Chapter 15
Pony Billy’s Search
Whilst Sandy and the poultry were entertaining each other in the orchard, Pony Billy, saddled and bridled, trotted away in search of the truant Paddy Pig. He passed in front of the farmhouse windows, clink! clink! went his shoes on the cobblestones in the yard. Mrs. Hodgson darning stockings in the sunny window-seat looked up and listened. Nothing could she see; she threaded her needle in and out, out and in, through the stocking foot. Pony Billy passed by the sweet-smelling wallflowers in the old-fashioned garden, where beehives, all a-row, stood on a deep stone shelf of the wall that faced the sun. The bees were stirring busily after their drowsy winter’s sleep. He came along a cart-track, and through a gate, on to the public road. Little sunshiny whirly winds had powdered white dust upon the king cups under the hedge; belated March dust in April. The cows looked over the hedge at Pony Billy. Said White-stockings to Fancy, ‘There goes a brave little saddle pony! Look how proudly he arches his neck, and tosses his cunning head! See the brass lockets glittering in the sun, and the stirrup irons, and the saddle leather. Look at his long flowing tail; and how gaily he picks his steps! He lifts his feet as prettily as Merry-legs or Cricket, who won the prize at Helsington.’ ‘Where is he trotting to, think you?’ said Buttercup Cow to Nancy. Pony Billy trotted along. It was dinner time with the Big Folk. He met nobody except old Quaker Goodman, jogging leisurely homeward in a low two-wheeled tub. The fat Quaker pony could see Pony Billy in spite of fern seed; it swerved across the road to leave him room to pass. Old Mr. Goodman laid his whip very gently along the ribs of the fat pony, as it were patting her with the handle of the whip, ‘What Daisey! Why, Daisey? What is thee shying at, Daisey? Tch-tckk-tckk!’ Staid iron-gray Daisey plodded steadily on; her thick bob-tail swung from side to side.
Horses can see things where the Big Folk can see nothing – nothing but a silly white stone, or a stump on the roadside bank. But horses can see. So likewise can little young children. Two toddling youngsters at play in the dust caught a fleeting glimpse of the fairy pony; they prattled baby talk, and clapped their dirty chubby hands. Pony Billy breasted the hill at a canter; he slackened his pace to a walk as he came along over the croft. He pricked his ears and looked down at the village. The Big Folk were all indoors at dinner. Maggret, the Codlin Croft mare, dozed under the pent-house at the smithy. Farmer Hodgson was gossiping at the inn, whilst he waited for the blacksmith.
Pony Billy came down the croft at a quick, high-stepping trot; his brass lockets shone in the sun; his bright eyes sparkled. He hailed the smithy with eager neighings, ‘Hinny ho! Mettle! Bellows and shoes, Mettle! Hinny ho!’
Out came Mettle, barking; a hard-haired yellow terrier, wearing a little leather apron, ‘Good-day to you, Pony Billy! So the caravan is round again? What can I do for you this time? Another hoop? Another new circus trick?’ ‘I wish to have my shoes removed and put on backwards.’ ‘Certainly; four removes; we will soon have them off,’ said Mettle, ‘it does not sound very comfortable; but just as you please. I will blow up the fire (c-r-e-a-k, puff; Mettle leaned upon the handle of the bellows, c-r-e-a-k, puff, puff), they will require a little fitting. (Mettle turned the shoe upon the hearth amongst the small hot coal, puff, puff.) I will take it out in tickets; and treat our smithy cat to an outing (puff, puff!). I owe her one. I pulled her tail. She did scratch me (puff, puff)! Why did I do it? (C-r-e-a-k, puff, puff!) I did it because she was black. I thought she was a stray black cat! She went up the chimney tortoise-shell and white, and she came down black! Cheesebox, our smithy cat.’
Farmer Hodgson’s mare yawned dismally. ‘I am sorry, Maggret, I cannot offer to fit your shoes; your feet are so large I could not lift them.’ (The mare laid her ears back.) ‘No offence to a lady! My master says he likes a horse with a big open foot.’
Mettle took the white-hot horseshoe from the hearth with a little pair of tongs and hammered it daintily on the anvil; ‘Now your shoes are little fairy shoes, Pony Billy’; tick, tock, tap, tock! hammered Mettle merrily and sang, ‘Shoe the horse and shoe the mare, but let the little colt go bare! Now lift up your foot till I fit it. Have you ever gone short of fern seed since that night in the snow, Pony Billy?’ ‘Never,’ said Pony Billy, shaking his mane to feel the precious packet nestling against his neck. Tap, tap, tap! hammered Mettle, ‘Here a nail and there a trod; now the horse is well shod! Yes, Cheesebox and I will be coming to the circus this evening.’
Then Maggret pricked her ears and whinnied at sound of hob-nailed boots; her master and the blacksmith came into the pent-house together. Just then Pony Billy came out. Farmer Hodgson did feel as though he had bumped against something soft; but there was nothing to be seen. It might have been the door-post.
Pony Billy walked up a stony lane picking his footsteps carefully. It is not agreeable to trot amongst stones with four newly-shod back-to-front shoes. He stepped in the softest places. By banks and hollows and turnings, by muddy places and dry, always leaving back-to-front horseshoe marks behind him, as though he had come down the lane, instead of having gone up. He turned into another lane, crossed a shallow ford; came roundabout behind the wood, and looked over a tumble-down wall.
Pringle Wood lay before him, silent, still; crowned with golden green in a pale spring afternoon. Almost silent, almost still; save for a whispering breath amongst the golden green leaves, and a faint tingle ringle from the bluebells on the fairy hill of oaks. How blue the bluebells were! a sea of soft pale blue; tree behind tree; and beneath the trees, wave upon wave, a blue sea of bluebells. Below the low stone wall, between it and the wooded hill, was a tangly boggy dell, matted with brambles and wild raspberry canes, and last year’s withered meadow-sweet and keshes. Young larch trees and spruces struggled through the briars; a little stream slid gently round the hill, beneath ellers and hazel bushes.
Pony Billy came over a gap in the wall, and pushed his way through the tangle, leaving back-to-front footsteps as he squelched through the black earth and moss. Briars tugged his mane; raspberry canes pulled his tail as though they were fingers; he left tufts of his shaggy coat upon the brambles. He whinnied, ‘Hinny ho! where are you hiding, Paddy Pig?’ No one answered. Only there seemed to be a faint tingle ringle of laughing from the thousands of bluebells in the wood.
Pony Billy got out of the bog with a jump and a scramble up the steep grassy slope of the hill. Round and round and round he went underneath the oaks; always going widdershins, contrary to the sun; always leaving back-to-front misleading marks behind him. Six times round he went; and he saw nothing but the bluebells and the oaks. But the seventh time round he saw a little Jenny Wren, chittering and fussing round an old hollow tree. ‘What are you scolding, you little Jenny Wren?’ She did not stay to answer; she darted through the wood twittering gaily. ‘I had better go and look inside that hollow tree myself,’ thought Pony Billy. He walked up to it, and looked in. ‘Ho, ho! what are you doing in there, Paddy Pig? Come out!’ ‘Never no more,’ replied Paddy Pig. He was sitting huddled up inside the tree, with his fore-trotters pressed against his tummy; ‘never again. I cannot break through the ropes.’ ‘Ropes? don’t be silly! there is nothing but cobwebs.’ ‘What, what? no ropes?’ ‘Come out at once,’ said Pony William, stamping. ‘I am ill,’ replied Paddy Pig; he pressed his trotters on his waistcoat. ‘What have you been eating?’ ‘Tartlets.’ ‘Tartlets in Pringle Wood! more likely to be toadstools. Come out, you pig; you are keeping the circus waiting.’ ‘Never no more shall I return to the go-cart and the caravan.’ Pony Billy thrust his head through the spider webs in the opening, seized Paddy Pig’s coat-collar with his teeth, and jerked him out of the tree. ‘What, what? no ropes? but it is all in vain.’ He sat upon the grass and wept. ‘Try a potato? I brought you some on purpose.’ ‘What, what? potatoes! but is it safe to eat them?’ ‘Certainly it is,’ said Pony Billy, ‘they did not grow in Pringle Wood. Eat them while I have my nosebag. Then I will carry you home again pig-a-back.’ ‘We will be chased. An
d I will fall off.’ He ate all the potatoes; ‘I feel a little better; but I know I will fall off. Oh, oh, oh! Something is pinching my ears!’
Whatever might be the matter, Paddy Pig’s behaviour was odd. He got up on a tree-stump, and he tried to climb into the saddle. First he climbed too far and tumbled over the other side; then he climbed too short and tumbled; then he fell over the pony’s head; then he slipped backwards over the crupper, just as though someone were pulling him. He sat upon the ground and sobbed, ‘Leave me to my fate. Go away and tell my friends that I am a prisoner for life in Pringle Wood.’ ‘Try once more. Sit straight, and hold on to the strap of lockets,’ said Pony Billy, trampling through the bluebells.
He came out from under the trees into the sunshine. He trotted across the green grass of the open meadow, and carried Paddy Pig safely back to camp.
Chapter 16
The Effect of Toadstool Tartlets
It was four o’clock of the afternoon when Pony Billy trotted into Codlin Croft orchard with Paddy Pig. Sandy and the farm dogs barked joyfully; the turkey cock gobbled; Charles crowed; and Jenny Ferret waved a dishcloth on the caravan steps. Even Tuppenny and Xarifa – dolefully confined in hampers – clapped their little paws in welcome. Paddy Pig took no notice of these greetings. He slid from the saddle, and sat by the camp fire in a heap.
‘He looks poorly,’ said Sandy, anxiously, ‘fetch a shawl, Jenny Ferret.’ ‘Ill; very ill,’ said Paddy Pig. They wrapped him in the shawl and gave him tea; he was thirsty, but he had no appetite. The raw potatoes appeared to have disagreed, on top of the tartlets. As evening closed in, he shivered more and more. The company plied him with questions – how did he get across the water into Pringle Wood? ‘Over a plank.’ ‘I don’t remember any plank bridge,’ said Pony Billy, ‘perhaps it might be a tree that had been washed down by the flood? ‘ ‘Why did you not come back the same way?’ ‘It was gone,’ said Paddy Pig, swaying himself about. ‘What did you do in the wood?’ ‘I tumbled down. Things pulled my tail and pinched me, and peeped at me round trees,’ said Paddy Pig, shuddering. ‘What sort of things?’ ‘Green things with red noses. Oh, oh, oh!’ he squealed, ‘there is a red nose looking at me out of the teapot! Take me away, Pony Billy! I’m going to be sick!’ ‘He is very unwell,’ said Jenny Ferret, ‘he should be put to bed at once.’ But where? In an ordinary way, Paddy Pig and Sandy slept in dry straw underneath the caravan. But everybody knows that it is unsafe to allow a delirious pig to sleep on the cold ground. ‘Do you think we could squeeze him through the door into the caravan, if I pulled and you pushed?’ said Sandy. Jenny Ferret shook her head, ‘He is too big. We might have crammed him into the go-cart; but it is not here; it was left behind, by the ford.’ ‘He must sleep indoors somehow,’ said Sandy. ‘Why all this discussion?’ said Charles the cock. ‘Let our honored visitor, Mr. Patrick Pig, sleep in the middle stall of the stable. It is empty. Maggret, our mare, stands in the stall next to the window. And there is hay, as well as straw. I, myself, scratched it out of the hay-rack. Cock-a-doodle doo! And there is even a horse rug. A large buff, moth-eaten blanket, bound with red braid,’ said Charles, swelling with importance. ‘The very thing! provided Maggret has no objection,’ said Sandy. ‘Come, Paddy Pig.’ The invalid rose stiffly to his feet. But he flopped down again, nearly into the fire (which would have caused another red nose for certain, had he fallen into it). It was necessary to borrow a wheelbarrow; also the stable lantern, as by this time it was dark. Fortunately, Farmer Hodgson had bedded up the mare, and fed all for the night. He was having his own supper, quite unconscious that his stable had been requisitioned as a hospital for sick pigs. He supped in the kitchen; and the windows looked another way. Mrs. Hodgson had occasion to go to the pantry for cheese and a pasty. She glanced through the small diamond panes towards the orchard and the warm glow that was Jenny Ferret’s stick fire, ‘ ’Tis a red rising moon. Will it freeze?’ ‘Bad for the lambs if so be,’ said Farmer Hodgson, cutting the apple pasty. Paddy Pig did not improve; he became worse. His mind wandered. He talked continually about red noses; and he thought that there were green caterpillars in the manger. He was so obsessed with red-nosed peepers that he would have bolted out of the stable if his legs had been strong enough. ‘Someone must sit up with him,’said Jenny Ferret, ‘I am no use; I’m only an old body. And you, Sandy, ought to remain on guard at the camp. What is to be done?’ ‘I should esteem it a privilege to be permitted to act as nurse; I am accustomed to night watching,’ said Cheesebox, the smithy cat. She had arrived with Mettle, hoping for a circus show; but the company were so anxious about Paddy Pig that they felt unable to give any performance. ‘I should esteem it a privilege to sit up with Mr. Patrick Pig. At the same time I should prefer to have a colleague to share the responsibility. Send for Mrs. Scales’ Mary Ellen. She has an invaluable prescription for sick pigs. And she understands worm-in-tail,’ said Cheesebox; ‘had it been the time of the moon, we would have hung up rowan berries in the stall. But failing that propicious season, she has medicinal herbs of great virtue. Send for Mary Ellen!’ Sandy looked doubtful; ‘I presume she is another cat? I am afraid she might refuse to come with me, if I went to fetch her. Could you go, Pony Billy? Are you too tired?’ Pony Billy sighed the sigh of a weary horse; ‘Not tired; not at all; but my shoes are past bearing. And here is Mettle out for a lark; otherwise I would have gone to the smithy and had them altered. In any case I was intending to fetch the tilt-cart.’ ‘Go for the cart before your shoes are changed, Billy. You left it over near to Pringle Wood. I will undertake to have the hearth hot, long before you will reach the smithy.’
Pony Billy paced across the meadow in the starlight. The hill of oaks rose dark and black against the sky. On the ground beneath the trees a few lights were twinkling: whether they were glowworms or red-noses is uncertain, as Pony Billy did not go to look! On the outskirts of the wood, under an eller bush, he found the little cart where he had left it. He placed himself between the shafts and pulled – once, twice, again – what a weight! Yet the baggage had all been lifted out, as well as Xarifa and Tuppenny. Pony Billy tugged and pulled till he moved it with a sudden plunge, that took both the cart and himself over the bank into running water. Thousands of oak-apples washed out of the cart-kist, and changed into sparkling bubbles. They floated away down Wilfin Beck, dancing and glittering in the starlight. He crossed the ford, and made his way to the smithy, without any further adventure.
Chapter 17
Fairy Horse-shoes
The smithy was all aglow with a roaring fire on the hearth. Sparks were flying. Hot firelight flickered on the rafters overhead. It shone upon a crowd of dogs and horses, and upon the gypsies’ donkey, Cuddy Simpson, who was dozing in a corner. His head drooped; he rested a strained fetlock wearily. Dogs barked; horses stamped; there was even the merry feedle tweedle of a fiddle, to which the collies, Meg, and Fly, and Glen warbled a treble chorus. And through all the din sounded the tap, tap, tap! of Mettle’s little hammer on the anvil, and the creaking of the bellows that another dog was blowing. The dog was Eddy Tinker, the gypsy lurcher; and the band-hold of the bellows was made of a polished ox-horn. ‘Welcome, Pony Billy! but wait for Cuddy Simpson. He has cast a foreshoe, and he is lame and weary. Wait till I fit him with fairy shoes that will make him as lish as new legs. That’s why the donkeys never die! They know the road to the fairy smithy!’ ‘I can wait,’ said Pony Billy, who was fond of Cuddy Simpson.
Creak, creak! went the bellows, keeping time to the tune of Black Nag. Louder still barked the dogs, and the horses stamped on the floor. They talked of the good old days, when roads were made for horses, ‘None of this tarry asphalt like a level river of glass; none of this treacherous granite where we toil and slip and stumble, dragged backward by our loads. None of these hooting lorries that force us against the wall. Shrieking, oily, smelly monsters! and everybody has one – the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker – even the fisherman and the farmer. Where are the patient horses? Where is
butcher’s Ginger? and fishcart Fanny? and baker’s Tommy? Where is the hog-maned mare with the shrapnel marks? Gone, gone – all gone.
Queeny Cross, I, poor old mare, am the last nag left in a huckster’s cart. But happen you like them, Mettle? you that work amongst iron and nails and bolts?’
‘I like them?’ snarled Mettle, banging the hammer on the anvil, ‘I like those snorting juggernauts? I hate them as much as you do, old Queen. They run over us dogs; they lame our cattle; they kill our sheep.’ (Ragman and Roy growled low.) ‘Think of the noble horses in the grand old days of the road! Who needed a starting handle? Who required to wind up a thoroughbred? Breed – give me breed!’ barked Mettle, ‘Will-Tom’s team in the Coniston coach for me! Now it’s rattle, rumble, rattle, rattle, shriek, shriek, shriek! Gone are the pleasant jog-trot days of peace. They have ruined the smithies and stolen the roads. Shame upon the Big Folks!’ said Mettle, banging on the anvil, ‘even Mistress Heelis – her that was so fond of ponies – serve her right to lose her clog!’ ‘Where did she lose it, Mettle?’ ‘Nay, that is a mystery! It seemed to have clog danced right away and back. It came home by Hawkshead and it had been to Gray thwaite. As to the how –’ (here Mettle interrupted his story to throw a shovelful of small coal onto the hearth) – ‘as to the how she came to lose it, it was this a-way. She had been on a long, long journey in one of these here rattletraps; and when she got home and unpacked her luggage, she left her clogs upon the shelf.’ ‘What shelf was that, Mettle?’ ‘What the Big Folk that ride in motors call a “footboard”, quite appropriate for clogs. When the car went forth next morning there sat the pair of clogs, still upon the footboard. They looked proud.’ ‘One thing surprises me,’ interrupted white collie Fan, ‘does Mistress Heelis really ever take her clogs off? I thought she went to bed in them?’ ‘They were off that day, sure,’ said Mettle, leaning on the bellows handle, ‘I saw them pass the smithy. They grinned at me; their buckles winked. But when the car came home in the afternoon, there was only one clog on the footboard, sitting by itself. The other one had fallen off.’ ‘Which foot’s clog was it, Mettle?’ ‘Her best foot that she puts foremost. She was sad. She inquired all over for her right-foot clog; and she put a notice – LOST, A CLOG – in the window of the village shop. The clog came home again after a while. My word! It had seen some fun. Now it happened this a-way,’ continued Mettle, turning the donkey shoe with the tongs, and blowing white flame through the small coal, ‘it happened this way. The car took the bumpy road through the woods by Eesbridge. The clogs joggled on the footboard; joggled and giggled and nudged each other with their elbows; until – bump, bump, bump! over a rise of the road, they came in sight of Joshy Campbell’s tin-can-dinner-box and his big green gingham umbrella.