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‘Yes, yes! It’s me.'
‘Oh! You bad, bad, bad rabbit!’ screamed Mrs Blun. ‘You are always disgracing your mother, but this is the worst thing you have ever done.’
‘Oh! Billy, my poor child,’ said Dame Flipperty-Flop, who was by this time melted to tears at the thought of her juicy turnips; ‘I am afraid that you will come to no good in the end.’ Then she broke out again; ‘You are a wicked rabbit – a real bad, wicked rabbit! Where are my turnips? Where are my carrots? Find then for me at once I say!’
‘I would,’ sobbed Billy, ‘if I could!’
‘Groo-oo-oo!’ said Dame Flipperty-Flop, through her teeth, shaking him vigorously.
‘Wait!’ said Billy, suddenly. ‘I’ll get you some more.’
‘What,’ shrieked Dame Flipperty-Flop. ‘Find some more of my fine juicy turnips!’
‘Yes; they were good,’ said Billy, approvingly.
‘You bad, wicked rabbit was all the Dame could say.
But Billy was off like a shot, leaving the party very miserable by the carrot-tops and cabbage leaves. He rushed out of the wood and over the fields.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘In that barn over the Bully Calf’s stall there are some fine turnips.’ He soon reached the barn, and, as luck would have it, the door unfastened. He slipped in an waited. Ther was not a sound except the deep breathing of the Bully Calf. Billy went up the steps and into the turnip store. The moonlight streamed through the window. He saw the turnips lying on all sides: he also saw a big hole right over the Bully Calf’s stall. He peeped down, and could just see the outline of the Bully Calf’s big body.
‘He, he!’ he chuckled. ‘I’ll roll a turnip on him. ‘He, he!’ A turnip lay invitingly near. Slowly, very slowly, for it was big, Billy rolled it to the hole. He had a last look and chuckle at the Bully Calf; the putting his whole force against the turnip- one! Two! three!- he gave a mighty push.
Alas! The turnip – and Billy – fell with a thump right on to the Bully Calf’s back. With a loud snort the Bully Calf jumped up. ‘Grooo-oo!’ he rumbled, and waited. Trembling, Billy stirred in the hay. Down went Bully’s head. ‘Grooo-ooo!’ he snorted again, probing about with his horns. Billy gave a great leap into the air, and landed on a rake! Still, it was better to be banged on a rake than on the Bully Calf’s terrible horns. He lay for a little quite stunned, while the Bully Calf went on snorting. Then, remembering Dame Flipperty-Flop and his promise, he picked himself up, hobbled up the steps again, and set to work in real earnest. He rolled several big turnips to the top of the steps and gave them a push.
‘Bump, Bump! Bump!’ went the turnips. The bully calf roared with fear, and Billy began to enjoy himself. ‘Bump! Bump! Bump!’ went another. How the Bully Calf rattled his chain and snorted and stamped!
But Billy for once was prudent; it would never do for the farmer to come. So he rolled the turnips out of the door, and left the Bully Calf to his snortings and his tremblings.
‘But now,’ he said to himself, ‘however am I to get those to the wood?’ I’d better go and tell them to come here.’ He set off once more at a round pace. Before long he was at the hollow again. He gave such a description of the turnips that all of the company set off with sharpened appetites to the place where he had left them. Once there, they all had a splendid feast. Dame Flipperty-Flop, and even Mrs Blun, quite forgave Billy. And Dame Flipperty-Flop went so far as to present him with a Brussel sprout, and wish him, as I wish you all, ‘A very merry Christmas.’
The Blackburn WeeklyTelegraph, Saturday 17th December 1910
1911
Fountain Dragon
The Muffin Man's Child
Mephistopheles Mosquito
"Pops"
Further Adventures of Billy Blun
The Oak Tree
Le Pere Noel
A New Year's Eve Adventure
The January sunlight came struggling through the shutters of Anne-Marie's bedroom window to find her already wide awake and ready to be called out into the morning air. Very soon she had tip-toed down the stairs and was out in the beautiful old garden. It was still very early; the sun was up in good time and was already thawing the icicles hanging from the black trees. As the little French girl ran down the avenue the big water drops fell on all sides, sounding, Anne-Marie thought, like fairies shooting their pistols.
She turned from the main walk into a little arbour of fir trees - small, bushy firs - with their tips turned yellow, so that it looked as if the sunlight was always on them. The firs enclosed a space in the middle of which was a strange old fountain.
Anne-Marie came now to this fountain, and paused, as usual, to look at the great dragon, through whose mouth such big spouts of water poured in summer.
"He doesn't look so fierce this morning," said Anne-Marie. "I wonder why." She went quite close. "Why, he's got his mouth shut," she exclaimed loudly. At this the dragon gave a great yawn, showing all his awful stone teeth and opened his eyes. Anne-Marie drew back and stared. Then the dragon saw her - he glowered angrily.
"There!" he said, in a rumbling voice. "I knew you would catch me at it some time."
"At what?" ventured Anne-Marie.
"Sleeping, of course" snapped the dragon.
"I'm sorry," said the little girl, "but it wasn't my fault."
"Yes, it was." The dragon was evidently not very polite. "You're always coming and staring at me."
"It is because I think you are so wonderful," said Anne-Marie, wondering if a few compliments would soothe him.
The dragon smiled, but the smile was even worse than the frown, for it showed all his teeth and wrinkled up his eyes.
"Don't," said Anne-Marie in alarm.
"Don't what?" he asked, still smiling.
"Don't smile - it frightens me."
The dragon's smile broadened and broadened, till it spread from one ugly ear to another; and then, oh, dear: he began to laugh.
"He! He! He!" he giggled. "I've not laughed for half a century."
"Don't begin now, please," pleaded Anne-Marie.
"Ho! Ho! Ho! I can't help it when I begin. Ho! Ho! I never know when I'll stop. Ha! Ha! Ha! The laugh was a bellow, a roar now.
"If you don't be careful," shouted Anne-Marie as loud as she could shout, for the dragon was making a terrible noise, "you'll shake your scales off." The dragon stopped at once.
"So, I will," he said seriously. "I did shake one off about 100 years ago, and I caught such a cold I shall never forget it. Still my dear, a laugh once in a while, does us all a world of good. I feel quite young again. I believe I could walk."
"No, you couldn't," the child said. "You have only two legs to balance all that body on."
"That doesn't matter; you can hold my tail up behind," and the dragon slowly uncoiled himself and crept unsteadily out of the fountain basin.
"Here! Help me with my tail," he cried excitedly.
Little Ann-Marie gathered as much of the stony coil into her arms as possible, and staggered after the dragon, who waddled fearfully. But, "Oh dear!" she gasped, "I can't hold it up any more."
"Yes! Yes! come along", said the dragon waddling quicker than ever.
But Anne-Marie put the tail on the ground and refused to move. "I know," she cried all at once, "I will fetch my doll's perambulator," and off she went, leaving the dragon very mystified.
She soon came back, and arranging the dragon's tail carefully in the carriage, set off in triumph, the dragon in front and the tail and Anne-Marie behind.
In the middle of the drive the dragon stopped short so suddenly that Anne-Marie almost toppled his tail over his head.
"I'm going to laugh," he said. "I feel it coming on." He had already begun to giggle, so Anne-Marie stood patiently until the laugh should finish.
The dragon had just come to the highest pitch of his roar when, suddenly, like a clap of thunder, a piece of stone burst from his side, hurtled into the air, and fell with a loud crash out of sight.
"My scale!" said the dragon, suddenly serious.
"How dreadful," said the frightened Anne-Marie.
"I shall catch a cold," said the dragon, beginning to cry.
"You are a baby," said Anne-Marie. "I should have thought, at your age, you would have had more sense."
"But what shall I do?" he sobbed.
"See! I will tie my handkerchief round your tail," said Anne-Marie. "You will not feel the cold now." She fastened a little handkerchief round his tail, and he was quite happy again.
“I can fly,” he said all at once, lifting two enormous wings. “As I said before a laugh always does me good. Quick, quick! He cried to the astonished child. “Get on my back, I will take you for a fly.”
Anne-Marie hesitated.
“Be quick,” he shouted.
So she climbed on to his back, and grasped his ears firmly.
Away he went high up in the air. The morning was glorious. The good old sun shone merrily down on the little shuttered houses, on the little boys dressed in overalls and wearing sabots, on the old women pushing her little cart with the morning rolls steaming on skewers and yards of bread standing upon end; but of all of the queer sights she ever saw the sight of little Anne-Marie riding on the fountain Dragon was the queerest. In the middle of a graceful swerve the dragon spoke for the first time, and how Anne-Marie wished he had not spoken at all!
“I hope I am not going to laugh.”
“Oh,” said Anne-Marie with all her heart. “Oh dear, dragon, don’t.”
But the dragon had begun. The giggle came rippling up – grew louder and louder. The dragon shook all over, he bellowed, he rolled this way and that, he tossed his tail, he roared when oh! He shot Anne-Marie off his back! She made frantic grabs at the air, but it was no use – down she fell, down, down, down a dark, dark hole, and came to a sudden stop. Where? Why, in her very own bedroom. She could not possibly make it out; but the breakfast gong rang, and she had to run downstairs. There news awaited her. A stone had fallen through the conservatory window. “The dragon’s scale,” she murmured, when her little ‘bonne’ or nursemaid, handed her a little pocket handkerchief. “I found it in the drive, mademoiselle,” she said.
“I suppose,” said Anne-Marie, in amazement, “I suppose he’s been laughing again.”
The Blackburn Weekly Telegraph, Saturday 11th February, 1911
Transcribed by Shazia Kasim
Transcribed by Shazia Kasim
Tinkle! Tinkle! Tinkle! Went the muffin man's bell round the square – at least, as much round a square as anyone can go – just as dusk, a cold, foggy dusk was falling. The bell had a cheery sound that spoke of hot muffins, buttery muffins, crisp muffins; and quite a crowd of people came running out, with plates and cloths to buy their muffins, and hurry back to their fires. Suddenly, a little girl darted from a door nearby and rushed after the man. “Muffins, please -two" she gasped, breathlessly, looking guiltily round – as if she feared someone was going to snatch her away. The muffin man fumbled in his cart and brought out two flabby muffins. He looked as if stood in need of a good hot muffin himself. His hat was so full of holes that it looked as if it had a bad attack of smallpox; his comforter was tagged into a wet wisp by the foggy air, and his greatcoat was like a patchwork quilt, much worse for wear.
“Pouf!" he said, blowing hard into the fog and stamping his feet. “There! Little miss, I daresay these muffins 'ull warm you up just nicely." Here he made a great show of depositing them in her little hands, after giving them a hearty slap or two. “Oh!" said the child. “It is much too hot in the nursery." “Too hot!" exclaimed the muffin man, stopping his puffing and blowing in amazement.
“Oh, yes all stuffy – there's nurse," and off she went like a shot, waving the muffins in farewell and defiance.
He stood looking after her. “Too hot!" he said, shaking his head. “I'd like to give my little 'un a bit of that hotness! Eh! Well! Well! Well!" He blew hard on his frozen fingertips and pushed on.
Meanwhile, the child had been taken back to the nursery, and by dint of coaxing and pouting, had obtained permission to toast her muffins at the nursery fire herself.
She took a buffet and a toasting fork, skewered the flabbier muffin and settled down to enjoy the novelty.
“Oh!" said the Muffin, contentedly – stretching himself and beginning to get freckled and golden brown. “I'm glad to get near a fire like this – very different from the fire I saw this morning. Now this is what I call a respectable fire."
“Oh," said the child, not feeling at all astonished, but taking everything in with the novelty of muffin toasting, “what was the fire like you saw this morning?"
“It wasn't fit to be called a fire," said the Muffin crisply. “Call it a spark! Call it smoke, call it anything you like, but don't call it a fire."
“But you called it a fire yourself."
“I wasn't warm then," answered the Muffin, curling himself up luxuriously.
“Where was the spark?" the child asked.
“Why, in the muffin man's fireplace. Though, I must say, I pity that fireplace- it must have been insulted by that miserable spark in it though it wasn't much better itself."
“Do tell me about it," begged the little girl.
“Well," said the Muffin, “I might as well. Turn me round first and I'll begin."
She obeyed and he began.
“You see, I was the corner muffin, and I looked out from the cloth and saw quite well. It was a shame to bring well-bred muffins into that room – to say nothing of the fire!"
He stopped to splutter and fizzle a little, then went on: “The muffin man you saw was there, and he was poking the fire. Though what there was to poke – I can't say." The Muffin didn't seem to be able to get that fire out of his mind. “And there he tried to toast one of my brothers, and, of course, being a well-bred muffin, he refused to respond to that miserable spark, and the little girl in the bed had to eat him half cold."
“Little girl?" interrupted the child. “In a bed?"
“Yes, a bed," fizzled the Muffin. “Though it was as bad as the fire in its way. She was a funny little girl – not at all like you. She kept making crying faces when the man wasn't there and putting her hands over her face."
“Perhaps she was ill!" said the child, compassionately. “I don't know," said the Muffin, spluttering again. “Would you mind cutting me open a little more. There! That's right, Thank you. Well – when the man gave her my brother, and turned away, she hid half under the bedclothes and only ate little bits at a time, and made believe to be eating a great deal and enjoying it very much. I think she must be a deceitful little thing! When the man asked her if she was any warmer, she said “Yes: she was almost too warm," and yet she shivered all the time when he wasn't looking at her, and then “Oh!" screamed the Muffin, smoking hot, “take me away! Quick! Quick!"
“Miss Margery," said the Nurse, “your muffin's been a-done these last five minutes, and there you are a-burning of your face, and you'll be a-going down to dinner with cheeks like a lobster, and your ma'll say as 'ow it's the muffins what's done it, and you won't get no more."
“Come on, nurse," said Margery, “they are all ready, hot and crisp, and all buttery."
But the muffin's tale lingered in Margery's mind. As she looked round the cosy nursery, at the drawn red curtains and the firelight, she wondered if she couldn't send some warmth into the room where the muffin man lived.
That night at dinner, Margery, curled and be-ribboned like a fairy child – leaning up against her father, told him the Muffin's tale.
“Oh, Daddy, do let's go and see!" she implored.
“My dear little girl," said the father. “It's perfectly ridic____"
“Oh! Daddy, we can just go and see. Oh! Promise me – promise me! Just think how bad it would be for you if I was the little girl in the bed, and the muffin said the fire was awful, and she had to eat raw muffin to make her father think she was well. Just think of that, Daddy! Raw muffin! They're not a bit good raw: they're all damp and stick frightfully. Just try, Daddy, and go and see with me."
The eyes lifted to him were so imploring, and tearful that, bending down to kiss his beautiful, happy child, he promised to aid that other, unfortunate and ill.
Tinkle! Tinkle! Tinkle! The muffin bell sounded rather hoarse the next evening as if the cold had got hold of its throat as well as of the man who rang it. He dealt his muffins out with his usual care and cheeriness. Again the door flew open, and again the child flashed across the square.
“Here!" she cried excitedly, waving an enormous pair of woollen gloves, “put these on – please do. Daddy sent them for you; and tell me, have you got a little girl? Yes! Yes! I knew you had; and please, where do you live? Quick! Quick!"
He stammered out his address in blinking amazement. “Oh! Muffin man- please give my love to the little girl in the bed! We're coming tomorrow, Daddy and I! There's Nurse! Put the gloves on – they're all nice and warm!"
She was gone again, leaving him among his muffins in a terrific state of amazement.
“Well! I'm blowed!" he ejaculated, and, suiting the action to the word, he blew vigorously on his fingertips – and at the same time, jerked certain hot drops from his cheeks. But there are tears and tears, you know.
The Blackburn Weekly Telegraph, Saturday April 8th, 1911.
Transcribed by Shazia Kasim
The morning was fine; one of those peaceful mornings that dawn under a rosy sky. But it was anything but peaceful in the home of Mephistopheles Mosquito (he was called Phisto for short). His father was in a decidedly bad temper and refused – absolutely refused – to support his family of thirty-three little mosquitos any more, Mephistopheles happening to spill his porridge twice, brought the paternal wrath on his head in a terrible storm.
“Go away, you rascal,” screamed Monsieur Mosquito, “and don’t let me see any more of you. You are big enough and fat enough to look after yourself. Go away, and perhaps we shall have better luck with an even number.”
For Monsieur M was very superstitious; he would not bite a black cat for anything; no, nor fly under a ladder; and if he chanced to spill the salt at dinner, he always threw a pinch over his left shoulder – often into the eyes of an unfortunate baby mosquito who might be hovering near. Here was a good chance of levelling the family down to an even number, so he bundled poor Mephistopheles out of the house and home and left him to find out the ways of the world himself. Now, Phisto was bold and brave, and he was not so sorry as he might have been to be launched thus in the beautiful world at eight o’clock om a fine morning.
He had a fly round and was very pleased with what he saw. But what on earth is a mosquito made for if not to bite – and very soon Phisto began to feel that he must bite someone or something. He set to work in a very scientific manner; in fact, he was a very Dick Turpin mosquito as he lay waiting in ambush.
Presently he heard the clatter of sabots coming over the cobbles.
“Ha!” he said, as he drew himself up.
“Ha! Ha!” He assumed a terrific air.
An old man shuffled into view. His head was safely covered with a big straw hat, he wore a blue smock, and was busily engaged in admiring his newly-painted sabots.
“Ha!” Shouted Phisto, dancing out upon the enemy and flickering about the front of his face. But the enemy was too engrossed in its sabots.
“Ha!” whined Phisto again, and prepared to gain the promontory of the old man’s nose.
The enemy awake to the danger of the situation, “Va-t-en! coquin que tu es!” he said in a thick patois, brushing the mosquito away. But Phisto was athirst for war. He advanced again, but the old man whipped off the big straw hat, clapped it over him, and brought him to the ground. Phisto thought the end was come, but suddenly he aspied a hole in the straw. Should he escape? Vengeance was sweet? Why not hide in the ribs of the straw? He chuckled as he squeezed himself into a niche.
By-and-by the old man picked up the hat very carefully, shook it, and ran a little way. Then, seeing no mosquito, he concluded that his tormentor was smothered on the grass.
“Bon!” he exclaimed, and put his hat on again. Then Phisto sallied forth and gave a good hard bite. He was off through the hole before the old man had cried out – laughing so heartily that he could hardly fly, as he watched the enemy retreat, much discomfited and finding no consolation even in the orange coloured sabots.
And that was bite the first.
He flew on, whirling round and round in the sunlight; darting high and dropping low, and singing his version of “Au clair de la lune,” a song he had heard the children singing underneath his old home.
He came to the river, a broad expanse of flashing silver, and at first his eyes were quite dazzled. When he became accustomed to the brightness he saw that he was just near a woman, washing lined at the edge of the water.
Her striped skirts were all tucked into the little box she knelt in, and the wings of her big white cap flapped to and fro as she scrubbed, rubbed and rinsed.
“Ha!” said Mephistopheles, as the flash of the womans arms caught his attention.
“Here’s a chance.”
He advanced boldly to the fray. But the woman saw him, and made a bob at him with her white cap as a horse might have done in the same case. Phisto retired, but not beaten. He waited, then dashed up and attacked his victim with such force that she jumped up suddenly, toppling the little box into the river, and calling out at the top of her voice. He fluttered round, gloating over his victory. This exasperated the woman more than ever. She seized the pail of hot water standing near and flung its contents in the direction of Phisto.
“I’ll drown you – little beast,” she cried. But the water fell to the ground with a harmless plop, and Phisto appeared, chuckling, several yards higher up. He flew off then, and the sulky woman rescued her box and tramped off home for some more hot water.
And that was bite the second.
While Phisto was balancing himself on the end of a swaying twig, he saw a large, clumsy object moving down the river. His curiosity was excited, and he set off to investigate.
The object proved to be a timber barge – very long and narrow – with the smallest little house imaginable, poked away at one end. On the roof of this house reposed a dog watching his mistress’s preparations for dinner with a largely critical eye.
“He looks as if he wants rousing,” said Phisto compassionately – and sauntered gaily up to make an attempt. He threw himself up against the dog’s nose in the most tantalising way. Then finding it was no use - he bit hard and long. The dog howled and turned fiercely on his adversary.
The lightness and quickness of Phisto enraged him. He beat his paws against the air; fancied he had captured something and nuzzled his nose into his forepaws – only to find Phisto dancing within half an inch of him, in an extasy of delight.
The dog darted up and bit fiercely at the air. The wary Phisto retreated – the dog followed – gnashing his teeth. The roof sloped and had no platform. Evidently the dog had forgotten this, for alas! seeing his enemy just within reach – he bounded – missed Phisto – but hit the water instead with a loud splash.
Phisto was beside himself with joy as he saw the woman scatter potatoes and carrots to the winds and rush to the rescue of the dog – who was hauled in and sent to his kennel underneath the timber logs.
And that was bite the third.
“Ah me!” sighed Phisto happily after spending a delightful afternoon. “It seems to good to be true! What a time I am having.
“Hullo, old fellow,” called a passing companion. “you look pleased with yourself.”
“I’ve had the best hunt out this morning,” said Phisto, and proceeded to relate his adventures.
The friendly mosquito laughed heartily.
“But I worn you,” he shouted as he flew on. “Beware of the webs! There’s a large one in that tree over there!”
“Pooh!” said Phisto to himself. “Who’s afraid of webs or spiders? Haven’t I thrown a dog into the water?”
He fancied himself a very Samson.
“I’ll go and have a look at the trap anyhow,” he said contemptuously. He flew and came upon a silken wheel glittering in the last rays of sunlight.
“I suppose this is it!” he said. “Bah! As if this stuff could hurt us. I’ll just have to walk round it, and tell that fellow what I think of his trapps.” He set his feet on the web. He wanted to walk round, but he couldn't lift his feet. What was the matter? He thought he could fly, but his wings stuck. What should he do? He struggled and fought, but it was no use; the slender threads bound him tight, and a sort of glue spread itself over him.
By-and-by the great round moon came up over the river and all the little stars in her train. Her light fell on Mephistopheles dangling in mid-air, and showed a big black spider sliding slowly down her thread.
And thus was the biter bit. Poor Mephistopheles!
The Blackburn Weekly Telegraph, 8th July, 1911
Transcibed by Philip Crompton
Translation of French text
Va-t-en! coquin que tu es - “Go away, naughty girl that you are”
Au clair de la lune -A French children’s song – “by the light of the moon” or “In the moonlight”
Sabot = Mephistopheles = The Devil
Elizabeth Marsden, otherwise “Pops,” waited impatiently for an opportunity to separate herself from the band of children “out for the day” in the country. She roamed round and round the field, her restless black eyes glancing first at the scattered groups and then at the low boundary fence. Suddenly, as a stray cow caused a slight panic, Pops took a flying leap into the next field. She lay down flat, her heart beating hard with apprehension; she waited to hear the shrill voice of Miss Ainsworth. “Elizabeth Marsden! Come back at once, or you’ll get no tea!” But the buzzing of young excited voices went on uninterruptedly and soon Pops crept cautiously away in the ditch. She raised herself at the far end of the field, gave a big sigh of relief, then sped like a young deer into the neighbouring woods.
Once in the heart of them, she threw herself down, and, laying her hot face against the cool earth, let all the delight and wonder of her first day with Nature enter into her starved little soul.
After a little she sat up.
“l mustn’t be lying here. I’d best make the most of my day,” she said, “my only day. I don’t know how I’ll live in the mill after this.”
A rabbit scampered by, and Pops leapt up suddenly. “Goodness me!” she cried, with her hand on her heart, “how it frightened me! To think of them running about like that with their bobbin’ little tails! And then they go hanging them up in shops to eat. I wouldn’t eat one if I got the chance now. I don’t suppose I’d get the chance, though!” and she laughed.
It was such a gay child’s laugh that a little thrush who had been eyeing her curiously felt quite safe, and burst into song.
Pops listened open-mouthed, and when she stopped she said:
“That’s better than Jim Slater’s caged one. But I bet I could do as well,” and rounding up her mouth she sent a clear whistle ringing through the woods.
A man, rather an old man, who had been enjoying his book in the silence of the woods, looked up on hearing that call, and with difficulty could distinguish through the trees a child in an ugly speckled overall, with a pale face and heavy, black hair.
“Well, bless me!” he said to himself, “she whistles like a bird – like a blackbird in spring.”
Call after call, thrill after thrill, rippled from the lips of the child, who had learnt them from a throstle imprisoned in a back alley.
The old gentleman crept a little nearer, until he could see the rapturous light in Pops’ eyes. “What an extraordinary child!” he said. “Bless me! What an extraordinary child!”
The extraordinary child stopped suddenly and listened intently. The old gentleman felt as nervous as a child caught in the jam cupboard. But Pops had no thought for anything so ordinary as an old gentleman just then. She had heard the trickle of a stream in the distance, and ran off to find it, leaving her battered old hat under the tree where the astonished throstle was perched.
The old gentleman watched the speckled overall out of sight, then sat down near the hat.
“I’ll wait here until she comes back,” said he. “She is an extraordinary child.”
Meanwhile Pops was standing enraptured before a tiny fall of water trickling through a bank of moss and drip-dripping a line of crystal drops into a noisier stream.
Pops pressed her hands against the moss, caught the drops of water, and threw them up against the sunlight. Then she had a sudden idea. She tossed off her boots and faded grey stockings, and dipped her long, thin foot in the limped water. She gasped at its cold touch, but laughed at the novelty. Then she tied her boots and stockings together, and slinging them over her shoulder, walked down the stream.
Oh! The wonder of it all!
The silence of the shaded pools, where the song of the water was hushed and the dark trout swam slowly! The gaiety of the ripples over the stony beds! The tears would keep coming to Pops’ eyes – the happiness of it all seemed to heavy.
A heron rose majestically from the stream, and Pops stood awestruck. “Suppose it’s an eagle or something,” she said. “What a big bird it was!”
The sun was getting low – Pops was feeling hungry. “I’d best go,” she said reluctantly. “They’ll kill me, I bet.” She pulled a trailing spray of white convolvulus and wound it round her hair. “Good-bye, little steam, “she said, as she stood drinking in the beauty of the scene and striving to impress it in her memory for dreary times to come. “I shall never see you again; but you don’t mind. You’ll go on singing, but I can’t hear you anymore. Goodbye,” and she turned away with a sort of sob.
The old gentleman was still waiting when Pops came through the trees. He watched her coming, with the white convolvulus flowers hanging against her heavy black hair and a half-wild longing in her eyes.
“Sit down here, little Ophelia,” he said, taking her hand.
“I can’t,” Pops answered, staring. “I’m late now. Miss Ainsworth will be right-down mad with me.”
“I will see to that,” he said gently. “Now, child, tell me who you are, and where did you learn to whistle like a blackbird?”
Pops was surprised, but told him promptly all about herself and how she came to be sent out with the orphans for a day in the country. “I’d like to die just now,” she said passionately; “so that I’d not have to go back to the mill anymore.”
“To the mill! How old are you, child?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve! And at the mill? This is terrible – terrible,” said the old gentleman moping his brow.
“Hullo!” said Pops, suddenly catching sight of the book; then read enquiringly.
“Lamb’s Essays – what’s that?” Without waiting for an answer, she went on; I’ve got a book!” proudly. “I bought it for 2d of fa boy in Slater Street. It’s called Pilgrim’s Progress.’
“Do you understand it?”
“I try,” said Pops. “But who’s Lamb’s Essays?”
The old gentleman explained, simply and clearly. “He was very lonely,” he added, looking far away into the trees. “He loved children, and he had none of his own. He used to imagine that a child came to him and loved him, was his own. He called her his dream-child. He was very lonely,” he said again.
Pops understood, and felt a lump in her throat. She put her small hand on his.
“Are you lonely? Do you want a child to love you?” she asked.
“Yes, I do want a child to love me,” he said.
“I’ll love you,” whispered Pops very low. “No one loves me, and I didn’t love anybody, but I’ll love you if you like. I’ll be your dream-child. I shan’t see you again, but you’ll know that I‘m loving you all the same,” and Pops ended, feeling as if she had said something she ought not to have said. But the old gentleman had got to his feet and dragged Pops after him.
“You have no one belonging to you – no one at all? Tell me, child.”
“No one!” said Pops, wonderingly.
“Come with me. We must find your teacher. Where is she? Quick!”
“In the field.”
“Show me the way.”
Pops ran off, feeling very mystified; and the old gentleman came up behind, panting very hard. No sooner had Pops leapt the fence than a high voice shrieked: “Elizabeth Marsden, you bad child! You shan’t come here again next year. I’ll take good care of that ----”
But the voice died away as the speaker caught sight of Pops’ venerable escort.
“I beg your pardon, Mr Stanton,” she said as he beckoned her apart. “I was feeling rather anxious about Elizabeth Marsden. I did not know she was with you.”
Pops stood by, more mystified then ever as the old gentleman made his apologies.
“I wish this child to stay here to-night, and tomorrow I shall arrange matters with my fellow-Guardians. She will be a great blessing to my wife and myself,” he added quietly looking at Pops.
“Will you be my real little child?” he asked, bending down to her.
Then Pops understood, and for answer she hid her face in the speckled overall, and happy tears blotted out the past for ever.
The Blackburn Weekly Telegraph, Saturday 2nd September 1911
Transcribed by Philip Crompton
The Further Adventures of Billy Blun
“Really,” said Mrs. Blun, as she darned Billy’s sixth sock. “Really, Mrs. Lop-Ear, I’m seriously thinking of putting Billy in business. He never will do any good at school. Dame Flipperty-Flop is always complaining about him. Why, it was only yesterday that he hit her with an ink blob.” Mrs. Blun heaved a big sigh, and looked over her spectacles at Mrs. Lop-Ear, who was seated comfortably, with her knitting, by the fire. Billy was supposed to be in bed, but, as a matter of fact he was sitting on the roof, feeling very awe-struck and good as he watched the red moon rise like a great lamp in the sky. Of course, Mrs. Blun did not know this, and was enjoying the restful feeling which came only when Billy was out of the way and in bed.
“Well, Mrs. Blun,” said Mrs. Lop-Ear, laying down her knitting, “l think it is a very sensible idea, l do, and, what’s more, l don’t think you could do better than put him in our shop.”
Thus having said her say, Mrs. Lop-Ear took up her knitting again.
It was Mrs. Blun’s turn to put down her work. “What! You don’t mean to say that Mr. Lop-Ear would be bothered by our Billy?”
“Mrs. Blun,” said Mr. Lop-Ear, weightily, “seeing that we’ve been such good friends since we were girls, and seeing that you’ll pay a little bit of a premium, l don’t see why Mr. Lop-Ear should object, as I’ve suggested it. Besides, Billy isn’t as black as he’s painted.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Lop-Ear, thank you,” and Mrs. Blun wiped her eye with Billy’s sock. “l think it will be a good opening for him, and if he’ll give his mind to a thing, he’ll be alright. I’ll go and see Dame Flipperty-Flop tomorrow, and Billy shall start at your shop the day after. We can arrange things with Mr. Lop-Ear, as he is coming up to fetch you. Now, Sally, set the supper and see that the porridge is boiling. That’s a load of my mind to see Billy settled at last.
And so it was all arranged. Billy’s school days were over, and he was not sorry. He was so good that last day at school that Dame Flipperty-Flop and all the little girls cried over him, and the boys gave him all the turnips they had brought to eat behind their desks when the Dame was not looking. He felt rather downhearted himself, but the thought of his own importance as a business rabbit soon cheered him up. Besides, Billy’s overflowing high spirits were never subdued to any great extent – indeed, they only came out the readier for any slight damping.
The first few days at the shop Billy, on his best behavior, was initiated into the dusky mysteries of oats and flower stores. His mouth watered at the sight of the juicy turnips and dried apples, but he was strictly honourable, and never so much as handled them. Mr. Lop-Ear was delighted with his apprentice, and all seemed to be going very well.
But alas! this state of affairs was not to last! How could it?
On the fifth morning of his business career, Billy set off as usual. The morning was clear and fresh, with just a hint of frost in the air. It was this sharpness that sent Billy’s young blood rushing madly through his veins. But Billy was growing cautious. He sat down on a bank and began to reason with himself. He had not gone very far in his reasoning when suddenly a little, round, red crab-apple fell plump at his feet. He looked up, and there were hundreds dangling over his head. Up he jumped and shook the tree with all his might. The apples fell in showers, and Billy stuffed his eight pockets to bulging point. Then he sauntered quietly along, munching as he went.
As he rounded a big hollybush, who should he see dozing peacefully a few yards away but the Bully Calf. Billy was startled at first, but soon recovered himself. He took a hard crab-apple and, taking careful aim, hit the Bully Calf a sounding whack on the side. The Bully Calf snorted but did not wake.
Taking a bigger, harder apple, Billy threw it and hit the same mark. The Bully Calf started up and stood trembling stupidly. The Billy emptied his pockets, and the apples fell like hail on the poor Bully Calf.
With a roar he wide awake now, rushed at Billy, but Billy was half way across the next field, chuckling heartily. Billy was late that morning – very late indeed, and, as he tried to scurry into his place he got himself entangled in a great stack of fly-papers. Mr. Lop-Ear came to his rescue with a birch rod he happened to have handy. It was a miserable Billy that was shut into an empty flour bin until further use. There, in the floury darkness, he repented him of his sins, and made resolutions never to tease the Bully Calf any more.
Now it happened that Mrs. Lop-Ear wanted some flour at that time. How was Billy to know that she would come to the wrong bin? Anyhow, when Mrs. Lop-Ear opened the lid in the dark, and a fluffy object jumped out on her, she promptly screamed and fainted. Bill shouted lustily for Mr. Lop-Ear, and while waiting for assistance poured treacle over the unfortunate lady’s ears in the hope of bringing her around.
Mr. Lop-Ear rushed in; picked up his wife; carried her into the air, leaving a black stream of treacle on the clean, white floor. He gasped when he saw the sticky state of his wife’s headgear; and in the intervals of fanning and sprinkling with water and administering smelling-salts, he gave Billy one or two flying kicks which that unfortunate never forgot.
At last Mrs. Lop-Ear came round, and Mr. Lop-Ear had time to attend seriously to Billy. He brandished the birch rod in a terrific manner, and would surely broken every bone in Billy’s body had not Mrs. Lop-Ear, looking rather drenched, implored her husband to spare him for his mother’s sake.
“Well, my dear,” he said. “If it were any one else but you that asked me, I would not withhold my hand upon any consideration, but seeing it is as it is, it is all right and overlooked for this time.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the penitent Billy.
“And now, you young rascal,” said Mr. Lop-Ear, changing his tone. “Get off with this sack of oats up to Lady Harriet Hare’s, and mind you don’t get up to any mischief on the way.”
So, Billy bustled out of the shop with a great sack of oats on his back, and took the road to Lady Hare’s.
He walked along the little sun-flecked path under the holly trees, thinking thoughts, quite unconscious that danger in a very terrible shape was creeping up behind him. Indeed so deep was his penitence that he had not even noticed that this was the Bully Calf’s field. The Bully Calf crept up and up; then suddenly, with an awful bellow, he rushed upon the terrified little rabbit. He tossed Billy up into the air, caught him and tossed him down into the valley, and then driving his short horns into the oat sack, he threw it after his victim. Then thundered away in triumph.
How long he lay there Billy never knew, when he came to himself he found that some one was binding his head. He opened his eyes slowly, and saw the soft brown fur and pretty eyes of a girl-rabbit. He tried to sit up, but she pushed him back gently.
“Whatever has happened to you?” she asked.
“Don’t know,” said Billy, feeling very sick and very shy.
Then he remembered.
“Oh!” he wailed, “the oats!”
“There they are,” she said – her name was Jemima Bob-Tail – pointing to a heap of oats lying in a pool of water.
“Oh!” moaned Billy, “what shall I do? What shall I do?”
“What is it?” she asked. “Tell me about it, and let’s think about what we can do.”
So Billy told her with many wails, and she hard what to do.
“I know,” she said all at once, I’ll go and get another bag of oats, and we’ll get Timothy Tuftie to take it up to Lady Hare’s.”
“How splendid!” cried Billy trying to caper. “Here’s the money. I’ve got it alright.” It is – is – very good of you - l – l –.“
Poor Billy felt to shy to say any more, but Jemima Bob-Tail said she understood and went straight to the shop.
She soon came back to tell Billy that she had sent Timothy to Lady Hare’s with the oats.
“And now I will crawl home,” said Billy, and he tried to thank her again, but she wouldn’t listen.
So he went home to be nursed by Mrs. Blun. They did not scold him any more than usual. Jemima Bob-Tail cannot understand why so many turnips keep rolling in at her door, or why so many bunches of harebells are tied on to her knocker.
The Blackburn Weekly Telegraph, 16th September 1911
Transcribed by Philip Crompton