The Man with the Pan-Pipes, and Other Stories

PART II

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

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

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

One of his little kindnesses to her was the cause of a good deal of excitement to the children when they were with Uncle James. At that time gentlepeople dined much earlier than they do now, especially in the country. At Greystanes four o'clock was the regular dinner hour. The children used always to be nicely dressed and sent down "to dessert." And when Pig-Betty was there, Uncle James never failed to pour out a glass of wine and say, "Now, who will take this to the old woman?"

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

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

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

"First come, first served," Uncle would reply, as he handed the well-filled glass to Johnny or Maisie, or whichever had been the first. Then the procession of five would set off, walking slowly, so as not to spill the wine, down the long stone passages leading to the kitchen and offices of the old house. And what usually happened was this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART III

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

"What can it be?" said Maisie.

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

They were not hurting her, but it was the insult she felt so keenly, for she was used to respectful treatment. The Simpson boys, the new comers, were in the front of the fray, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Let no one gang near him," Sandy had said; "and, my woman, just ye sit at the gate there till I'm back. I'll no be lang."

But, alas, the children had come round by the fields behind the cottage.

It was too late – the yard gate was opened, and Jock, after sniffing and turning about came slowly out.

"Poor old Jockie," said Annette, always fearless, stooping to stroke him.

He turned upon her with a dreadful growl, he was not yet quite mad, but the poison was in him. And in another instant the deadly fangs would have been in the baby's tender flesh, but for the well-aimed blow which flung the dog back, though only for a moment. It was Betty, dashing at him with her bundle of "pigs," the only weapon at hand – the poor pigs smashing and crashing; but they only diverted Jock's attack. When Sandy and the dog-doctor came rushing up, she was on the ground, and Jock had already bitten her in two or three places. But all she said was, "My wee leddy, haud him aff my wee leddy."

And they were able to secure him, so that no one else was bitten.

No, Betty did not die of hydrophobia. She lived for a few months, not longer, her old nerves and feeble frame had got their death blow. But she was tenderly cared for in a peaceful corner of the hospital at the neighbouring town. Uncle James and the children's parents took care that she should want for nothing, and as her bodily strength failed her mind seemed to clear. When little Annette was taken to say good-bye to the brave old woman, poor Pig-Betty was able to whisper a word or two of loving hope that she and her "wee leddy" might meet again – in the Better Land.

THE DORMOUSE'S MISTAKE

They lived at the corner of the common. Papa, Mamma, Fuzz and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy, their four children. It was a lovely place to live at, but as they had never seen any other part of the world, I am not sure that they thought it quite so delightful as they might otherwise have done. The children, that is to say – Papa and Mamma of course were wiser. They had heard of very different sorts of places where some poor dormice had to live; small cooped-up nests called cages, out of which they were never allowed to run about, or to enjoy the delightful summer sunshine, and go foraging for hazel nuts and haws, and other delicacies, for themselves. For an ancestor of theirs had once been taken prisoner and shut up in a cage, whence, wonderful to say, he had escaped and got back to the woods again, where he became a great personage among dormice, and was even occasionally requested to give lectures in public to the squirrels and water-rats, and moles and rabbits, and other forest-folk, describing the strange and marvellous things he had seen and heard during his captivity. He had learnt to understand human talk for one thing, and had taught it to his children; and his great-grandson, the Papa of Fuzz and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy, had begun to give them lessons in this foreign language in their turn, for, as he wisely remarked, there was no saying if it might not turn out useful some day.

The cold weather set in very early this year. Already, for some days, Fuzz and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy had begun to feel a curious heaviness stealing over them now and then; they did not seem inclined to turn out in the morning, and were very glad when one evening their mother told them that the store cupboards being now quite full, they need none of them get up the next day at all unless they were inclined.

"For my part," she added, "I cannot keep awake any longer, nor can your Papa. We are going to roll ourselves up to-night. You young folk may keep awake a week or two longer perhaps, but if this frost continues, I doubt it. So good-night, my dears, for a month or two; the first mild day we shall all rouse up, never fear, and have a good meal before we snooze off again."

And sure enough next morning, when the young people turned out a good deal later than usual, Papa and Mamma were as fast asleep as the seven sleepers in the old story, which had given their name to the German branch of the dormouse family! Fuzz and Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy felt rather strange and lonely; two round furry balls seemed a very queer sort of exchange for their active, bright-eyed father and mother. But as there was plenty to eat they consoled themselves after a bit, and got through the next two or three weeks pretty comfortably, every day feeling more and more drowsy, till at last came a morning on which six neat little brown balls instead of two lay in a row – the dormouse family had begun their winter repose. And all was quiet and silent in the cosy nest among the twigs of the low-growing bushes at the corner of the common.

It seemed as if winter had really come. For three or four weeks there was but little sunshine even in the middle of the day, and in the mornings and evenings the air was piercingly cold.

"I suppose all the poor little wood-creatures have begun their winter sleep," said Cicely Gray one afternoon as she was hastening home from the village by a short cut through the trees. "I must say I rather envy them."

"I don't," said her brother, "I shouldn't like to lose half my life. Hush, Cicely, there's a rabbit. What a jolly little fellow! How he scuds along! There's another, two, three! Oh, Cis, I do hope I shall get some shooting when I come home at Christmas."

Cicely sighed. "I hate shooting," she said. "I'm sure it would be better to sleep half one's life than to stay awake to be shot."

But it was too cold to linger talking. The brother and sister set off running, so that their cheeks were glowing and their eyes sparkling by the time they got to the Hall gates.

Three days later Harry had gone off to school. Cicely missed him very much; especially as a most pleasant and unexpected change had come over the weather. A real "St. Martin's summer" had set in. What delightful walks and rambles Harry and she could have had, thought Cicely, if only it had come a little sooner!

The mild air found its way into the nest where the six little brown balls lay side by side, till at first one, then another, then all six slowly unrolled themselves, stretched their little paws, unclosed their eyes, and began to look about them.

"Time for our first winter dinner," said Mrs. Dormouse sleepily; "it's all ready over there in the corner under the oak leaves. Help yourselves my dears, eat as much as you can; you'll sleep all the better for it. And don't be long about it; it's as much as I can do to keep my eyes open."

Mr. Dormouse and the others followed her advice. For a few minutes nothing was heard but the little nibbling and cracking sounds which told that a raid had been made on the winter stores.

"Good-night again, my dears," said Papa, who was still sleepier than Mamma.

"Good-night" was repeated in various tones, but one little voice interrupted – it was that of Fuzz.

"I'm not sleepy, Papa and Mamma; I'm not a bit sleepy. I'm sure it's time to wake up, and that the summer's come back again. Brown-ears, Snip and Peepy, won't you come out with me? Papa and Mamma can sleep a little longer if they like."

"Nonsense," Mrs. Dormouse said sleepily.

And "Nonsense, brother," repeated the others, "don't disturb us."

But Fuzz was obstinate and sure he knew best.

He trotted off, looking back contemptuously at the five balls already rolled up again.

"Dear, dear! how silly they are to be sure," he said, when he found himself out on the grass. "Why, it's certainly summer again! The sunshine's so bright and warm, the birds are chirping so merrily. I feel quite brisk. I think I'll take a ramble over the common to the wood where our cousins the squirrels live, and hear what they have to say about it."

He cocked his ears and peeped about with his little sparkling eyes. Suddenly he caught sight of something white at the foot of one of the old trees. It was Cicely Gray in her summer flannel, which had been pulled out of the wardrobe again to do honour to St. Martin.

"Good morning, little dormouse," she said in her pretty soft voice, "what are you doing out of your nest in late November? Do you think summer's come back again already, my little man? If so, you've made a great mistake. Take warning, and don't stray far from your home, or you may find yourself in a sad plight. This lovely weather can't last many days."

Fuzz looked at her.

"Thank you, miss," he replied, for, you see, he understood human talk, though it is to be doubted if Cicely understood him. "She must surely know," he reflected wisely, "and perhaps after all mamma was in the right."

So he scampered in to the nest again and rolled himself up beside the others.

That very evening the wind changed; the cold set in in earnest, and for three months it was really severe.

"I saw a little dormouse at the corner of the common yesterday," said Cicely the next morning. "I advised him to go home again; he had come out by mistake, thinking winter was over."

"You funny girl," said her mother. "I hope he understood you and followed your advice, poor little chap."

THE CHRISTMAS GUEST.

FROM A TRUE INCIDENT

She was a very poor little girl, very poor indeed; often – indeed almost always – hungry, and thinly-clad, and delicate, but yet not altogether miserable. No, far from it, for she had a loving mother who did her poor best for her children. There were three or four of them and Emmy was the eldest. She was only six, but she was looked upon as almost grown-up, for father had died last year, and Emmy had to help mother with "the little ones," as she always called them.

They lived in a single room in one of the poorest and most crowded parts of great London; in a street which was filled with houses of one-room homes like their own. There was much misery and much wickedness, I fear, too, in their neighbourhood; drinking, and swearing, and fighting, as well as hunger, and cold, and sickness. But compared with several years ago, when Emmy's mother herself had been a girl living in much such a home as she now strove "to keep together" for her fatherless babies, compared with that time, as she, and others too, used often to say, "it was a deal better." There was less drinking and bad language; there was less misery. For friends – friends able and earnestly anxious to help – had taken up their abode in the very next street to little Emmy's; the church had been "done up beautiful," and there there was always a welcome and a rest from the troubles and worries at home; and the clergyman, as well as the kind ladies who had come to live among their toiling, struggling brothers and sisters, knew all about everybody and everything, knew who was ill and who was out of work, knew who were "trying to be good" even among the children, knew even thetiniest tots by name , and had always a kind word and smile, however busy and hurried they were.