Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Erika Q. Stokes and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
THE BROWNIES
AND OTHER TALES.
BY
JULIANA HORATIA EWING.
LONDON:
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,
NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C.
NEW YORK: E. & J.B. YOUNG & CO.
[Published under the direction of the General Literature Committee.]
DEDICATED
TO
MY VERY DEAR AND HONOURED MOTHER.
J.H.E.
1871.
CONTENTS.
THE BROWNIES
THE LAND OF LOST TOYS
THREE CHRISTMAS TREES
AN IDYLL OF THE WOOD
CHRISTMAS CRACKERS
AMELIA AND THE DWARFS
THE BROWNIES.
A little girl sat sewing and crying on a garden seat. She had fairfloating hair, which the breeze blew into her eyes, and between thecloud of hair, and the mist of tears, she could not see her work veryclearly. She neither tied up her locks, nor dried her eyes, however;for when one is miserable, one may as well be completely so.
"What is the matter?" said the Doctor, who was a friend of theRector's, and came into the garden whenever he pleased.
The Doctor was a tall stout man, with hair as black as crow's featherson the top, and grey underneath, and a bushy beard. When young, he hadbeen slim and handsome, with wonderful eyes, which were wonderfulstill; but that was many years past. He had a great love for children,and this one was a particular friend of his.
"What is the matter?" said he.
"I'm in a row," murmured the young lady through her veil; and theneedle went in damp, and came out with a jerk, which is apt to resultin what ladies called "puckering."
"You are like London in a yellow fog," said the Doctor, throwinghimself on to the grass, "and it is very depressing to my feelings.What is the row about, and how came you to get into it?"
"We're all in it," was the reply; and apparently the fog wasthickening, for the voice grew less and less distinct--"the boys andeverybody. It's all about forgetting, and not putting away, and leavingabout, and borrowing, and breaking, and that sort of thing. I've hadFather's new pocket-handkerchiefs to hem, and I've been out climbingwith the boys, and kept forgetting and forgetting, and Mother says Ialways forget; and I can't help it. I forget to tidy his newspapers forhim, and I forget to feed Puss, and I forgot these; besides, they're agreat bore, and Mother gave them to Nurse to do, and this one was lost,and we found it this morning tossing about in the toy-cupboard."
"It looks as if it had been taking violent exercise," said the Doctor."But what have the boys to do with it?"
"Why, then there was a regular turn out of the toys," she explained,"and they're all in a regular mess. You know, we always go on till thelast minute, and then things get crammed in anyhow. Mary and I did tidythem once or twice; but the boys never put anything away, you know, sowhat's the good?"
"What, indeed!" said the Doctor. "And so you have complained of them?"
"Oh! no!" answered she. "We don't get them into rows, unless they arevery provoking; but some of the things were theirs, so everybody wassent for, and I was sent out to finish this, and they are all tidying.I don't know when it will be done, for I have all this side to hem; andthe soldiers' box is broken, and Noah is lost out of the Noah's Ark,and so is one of the elephants and a guinea-pig, and so is therocking-horse's nose; and nobody knows what has become of Rutlandshireand the Wash, but they're so small, I don't wonder; only North Americaand Europe are gone too."
The Doctor started up in affected horror. "Europe gone, did you say?Bless me! what will become of us!"
"Don't!" said the young lady, kicking petulantly with her danglingfeet, and trying not to laugh. "You know I mean the puzzles; and ifthey were yours, you wouldn't like it."
"I don't half like it as it is," said the Doctor. "I am seriouslyalarmed. An earthquake is one thing; you have a good shaking, andsettle down again. But Europe gone--lost--Why, here comes Deordie, Ideclare, looking much more cheerful than we do; let us humbly hope thatEurope has been found. At present I feel like Aladdin when his palacehad been transported by the magician; I don't know where I am."
"You're here, Doctor; aren't you?" asked the slow curly-wigged brother,squatting himself on the grass.
"_Is_ Europe found?" said the Doctor tragically.
"Yes," laughed Deordie. "I found it."
"You will be a great man," said the Doctor. "And--it is only commoncharity to ask--how about North America?"
"Found too," said Deordie. "But the Wash is completely lost."
"And my six shirts in it!" said the Doctor. "I sent them last Saturdayas ever was. What a world we live in! Any more news? Poor Tiny here hasbeen crying her eyes out."
"I'm so sorry, Tiny," said the brother. "But don't bother about it.It's all square now, and we're going to have a new shelf put up."
"Have you found everything?" asked Tiny.
"Well, not the Wash, you know. And the elephant and the guinea-pig aregone for good; so the other elephant and the other guinea-pig must walktogether as a pair now. Noah was among the soldiers, and we have putthe cavalry into a night-light box. Europe and North America werebehind the book-case; and, would you believe it? the rocking-horse'snose has turned up in the nursery oven."
"I can't believe it," said the Doctor. "The rocking-horse's nosecouldn't turn up, it was the purest Grecian, modelled from the Elginmarbles. Perhaps it was the heat that did it, though. However, you seemto have got through your troubles very well, Master Deordie. I wishpoor Tiny were at the end of her task."
"So do I," said Deordie ruefully. "But I tell you what I've beenthinking, Doctor. Nurse is always nagging at us, and we're always inrows of one sort or another, for doing this, and not doing that, andleaving our things about. But, you know, it's a horrid shame, for thereare plenty of servants, and I don't see why we should be alwaysbothering to do little things, and--"
"Oh! come to the point, please," said the Doctor; "you do go round thesquare so, in telling your stories, Deordie. What have you beenthinking of?"
"Well," said Deordie, who was as good-tempered as he was slow, "theother day Nurse shut me up in the back nursery for borrowing herscissors and losing them; but I'd got 'Grimm' inside one of myknickerbockers, so when she locked the door, I sat down to read. And Iread the story of the Shoemaker and the little Elves who came and didhis work for him before he got up; and I thought it would be so jollyif we had some little Elves to do things instead of us."
"That's what Tommy Trout said," observed the Doctor.
"Who's Tommy Trout?" asked Deordie.
"Don't you know, Deor?" said Tiny. "It's the good boy who pulled thecat out of the what's-his-name.
'Who pulled her out? Little Tommy Trout.'
Is it the same Tommy Trout, Doctor? I never heard anything else abouthim except his pulling the cat out; and I can't think how he did that."
"Let down the bucket for her, of course," said the Doctor. "But listento me. If you will get that handkerchief done, and take it to yourmother with a kiss, and not keep me waiting, I'll have you all to tea,and tell you the story of Tommy Trout."
"This very night?" shouted Deordie.
"This very night."
"Every one of us?" inquired the young gentleman with rapturousincredulity.
"Every one of you.--Now, Tiny, how about that work?"
"It's just done," said Tiny.--"Oh! Deordie, climb up behind, and holdback my hair, there's a darling, while I fasten off. Oh! Deor, you'repulling my hair out. Don't."
"I want to make a pig-tail," said Deor.<
br />
"You can't," said Tiny, with feminine contempt. "You can't plait.What's the good of asking boys to do anything? There! it's done atlast. Now go and ask Mother if we may go.--Will you let me come,Doctor," she inquired, "if I do as you said?"
"To be sure I will," he answered. "Let me look at you. Your eyes areswollen with crying. How can you be such a silly little goose?"
"Did you never cry?" asked Tiny.
"When I was your age? Well, perhaps so."
"You've never cried since, surely," said Tiny.
The Doctor absolutely blushed.
"What do you think?" said he.
"Oh, of course not," she answered. "You've nothing to cry about. You'regrown up, and you live all alone in a beautiful house, and you do asyou like, and never get into rows, or have anybody but yourself tothink about; and no nasty pocket-handkerchiefs to hem."
"Very nice; eh, Deordie?" said the Doctor.
"Awfully jolly," said Deordie.
"Nothing else to wish for, eh?"
"_I_ should keep harriers, and not a poodle, if I were a man," saidDeordie; "but I suppose you could, if you wanted to."
"Nothing to cry about, at any rate?"
"I should think not!" said Deordie.--"There's Mother, though; let's goand ask her about the tea;" and off they ran.
The Doctor stretched his six feet of length upon the sward, dropped hisgrey head on a little heap of newly-mown grass, and looked up into thesky.
"Awfully jolly--no nasty pocket-handkerchiefs to hem," said he,laughing to himself. "Nothing else to wish for; nothing to cry about."
Nevertheless, he lay still, staring at the sky, till the smile diedaway, and tears came into his eyes. Fortunately, no one was there tosee.
What could this "awfully jolly" Doctor be thinking of to make him cry?He was thinking of a grave-stone in the churchyard close by, and of astory connected with this grave-stone which was known to everybody inthe place who was old enough to remember it. This story has nothing todo with the present story, so it ought not to be told.
And yet it has to do with the Doctor, and is veryshort, so it shall be put in, after all.
THE STORY OF A GRAVE-STONE.
One early spring morning, about twenty years before, a man going to hiswork at sunrise through the churchyard, stopped by a flat stone whichhe had lately helped to lay down. The day before, a name had been cuton it, which he stayed to read; and below the name some one hadscrawled a few words in pencil, which he read also--_Pitifully beholdthe sorrows of our hearts_. On the stone lay a pencil, and a few feetfrom it lay the Doctor, face downwards, as he had lain all night, withthe hoar frost on his black hair.
Ah! these grave-stones (they were ugly things in those days; not thelight, hopeful, pretty crosses we set up now), how they seemremorselessly to imprison and keep our dear dead friends away from us!And yet they do not lie with a feather's weight upon the souls that aregone, while GOD only knows how heavily they press upon the souls thatare left behind. Did the spirit whose body was with the dead, standthat morning by the body whose spirit was with the dead, and pity him?Let us only talk about what we know.
After this it was said that the Doctor had got a fever, and was dying,but he got better of it; and then that he was out of his mind, but hegot better of that, and came out looking much as usual, except that hishair never seemed quite so black again, as if a little of that night'shoar frost still remained. And no further misfortune happened to himthat I ever heard of; and as time went on he grew a beard, and gotstout, and kept a German poodle, and gave tea-parties to other people'schildren. As to the grave-stone story, whatever it was to him at theend of twenty years, it was a great convenience to his friends; forwhen he said anything they didn't agree with, or did anything theycouldn't understand, or didn't say or do what was expected of him, whatcould be easier or more conclusive than to shake one's head and say,
"The fact is, our Doctor has been a little odd, _ever since_--!"
THE DOCTOR'S TEA-PARTY.
There is one great advantage attendant upon invitations to tea with adoctor. No objections can be raised on the score of health. It isobvious that it must be fine enough to go out when the Doctor asks you,and that his tea-cakes may be eaten with perfect impunity.
Those tea-cakes were always good; to-night they were utterly delicious;there was a perfect _abandon_ of currants, and the amount of citronpeel was enervating to behold. Then the housekeeper waited in awfulsplendour, and yet the Doctor's authority over her seemed as absoluteas if he were an Eastern despot. Deordie must be excused for believingin the charms of living alone. It certainly has its advantages. Thelimited sphere of duty conduces to discipline in the household, demanddoes not exceed supply in the article of waiting, and there is not thatgeneral scrimmage of conflicting interests which besets a large familyin the most favoured circumstances. The housekeeper waits in black silk,and looks as if she had no meaner occupation than to sit in arocking-chair, and dream of damson cheese.
Rustling, hospitable, and subservient, this one retired at last, and--
"Now," said the Doctor, "for the verandah; and to look at the moon."
The company adjourned with a rush, the rear being brought up by thepoodle, who seemed quite used to the proceedings; and there under theverandah, framed with passion-flowers and geraniums, the Doctor hadgathered mats, rugs, cushions, and arm-chairs, for the party; while farup in the sky, a yellow-faced harvest moon looked down in awfulbenignity.
"Now!" said the Doctor. "Take your seats. Ladies first, and gentlemenafterwards. Mary and Tiny, race for the American rocking-chair. Welldone! Of course it will hold both. Now, boys, shake down. No one is tosit on the stone, or put his feet on the grass: and when you're ready,I'll begin."
"We're ready," said the girls.
The boys shook down in a few minutes more, and the Doctor began thestory of
"THE BROWNIES."
"Bairns are a burden," said the Tailor to himself as he sat at work. Helived in a village on some of the glorious moors of the north ofEngland; and by bairns he meant children, as every Northman knows.
"Bairns are a burden," and he sighed.
"Bairns are a blessing," said the old lady in the window. "It is thefamily motto. The Trouts have had large families and good luck forgenerations; that is, till your grandfather's time. He had one onlyson. I married him. He was a good husband, but he had been a spoiltchild. He had always been used to be waited upon, and he couldn't fashto look after the farm when it was his own. We had six children. Theyare all dead but you, who were the youngest. You were bound to atailor. When the farm came into your hands, your wife died, and youhave never looked up since. The land is sold now, but not the house.No! no! you're right enough there; but you've had your troubles, sonThomas, and the lads _are_ idle!"
It was the Tailor's mother who spoke. She was a very old woman, andhelpless. She was not quite so bright in her intellect as she had been,and got muddled over things that had lately happened; but she had aclear memory for what was long past, and was very pertinacious in heropinions. She knew the private history of almost every family in theplace, and who of the Trouts were buried under which old stones in thechurchyard; and had more tales of ghosts, doubles, warnings, fairies,witches, hobgoblins, and such like, than even her grandchildren hadever come to the end of. Her hands trembled with age, and she regrettedthis for nothing more than for the danger it brought her into ofspilling the salt. She was past housework, but all day she sat knittinghearth-rugs out of the bits and scraps of cloth that were shred in thetailoring. How far she believed in the wonderful tales she told, andthe odd little charms she practised, no one exactly knew; but the oldershe grew, the stranger were the things she remembered, and the moretesty she was if any one doubted their truth. "Bairns are a blessing!"said she. "It is the family motto."
"_Are they_?" said the Tailor emphatically.
He had a high respect for his mother, and did not like to contradicther, but he held his own opinion, based upon personal experience; andnot
being a metaphysician, did not understand that it is safer to foundopinions on principles than on experience, since experience may alter,but principles cannot.
"Look at Tommy," he broke out suddenly. "That boy does nothing butwhittle sticks from morning till night. I have almost to lug him out ofbed o' mornings. If I send him an errand, he loiters; I'd better havegone myself. If I set him to do anything, I have to tell himeverything; I could sooner do it myself. And if he does work, it's doneso unwillingly, with such a poor grace; better, far better, to do itmyself. What housework do the boys ever do but looking after the baby?And this afternoon she was asleep in the cradle, and off they went, andwhen she awoke, _I_ must leave my work to take her. _I_ gave her hersupper, and put her to bed. And what with what they want and I have toget, and what they take out to play with and lose, and what they bringin to play with and leave about, bairns give some trouble, Mother, andI've not an easy life of it. The pay is poor enough when one can getthe work, and the work is hard enough when one has a clear day to do itin; but housekeeping and bairn-minding don't leave a man much time forhis trade. No! no! Ma'am, the luck of the Trouts is gone, and 'Bairnsare a burden,' is the motto now. Though they are one's own," he mutteredto himself, "and not bad ones, and I did hope once would have been ablessing."
"There's Johnnie," murmured the old lady, dreamily. "He has a face likean apple."
"And is about as useful," said the Tailor. "He might have beendifferent, but his brother leads him by the nose."
His brother led him in as the Tailor spoke, not literally by his snub,though, but by the hand. They were a handsome pair, this lazy couple.Johnnie especially had the largest and roundest of foreheads, thereddest of cheeks, the brightest of eyes, the quaintest and mosttwitchy of chins, and looked altogether like a gutta-percha cherub in achronic state of longitudinal squeeze. They were locked together by twogrubby paws, and had each an armful of moss, which they deposited onthe floor as they came in.
"I've swept this floor once to-day," said the father, "and I'm notgoing to do it again. Put that rubbish outside." "Move it, Johnnie!"said his brother, seating himself on a stool, and taking out his knifeand a piece of wood, at which he cut and sliced; while theapple-cheeked Johnnie stumbled and stamped over the moss, and scrapedit out on the doorstep, leaving long trails of earth behind him, andthen sat down also.
"And those chips the same," added the Tailor; "I will _not_ clear up thelitter you lads make."
"Pick 'em up, Johnnie," said Thomas Trout, junior, with an exasperatedsigh; and the apple tumbled up, rolled after the flying chips, andtumbled down again.
"Is there any supper, Father?" asked Tommy.
"No, there is not, Sir, unless you know how to get it," said theTailor; and taking his pipe, he went out of the house.
"Is there really nothing to eat, Granny?" asked the boy.
"No, my bairn, only some bread for breakfast to-morrow."
"What makes Father so cross, Granny?"
"He's wearied, and you don't help him, my dear."
"What could I do, Grandmother?"
"Many little things, if you tried," said the old lady. "He spenthalf-an-hour to-day, while you were on the moor, getting turf for thefire, and you could have got it just as well, and he been at his work."
"He never told me," said Tommy.
"You might help me a bit just now, if you would, my laddie," said theold lady coaxingly; "these bits of cloth want tearing into lengths, andif you get 'em ready, I can go on knitting. There'll be some food whenthis mat is done and sold."
"I'll try," said Tommy, lounging up with desperate resignation. "Holdmy knife, Johnnie. Father's been cross, and everything has beenmiserable, ever since the farm was sold. I wish I were a big man, andcould make a fortune.--Will that do, Granny?"
The old lady put down her knitting and looked. "My dear, that's tooshort. Bless me! I gave the lad a piece to measure by."
"I thought it was the same length. Oh, dear! I am so tired;" and hepropped himself against the old lady's chair.
"My dear! don't lean so; you'll tipple me over!" she shrieked.
"I beg your pardon, Grandmother. Will _that_ do?"
"It's that much too long."
"Tear that bit off. Now it's all right."
"But, my dear, that wastes it. Now that bit is of no use. There goes myknitting, you awkward lad!"
"Johnnie, pick it up!--Oh! Grandmother, I _am_ so hungry." The boy'seyes filled with tears, and the old lady was melted in aninstant.
"What can I do for you, my poor bairns?" said she. "There, never mindthe scraps, Tommy."
"Tell us a tale, Granny. If you told us a new one, I shouldn't keepthinking of that bread in the cupboard.--Come, Johnnie, and sit againstme. Now then!"
"I doubt if there's one of my old-world cracks I haven't told you,"said the old lady, "unless it's a queer ghost story was told me yearsago of that house in the hollow with the blocked-up windows."
"Oh! not ghosts!" Tommy broke in; "we've had so many. I know it was arattling, or a scratching, or a knocking, or a figure in white; and ifit turns out a tombstone or a white petticoat, I hate it."
"It was nothing of the sort as a tombstone," said the old lady withdignity. "It's a good half-mile from the churchyard. And as to whitepetticoats, there wasn't a female in the house; he wouldn't have one;and his victuals came in by the pantry window. But never mind! Thoughit's as true as a sermon."
Johnnie lifted his head from his brother's knee.
"Let Granny tell what she likes, Tommy. It's a new ghost, and I shouldlike to know who he was, and why his victuals came in by the window."
"I don't like a story about victuals," sulked Tommy. "It makes me thinkof the bread. O Granny dear! do tell us a fairy story. You never willtell us about the Fairies, and I know you know."
"Hush! hush!" said the old lady. "There's Miss Surbiton's Love-letter,and her Dreadful End."
"I know Miss Surbiton, Granny. I think she was a goose. Why don't youtell us about the Fairies?"
"Hush! hush! my dear. There's the Clerk and the Corpse-candles."
"I know the Corpse-candles, Granny. Besides, they make Johnnie dream,and he wakes me to keep him company. _Why_ won't you tell us aboutthe Fairies?"
"My dear, they don't like it," said the old lady.
"O Granny dear, why don't they? Do tell! I shouldn't think of the breada bit, if you told us about the Fairies. I know nothing about them."
"He lived in this house long enough," said the old lady. "But it's notlucky to name him."
"O Granny, we are so hungry and miserable, what can it matter?"
"Well, that's true enough," she sighed. "Trout's luck is gone; it wentwith the Brownie, I believe."
"Was that _he_, Granny?"
"Yes, my dear, he lived with the Trouts for several generations."
"What was he like, Granny?"
"Like a little man, they say, my dear."
"What did he do?"
"He came in before the family were up, and swept up the hearth, andlighted the fire, and set out the breakfast, and tidied the room, anddid all sorts of house-work. But he never would be seen, and was offbefore they could catch him. But they could hear him laughing andplaying about the house sometimes."
"What a darling! Did they give him any wages, Granny?"
"No! my dear. He did it for love. They set a pancheon of clear waterfor him over night, and now and then a bowl of bread-and-milk, orcream. He liked that, for he was very dainty. Sometimes he left a bitof money in the water. Sometimes he weeded the garden, or threshed thecorn. He saved endless trouble, both to men and maids."
"O Granny! why did he go?"
"The maids caught sight of him one night, my dear, and his coat was soragged, that they got a new suit, and a linen shirt for him, and laidthem by the bread-and-milk bowl. But when Brownie saw the things, heput them on, and dancing round the kitchen, sang,
'What have we here? Hemten hamten! Here will I never more tread nor stampen,'
and
so danced through the door, and never came back again."
"O Grandmother! But why not? Didn't he like the new clothes?"
"The Old Owl knows, my dear; I don't."
"Who's the Old Owl, Granny?"
"I don't exactly know, my dear. It's what my mother used to say when weasked anything that puzzled her. It was said that the Old Owl was NannyBesom (a witch, my dear!), who took the shape of a bird, but couldn'tchange her voice, and that's why the owl sits silent all day for fearshe should betray herself by speaking, and has no singing voice likeother birds. Many people used to go and consult the Old Owl atmoon-rise, in my young days."
"Did you ever go, Granny?"
"Once, very nearly, my dear."
"Oh! tell us, Granny dear.--There are no Corpse-candles, Johnnie; it'sonly moonlight," he added consolingly, as Johnnie crept closer to hisknee, and pricked his little red ears.
"It was when your grandfather was courting me, my dears," said the oldlady, "and I couldn't quite make up my mind. So I went to my mother,and said, 'He's this on the one side, but then he's that on the other,and so on. Shall I say yes or no?' And my mother said, 'The Old Owlknows;' for she was fairly puzzled. So says I, 'I'll go and ask herto-night, as sure as the moon rises.'
"So at moon-rise I went, and there in the white light by the gate stoodyour grandfather. 'What are you doing here at this time o' night?' saysI. 'Watching your window,' says he. 'What are _you_ doing here at thistime o' night?' 'The Old Owl knows,' said I, and burst outcrying."
"What for?" said Johnnie.
"I can't rightly tell you, my dear," said the old lady, "but it gave mesuch a turn to see him. And without more ado your grandfather kissedme. 'How dare you?' said I. 'What do you mean?' 'The Old Owl knows,'said he. So we never went."
"How stupid!" said Tommy.
"Tell us more about Brownie, please," said Johnnie, "Did he ever livewith anybody else?"
"There are plenty of Brownies," said the old lady, "or used to be in mymother's young days. Some houses had several." "Oh! I wish ours wouldcome back!" cried both the boys in chorus. "He'd--
"tidy the room," said Johnnie;
"fetch the turf," said Tommy;
"pick up the chips," said Johnnie;
"sort your scraps," said Tommy;
"and do everything. Oh! I wish he hadn't gone away."
"What's that?" said the Tailor, coming in at this moment.
"It's the Brownie, Father," said Tommy. "We are so sorry he went, anddo so wish we had one."
"What nonsense have you been telling them, Mother?" asked the Tailor.
"Heighty teighty," said the old lady, bristling. "Nonsense, indeed! Asgood men as you, son Thomas, would as soon have jumped off the crags,as spoken lightly of _them_, in my mother's young days."
"Well, well," said the Tailor, "I beg their pardon. They never didaught for me, whatever they did for my forbears; but they're as welcometo the old place as ever, if they choose to come. There's plenty todo."
"Would you mind our setting a pan of water, Father?" asked Tommy verygently. "There's no bread-and-milk."
"You may set what you like, my lad," said the Tailor; "and I wish therewere bread-and-milk for your sakes, bairns. You should have it, had Igot it. But go to bed now."
They lugged out a pancheon, and filled it with more dexterity thanusual, and then went off to bed, leaving the knife in one corner, thewood in another, and a few splashes of water in their track.
There was more room than comfort in the ruined old farm-house, and thetwo boys slept on a bed of cut heather, in what had been the oldmalt-loft. Johnnie was soon in the land of dreams, growing rosier androsier as he slept, a tumbled apple among the grey heather. But not solazy Tommy. The idea of a domesticated Brownie had taken fullpossession of his mind; and whither Brownie had gone, where he might befound, and what would induce him to return, were mysteries he longed tosolve. "There's an owl living in the old shed by the mere," he thought."It may be the Old Owl herself, and she knows, Granny says. WhenFather's gone to bed, and the moon rises, I'll go." Meanwhile he laydown.
* * * * *
The moon rose like gold, and went up into the heavens like silver,flooding the moors with a pale ghostly light, taking the colour out ofthe heather, and painting black shadows under the stone walls. Tommyopened his eyes, and ran to the window. "The moon has risen," said he,and crept softly down the ladder, through the kitchen, where was thepan of water, but no Brownie, and so out on to the moor. The air wasfresh, not to say chilly; but it was a glorious night, thougheverything but the wind and Tommy seemed asleep. The stones, the walls,the gleaming lanes, were so intensely still; the church tower in thevalley seemed awake and watching, but silent; the houses in the villageround it had all their eyes shut, that is, their window-blinds down;and it seemed to Tommy as if the very moors had drawn white sheets overthem, and lay sleeping also.
"Hoot! hoot!" said a voice from the fir plantation behind him. Somebodyelse was awake, then. "It's the Old Owl," said Tommy; and there shecame, swinging heavily across the moor with a flapping stately flight,and sailed into the shed by the mere. The old lady moved faster thanshe seemed to do, and though Tommy ran hard she was in the shed sometime before him. When he got in, no bird was to be seen, but he heard acrunching sound from above, and looking up, there sat the Old Owl,pecking and tearing and munching at some shapeless black object, andblinking at him--Tommy--with yellow eyes.
"Oh dear!" said Tommy, for he didn't much like it.
The Old Owl dropped the black mass on to the floor; and Tommy did notcare somehow to examine it.
"Come up! come up!" said she hoarsely.
She could speak, then! Beyond all doubt it was _the_ Old Owl, and noneother. Tommy shuddered.
"Come up here! come up here!" said the Old Owl.
The Old Owl sat on a beam that ran across the shed. Tommy had oftenclimbed up for fun; and he climbed up now, and sat face to face withher, and thought her eyes looked as if they were made of flame.
"Kiss my fluffy face," said the Owl.
Her eyes were going round like flaming catherine wheels, but there arecertain requests which one has not the option of refusing. Tommy creptnearer, and put his lips to the round face out of which the eyes shone.Oh! it was so downy and warm, so soft, so indescribably soft. Tommy'slips sank into it, and couldn't get to the bottom. It was unfathomablefeathers and fluffiness.
"Now, what do you want?" said the Owl.
"Please," said Tommy, who felt rather re-assured, "can you tell mewhere to find the Brownies, and how to get one to come and live withus?"
"Oohoo!" said the Owl, "that's it, is it? I know of three Brownies."
"Hurrah!" said Tommy. "Where do they live?"
"In your house," said the Owl.
Tommy was aghast.
"In our house!" he exclaimed. "Whereabouts? Let me rummage them out.Why do they do nothing?"
"One of them is too young," said the Owl.
"But why don't the others work?" asked Tommy.
"They are idle, they are idle," said the Old Owl, and she gave herselfsuch a shake as she said it, that the fluff went flying through theshed, and Tommy nearly tumbled off the beam in his fright.
"Then we don't want them," said he. "What is the use of having Browniesif they do nothing to help us?"
"Perhaps they don't know how, as no one has told them," said the Owl.
"I wish you would tell me where to find them," said Tommy; "I couldtell them."
"Could you?" said the Owl. "Oohoo! oohoo!" and Tommy couldn't tellwhether she were hooting or laughing.
"Of course I could," he said. "They might be up and sweep the house,and light the fire, and spread the table, and that sort of thing,before Father came down. Besides, they could _see_ what was wanted.The Brownies did all that in Granny's mother's young days. And thenthey could tidy the room, and fetch the turf, and pick up my chips,and sort Granny's scraps. Oh! there's lots to do."
"So there is," said the Owl
. "Oohoo! Well, I can tell you where to findone of the Brownies; and if you find him, he will tell you where hisbrother is. But all this depends upon whether you feel equal toundertaking it, and whether you will follow my directions."
"I am quite ready to go," said Tommy, "and I will do as you shall tellme. I feel sure I could persuade them. If they only knew how every onewould love them if they made themselves useful!"
"Oohoo! oohoo!" said the Owl. "Now pay attention. You must go to thenorth side of the mere when the moon is shining--('I know Brownies likewater,' muttered Tommy)--and turn yourself round three times, sayingthis charm:
'Twist me, and turn me, and show me the Elf-- I looked in the water, and saw--'
When you have got so far, look into the water, and at the same momentyou will see the Brownie, and think of a word that will fill up thecouplet, and rhyme with the first line. If either you do not see theBrownie, or fail to think of the word, it will be of no use."
"Is the Brownie a merman," said Tommy, wriggling himself along thebeam, "that he lives under water?"
"That depends on whether he has a fish's tail," said the Owl, "and thisyou can discover for yourself."
"Well, the moon is shining, so I shall go," said Tommy. "Good-bye, andthank you, Ma'am;" and he jumped down and went, saying to himself as heran, "I believe he is a merman all the same, or else how could he livein the mere? I know more about Brownies than Granny does, and I shalltell her so;" for Tommy was somewhat opinionated, like other youngpeople.
The moon shone very brightly on the centre of the mere. Tommy knew theplace well, for there was a fine echo there. Round the edge grew rushesand water plants, which cast a border of shadow. Tommy went to thenorth side, and turning himself three times, as the Old Owl had toldhim, he repeated the charm--
"Twist me, and turn me, and show me the Elf-- I looked in the water, and saw--"
Now for it! He looked in, and saw--the reflection of his own face.
"Why, there's no one but myself!" said Tommy. "And what can the wordbe? I must have done it wrong."
"Wrong!" said the Echo.
Tommy was almost surprised to find the echo awake at this time ofnight.
"Hold your tongue!" said he. "Matters are provoking enough ofthemselves. Belf! Celf! Delf! Felf! Gelf! Helf! Jelf! What rubbish!There can't be a word to fit it. And then to look for a Brownie, andsee nothing but myself!"
"Myself," said the Echo.
"Will you be quiet?" said Tommy. "If you would tell one the word therewould be some sense in your interference; but to roar 'Myself!' at one,which neither rhymes nor runs--it does rhyme though, as it happens," headded; "and how very odd! it runs too--
'Twist me, and turn me, and show me the Elf-- I looked in the water, and saw myself,'
which I certainly did. What can it mean? The Old Owl knows, as Grannywould say; so I shall go back and ask her."
"Ask her!" said the Echo.
"Didn't I say I should?" said Tommy. "How exasperating you are! It isvery strange. _Myself_ certainly does rhyme, and I wonder I did notthink of it long ago."
"Go," said the Echo.
"Will you mind your own business, and go to sleep?" said Tommy. "I amgoing; I said I should."
And back he went. There sat the Old Owl as before.
"Oohoo!" said she, as Tommy climbed up. "What did you see in the mere?"
"I saw nothing but myself," said Tommy indignantly.
"And what did you expect to see?" asked the Owl.
"I expected to see a Brownie," said Tommy; "you told me so."
"And what are Brownies like, pray?" inquired the Owl.
"The one Granny knew was a useful little fellow, something like alittle man," said Tommy.
"Ah!" said the Owl, "but you know at present this one is an idle littlefellow, something like a little man. Oohoo! oohoo! Are you quite sureyou didn't see him?"
"Quite," answered Tommy sharply. "I saw no one but myself."
"Hoot! toot! How touchy we are! And who are you, pray?"
"I'm not a Brownie," said Tommy.
"Don't be too sure," said the Owl. "Did you find out the word?"
"No," said Tommy. "I could find no word with any meaning that wouldrhyme but 'myself.'"
"Well, that runs and rhymes," said the Owl. "What do you want? Where'syour brother now?"
"In bed in the malt-loft," said Tommy.
"Then now all your questions are answered," said the Owl, "and you knowwhat wants doing, so go and do it. Good-night, or rather good-morning,for it is long past midnight;" and the old lady began to shake herfeathers for a start.
"Don't go yet, please," said Tommy humbly. "I don't understand it. Youknow I'm not a Brownie, am I?"
"Yes, you are," said the Owl, "and a very idle one too. All childrenare Brownies."
"But I couldn't do work like a Brownie," said Tommy.
"Why not?" inquired the Owl. "Couldn't you sweep the floor, light thefire, spread the table, tidy the room, fetch the turf, pick up your ownchips, and sort your grandmother's scraps? You know 'there's lots todo.'"
"But I don't think I should like it," said Tommy. "I'd much rather havea Brownie to do it for me."
"And what would you do meanwhile?" asked the Owl. "Be idle, I suppose;and what do you suppose is the use of a man's having children if theydo nothing to help him? Ah! if they only knew how every one would lovethem if they made themselves useful!"
"But is it really and truly so?" asked Tommy, in a dismal voice. "Arethere no Brownies but children?"
"No, there are not," said the Owl. "And pray do you think that theBrownies, whoever they may be, come into the house to save trouble forthe idle healthy little boys who live in it? Listen to me, Tommy," saidthe old lady, her eyes shooting rays of fire in the dark corner whereshe sat. "Listen to me, you are a clever boy, and can understand whenone speaks; so I will tell you the whole history of the Brownies, as ithas been handed down in our family from my grandmother'sgreat-grandmother, who lived in the Druid's Oak, and was intimate withthe fairies. And when I have done you shall tell me what you think theyare, if they are not children. It's the opinion I have come to at anyrate, and I don't think that wisdom died with our great-grandmothers."
"I should like to hear if you please," said Tommy.
The Old Owl shook out a tuft or two of fluff, and set her eyes a-goingand began:
"The Brownies, or, as they are sometimes called, the Small Folk, theLittle People, or the Good People, are a race of tiny beings whodomesticate themselves in a house of which some grown-up human beingpays the rent and taxes. They are like small editions of men and women,they are too small and fragile for heavy work; they have not thestrength of a man, but are a thousand times more fresh and nimble. Theycan run and jump, and roll and tumble, with marvellous agility andendurance, and of many of the aches and pains which men and women groanunder, they do not even know the names. They have no trade orprofession, and as they live entirely upon other people, they knownothing of domestic cares; in fact, they know very little upon anysubject, though they are often intelligent and highly inquisitive. Theylove dainties, play, and mischief. They are apt to be greatly beloved,and are themselves capriciously affectionate. They are little people,and can only do little things. When they are idle and mischievous, theyare called Boggarts, and are a curse to the house they live in. Whenthey are useful and considerate, they are Brownies, and are amuch-coveted blessing. Sometimes the Blessed Brownies will take uptheir abode with some worthy couple, cheer them with their romps andmerry laughter, tidy the house, find things that have been lost, andtake little troubles out of hands full of great anxieties. Then in timethese Little People are Brownies no longer. They grow up into men andwomen. They do not care so much for dainties, play, or mischief. Theycease to jump and tumble, and roll about the house. They know more, andlaugh less. Then, when their heads begin to ache with anxiety, and theyhave to labour for their own living, and the great cares of life comeon, other Brownies come and live with them, and tak
e up their littlecares, and supply their little comforts, and make the house merry oncemore."
"How nice!" said Tommy.
"Very nice," said the Old Owl. "But what"--and she shook herself morefiercely than ever, and glared so that Tommy expected nothing less thanthat her eyes would set fire to her feathers and she would be burntalive. "But what must I say of the Boggarts? Those idle urchins who eatthe bread-and-milk, and don't do the work, who lie in bed without anache or pain to excuse them, who untidy instead of tidying, cause workinstead of doing it, and leave little cares to heap on big cares, tillthe old people who support them are worn out altogether."
"Don't!" said Tommy. "I can't bear it."
"I hope when Boggarts grow into men," said the Old Owl, "that theirchildren will be Boggarts too, and then they'll know what it is!"
"Don't!" roared Tommy. "I won't be a Boggart. I'll be a Brownie."
"That's right," nodded the Old Owl. "I said you were a boy who couldunderstand when one spoke. And remember that the Brownies never areseen at their work. They get up before the household, and get awaybefore any one can see them. I can't tell you why. I don't think mygrandmother's great-grandmother knew. Perhaps because all good deedsare better done in secret."
"Please," said Tommy, "I should like to go home now, and tell Johnnie.It's getting cold, and I am so tired!"
"Very true," said the Old Owl, "and then you will have to be up earlyto-morrow. I think I had better take you home."
"I know the way, thank you," said Tommy.
"I didn't say _show_ you the way, I said _take_ you--carry you," saidthe Owl. "Lean against me."
"I'd rather not, thank you," said Tommy.
"Lean against me," screamed the Owl. "Oohoo! how obstinate boys are tobe sure!"
Tommy crept up very unwillingly.
"Lean your full weight, and shut your eyes," said the Owl.
Tommy laid his head against the Old Owl's feathers, had a vague ideathat she smelt of heather, and thought it must be from living on themoor, shut his eyes, and leant his full weight, expecting that he andthe Owl would certainly fall off the beam together.Down--feathers--fluff--he sank and sank, could feel nothing solid,jumped up with a start to save himself, opened his eyes, and found thathe was sitting among the heather in the malt-loft, with Johnniesleeping by his side.
"How quickly we came!" said he; "that is certainly a very clever OldOwl. I couldn't have counted ten whilst my eyes were shut. How veryodd!"
But what was odder still was, that it was no longer moonlight, butearly dawn.
"Get up, Johnnie," said his brother, "I've got a story to tell you."
And while Johnnie sat up, and rubbed his eyes open, he related hisadventures on the moor.
"Is all that true?" said Johnnie. "I mean, did it really happen?"
"Of course it did," said his brother; "don't you believe it?"
"Oh yes," said Johnnie. "But I thought it was perhaps only a truestory, like Granny's true stories. I believe all those, you know. Butif you were there, you know, it is different--"
"I was there," said Tommy, "and it's all just as I tell you: and I tellyou what, if we mean to do anything we must get up: though, oh dear! Ishould like to stay in bed. I say," he added, after a pause, "supposewe do. It can't matter being Boggarts for one night more. I mean to bea Brownie before I grow up, though. I couldn't stand boggartychildren."
"I won't be a Boggart at all," said Johnnie, "it's horrid. But I don'tsee how we can be Brownies, for I'm afraid we can't do the things. Iwish I were bigger!"
"I can do it well enough," said Tommy, following his brother's exampleand getting up. "Don't you suppose I can light a fire? Think of all thebonfires we have made! And I don't think I should mind having a regulargood tidy-up either. It's that stupidputting-away-things-when-you've-done-with-them that I hate so!"
The Brownies crept softly down the ladder and into the kitchen. Therewas the blank hearth, the dirty floor, and all the odds and ends lyingabout, looking cheerless enough in the dim light. Tommy felt quiteimportant as he looked round. There is no such cure for untidiness asclearing up after other people; one sees so clearly where the faultlies.
"Look at that door-step, Johnnie," said the Brownie-elect, "what a messyou made of it! If you had lifted the moss carefully, instead ofstamping and struggling with it, it would have saved us ten minutes'work this morning."
This wisdom could not be gainsaid, and Johnnie only looked meek andrueful.
"I am going to light the fire," pursued his brother;--"the next turfs,you know, _we_ must get--you can tidy a bit. Look at that knife I gaveyou to hold last night, and that wood--that's my fault though, and soare those scraps by Granny's chair. What are you grubbing at thatrat-hole for?"
Johnnie raised his head somewhat flushed and tumbled.
"What do you think I have found?" said he triumphantly. "Father'smeasure that has been lost for a week!"
"Hurrah!" said Tommy, "put it by his things. That's just a sort ofthing for a Brownie to have done. What will he say? And I say, Johnnie,when you've tidied, just go and grub up a potato or two in the garden,and I'll put them to roast for breakfast. I'm lighting such a bonfire!"
The fire was very successful. Johnnie went after the potatoes, andTommy cleaned the door-step, swept the room, dusted the chairs and theold chest, and set out the table. There was no doubt he could be handywhen he chose.
"I'll tell you what I've thought of, if we have time," said Johnnie, ashe washed the potatoes in the water that had been set for Brownie. "Wemight run down to the South Pasture for some mushrooms. Father said thereason we found so few was that people go by sunrise for them to taketo market. The sun's only just rising, we should be sure to find some,and they would do for breakfast."
"There's plenty of time," said Tommy; so they went. The dew lay heavyand thick upon the grass by the road-side, and over the miles ofnetwork that the spiders had woven from blossom to blossom of theheather. The dew is the Sun's breakfast; but he was barely up yet, andhad not eaten it, and the world felt anything but warm. Nevertheless,it was so sweet and fresh as it is at no later hour of the day, andevery sound was like the returning voice of a long-absent friend. Downto the pastures, where was more network and more dew, but when one hasnothing to speak of in the way of boots, the state of the ground is ofthe less consequence.
The Tailor had been right, there was no lack of mushrooms at this timeof the morning. All over the pasture they stood, of all sizes, somelike buttons, some like tables; and in the distance one or two raggedwomen, stooping over them with baskets, looked like huge fungi also.
"This is where the fairies feast," said Tommy. "They had a large partylast night. When they go, they take away the dishes and cups, for theyare made of gold; but they leave their tables, and we eat them."
"I wonder whether giants would like to eat our tables," said Johnnie.
This was beyond Tommy's capabilities of surmise; so they filled ahandkerchief, and hurried back again, for fear the Tailor should havecome down-stairs.
They were depositing the last mushroom in a dish on the table, when hisfootsteps were heard descending.
"There he is!" exclaimed Tommy. "Remember, we mustn't be caught. Runback to bed."
Johnnie caught up the handkerchief, and smothering their laughter, thetwo scrambled back up the ladder, and dashed straight into the heather.
Meanwhile the poor Tailor came wearily down-stairs. Day after day,since his wife's death, he had come down every morning to the samedesolate sight--yesterday's refuse and an empty hearth. This morningtask of tidying was always a sad and ungrateful one to the widowedfather. His awkward struggles with the house-work in which _she_had been so notable, chafed him. The dirty kitchen was dreary, thelabour lonely, and it was an hour's time lost to his trade. But lifedoes not stand still while one is wishing, and so the Tailor did thatfor which there was neither remedy nor substitute; and came down thismorning as other mornings to the pail and broom. When he came in helooked round, and started, and rubbed
his eyes; looked round again,and rubbed them harder: then went up to the fire and held out his hand,(warm certainly)--then up to the table and smelt the mushrooms,(esculent fungi beyond a doubt)--handled the loaf, stared at the opendoor and window, the swept floor, and the sunshine pouring in, andfinally sat down in stunned admiration. Then he jumped up and ran tothe foot of the stairs, shouting,
"Mother! mother! Trout's luck has come again." "And yet, no!" hethought, "the old lady's asleep, it's a shame to wake her, I'll tellthose idle rascally lads, they'll be more pleased than they deserve. Itwas Tommy after all that set the water and caught him." "Boys! boys!"he shouted at the foot of the ladder, "the Brownie has come!--and if hehasn't found my measure!" he added on returning to the kitchen; "thisis as good as a day's work to me."
There was great excitement in the small household that day. The boyskept their own counsel. The old Grandmother was triumphant, and triednot to seem surprised. The Tailor made no such vain effort, andremained till bed-time in a state of fresh and unconcealed amazement.
"I've often heard of the Good People," he broke out towards the end ofthe evening. "And I've heard folk say they've known those that haveseen them capering round the grey rocks on the moor at midnight: butthis is wonderful! To come and do the work for a pan of cold water! Whocould have believed it?"
"You might have believed it if you'd believed me, son Thomas," said theold lady tossily. "I told you so. But young people always know betterthan their elders!"
"I didn't see him," said the Tailor, beginning his story afresh; "but Ithought as I came in I heard a sort of laughing and rustling."
"My mother said they often heard him playing and laughing about thehouse," said the old lady. "I told you so."
"Well, he sha'n't want for a bowl of bread-and-milk to-morrow, anyhow,"said the Tailor, "if I have to stick to Farmer Swede's waistcoat tillmidnight."
But the waistcoat was finished by bed-time, and the Tailor set thebread-and-milk-himself, and went to rest.
"I say," said Tommy, when both the boys were in bed, "the Old Owl wasright, and we must stick to it. But I'll tell you what I don't like,and that is Father thinking we're idle still. I wish he knew we werethe Brownies."
"So do I," said Johnnie; and he sighed.
"I tell you what," said Tommy, with the decisiveness of elderbrotherhood, "we'll keep quiet for a bit for fear we should leave off;but when we've gone on a good while, I shall tell him. It was only theOld Owl's grandmother's great-grandmother who said it was to be keptsecret, and the Old Owl herself said grandmothers were not always inthe right."
"No more they are," said Johnnie; "look at Granny about this."
"I know," said Tommy. "She's in a regular muddle."
"So she is," said Johnnie. "But that's rather fun, I think."
And they went to sleep.
Day after day went by, and still the Brownies "stuck to it," and didtheir work. It is no such very hard matter after all to get up earlywhen one is young and light-hearted, and sleeps upon heather in a loftwithout window-blinds, and with so many broken window-panes that theair comes freely in. In old times the boys used to play at tents amongthe heather, while the Tailor did the house-work; now they came downand did it for him.
Size is not everything, even in this material existence. One has heardof dwarfs who were quite as clever (not to say as powerful) as giants,and I do not fancy that Fairy Godmothers are ever very large. It iswonderful what a comfort Brownies may be in the house that is fortunateenough to hold them! The Tailor's Brownies were the joy of his life;and day after day they seemed to grow more and more ingenious infinding little things to do for his good.
Now-a-days Granny never picked a scrap for herself. One day's shearingswere all neatly arranged the next morning, and laid by herknitting-pins; and the Tailor's tape and shears were no more absentwithout leave.
One day a message came to him to offer him two or three days' tailoringin a farm-house some miles up the valley. This was pleasant andadvantageous sort of work; good food, sure pay, and a cheerful change;but he did not know how he could leave his family, unless, indeed, theBrownie might be relied upon to "keep the house together," as they say.The boys were sure that he would, and they promised to set his water,and to give as little trouble as possible; so, finally, the Tailor tookup his shears and went up the valley, where the green banks sloped upinto purple moor, or broke into sandy rocks, crowned with nodding oakfern. On to the prosperous old farm, where he spent a very pleasanttime, sitting level with the window geraniums on a table set apart forhim, stitching and gossiping, gossiping and stitching, and feelingsecure of honest payment when his work was done. The mistress of thehouse was a kind good creature, and loved a chat; and though the Tailorkept his own secret as to the Brownies, he felt rather curious to knowif the Good People had any hand in the comfort of this flourishinghousehold, and watched his opportunity to make a few careless inquirieson the subject.
"Brownies?" laughed the dame. "Ay, Master, I have heard of them. When Iwas a girl, in service at the old hall, on Cowberry Edge, I heard agood deal of one they said had lived there in former times. He didhouse-work as well as a woman, and a good deal quicker, they said. Onenight one of the young ladies (that were then, they're all dead now)hid herself in a cupboard, to see what he was like."
"And what was he like?" inquired the Tailor, as composedly as he wasable.
"A little fellow, they said," answered the Farmer's wife, knittingcalmly on. "Like a dwarf, you know, with a largish head for his body.Not taller than--why, my Bill, or your eldest boy, perhaps. And he wasdressed in rags, with an old cloak on, and stamping with passion at acobweb he couldn't get at with his broom. They've very uncertaintempers, they say. Tears one minute, and laughing the next."
"You never had one here, I suppose?" said the Tailor.
"Not we," she answered; "and I think I'd rather not. They're not cannyafter all; and my master and me have always been used to work, andwe've sons and daughters to help us, and that's better than meddlingwith the Fairies, to my mind. No! no!" she added, laughing, "if we hadhad one you'd have heard of it, whoever didn't, for I should have hadsome decent clothes made for him. I couldn't stand rags and old cloaks,messing and moth-catching, in my house."
"They say it's not lucky to give them clothes, though," said theTailor; "they don't like it."
"Tell me!" said the dame, "as if any one that liked a tidy roomwouldn't like tidy clothes, if they could get them. No! no! when wehave one, you shall take his measure, I promise you."
And this was all the Tailor got out of her on the subject. When hiswork was finished, the Farmer paid him at once; and the good dame addedhalf a cheese, and a bottle-green coat.
"That has been laid by for being too small for the master now he's sostout," she said; "but except for a stain or two it's good enough, andwill cut up like new for one of the lads."
The Tailor thanked them, and said farewell, and went home. Down thevalley, where the river, wandering between the green banks and thesandy rocks, was caught by giant mosses, and bands of fairy fern, andthere choked and struggled, and at last barely escaped with anexistence, and ran away in a diminished stream. On up the purple hillsto the old ruined house. As he came in at the gate he was struck bysome idea of change, and looking again, he saw that the garden had beenweeded, and was comparatively tidy. The truth is, that Tommy andJohnnie had taken advantage of the Tailor's absence to do someBrownie's work in the daytime.
"It's that Blessed Brownie!" said the Tailor. "Has he been as usual?"he asked, when he was in the house.
"To be sure," said the old lady; "all has been well, son Thomas."
"I'll tell you what it is," said the Tailor, after a pause. "I'm aneedy man, but I hope I'm not ungrateful. I can never repay the Browniefor what he has done for me and mine; but the mistress up yonder hasgiven me a bottle-green coat that will cut up as good as new; and assure as there's a Brownie in this house, I'll make him a suit of it."
"You'll _what_?" shrieked the old lady. "S
on Thomas, son Thomas, you'remad! Do what you please for the Brownies, but never make them clothes."
"There's nothing they want more," said the Tailor, "by all accounts.They're all in rags, as well they may be, doing so much work."
"If you make clothes for this Brownie, he'll go for good," said theGrandmother, in a voice of awful warning.
"Well, I don't know," said her son. "The mistress up at the farm isclever enough, I can tell you; and as she said to me, fancy any onethat likes a tidy room not liking a tidy coat!" For the Tailor, likemost men, was apt to think well of the wisdom of womankind in otherhouses.
"Well, well," said the old lady, "go your own way. I'm an old woman,and my time is not long. It doesn't matter much to me. But it was newclothes that drove the Brownie out before, and Trout's luck went withhim."
"I know, Mother," said the Tailor, "and I've been thinking of it allthe way home; and I can tell you why it was. Depend upon it, _theclothes didn't fit_. But I'll tell you what I mean to do. I shallmeasure them by Tommy--they say the Brownies are about his size--and ifever I turned out a well-made coat and waistcoat, they shall be his."
"Please yourself," said the old lady, and she would say no more.
"I think you're quite right, Father," said Tommy, "and if I can, I'llhelp you to make them."
Next day the father and son set to work, and Tommy contrived to makehimself so useful, that the Tailor hardly knew how he got through somuch work.
"It's not like the same thing," he broke out at last, "to have some onea bit helpful about you; both for the tailoring and for company's sake.I've not done such a pleasant morning's work since your poor motherdied. I'll tell you what it is, Tommy," he added, "if you were alwayslike this, I shouldn't much care whether Brownie stayed or went. I'dgive up his help to have yours."
"I'll be back directly," said Tommy, who burst out of the room insearch of his brother.
"I've come away," he said, squatting down, "because I can't bear it. Ivery nearly let it all out, and I shall soon. I wish the things weren'tgoing to come to me," he added, kicking a stone in front of him. "Iwish he'd measured you, Johnnie."
"I'm very glad he didn't," said Johnnie. "I wish he'd kept themhimself."
"Bottle-green, with brass buttons," murmured Tommy, and therewith fellinto a reverie.
The next night the suit was finished, and laid by the bread-and-milk.
"We shall see," said the old lady, in a withering tone. There is notmuch real prophetic wisdom in this truism, but it sounds very awful,and the Tailor went to bed somewhat depressed.
Next morning the Brownies came down as usual.
"Don't they look splendid?" said Tommy, feeling the cloth. "When we'vetidied the place I shall put them on."
But long before the place was tidy, he could wait no longer, anddressed up.
"Look at me!" he shouted; "bottle-green and brass buttons! Oh, Johnnie,I wish you had some."
"It's a good thing there are two Brownies," said Johnnie, laughing,"and one of them in rags still. I shall do the work this morning." Andhe went flourishing round with a broom, while Tommy jumped madly aboutin his new suit. "Hurrah!" he shouted, "I feel just like the Brownie.What was it Granny said he sang when he got his clothes? Oh, I know--
'What have we here? Hemten hamten! Here will I never more tread nor stampen.'"
And on he danced, regardless of the clouds of dust raised by Johnnie,as he drove the broom indiscriminately over the floor, to the tune ofhis own laughter.
It was laughter which roused the Tailor that morning, laughter comingthrough the floor from the kitchen below. He scrambled on his thingsand stole down-stairs.
"It's the Brownie," he thought; "I must look, if it's for the lasttime."
At the door he paused and listened. The laughter was mixed withsinging, and he heard the words--
"What have we here? Hemten hamten! Here will I never more tread nor stampen."
He pushed in, and this was the sight that met his eyes.
The kitchen in its primeval condition of chaos, the untidy particularsof which were the less apparent, as everything was more or lessobscured by the clouds of dust, where Johnnie reigned triumphant, likea witch with her broomstick; and, to crown all, Tommy capering andsinging in the Brownie's bottle-green suit, brass buttons and all.
"What's this?" shouted the astonished Tailor, when he could find breathto speak.
"It's the Brownies," sang the boys; and on they danced, for they hadworked themselves up into a state of excitement from which it was noteasy to settle down.
"Where _is_ Brownie?" shouted the father.
"He's here," said Tommy; "we are the Brownies."
"Can't you stop that fooling?" cried the Tailor, angrily. "This is pasta joke. Where is the real Brownie, I say?"
"We are the only Brownies, really, Father," said Tommy, coming to afull stop, and feeling strongly tempted to run down from laughing tocrying. "Ask the Old Owl. It's true, really."
The Tailor saw the boy was in earnest, and passed his hand over hisforehead.
"I suppose I'm getting old," he said; "I can't see daylight throughthis. If you are the Brownie, who has been tidying the kitchen lately?"
"We have," said they.
"But who found my measure?"
"I did," said Johnnie.
"And who sorts your grandmother's scraps?"
"We do," said they.
"And who sets breakfast, and puts my things in order?"
"We do," said they.
"But when do you do it?" asked the Tailor.
"Before you come down," said they.
"But I always have to call you," said the Tailor.
"We get back to bed again," said the boys.
"But how was it you never did it before?" asked the Tailor doubtfully.
"We were idle, we were idle," said Tommy.
The Tailor's voice rose to a pitch of desperation--
"But if you did the work," he shouted, "_where is the Brownie?_"
"Here!" cried the boys, "and we are very sorry that we were Boggarts solong."
With which the father and sons fell into each other's arms and fairlywept.
* * * * *
It will be believed that to explain all this to the Grandmother was notthe work of a moment. She understood it all at last, however, and theTailor could not restrain a little good-humoured triumph on thesubject. Before he went to work he settled her down in the window withher knitting, and kissed her.
"What do you think of it all, Mother?" he inquired.
"Bairns are a blessing," said the old lady tartly, "_I told you so._"
* * * * *
"That's not the end, is it?" asked one of the boys in a tone of dismay,for the Doctor had paused here.
"Yes, it is," said he.
"But couldn't you make a little more end?" asked Deordie, "to tell uswhat became of them all?"
"I don't see what there is to tell," said the Doctor.
"Why, there's whether they ever saw the Old Owl again, and whetherTommy and Johnnie went on being Brownies," said the children.
The Doctor laughed.
"Well, be quiet for five minutes," he said.
"We'll be as quiet as mice," said the children.
And as quiet as mice they were. Very like mice, indeed. Very like micebehind a wainscot at night, when you have just thrown something tofrighten them away. Death-like stillness for a few seconds, and thenall the rustling and scuffling you please. So the children sat holdingtheir breath for a moment or two, and then shuffling feet and smotheredbursts of laughter testified to their impatience, and to the difficultyof understanding the process of story-making as displayed by theDoctor, who sat pulling his beard, and staring at his boots, as he madeup "a little more end."
"Well," he said, sitting up suddenly, "the Brownies went on with theirwork in spite of the bottle-green suit, and Trout's luck returned tothe old house once more. Before long Tommy began t
o work for thefarmers, and Baby grew up into a Brownie, and made (as girls are apt tomake) the best house-sprite of all. For, in the Brownie's habits ofself-denial, thoughtfulness, consideration, and the art of littlekindnesses, boys are, I am afraid, as a general rule, somewhatbehindhand with their sisters. Whether this altogether proceeds fromconstitutional deficiency on these points in the masculine character,or is one result among many of the code of bye-laws which obtains inmen's moral education from the cradle, is a question on which everybodyhas their own opinion. For the present the young gentlemen mayappropriate whichever theory they prefer, and we will go back to thestory. The Tailor lived to see his boy-Brownies become men, with allthe cares of a prosperous farm on their hands, and his girl-Browniecarry her fairy talents into another home. For these Brownies--youngladies!--are much desired as wives, whereas a man might as well marryan old witch as a young Boggartess."
"And about the Owl?" clamoured the children, rather resentful of theDoctor's pausing to take breath.
"Of course," he continued, "the Tailor heard the whole story, and beingboth anxious to thank the Old Owl for her friendly offices, and alsorather curious to see and hear her, he went with the boys one night atmoon-rise to the shed by the mere. It was earlier in the evening thanwhen Tommy went, for before daylight had vanished, and at the firstappearance of the moon, the impatient Tailor was at the place. Therethey found the Owl looking very solemn and stately on the beam. She wassitting among the shadows with her shoulders up, and she fixed her eyesso steadily on the Tailor, that he felt quite overpowered. He made hera civil bow, however, and said,
"I'm much obliged to you, Ma'am, for your good advice to my Tommy."
The Owl blinked sharply, as if she grudged shutting her eyes for aninstant, and then stared on, but not a word spoke she.
"I don't mean to intrude, Ma'am," said the Tailor, "but I was wishfulto pay my respects and gratitude."
Still the Owl gazed in determined silence.
"Don't you remember me?" said Tommy pitifully. "I did everything youtold me. Won't you even say good-bye?" and he went up towards her.
The Owl's eyes contracted, she shuddered a few tufts of fluff into theshed, shook her wings, and shouting "Oohoo!" at the top of her voice,flew out upon the moor. The Tailor and his sons rushed out to watchher. They could see her clearly against the green twilight sky,flapping rapidly away with her round face to the pale moon. "Good-bye!"they shouted as she disappeared; first the departing owl, then ashadowy body with flapping sails, then two wings beating the samemeasured time, then two moving lines still to the old tune, then astroke, a fancy, and then--the green sky and the pale moon, but the OldOwl was gone.
"Did she never come back?" asked Tiny in subdued tones, for the Doctorhad paused again.
"No," said he; "at least not to the shed by the mere. Tommy saw manyowls after this in the course of his life; but as none of them wouldspeak, and as most of them were addicted to the unconventional customsof staring and winking, he could not distinguish his friend, if shewere among them. And now I think that is all."
"Is that the very very end?" asked Tiny.
"The very very end," said the Doctor.
"I suppose there might be more and more ends," speculatedDeordie--"about whether the Brownies had any children when they grewinto farmers, and whether the children were Brownies, and whether_they_ had other Brownies, and so on and on." And Deordie rockedhimself among the geraniums, in the luxurious imagining of an endlessfairy tale.
"You insatiable rascal!" said the Doctor. "Not another word. Jump up,for I am going to see you home. I have to be off early to-morrow."
"Where?" said Deordie.
"Never mind. I shall be away all day, and I want to be at home in goodtime in the evening, for I mean to attack that crop of groundselbetween the sweet-pea hedges. You know, no Brownies come to myhomestead!"
And the Doctor's mouth twitched a little till he fixed it into a stiffsmile.
The children tried hard to extract some more ends out of him on the wayto the Rectory; but he declined to pursue the history of the Troutfamily through indefinite generations. It was decided on all hands,however, that Tommy Trout was evidently one and the same with the TommyTrout who pulled the cat out of the well, because "it was just a sortof thing for a Brownie to do, you know!" and that Johnnie Green (who,of course, was not Johnnie Trout) was some unworthy villageacquaintance, and "a thorough Boggart."
"Doctor!" said Tiny, as they stood by the garden-gate, "how long do youthink gentlemen's pocket-handkerchiefs take to wear out?"
"That, my dear Madam," said the Doctor, "must depend, like otherterrestrial matters, upon circumstances; whether the gentleman boughtfine cambric, or coarse cotton with pink portraits of the reigningSovereign, to commence with; whether he catches many colds, has hispockets picked, takes snuff, or allows his washerwoman to use washingpowders. But why do you want to know?"
"I sha'n't tell you that," said Tiny, who was spoilt by the Doctor, andconsequently tyrannized in proportion; "but I will tell you what I meanto do. I mean to tell Mother that when Father wants any morepocket-handkerchiefs hemmed, she had better put them by the bath in thenursery, and perhaps some Brownie will come and do them."
"Kiss my fluffy face!" said the Doctor in sepulchral tones.
"The owl is too high up," said Tiny, tossing her head.
The Doctor lifted her four feet or so, obtained his kiss, and set herdown again.
"You're not fluffy at all," said she in a tone of the utmost contempt;"you're tickly and bristly. Puss is more fluffy, and Father is scrubbyand scratchy, because he shaves."
"And which of the three styles do you prefer?" said the Doctor.
"Not tickly and bristly," said Tiny with firmness; and she strutted upthe walk for a space or two, and then turned round to laugh over hershoulder.
"Good-night!" shouted her victim, shaking his fist after her.
The other children took a noisy farewell, and they all raced into thehouse to give joint versions of the fairy tale, first to the parents inthe drawing-room, and then to Nurse in the nursery.
The Doctor went home also, with his poodle at his heels, but not by theway he came. He went out of his way, which was odd; but then the Doctorwas "a little odd," and moreover this was always the end of his eveningwalk. Through the church-yard, where spreading cedars and stiff yewsrose from the velvet grass, and where among tombstones and crosses ofvarious devices lay one of older and uglier date, by which he stayed.It was framed by a border of the most brilliant flowers, and it wouldseem as if the Doctor must have been the gardener, for he picked offsome dead ones, and put them absently in his pocket. Then he lookedround as if to see that he was alone. Not a soul was to be seen, andthe moonlight and shadow lay quietly side by side, as the dead do intheir graves. The Doctor stooped down and took off his hat.
"Good-night, Marcia," he said in a low quiet voice. "Good-night, mydarling!" The dog licked his hand, but there was no voice to answer,nor any that regarded.
Poor foolish Doctor! Most foolish to speak to the departed with hisface earthwards. But we are weak mortals, the best of us; and this man(one of the very best) raised his head at last, and went home like alonely owl with his face to the moon and the sky.
A BORROWED BROWNIE.
"I can't imagine," said the Rector, walking into the drawing-room thefollowing afternoon; "I can't imagine where Tiny is. I want her todrive to the other end of the parish with me."
"There she comes," said his wife, looking out of the window, "by thegarden-gate, with a great basket; what has she been after?"
The Rector went out to discover, and met his daughter looking decidedlyearthy, and seemingly much exhausted by the weight of a basketful ofgroundsel plants.
"Where have you been?" said he.
"In the Doctor's garden," said Tiny triumphantly; "and look what I havedone! I've weeded his sweet-peas, and brought away the groundsel; sowhen he gets home to-night he'll think a Brownie has been in thegarden, for Mrs. Pickles has pro
mised not to tell him."
"But look here!" said the Rector, affecting a great appearance ofseverity, "you're my Brownie, not his. Supposing Tommy Trout had goneand weeded Farmer Swede's garden, and brought back his weeds to go toseed on the Tailor's flower-beds, how do you think he would have likedit?"
Tiny looked rather crestfallen. When one has fairly carried through asplendid benevolence of this kind, it is trying to find oneself in thewrong. She crept up to the Rector, however, and put her golden headupon his arm.
"But, Father dear," she pleaded, "I didn't mean not to be your Brownie;only, you know, you had got five left at home, and it was only for ashort time, and the Doctor hasn't any Brownie at all. Don't you pityhim?"
And the Rector, who was old enough to remember that grave-stone storywe wot of, hugged his Brownie in his arms, and answered,
"My Darling, I do pity him!"