannot quite explain why I did not tell about it to mamma—I think it was partly that being the only girl, I had a particularly great fear of being thought cowardly—for she was always very kind; and I think, too, it was partly that from having read so many story-booksto myself, I had got into the habit of being too much insidemy own thoughts and fancies. I think story-books would often do much more good, and give really much more lasting pleasure if children were more in the habit of reading aloud to each other. And if this calls for some unselfishness, why, what then? is it not all the better?

But to return to my own story. There came a day when my dread of the man with the pipes got quite beyond my control—happily so for me.

Hitherto, every time I had seen the man, it had been either in some large public street where a crowd would not have been allowed to collect, or in one of the quieter roads of private houses, where we generally walked, and where poor children seldom were to be seen.

But one day mamma sent Baby and me with nurse to carry some little comfort to one of the soldier's wives, who was so ill that she had been moved to the house of relations of hers in the town. They were very respectable people, but they lived in quite a tiny house in a poor street. Baby and I had never been there before, and we were much interested in watching several small people, about our own size, playing about. They were clean, tidy-looking children, so nurse, after throwing a glance at them, told us we might watch them from the door of the house while she went in to see the sick woman.

We had not stood there more than a minute or two when a strange, well-known sound caught my ears, squeak, squeal, rattle, rattle, rattle. Oh, dear! I felt myself beginning to tremble; I am sure I grew pale. The children we were watching started up, and ran some paces down thestreet to a corner, when in another moment appeared what I already knew was coming—the man with the Pan-pipes! But never had the sight of him so terrified me. For he was surrounded by a crowd of children, a regular troop of them following him through the poor part of the town where we were. If I had kept my wits, and looked on quietly, I would have soon seen that the children were not the least afraid, they were chattering and laughing; some, I fear, mocking andhooting at the poor imbecile. But just at that moment the last touch was added to my terror by my little brother pulling his hand out of mine.

"Baby wants to see too," he said, and off he trotted down the street.

My senses seemed quite to go.

"He's piping them away," I screamed, and then I am ashamed to say I turned and fled, leaving Baby to his fate. Why I did not run into the house and call nurse, I do not know; if I thought about it at all, I suppose I had a hazy feeling that it would be no good, that even nurse could not save us. And I saw that the crowd was coming my way, in another minute the squeaking piping would be close beside me in the street. I thought of nothing except flight, and terrified that I too should be bewitched by the sound, I thrust my fingers into my ears, and dashed down the street in the opposite direction from the approaching crowd. That was my only thought. I ran and ran. I wonder the people I passed did not try to stop me, for I am sure I must have looked quite as crazy as my imaginary wizard! But at last my breath got so short that I had to pull up, and to my great relief I found I was quite out of hearing of the faint whistle of the terrible pipes.

Still I was not completely reassured. I had not come very far after all. So I set off again, though not quite at such a rate. I hurried down one street and up another, with the one idea of getting furtherand further away. But by degrees my wits began to recover themselves.

"I wish I could find our home," I thought. "I can't go on running for always. Perhaps if I told mamma all about it, she'd find some way of keeping me and Baby safe."

But with the thought of Baby came back my terrors. Was it too late to save him? Certainly there were no rocks or caves to be seen such as Meta had described in her story. But she had said outside the town—perhaps the piper was leading all the children, poor darling Baby among them, away into the country, to shut them up for ever as had been done in Hamelin town. And with the dreadful thought, all my terrors revived, and off I set again, but this time with themore worthy intention of saving Baby. I must go home and tell mamma so that she would send after him. I fancied I was in a street not far from where we lived, and I hurried on. But, alas! when I got to the end it was all quite strange. I found myself among small houses again, and nearly dead with fatigue and exhaustion, I stopped in front of one where an old woman was sweeping the steps of her door.

"Oh, please," I gasped, "please tell me where Clarence Terrace is."

The old woman stopped sweeping, and looked at me. She was a very clean old woman, though so small that she was almost a dwarf, and with a slight hump on her shoulders. At another time I might have been so silly as to be frightened of her, so full was my head of fanciful ideas. But now I was too completely in despair to think of it. Besides her face was kind and her voice pleasant.

"Clarence Terrace," she squeaked. "'Tis a good bit from here. Have you lost your way, Missy?"

"I don't know," I said, "I——" but then a giddy feeling came over me, and I almost fell. The old woman caught me, and the next thing I knew was that she had carried me into her neat little kitchen, and was holding a glass of water to my lips, while she spoke very kindly. Her voice somehow brought things to a point, and I burst into tears. She soothed me, and petted me, and at last in answer to her repeated, "What's ado, then, lovey?" I was able to explain to her some part ofmy troubles. Not all of course, for even upset as I was, I had sense to know she would have thoughtmenot "right in my head," if I had told her my cousin's strange fantastic story of the piper in the old German town.

"Frightened of old Davey," she said, when I stopped. "Dear dear, there's no call to be afeared of the poor old silly. Not but what I've said myself he was scarce fit to be about the streets for the look of him, though he'd not hurt a fly, wouldn't silly Davey."

"Then do you know him?" I asked, with a feeling of great relief.All the queer nightmare fears seemed to melt away, when I heard the poor crazy piper spoken of in a matter-of-fact way.

"Know him," repeated my new friend, "I should think we did. Bless you he comes every Saturday to us for his dinner, as reg'lar as the clock strikes, and has done for many a day. Twelve year, or so, it must be, since he was runned over by a bus, and his poor head smashed in, and his organ busted, and his pipes broke to bits. He was took to the 'orspital and patched up, but bein' a furriner was against him, no doubt," and the old woman shook her head sagely. "He couldn't talk proper before, and since, he can say nothink asany one can make head or tail of. But as long as he's free to go about with his rattlin' old box as was onst a' orgin, he's quite happy. They give 'im new pipes at the 'orspital, but he can't play them right. And a bit ago some well-intending ladies had 'im took off to a 'sylum, sayin' as he wasn't fit to be about. But he nearly died of the bein' shut up, he did. So now he's about again, he has a little room in a street near here, that is paid for, and he gets a many pennies, does Davey, and the neighbours sees to him, and he's quite content, and he does no harm, and all the town knows silly Davey."

"But don't naughty children mock at him and tease him sometimes?" I asked.

"Not so often as you'd think, and they're pretty sure to be put down if they do. All the perlice knows Davey. So now, my dear, you'll never be afeared of the poor thing no more, will you? And I'll step round with you to your 'ome, I will, and welcome."

So she did, and on the way, to my unspeakable delight, we came across nurse and Baby, nearly out of their wits with terror at having lost me. For Baby had only followed the piper a very short way, and did not find him interesting.

"Him were a old silly, and couldn't make nice music," said sensible Baby.

And though we often met poor crazy Davey after that, and many of my weekly pennies found their way to him as long as we stayed in theplace, I never again felt any terror of the harmless creature. Especially after I had told the whole story to mamma, who was wise enough to see that too many fairy stories, or "fancy" stories arenota good thing for little girls, though of course she was too kind and too just to blame Meta, who had only wished to entertain and amuse me.

IAMgoing to tell you a story that mother told us.Wethink mother's stories far the most interesting and nicest of any we hear or read. And we are trying to write them all down, so that our children, if ever any of us have any, may know them too. We mean to call them "Grandmother's Stories." One reason why they are nice is, that nearly all of them are real, what is called "founded on fact." By the timeourchildren come to hear them, mother says her stories will all have grown dreadfully old-fashioned, but we tell her that will make them all the nicer. They will have a scent of long-ago-ness about them, something like thefaint lavendery whiff that comes out of mother's old doll-box, where she keeps a few of the toys and dolls' clothes she has never had the heart to part with.The little story, or "sketch"—mother says it isn't worth calling a "story"—I am going to write down now, is already a long-ago one. For it isn't really one of mother's own stories; it was told her byhermother, so if ever our book comes to exist, this one will have to have a chapter to itself and be called "Great-grandmother's Story," won't it? I remember quite well what made mother tell it us. It was when we were staying in the country one year, and Francie had been frightened, coming through the village, by meeting a poor idiot boy who ran after us and laughed at us in a queer silly way. I believe he meant to please us, but Francie's fright made her angry, and she wanted nurse to speak to him sharply and tell him to get away, but nurse wouldn't."One should always be gentle to those so afflicted," she said.

The little story, or "sketch"—mother says it isn't worth calling a "story"—I am going to write down now, is already a long-ago one. For it isn't really one of mother's own stories; it was told her byhermother, so if ever our book comes to exist, this one will have to have a chapter to itself and be called "Great-grandmother's Story," won't it? I remember quite well what made mother tell it us. It was when we were staying in the country one year, and Francie had been frightened, coming through the village, by meeting a poor idiot boy who ran after us and laughed at us in a queer silly way. I believe he meant to please us, but Francie's fright made her angry, and she wanted nurse to speak to him sharply and tell him to get away, but nurse wouldn't.

"One should always be gentle to those so afflicted," she said.

When we got home we told mother about it, and Francie asked her to speak to nurse, adding, "It's very disagreeable to see people like that about.Ithink they should always be shut up, don't you, mother?"

"Not always," mother replied. "Of course, when they are at all dangerous, likely to hurt themselves or any one else, it is necessary to shut them up. And if they can be taught anything, as some can be, it is the truest kindness to send them to an asylum, where it is wonderful what patience and skill can sometimes make of them.But I know about that boy in the village. He is perfectly harmless, even gentle and affectionate. He has been at a school for such as he, and has learnt to knit—that is the only thing they could succeed in teaching him. It was no use leaving him there longer, and he pined for home most sadly. So as his relations are pretty well off, it was thought best to send him back, and he is now quite content. I wish I had told you about him. When you meet him again you must be sure to speak kindly—they say he never forgets if any one does so."

"Poor boy," said Ted and I; but Francie did not look quite convinced.

"I think he should be shut up," she repeated, in rather a low voice. Francie used to be a very obstinate little girl. "AndIshan't speak to him kindly or any way."

Mother did not answer, though she heard. I know she did. But in a minute or two she said:

"Would you like to hear a story about an idiot, that your grandmother told me? It happened when she was a little girl."

Of course we all said "yes," with eagerness.

And this was the story.

"'Pig-Betty' isn't a very pretty name for a story, or for a person, is it? But Pig-Betty was a real person, though I daresay none of you have the least idea what the word 'pig' added to her own name meant," said mother. No, none of us had. We thought, perhaps, it was because this "Betty" was very lazy, or greedy or even dirty, but mother shook her head at all those guesses. And then she went on to explain. "Pig," in some parts of Scotland, she told us, means a piece of coarse crockery. It is used mostly for jugs, though in a general way it means any sort of crockery. "And long ago," mother went on—I think I'll give up putting 'mother said,' or 'mother went on,' and just tell it straight off, as she did.

Long ago then, whenmymother was a little girl, she and her brothers and sisters used to spend some months of every year ina rather out-of-the-way part of Scotland. There was no railway and no "coach," that came within at all easy reach. The nearest town was ten or twelve miles away, and even the village was two or three. And a good many things, ordinary, common things, were supplied by pedlars, who walked long distances, often carrying their wares upon their backs. These pedlars came to be generally called by what they had to sell, as a sort of nickname. You may think it was avery hard life, but there were a good many nice things about it. They were always sure of a welcome, for it was a pleasant excitement in the quiet life of the cottages and farm-houses, and even of the big houses about, when one of these travelling merchants appeared; and they never needed to feel any anxiety about their board and lodging. They could always count upon a meal or two and on a night's shelter. Very often they slept in the barn of the farm-house—or even sometimes in a clean corner of the cows' "byre." They were not very particular.

Among these good people there were both men and women, and poor Pig-Betty was one of the latter.

My mother and the other children used always to ask as one of their first questions when they arrived at Greystanes—that was the name of their uncle's country house—on their yearly visit, if Pig-Betty had been there lately, or if she was expected to come soon. One or other was pretty sure to be the case.

They had several reasons for their interest in the old woman. One was that they were very fond of blowing soap-bubbles, which they seldom got leave to do in town, and they always bought a new supply of white clay pipes the first time Pig-Betty appeared; another was that she had what children thought very wonderful treasures hidden among the coarse pots and dishes and jugs that she carried in a shapeless bundle on her bent old back. And sometimes, if she were in a very good humour, she would present one of the little peoplewith a green parrot rejoicing in a whistle in its tail, or with a goggle-eyed dog, reminding one of the creatures in Hans Andersen's tale of "The Three Soldiers." And the third reason was perhaps the strongest, though the strangest of all.

TheTHIRDreason why the children were so interested in the old pedlar woman was, I said, the strongest, though the strangest of all. She was an idiot! They were almost too young to understand what being an idiot really meant, but they could see for themselves that she was quite unlike other people, and her strangeness gave her a queer charm and attraction for them—almost what is called "fascination." When she was at Greystanes, where she always stayed two or three days, they were never at a loss for amusement, for they did little else than run here and there to peep at her and tell over to each other the odd way she trotted about, nodding and shaking her head and talking on to herself as if she were holding long conversations. It did not do to let her see they were watching her, for it would have made her angry.Indeed, several times the children had been warned not to do so, and their nurse had been told to keep them out of the old woman's way; but, as everybody knows, children are contradictory creatures, and in the country, nurse could not keep as close a look out on them as in town. Then it was well known that Pig-Betty was very gentle, even when she was angry—and she did have fits of temper sometimes—she had never been known to hurt anyone.

And, of course, she was not quite without sense. She was able to manage her little trade well enough and to see that she was paid correctly for the "pigs" she sold. She was able, too, to tell the differencebetween Sunday and other days, for on Sunday she would never "travel," and would often, if she were near a village, creep into the "kirk" and sit in a corner quite quietly. Perhaps "idiot" is hardly the right word to use about her, for there were a few old folk who said they had been told that she had not always been quite so strange and "wanting," but that a great trouble or sorrow that had happened in her family had made her so. The truth was that no one knew her real story. She had wandered into our part of the country from a long way off, thirty or forty years ago, and as people had been kind to her, there she had stayed. No one knew how old she was. Uncle James, himself an elderly man, said she had not changed the least all the years he had known her.

Uncle James was one of the people she had a great affection for. She would stand still whenever he passed her with a kindly, "Well, Betty, my woman, and how are ye?" bobbing a kind of queer curtsey till he was out of sight, and murmuring blessings on the "laird." He never forgot her when she was at Greystanes, always giving orders that the poor body should be made comfortable and have all she wanted.

One of his little kindnesses to her was the cause of a good deal of excitement to the children when they were with Uncle James. At that time gentlepeople dined much earlier than they do now, especially in the country. At Greystanes four o'clock was the regular dinner hour. The children used always to be nicely dressed and sent down "to dessert." And when Pig-Betty was there, Uncle Jamesnever failed to pour out a glass of wine and say, "Now, who will take this to the old woman?"

Pig-Betty knew it was coming, for she always managed to be in the kitchen at that time, and however busy the servants were, they never thought of turning her out. There was a good deal of superstitious awe felt about her, in spite of her gentleness; and the children would look at each other, half-wishing, half-fearing to be the cup-bearer.

"I will," Johnny would say; and as soon as he spoke all the others followed.

"No, let me," Hughie would cry, and then Maisie and Lily joined in with their "I will," or "Do let me, Uncle James."

"First come, first served," Uncle would reply, as he handed the well-filled glass to Johnny or Maisie, or whichever had been the first. Then the procession of five would set off, walking slowly, so as not to spill the wine, down the long stone passages leading to the kitchen and offices of the old house. And what usually happened was this.As they got to the kitchen door, Johnny—supposing it was he who was carrying the wine—would go more and more slowly."I don't mind, after all, lettingyougive it, Maisie," or "Hughie," he would say.

As they got to the kitchen door, Johnny—supposing it was he who was carrying the wine—would go more and more slowly.

"I don't mind, after all, lettingyougive it, Maisie," or "Hughie," he would say.

"No, thank you, Johnny," they would meekly reply. And Lily, who was the most outspoken, would confess,

"I alwaysthinkI'd like to give it her, but I do getsofrightened when I see her close to me, that I really daren't," which was in truth the feeling of all four!

So it was pretty sure to end by number five coming to the front. Number five was little Annette, the youngest. She was a sweet, curly-haired maiden, too sunny and merry herself to know what fear meant.

"I'll dive it poor old Pig-Betty," she always cried, and so she did. Inside the kitchen the glass was handed to her, and she trotted up to the old woman in her corner with it, undismayed by the near sight of the queer wizened old face, like a red and yellow withered apple, and the bright piercing eyes, to be seen at the end, as it were, of a sort of overhanging archway of shawls and handkerchiefs and queer frilled headpiece under all, which Betty managed in some mysterious way to half bury herself in.

She always murmured blessings on the child as she drank the wine, and no doubt this little ceremony was the beginning of her devotion to the baby of the family.

This devotion was made still greater by what happened one day.

There were unkind and thoughtless people at Greystanes as well aseverywhere else. And one summer there came some "new folk" to live in one of the cottages inhabited by Uncle James's farm-labourers. This did not often happen, as he seldom changed his people. These strangers were from some distance, and had never happened to come across the poor half-witted old woman, and there were two or three rough boys in the family who were spoilt and wild, and who thought themselves far above the country people, as they had lived for some time in a small town. And so one day—Oh, dear! I am getting this chapter of mother's story too long. I must begin a new one.

Well, one day, as I was saying, the children, who had not seen old Betty for several weeks, were on their way to the village—two miles off—when near the corner of a lane, they heard a great noise. Loud voices and jeering laughter, and a kind of strange shrill shrieking, which made them stare at each other in wonder and almost fear. Nurse was not with them, they were to meet her further down the road, as she had gone on first with a message to a woman who was ill.

"What can it be?" said Maisie.

They hurried on to see, and the mystery was soon explained. There in the midst of a little group of boys, and two or three girls also, I am afraid, stood the poor old idiot. She was convulsed with rage, screaming, shrieking, almost foaming with fury, while first one then another darted forward and gave a pull to her skirts or jacket from behind, and as quickly as she turned, a fresh tormentor would catch at her from the other side, all shouting together at the top of their voices, "Wha is't this time, my Leddy Betty? Thaur, ye have him noo."

They were nothurtingher, but it was the insult she felt so keenly, for she was used to respectful treatment. The Simpson boys, the new comers, were in the front of the fray, of course.

For a moment the five Greystanes children stood speechless with horror. Then Johnny darted to the idiot's side, he did it with the best intentions, but Betty, confused and blinded, did not distinguish him from the others, and dealt him a blow which sent him staggering back, as she howled out to him, "Ye ill-faured loon, tak' that."

"Run, Johnny, run," shrieked Maisie, which Hughie and Lill, who were twins and always kept together, had already done, not out of cowardice but in search of help. But little Annette rushed forward.

"Bad boys that you are," she shouted with her little shrill baby voice that seemed to have suddenly grown commanding, "off with you.You shall not torment my guid auld Betty." For though the children's mother was most careful that their speech should be "English," strong excitement would bring out their native tongue. And as the child uttered the last words she flung her arms round the poor woman, who, weak and feeble as soon as her fury began to lessen, tottered to the ground, where they clung together—the sorrow-crushed aged creature and the cherub-faced child—sobbing in each other's arms. For Pig-Betty had known her little friend in an instant.

"My bonny wee leddy," she murmured, "auld Betty's ain wee leddy," and with her trembling fingers she untied the knotted corners of her bundle of "pigs," and searching for the best of her treasures, the best and biggest of her "whustling polls," she stuffed it into Annette's hands.

Strange to say the ruffianly group had already dispersed and were not again seen!

It was soon after that that the children went back again for the winter to their London home. Next year saw them once more in the north, and as nurse unpacked their trunks she came upon the green parrot, which Annette would never part from.

"I wonder if Pig-Betty's still alive," she said.

Oh yes—so far as was known at Greystanes, she was rambling about as usual, but she had not been there for some weeks. Fortunately for the children, however, it was near the time for her visit, as you shall hear.

A few days after their arrival they were all out together, when they happened to pass by a cottage, whose owner was famed for a very choice breed of dogs he kept.

"Let's peep over the wall into Sandy's yard, and see if he has any new puppies," said Johnny, and they all did so. No, there were no puppies to be seen, only an older dog which the boys remembered by the name of "Jock," and they called out to him.

But Jock took no heed. He was moving about the little enclosure in a queer, restless way, his head hanging down, his tail between his legs.

"Poor Jock," said Hughie, "how dull he looks! What a shame of Sandy to have gone out and left him alone!" For evidently there was no one at home in the cottage. Truth to tell, Sandy was off for the dog-doctor.

"Let's let him out," said Johnny, "and cheer him up a bit. He'll know us once he's out."

They did not hear a quick but shuffling step up the lane, nor a panting, quavering voice, "Bairns, bairns, dinna ye——"

It was Pig-Betty, just arrived that morning, and left by Sandy in charge of his cottage and the suspiciously suffering Jock—a charge she was quite able for.

Back to Index Next