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Billy Blun Goes Christmas Shopping
It was a fine, frosty December afternoon, the sparkling snow lay like a spotless counterpane over hill and dale. Promptly at 2p.m. Billy Blun emerged from the Blun Burrow, and set off down the field.
He was going Christmas shopping, and he felt that he was a very important personage. An imposing scarlet comforter swathed him up to the eyes, a big basket dangled on one arm, and he chinked his money gaily in the pocket of his best check trousers.
“Let me see,” he said to himself, after the manner of Mrs. Blun, “a nice swede turnip, fourteen carrots, and a jar of pickled cabbage. Oh! and a preserved lettuce, and, dear me! I was almost forgetting, some dried oats. There!” with a self-complacent sigh Billy continued his way down the little path.
Very soon he came to Mrs. Lop-Ear’s. He went in, and, with a dignified air, chose a turnip. “Good-afternoon, Master Blun,” said Mrs. Lop-Ear, “very busy, I see! Now, what a help you must be to your mother, Master Blun, my dear.” Billy gave her a gracious smile.
“Might I ask, Master Blun,” she continued,” If you are going as far as Mrs. Tufties, would you be so kind as to give her a parcel for me, Master Blun, my dear?” Billy assented readily, though it was far out of his way, but then it was so gratifying to be called “Master Blun, my dear,”?” and, really, Mrs. Lop-Ear was a very polite woman, he reflected. Mrs. Lop-Ear gave him the parcel, and a message to be sure and put it in Baby Tufties stocking that night, being Christmas Eve.
He set off gaily with the turnip and the parcel for the next shop. Mr Samuel Short-leg, the proprietor of the carrot store, greeted him very heartily.
“A merry Christmas,” he shouted, smacking Billy Blun’s back so heartily that Billy staggered under the blow. “I’m glad to see you ‘Pon my word, you are growing up! I’m sure your father’s proud of you.” He continued flattering Billy in this strain until the fourteen juicy carrots were emptied into his basket. Now, look here, Billy, my boy,” he said in a confidential whisper. “I’ve got a little present for Widdow Bob-tail, just up the hill there. Now, do you think you could call with it, it’s not everybody I’d trust with the message.” Again Billy assented readily. Really, he told himself, Mr. Samuel Short-leg was so kind.
His basket was very heavy now, with the turnip and the carrots and the parcels, but Billy toiled manfully on.
He got the lettuce and the oats, and also met Lady Harriet Hare, who asked him to deliver another parcel. Of course, he did not refuse, it was such an honour to do anything for her ladyship.
He was struggling up the hill towards Widdow Bob-tail’s burrow, his heavy basket weighing him down, when he suddenly caught sight of a low wooden shed. Now Billy Blun was of an extremely curious nature, so, hauling his basket over his shoulder, he went quickly across the field to the shed. As luck would have it the door was half open. Billy could hear the sound of deep breathing. He put a cautious head round the door, and what did he see? Why no other person than the Bully Calf, tied to a stall, ruminating, no doubt, on his past sins. At first Billy was terrified, but seeing that the much feared Bully Calf was powerless to hurt him, he went in with great assurance. “Good afternoon,” he said politely, “you don’t look as if you were going to have a very merry Christmas. What have you got here?” He looked into the manger, “Straw! Humph! Not much of a dinner, now, is it?” and Billy began to give the Bully Calf a description of his own Christmas dinner.
“Fancy!” he said, “being tied up like a tame old cow, and having straw for dinner!”
The Bully Calf’s big eyes began to roll dangerously, “Yes,” went on Billy,” just like a tame old cow.” Oh! if only he had known that the Bully Calf’s tether was only a rotten rope. “Ha! ha! ha!,” grinned Billy, “fancy submitting to it! He! he! he!”
With a terrible bellow the Bully Calf snapped his rope and darted at Billy.
The surprised little rabbit made for the door with his heavy basket on his arm. “Oh! oh!” he cried. “Help! help!”
On came the Bully Calf, lashing his tail, his eyes rolling madly. Off went Billy, and over went the basket. The carrots rolled off down the hill; the turnip – the beautiful turnip – followed them. The parcels flew hither and thither. Bur Billy did not heed them. Away he went down the fields, Bully dashing after him.
On – on, over stones, across streams, went Billy, panting, puffing, crying. The Bully Calf rushed after him.
Suddenly the Bully Calf caught the trailing ends of Billy’s comforter on his horns. Billy was swept up into the air, spun round and round, then dropped with a thud into the snow.
Then the Bully Calf careered madly home again, the red comforter still on his horns.
It was quiet dark when Billy recovered sufficiently to rise. The stars had come out, the frost was keen, and Billy shivered without his comforter. Perhaps he shivered because he thought of the lost things. What was he to do? Oh, what would his mother say? and Mrs Lop-Ear, and Mr Short-leg? Oh, and Lady Harriet Hare! – it was unbearable.
He was wending his way sadly back over the fields, when he spied a tiny light coming over the snow. He knew it was a Will-o’-the-wisp. He darted towards it. “Oh, please,” he cried, “do help me.”
The light came on quickly, ant there, sure enough, was the little Will-o’-the-wisp and his lantern. Billy told his sad tale, and the Will-o’-the-wisp, being a good-hearted little creature, agreed to help him to find his things. Together they went down the hill, and Billy recovered his basket and the carrots, but the turnip and the other parcels were not to be seen. Billy sat down and began to cry loudly. “Bo-hoo,” he sobbed, “bo-oo-h-h-hoo.”
“Is that Billy?” came a sharp voice. Billy nearly jumped out of his skin, for it was Mrs Blun.
“Oh, mother,” he cried, I- I’ve lost-“ “I know all about it, you rascal,” she snapped.” This is the last time you shall ever go shopping again come here at once. No Christmas dinner for you to-morrow! No stocking either! You bad, wicked rabbit!” She dragged him off down the hill.
“And there I’ve had to go to Lady Harriet Hare’s and apologise, and Mrs Lop-Ear’s been up, and Mr Short-Leg, too. They found their parcels in a ditch. Oh, you wicked, wicked rabbit!” “Oh, mother,” sobbed Billy. “And the beautiful swede turnip,” she went on, “all knocked about and the lettuce damaged.” She had dragged him up the path by now – they were getting near home. “And your new comforter gone.” “Oh, mother, mother!” sobbed the repentant Billy Blun, “I am so sorry. Please do forgive me. I couldn’t help it; indeed I couldn’t. Please forgive me!” “Well,” said Mrs Blun, in a mollified tone, “I think I’ll forgive you – though you don’t deserve it – for it is Christmas eve.
The Blackburn Weekly Telegraph, 1st January 1910
Transcribed by Philip Crompton
A little Wood-sprite sat swinging lightly on a slender reed, and in a hollybush hard by a crowd of swallows were chattering vigorously. The Sprite could not help hearing what they said, for it was a very calm day in late September. Not a sound disturbed the tranquil air, only now and then a leaf fluttered down and a rabbit rustled those already fallen. One Swallow – he seemed much younger than the rest – sat apart, looking very obstinate. He rarely spoke, but when he did it was always: “Shan’t go! Doesn’t matter what you say – I shan’t go.”
The others all spoke together: “You can’t stay here all winter. You will die of hunger and cold. We must go tomorrow, we have delayed too long already. Oh, the cold – the bitter cold! No worms! No seeds!”
“There are berries,” snapped the sulky one. “I’m not coming. There! That is the last of it I hope. I am not going to leave this beautiful land, where the sun shines all day and the sky is so blue. I am not going to some strange land, on a long tiresome journey. Besides, I have heard that this place is all white and glittering in the winter and I’m going to see what it is like. The robins stay here why should I not?”
His friends began again to try to persuade him to go with them over the seas to lands wither the summer had flown. But he tucked his head under his wing, and feigned to be sleeping. At last they all left him and went to prepare for their journey on the morrow.
The little Sprite had become very interested, and now she waited until the little swallow untucked his head, and then she flew up to him. “You are very foolish,” she began. “It is very cold here.”
“Oh! do be quiet,” interrupted the bird, rudely. “I wish you and everybody else wouldn’t interfere with me. I tell you for the last time – I am not going.”
With this he unfolded his wings and flew off looking very obstinate and angry. The Sprite remained, looking pensively at the clear sky, thinking what hardships the foolish little fellow would have to endure. “Well, it is his own fault,” she said at last; “but I will stay round here this winter and try to help him,” and she danced off to her own little home in the roots of a gnarled oak.
Early next morning when she was tripping through the wood she heard a voice like the rushing of a strong wind, and at the same time a great flight of swallows swept by and up into the air – so high that they looked like mere flies against the sky. “They have gone,” she said, with a little sigh, for she would miss their merry voices in the early morning. “Yes, they have gone,” said another voice, and turning round she saw the swallow perched on a leafless branch, looking as obstinate as ever. “I had hoped,” she said gently, “That you would have gone too.” “I’m not so silly as that,” he replied, with a knowing air. “I think you are very silly for staying here.“ “You are as bad as the others,” he said crossly. “I don’t care! I am as good as any Robin.”
But the Wood-sprite had no time to quarrel, so, bidding him goodbye, she tripped on her way. She drew water from the fairy well, swept the woodland paths clear of fallen leaves, and gathered fuel, and all the time the Swallow sat on the bough and sulked. “Come.” She said, when the sun began to sink in the sky. “Come and play with me, you look so lonely.” “I was never happier,” said the Swallow as obstinate as ever.
“Will you tell me,” she asked, “Where you are going to sleep tonight?”
“Here”!” he snapped.
“Oh! don’t, she cried. “Please, please don’t. The nights are so cold now, and even the frost comes – please don’t!”
“Shall,” he said rudely, and immediately put his head under his wing and would not say another word.”
So the friendly little sprite was obliged to leave him, but before she went home she gathered some berries and laid them the tree in which the stupid little Swallow was sleeping.
Days went by and the swallow would make no response to her friendly advances. Every day she laid berries under the tree, and every time she saw him she begged him to build a nest, for the snow and the bitter winds were on their way. But he would not heed her warnings. He thought no one knew half as well as he did, and though he shivered all the night, he would not build a nest. Weeks went by, and all the leaves had fallen from the trees. The days grew shorter and darker, and the winds began to howl at nights.
One night the little Wood-sprite was awakened by a wailing sound outside her door. She opened it at once; and there stood the Swallow – in the snow. He came in and slept by the fire all night. In the morning the snow lay think on the ground, and great icicles hung from the desolate boughs of trees. The Swallow shivered as he saw it."Never mind,” he told himself. “The spring will soon be here again, and they will all come home.” The little Sprite sighed, for the winter was long and hard. She bade him guard her little house , for she had to go out, she said. She went to look for berries, but after along search found but few. However, she shared them with Swallow, who stayed all day and night with her.
“It will soon be spring,” he kept saying “very soon.”
He lay awake most of the night thinking of the kind little Wood-sprite. “What should I do without her?” he thought. “How can I thank her?” If it were not for her, I should be dead now, and never see the glorious spring again. I must go and find some berries for her. It is all I can do! I was very rude to her, but she will forgive me, she is so kind.”
He fell asleep at last, but was awake as the day broke. Leaving the little Sprite fast asleep, he went out into the snow. It was bitterly cold and barely light. The snow lay pitiless and white on all sides. The Swallow shivered; and his heart sank but he must go, he told himself, to find berries for her. So away he went, far over the snow, on his search.
By-and-by the little Sprite awoke, and great was her alarm when she found that the Swallow was not there. “Perhaps he will come soon,” she said. “I will wait a little while”. But she waited in vain. At last she, too, went out into the snow to look for him.
“he will never be able to stand the cold,” she thought, as she hurried on. “Oh dear!” how dark it is! He will lose his way.” It had been growing darker and colder, and a biting wind from the north had sprung up. The shivering little Sprite hurried on, regardless of all but the Swallow.
What was lying on the snow? She rushed toward it. A pitiful sight met her anxious eyes. There on the white snow he lay, his blue wings folded, alas! never to be outstretched again; his dulled eyes turned to the leaden skies he had hoped to see much brighter under the fair spring winds. Scarlet berries lay beside him; he had found them for her in vain. The little Sprite wept sorrowfully by him, calling him gently and stroking his glossy wings; but a great storm arose, and she was obliged to leave him.
So, covering him tenderly with the snow, and marking the place with a fallen branch, she went sadly home – alone.
The Blackburn Weekly Telegraph, 29th January 1910
The watch frogs were so busy closing up the gates of fairyland that they did not see a little fairy slip out right under their very noses. They clanked their big keys pompously, and hopped conscientiously to their sentry-boxes, quite unaware that Coo, for that was her name, had escaped into the big, black world outside.
It seemed very big and very black to Coo as she stood trembling in the whispering grasses. But she could not go back that night, that was impossible. So she flew on a little into the darkness.
Now in chanced that a wicked little wind was roaming about in search of mischief, as usual. He was busily stirring up a heap of old leaves and twigs when he spied the little fairy running along the path.
“Ho, ho!" he thought," now for some fun," and gathering up all his little breath he gave quite a big howl. No one who knows the winds and their ways could possibly have been frightened. But little Coo, who had never been outside fairyland, where only the gentlest summer zephyrs are admitted, was horrified. The little wind was delighted, and rushed after her. “Whoo-oo-oo!" he howled. “Oh!" cried Coo “whatever shall I do?" “Doo-oo-oo!" mocked the wind, chuckling fiendishly.
The terrified fairy put her little hands to her ears, and stood quite still. Then the little wind crept away to make a better rush. Coo, hearing nothing, took her hands away and fluttered on. Soon he came gently up and gave a great bellow in her ear. Oh, how she screamed. She sank on the ground almost dead with fright, and the wind danced round her, howling most fearfully.
Suddenly he stopped, and Coo was so surprised that she looked up to see what was the matter. Then, pushing his way through the wild undergrowth, came an old man. His long white hair and beard almost covered him.
“Now, then," he said sternly to the little wind, who trembled in his turn now. “What do you mean by making this noise. You are disturbing me. If you don't be quiet, I'll imprison you. “Though I am old now, remember that King Winter still has power." Here the old man tried to look imposing, but he tottered instead. “Aye! Aye!" he muttered as he turned away. “I'll soon be gone. That rascal Spring is at my heals."
The little wind slunk off behind the trees. He would be quiet, he told himself, but his fun was not over yet.
Coo, grateful for this interruption, flew farther and farther on.
She came to a wood by-and-by. It was all so dark and still. The little stars came out one by one. The tall trees shivered far above her. At her feet the glow-worms and horned beetles crawled, their lanterns swinging to and fro. Coo was awed by the solitude but contented in the beauty of the calm night. But this was not to last. The wicked little wind had contented himself hitherto by giving little wails far behind. But now he came whirling along, gathering force as he came. With one swirl he pounced on Coo, tossed her up into the air, caught her, and rushed on; whirling her here, tossing her there, and whooping exultantly as loud as he dared. On and on he rushed until his breath failed him. Then he dropped and dazed and terrified little fairy on the ground. But only for a moment; he tossed her up again, and went on as wildly as ever. Through the wood, over the moors, down the dale, and up the hill. Suddenly Coo saw the lights of a town gleaming far below her. She screamed, but the wind laughed wickedly, and, giving vent to his feelings in one terrific bellow, he dropped her down. Down, down, down, to the town far below. A chimney gaped under her, and little Coo fell right down. Oh! how dark, and dirty it was.
Down, down, she fell, until suddenly, gasping with fear, she found herself in a tiny room. At first she was too surprised to do anything but stare at the dirty bare walls and the ugly chairs. But soon she so far recovered as to fly round and look about her. She alighted on a bed, and imagine her surprise when she saw a little mortal fast asleep before her.
Coo was delighted to think that she had found a mortal at last.
She danced round it and stroked its curls with her little hand. But something puzzled Coo very much. Two big tears, almost as big as Coo herself, came rolling down the mortal's cheeks, and it gave a funny little sob. Fairies can't cry, you know. But Coo had just the sorriest feeling for the poor little mortal who lived in such a small, ugly room. She took off her tiny jewels and laid them in the little mortal's hand. She kissed the flowers in the cracked cup, and bade them live for ever.
She kissed the little mortal, taking good care to avoid the tears, which would mostly have drowned her.
All at once she heard the little wind coming down the chimney. She waited trembling. But, strange to say, the little wind's mood had changed (winds are proverbially changeable, you know). He was quite sorry now, and meant to carry Coo gently back to where he had found her. So, taking her up carefully. He carried the sooty little fairy out of the widow, and went all the way back to the wood. He could not resist the temptation of giving one little howl, quiet a gentle one, but Coo was terrified, and flew right into a rabbit hole.
It happened that the little rabbit was just at his door. He was very surprised to see a fairy in winter time, especially one so sooty as Coo. But she told him her tale, and washed away all the soot with some water he gave her.
Then, being a very gallant little rabbit, he took the weary fairy on his back and trotted to fairyland. The great honey-coloured moon came up over the hill to light him on his way. Her beams showed Coo nestling on the Rabbit's warm fur, the wicked little wind fast asleep, and the little mortal, smiling now, with the beautiful flowers and Coo's jewels.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Coo often goes (now that it is Spring, and the fairies are out again) to the little mortal. She and the wicked little wind are quite good friends, and she fills the kind Rabbit's water pails with the freshest dew each morning.
The Blackburn Weekly Telegraph, Saturday 26th March, 1910
Transcribed by Philip Crompton
Betty lay in the hammock, gently swinging over the meadow brilliant with golden buttercups, clover, and purple grasses. Just overhead a caterpillar dangled on its long thread, such a big caterpillar, and it was very strange, as it was getting bigger and bigger with every swing of its silken thread – a thread no longer, it was a rope now! Yes! A rope as thick as that hanging in the drill hall. But the caterpillar! Betty could not believe her eyes. It had a big black head, with great shining eyes, and wore a queer, tight, green dress, with lines like bars of music all over it.
It came nearer and nearer to Betty, undoing ts ball of rope and singing as it swung:
Hush-a-bye, babies, in the tree top,
When the wind blows the cradle will-
‘Where are they? Suddenly interrupted Betty.
Oh! Bless us! Cried the caterpillar, quivering all over in its green dress. ‘How you startled me, who do you mean?’
‘Why, the children of course’, said Betty’. ‘Oh! the children,’ the caterpillar smiled indulgently,’ are safe and snug in their beds.
‘But where are their beds?’ Betty persisted. ‘Up there,’ answered the caterpillar, nodding to the branches of the great elm tree overhead.’ ‘Come look at them,’
It seemed the easiest thing in the world, just then, to climb up that strong rope and see the caterpillar babies. So Betty caught hold at once, and away she went, hand over hand, in the most approved fashion. Meanwhile Mrs Caterpillar dangled at the end. When she reached the top Mrs Caterpillar called out, ‘Second twig to the right – wait there.’ Accordingly, Betty swung on to the second twig to the right and waited. Mrs Caterpillar, slowly, but surely, wound herself up, and soon she was standing by Betty’s side.
‘This way,’ she said, leading to a broad leaf that seemed as big as a little lawn, just then. But there – rolled in downy quilts – lay seven little caterpillars, exactly alike, and all dressed in the same tight green dresses, with bars of music all over them.
‘There now,’ said Mrs Caterpillar, with the air of a proud mother, as she displayed her treasures. ‘Aren’t they beauties?’ ‘They are,’ said Betty – and so they were from a caterpillar point of view. ‘Now,’ said Mrs Caterpillar, beaming delightedly, ‘we will have tea. You must look after the children while I make it.’
So Betty sat down by the babies and watched Mrs Caterpillar as she poured the freshest, clearest dew into tiny teacups, and spread honey on little cakes made from the flowers’ pollen. Then, all at once, in the middle of tea, when Mrs Caterpillar was telling Betty about a dreadful wasp who had terrible designs on herself and her babies, all at once, the seven babies sat up and clamoured for tea, and crawled all over their mother, who tried in vain to give all of them their cups of dew at the same time.
‘Ah!’ my dear,’ said Mrs Caterpillar, heaving a great sigh, as she attempted to free herself from the close embrace of half a dozen little caterpillars, ‘my dear, a big family is a weary burden.’
‘I’m sure it must be,’ said Betty, politely, as she rose to help her hostess. ‘Ah! Yes, my dear; but’ – with a sudden smile- ‘Bless their little hearts, I-oh! oh! Help! Help! The wasps! The wasps! The children!’ and suddenly, without the slightest warning Mrs Caterpillar toppled right off the leaf and fell down – down-followed by a great buzzing wasp. Betty gasped as she saw her friend dangling in mid air, helplessly waving her legs and whirling round and round in the most pitiful fashion. But she had not long to watch Mrs Caterpillar, for the seven enterprising babies began to crawl dangerously near the edge of the leaf. Then Betty’s troubles began. No sooner had she chased one safely to the middle than another had crawled back to the edge again – and so on. Poor Betty was nearly distracted, and heartily agreed with Mrs Caterpillar that a big family was a weary burden. At last she managed to get them all safely in the middle, and counted them over to see that they were safe. Then she ran to the edge of the leaf and peered over – there was Mrs Caterpillar still whirling round and round.
‘Oh! dear!’ said Betty anxiously; ‘I do hope I’m not going to be left to look after all these troublesome children,’ and she turned round again with a sigh. But oh! what did she see – just the tail-end of seven bodies disappearing over the edge of the leaf and seven heads waving about in space. Betty tried not to scream in case she should startle them off the leaf altogether. She crawled cautiously to the nearest one, and seizing his back legs hauled him to the middle of the leaf again. Then she went to all of them. She gave a sigh of relief as she pulled the last one back – but, oh, dear!, oh, dear! The first one had crawled back again. Betty rushed to his rescue, and drove him to the others, feeling very cross and very tired.
Just at this moment a pair of shiny eyes appeared over the edge of the leaf, and in a few minutes Mrs Caterpillar, breathless and very agitated, was standing by the babies and Betty.
‘Oh! my dear! She gasped. ‘The children!’ and after that she could not speak another word for quite five minutes. ‘They have been rather naughty,’ said Betty. ‘Naughty!’ indignantly cried Mrs Caterpillar, ‘as if my little dears could be naughty,’ and she began to kiss the little dears heartily.
Then a strange thing happened. The big leaf began to shake in the most alarming manner; it swung up and down, tossed this way and that.
‘Oh! oh!’ cried Betty in alarm. ‘It’s only the wind,’ said Mrs Caterpillar soothingly; ‘only the wind, my dear’.
‘Oh!’ Betty cried again, then toppled, as Mrs Caterpillar had done – right over the edge of the leaf – down – down- down-
She gave a violent start as she found herself in the hammock. ‘Why,’ she said, ‘it can’t have been a dream!’ And it could not have been a dream, for she heard someone singing above-
‘When the wind blows the cradle will rock’
And saw an adventurous young caterpillar dangling over the very same leaf in all the glory of its green dress, with bars of music all over it.
The Blackburn Weekly Telegraph, Saturday 25th June, 1910
Mrs Blun gave a sigh of relief as she watched Billy disappear over the hill. “Well!” she said, as she turned into the Blun burrow again. “That child is out of mischief for today.” For Bill had gone to Dame Flipperty-Flop’s school on the moor.
Billy Blun mounted the hill and turned into the field. There at the far end was the Bully Calf struggling angrily with a board, which had been fastened across his horns to stop him from butting – which he did whenever he had the chance. “Hullo.” Said Billy to himself. “Now for some fun.” He ran right up to Bully Calf. “Good-morning, Bully,” he said, feeling perfectly secure from those terrible horns. The Bully Calf would brook no such familiarity. He raised his head a little and rolled an angry eye round the corner of the board.
“Been a naughty boy?” questioned Billy, cheekily.
The Bully Calf followed uneasily.
“Or is that board a sunshade? I wouldn’t wear it, Bully, old boy, if I were you; it doesn’t suit you!”
The Bully Calf pawed the ground and rattled the board loudly.
“It seems to trouble you.” Went on Billy, laughing.
The Bully Calf reared and rushed madly up and down, tossing his head and tearing the ground. Billy laughed louder than ever. The Bully Calf dashed his head against a tree – Billy fell down into the grass in his mirth. But – Billy had broken the board – he was free! The little rabbit was rolling over and over, quite unconscious that the Bully Calf was creeping up behind him with a wild eye and a tossing tail. Just in time he looked up – the laugh suddenly stopped short. Like a shot he was off across the field, the Bully calf at his heels. Bob-bob-bob-went the little white tail, on came the Bully Calf throwing the earth up behind him.
Round and round they went – panting, puffing, stumbling. But Billy’s luck did not desert him; a burrow gaped before him – down he went. Safe at last from the snorting Bully Calf. He lay in the dark burrow until he had recovered a little, and then he poked his head outside – and lo! the Bully Calf was lying at the mouth of the hole – waiting.
“Ho, ho!” thought Billy, “He doesn’t know much about burrows. There is sure to be another door to this. But oh, dear! How late I shall be! Dame Flipperty-Flop is sure to tell mother. Qh, dear! Oh, dear!”
He ran down the burrow for a time, and by-and-by the daylight began to glitter through. Soon Billy was standing once more in the fresh, sweet morning air – high on the hilltop. Away down in the field he could see the Bully Calf – still waiting. He laughed heartily as he wondered how many hours Bully would go on waiting.
But more was still to come. Slowly winding up the hill came a line of rabbits, walking two by two. “That academy,” exclaimed Billy. And so it was Dr. Solomon Softie’s Academy out for their daily constitutional.
Now, you must know, this Academy was the deadly enemy of Dame Flipperty-Flop’s school. Whenever the Flipperty-Floppians met the Academicians there was sure to be war and here was poor Billy Blun all alone – and the whole Academy host advancing.
But Billy was no coward. He recklessly rushed into their midst and hit out right and left. Of course, he had no chance of victory. The Academicians lay on with right goodwill. They pummeled poor Billy until he began to think that every bone in his little body was smashed to atoms. However, he managed to break away, after paying some of his foes back with interest. He rolled rather than ran down the hill, leaving the enemy far behind to nurse their wounds and crow over their victory.
Poor Billy! His clothes were torn beyond repair, his hat was gone, and his poor little body ached as surely no little rabbit’s body ached before, and he had to meet Mrs Blun yet. Poor, poor little Billy!
It was long past noon now, indeed the sun was getting low in the west. No school that day for Billy! What would his mother say? He dragged his short, tired legs over the stones and slowly toiled on his way.
What a different little rabbit to the bounding Billy that had set out in the morning.
Soon he came in sight of his home, with the slender nodding harebells round the door. But, oh! Who was that waiting there? His mother and Dame Flipperty-Flop!
Billy just sank on the ground where he was and trembled.
“There he is!” cried Dame Flipperty-Flop, striding up with her great umbrella under her arm. “You ungrateful little wretch! How dare you! How dare you!” She shook Billy at every word. Then Mrs Blun came.
“You unnatural child,” she cried, “you will kill your poor mother some day,” and she belaboured poor Billy heartily. Billy blinked his eyes. Mrs Blun and the Dame began to feel rather alarmed.
But his mother grabbed him by the collar and hustled him into the house. Not a word did Billy utter as she locked him in his bedroom. “There you will stay till to-morrow,” she said through the keyhole, and Billy lay down and went to sleep.
When he awoke there was Sally Blun with his supper – an especially nice one – and all his wounds neatly bound up.
“Really,” thought Billy, as his mother came to tuck him in that night,” Wonders will never cease.”
The Blackburn Weekly Telegraph Saturday 10th September, 1910
Transcribed by Philip Crompton
Transcribed by Philip Crompton
Midnight in the Houses of Parliament. The child stood in the hall before the House of Commons, looking with awe on the statues of England’s Kings and Queens which decorated the walls.
Suddenly there was the sound of a large yawn, and, turning towards the statue of Richard III., the child saw that King was stretching himself in a most unkingly way. “A-a-y-ah!” yawned the King, stretching his ugly mouth to such an extent that the child called out, “you’ll get lock-jaw!”
“Ha!” shouted Richard, “speakest thou to me?”
“Yes, to you; the man that murdered the little Princes.”
“Thou varlet thou!” Richard shook his fist fiercely at the child. “I’ll murder thee – and that right quickly.”
“Peace to thy sharp tongue, Richard,” said the harsh voice of a beruffled queen – Queen Elizabeth thought the boy. “The child shakes in his shoon.”
“That’s more than thou coulds’t do,” chuckled Richard. “I’ll warrant there’s no room in thy shoon for any shaking,” He hunched his shoulders and rolled his wicked head.
“You are ugly,” ventured the child.
“Ha! sayest thou?” screamed the King, hurling first his sceptre, and then the ball.
“And you can’t throw straight either,” said the child, as he stepped lightly aside; “no wonder Richmond beat you in that fight at Bosworth.”
You see, the child was proud of his knowledge of history.
“Speakest thou of Henry of Richmond.” The King could scarcely utter the words, so angry was he. “That villain, that userper, that dastard –”
“Hold!” cried a voice that shook the hall – it was Richmond who spoke. Come, thou shalt swallow thy words – thou faulty villain.” He leaped from his niche, and stood near the child with his sword bared.
“Richard of England is no coward,” said that monarch, climbing ungracefully down, the end of his royal robes in his teeth.
“Going to fight?” questioned the child calmly.
“Aye! that I am,” spluttered the King.” “But I’ll run thee through first – thou dancing brat.”
“Richard, thou shalt not!” screamed a women’s voice.
“Richmond, gentle lord, I pray thee give me the babe.”
Richmond lifted the trembling child up to Anne of Warwick. “Ha! thou in the top left corner, hast not had enough poison to school thy tongue to silence?” raged the King. “But, come on, Richmond, I’ll settle thee this time,” and the two closed in combat.
Up high, the child, nestling against gentle Anne of Warwick, Richard’s unfortunate Queen, eagerly watched the fight.
The kings in their niches cheered each combatant lustily. There was a great uproar – a clash of swords and the cries of the kings - when suddenly it died away for in the door way stood the great Queen – “Victoria” murmured the child.
Richard and Richmond dropped their swords. “What means this brawl?” asked the Queen. “Brothers you forgot your kingly dignity.”
Richmond was already back in his place, and Richard was clambering up as best he could.
The Queen turned and went back to her seat in the Prince’s chamber, leaving silence behind her.
“See!” whispered Anne of Warwick, pointing to the rays of morning light that struggled through the richly-stained windows.
“Thou must go.”
“Yes,” answered the child; “but I will come tomorrow.”
“Aye, if thou canst,” said Anne.
The child climbed down with difficulty, and crossed the hall, but as he passed the entrance, he suddenly felt very tired, and the leather cushions of the doorkeeper’s box looked inviting. He crept inside, and in one minute he was fast asleep.
When he awoke he was not in the Commons lobby, but in his own night nursery. How he went to the House of Parliament or came back to his own bed – he can never tell. That afternoon, however, he went to the Houses of Parliament again, and he says that Richard lll shook his fist and that Anne of Warick kissed her hand.
The Blackburn Weekly Telegraph, 12th November 1910
Transcribed by Philip Crompton
Bay and the Honourable Theophilus
The train flew past the golden fields and tall tress – past the rich vineyard – but by the child sobbing in the dove-coloured cushions of the French railway carriage the beauty was unheeded. An unusually large fly settled on one hand; she tossed it impatiently off: it immediately re-settled itself. ‘Oh! go away! You horrid thing. You are French, too!’
‘Young lady,’ said a little voice (the fly’s), ‘do not be so hasty.’
The child dashed the tears from her eyes and started in amazement.
‘I am not French,’ the fly went on, ‘but English as-‘
‘Oh! are you really? Cried the child, delightedly.
‘As I was saying,’ the fly continued, ignoring the interruption; ‘I am as English as you are. I thought a winter abroad would benefit my health, so I consigned-‘
‘Oh! what’s consigned?’ interrupted the child.
The fly closed his eyes, and went on in level tones: ‘Consigned – in other words-, deposited or placed – myself in your pocket. I have just this moment come out, and I feel somewhat faint. ‘Your name is Bay, I believe?’
The child nodded.
‘An insane name for a child,’ remarked the fly. ‘Don’t interrupt me, please,’ as the child was going to speak. ‘You have a box for me to live in?’ Bay produced a small bonbon box after much fumbling.
‘What a funny fly,’ she thought.
‘Make some air-holes in that,’ ordered the fly. ‘And, my dear,’ – he changed his firm tone-‘cheer up.’ You have a good friend in the Honourable Theophilus – that’s myself,’. He pompously bowed, and stepped into the box.
‘Hullo!’ the station!’ said Bay.
‘Shut the box! Quick! Cried the fly. ‘There might be some swallows about.’
Bay put the box in her pocket, and clambered out of the high French carriage.
The Honourable Theophilus slept in peace in his sugary bed one night, but not so Bay. She sprang out of hers, and dressed quickly and quietly.
‘I’ll run away’, she said between her teeth. ‘Yes, I’ll run away. I don’t care where to. I’ll just run. I hate this place.’ She went to the window and threw back the shutters. The dark firs in the court below rocked under the moon. The sky was cloudy but it did not rain.
Bay put the Honourable Theophilus in her pocket, and crept out onto the broad, gently sloping roof, and cautiously crawled along until she reached the end. ‘There!’ she said, leaning against the chimney stack for a rest; ‘I’ve got the Honourable Theophilus and a box of peppermints, and I shan’t come back to this dreadful old school.’
The descent to the ground was easy, for the roof slanted on to a lower roof, and to climb down the shutters of the ground-floor windows was only a matter of a minute or two. Once out into the narrow cobbled streets, Bay flew as if for her life between the quaint, closely-shuttered houses. The noise of the peppermints rattling in Bay’s pocket, and the uncomfortable jogging of his bed, woke up the Honourable Theophilus.
‘Bay, Bay,’ he cried, shaken out of his dignity. ‘Cannon balls are knocking my house in.’
‘Only peppermints, Honourable,’ she said. ‘You are wrong this time.’
‘Take me out,’ commanded the Hon. Theophilus. ‘Peppermints are very vulgar sweets, and you must remember I was brought up in a a very noble family, and I am not used to close association with such common things as peppermints. But what are we doing out at this time of night, pray?’ he asked as he stepped out into the air and looked about him.
‘Running away,’ said Bay shortly, and popping him back into his box, she clapped down the lid and set off again at full speed.
The Hon. Theophilus bumped his little body bluer that it was before in his frantic efforts to get out, but Bay would not heed him.
Down the streets, over the bridge, and on to the long, white road she ran. At last she flung herself down on a heap of beetroots, which the peasants had rooted up from the fields during the day, and let the Honourable out of his prison. He stepped out in a very dignified manner. ‘May I ask,’ he said in his politest way, ‘what you mean by treating me like this?’
‘I’ve run away.’
‘So you said before,’ remarked the Honourable, ‘but might I enquire where you are running to?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Bay, the tears very near, ‘’I’m just running.’
‘Then, my dear,’ said the fly decidedly, ‘just run back.’
‘I won’t,’ said Bay, lying among the beetroots, and sobbing miserably.
‘Now, now! My dear, my dear!’ The Honourable spoke in his fatherly tone. ‘Just sit up and be sensible. Take the advice of the Honourable Theophilus, and go back again. In two months we shall be in England. You have no money with you and no-where to go. ‘Come, come now.’
‘I don’t know the way,’ said a weak voice from the depths of the beetroots.
‘I’ll show you.’
‘You,’ cried Bay in surprise.
‘Well, I know who will show you. Come on, follow me.’
Away he flew, and Bay, who had been thinking that the peppermints would only last a day or two, set off after him.
Back over the bridge they went. Then the Honourable turned into an open space before the old cathedral. There in front of her, Bay saw a little fire glowing in a rickety iron stand. A little old woman, in a huge flapped cap, slept by it. A hand-cart full of chestnuts stood near, and some more popped merrily in the fire, and shot and burst to their hearts’ content.
‘Hi,’ shouted the Honourable, ‘Hi!’
The old woman slept on. ‘Hi’ again, and ‘Hi!’
‘She’s French,’ the Honourable said in disgust. Bay touched the old woman who started and mumbled something, and promptly fell asleep again. Bay prodded her a second time, and then the woman woke up.
‘Bless me, she said, in French, of course, ‘what is little miss doing out at this hour?’ ‘Go back to school my little child.’
‘That’s what I want to do’ (Bay summoned up her best French) ‘if you will show me the way, but how did you know that I went to school?’
Haven’t I seen you walking many a time, and haven’t I seen you leaning out of your window at night, my little miss?’ said the old woman. ‘But what are you doing out now?’
‘I ran away,’ said Bay, ‘because I don’t like the school. France is not England, England I’m English, and –‘ these vague excuses trailed into a sob.
‘La, la!’ said the old woman, stroking Bay’s hair with her old wrinkled hand. ‘See, I will give you some hot chestnuts. Come, I will take you back, and at night, when you look out of your window, just look at the fire here, and think that your friend is sitting by it.’
The kind old chestnut woman led Bay down the street and showed her the school.
After thanking her, Bay reclimbed the shutter and the roofs, and jumped back into her room. She gave a sigh of relief as she put the Honourable back in his usual place, and looked out of the window at the comforting little fire in the square.
‘Honourable’, she asked ‘who told you about that nice old woman?’
‘Aw, said the Honourable, ‘we English flies know everything.’
‘Was it a bird?’
‘A bird. Did you say bird? Quick, shut me up! The Honourable was very much alarmed.
‘Well, you are stupid,’ said Bay, tucking him up with sugar and biscuit crumbs. ‘But what with you, and the fire, and peppermints I shall manage two months.’
And with that comforting thought she fell asleep.
The Blackburn Weekly Telegraph, Saturday 3rd December, 1910
‘To-night,’ said Dame Flipperty-Flop, beaming round on her pupils over the top of her spectacles, ‘I shall give prizes in the wood. You must all be there in good time.’ Then, school being over, all the rabbits rushed off home full of excitement, for it was the prize day – besides, it was Christmas Eve. Billy Blun had no prize. No. He was always late and always lazy. He walked slowly home, thinking that next year he would work very hard and win all the prizes; he would go straight to school every morning, instead of tussling with the Bully Calf. He was so very quiet and good all day that Mrs Blun began to think he might be ill, and to doubt the strength of his appetite for her good Christmas dinner. At night, leaving Mrs Blunn and Sally to come on behind, Billy set off for the wood. It was a lovely night. A thousand stars glittered in a velvet sky. Overhead they were thick as daisies in a spring-time meadow, but low in the sky they hung clear and solitary. Billy’s spirits began to rise, and he broke into a trot.
On he went, over the snowy fields, and soon came to the wood. It was so dark here that Billy bumped himself up against the trees and tore his fur against the brambles; but he did not mind- his spirits had risen to an extraordinary height.
‘Now, Billy,’ he said to himself, as he felt his little heart bounding, ‘what’s the matter with you? When you have games of rounders with yourself inside like this, you’re sure to do something wicked. Well,’ he added, ‘I can’t help it anyhow.’
Suddenly he bumped up against something hard and round. He sniffed the air. ‘Turnips,’ he gasped. He stood amazed at his good fortune, then set to work. Such a fine juicy turnip that was so big! He finished it, and sighed; then sniffed again. What! Cabbages! Yes! Sure enough there was a cabbage. Without stopping to think, Billy was soon deep in the cabbage. But his surprises were not over yet, for he found another turnip and yet another – two carrots and another cabbage! Never, he thought, had he tasted such good turnips. What a feast! No wonder he had been so excited.
When he was quite certain that there was nothing left, he went on his way.
In a little hollow, lighted up by all the glow-worms Dame Flipperty-Flop had been able to engage for the occasion, the little rabbits, in their clean collars, waited expectantly. Dame Flipperty-Flop, in a very elegant crimson dress with a yellow border, was speaking to the visitors when Billy arrived. He slipped into a back seat, tugged his collar straight, and polished his boots up with the end of his neighbour’s comforter.
Then Dame Flipperty-Flop began. As usual, the speech-making was very dry and long. The pupils shuffled on their chairs, and even the visitors grew restive. At last Dame Flipperty-Flop said that she was going to give some very special prizes to certain scholars. ‘They are,’ she said, beaming, ‘the finest, juiciest turnips to be found; the biggest, freshest cabbages, and the reddest carrots. I have hidden them not far from here. We will go for them.’
Billy’s heart came to a dead stop for one instant, then went at a madder rate than ever. Oh! could it be? Were those the prizes? Oh! but the rabbits were following their mistress and the visitors, and Billy was obliged to walk miserably after them, in an agony of apprehension.
Dame Flipperty-Flop walked on, lighted in front by the glow-worms, and talking amiably to her guests. Suddenly, she came to a dead stop as Billy’s heart had done.
‘Why!’ she exclaimed, then stopped. There was dead silence, and every one looked at the few cabbage-leaves and carrot-tops that lay on the ground.
‘A thief! A thief!’ she burst out. ‘All my fine juicy carrots gone! my turnips gone! and, oh! My cabbage – my bea-oo-tiful, bea-oo-tiful cabbage!’ It was really heart breaking. All at once someone grasped the border of her crimson dress. It was Billy. Trembling, gasping, stammering, he choked out his tale. ‘Oh! Dame, please, it’s me, it’s me. But I didn’t mean to be a thief; it was in the dark – I didn’t know. I ate them. It’s me. Oh! I’m sorry, but it’s me!’
‘You!’ shouted Dame Flipperty-Flop, her eyes blazing.
‘You!’ echoed Mrs Blun, emerging from the crowd, brandishing her cat-o’-nine-tails, which she always took with her, in case of necessity.