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COPPERTOP
_Affectionately inscribed to my little friend
CELIA HALL
Without whom there would have been no
COPPERTOP_
[Illustration: COPPERTOP.]
COPPERTOP
The Queer Adventures of a Quaint Child
BY
HAROLD GAZE
AUTHOR OF
“The Mite Merry Stories,” “War in Faerieland,”
“Omar in Faerieland,” etc.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR
Melbourne Publishing Company
CROMWELL BUILDINGS
MELBOURNE
MELBOURNE PUBLISHING COMPANY
CROMWELL BUILDINGS
MELBOURNE
CONTENTS.
Chapter Page
I. In the Old Four-Posted Bed 9
II. Off on an Adventure 19
III. They Make an Enemy 21
IV. In the Middle of a Thunderstorm 25
V. They Meet Their First Bear 30
VI. Under the Snow 36
VII. The Castle of the South Wind 40
VIII. Towards the Great West Land 46
IX. In the Tropics 57
X. Shipwrecked 62
XI. Waomba-Mother of the West Land 65
XII. Lost in a Forest 69
XIII. In the Arms of the Mist Maidens 77
XIV. Inside a Crocodile 82
XV. The Clerk of the Weather Lays a Trap 90
XVI. Discovered by the East Wind 97
XVII. The Strangest Ride that Ever Was 105
XVIII. The East Wind and the White Elephant 110
XIX. The East Wind in a Rage 115
XX. In the Den of the Spinster Spider 119
XXI. Coppertop and the Old Mother-Bird 128
XXII. Tibbs and Kiddiwee to the Rescue 133
XXIII. The December Day is Almost Theirs 140
XXIV. Biddy-be-sure, the Irish Witch 145
XXV. Coppertop Kisses the Blarney Stone 148
ILLUSTRATIONS.
=Colored.=
Coppertop Frontispiece
“Come along,” cried Tibbs To face page 16
The Albatross and the Sea-Maidens ” ” 48
“Look again, little one,” said Waomba ” ” 80
Tibbs and Kiddiwee escape from the Crocodile ” ” 96
“Foolish ones,” said Amon Ra ” ” 112
Miss Smiler sits on the White Elephant ” ” 128
=Black and White.=
Page
“If a Book of Travels can’t move about a bit, who can?” 16
The Clerk of the Weather 22
“Oh, my hair is on fire!” cried Coppertop 26
The South Wind 43
Skipper Blubberkins 53
The Four-posted Bed at Sea 60
The Chief of the Monkey Tribe 73
The East Wind 101
“Don’t talk of husbands to me,” said the Elderly Spinster
Spider 125
The North Wind 142
COPPERTOP
CHAPTER I.
IN THE OLD FOUR-POSTED BED
She sat up in the big four-poster and listened to the wind as it blew
round the house.
A ’possum on the roof uttered a plaintive gurgling cry, which sent a
little shiver down her back, and she snuggled under the bedclothes,
thankful for their cosy protection.
But to-night the old bed felt less “snuggly” than usual, and she had a
strange “I-wonder-what-will-happen-next” feeling, which would not allow
her to sleep. It was such a night as witches love, when they fly about
on broomsticks, and you feel sure-as-sure there is a black cat with
green, staring eyes, hiding behind the burnt log in the chimney corner.
Even the old colonial house, with its new slated roof and the strange
terracotta gargoyles--that Coppertop was certain-sure had moved several
times since they were first put up there--shook and shuddered in the
bitter south wind which blew down from the ranges.
“Oh, I’m just too lonesome!” sighed Coppertop, “if the old wind won’t
stop whooling round the house, I simply don’t know what I’ll do.”
Celia Anagusta Sinclair--for that was her real name--was rather a
lonely little girl at the best of times, as her father and mother were
obliged to spend many months of the year in far-away India, and left
their little ten-year-old daughter in the charge of Mrs. Grudge, the
housekeeper; and it must be confessed that she and “Miss Celia” were
not always the best of friends.
Mrs. Grudge could not abide a nickname, and never used the term
“Coppertop” by which the child was known to everyone else; she was of
the old school, stern and strict, and had come out in the early days
from Home. She could not understand “these colonials,” she would say,
and Coppertop’s cheeks would glow and her auburn plaits would seem
to grow even more coppery, for she was an Australian bred and born,
and proud of it, too, and simply hated to be called one of “these
colonials.”
The old four-posted bed had come out from Home, too, but it had a very
different spirit from that of dour Mrs. Grudge; it was old, and massive
and beautiful, with richly carved legs--which, of course, Mrs. Grudge
couldn’t boast of--and it seemed to whisper of old rose gardens, and
ivy-clad towers, and quaint, sleepy, thatched cottages, and knights in
armour, and May-day revels, and, most of all, of security and comfort.
“I wouldn’t care one bit if only Mummie and Daddy were here,” sighed
the child; “the old wind could blow as hard as it liked. I wouldn’t
care if it blew away the house, and the old clock, and Mrs. Grudge. Oh,
if only it would--and left just Mummie and Daddy and me, all alone in
the dear old bed, cuddling tight.”
Coppertop threw her little freckled arms round the soft, bulgy pillow,
and tried to “’magine” that it really was so; but still the wind
howled, and the rain pattered on the windowpane.
“Oh, I’m tired of ’magining! I wish they were really-truly here. I
believe I shall hate that horrid old India soon, for keeping them away.
Well, perhaps I won’t quite hate it, but I wish it were here, then
they’d be here too, and so would Simla and the beautiful Taj Mahal.”
“But if India were here, where would Here be? Oh, it’s awfully
muddling,” she added.
Then her face brightened up, and plunging one hand under the pillow she
brought out a very crumpled letter, a letter that had been hugged and
kissed till it was scarcely readable.
Screwing up her grey eyes, Coppertop read it, word by word, keeping her
place with a wet finger with which she had just flicked away a tear:
My Dearest Child,--
I am writing this letter to you from our bungalow at Simla--the one
in which you stayed two years ago--do you remember?
I am sitting on the verandah, looking out over the mountains, and
thinking of you, my darling, oh, so hard, that I believe I can
almost see you, dancing through the long grass in the orchard, and
climbing the trees, to see if the green apples are not too hard for
your strong little teeth. And, dear, you really must not eat green
apples, they are not good for little girls--it is so much better to
let them grow into big, rosy ones.
Daddy is lying in the deck-chair under the punkah, and the breeze
from it is making his hair stand up in queer little tufts--you
would laugh so to see it--and he is snoring! Snoring so loudly that
I thought it was the punkah. He is sound asleep, and dreaming, I
expect, of his darling little girl in far-away Australia.
And now for some beautiful news! We are coming back to our little
girl. Daddy has applied for his leave, and we may sail quite, quite
soon.
I expect we shall go to England first, and then back again, through
the Canal, and see the Pyramids and the Arab donkey-boys, and the
camels. Take care of that little bronze camel Daddy gave you--don’t
lose it, dear.
And try to be good to Mrs. Grudge, and do as she tells you.
How I am longing to give you a big, big hug.
Good-bye, my own darling child.
MUMMIE.
P.S.--Daddy will write next mail.
When she came to the last line Coppertop’s lips trembled, and two big
tears rolled down her cheeks. It was just that “Big, big hug” that she
was wanting this very minute.
“Of course,” she said to herself, “I’ve got Tibbs and Kiddiwee, and
although they’re only ’maginary brothers, they do get terrifkly real at
times, and I’ve got this pudgy little bronze camel--Miss Smiler--but
they don’t make up for Mummie and Daddy, and it seems so long waiting
for them to come.”
She sat lost in thought for some minutes, then she yawned and lay back
on the pillow. The candle winked and spluttered and sent huge shadows
dancing upon the walls and ceiling with each flicker. Coppertop wished
dreamily that she could be a shadow too, and tried to imagine just how
it would feel to be dancing upon the ceilings, and growing suddenly
large and small, and long or short, as the shadows seemed to do.
“It’s a regular witches’ dance!” she exclaimed. And as she said this,
there came a nervous tap-tap at the door.
Coppertop lay very still, with a wildly-beating heart, wondering if she
had really heard a tap on the door or not.
Then a voice said:
“Miss Celia! Are you awake?” It was Jane, the maid, who spoke, but in a
voice so hushed and mysterious that it sent a shiver down the child’s
back.
“I--I suppose so,” replied Coppertop, sitting up in bed to make quite
sure. “What is it, Jane?”
Jane opened the door cautiously, and continued in a hushed voice--
“I hardly think I ought to tell you, seeing it’s so late.”
“Tell me what?” asked the child in an excited whisper.
“They’re coming home, miss. Mrs. Grudge has had a telegram to say
Captain and Mrs. Sinclair will be here to-morrer mornin’, being the
first of December!”
“GOOD GRACIOUS!” cried Coppertop. And bounding out of bed she dragged
the nervous maid into the room by her apron.
“Mummie and Daddy coming home!” she cried, “absolutely really-truly!
Eeeeeuggh!” and Coppertop gave a shrill squeal of delight, and capered
madly about the room.
“Oh, hush, miss! If Mrs. Grudge should hear us. I never ought to have
told you, only I simply couldn’t ’elp it. You’ll be that excited you’ll
never sleep a wink. Lor, here she is!”
And at the sound of someone coming along the passage, Jane beat a hasty
retreat.
Coppertop wanted to rush after her and pour out a string of burning
questions--but on second thoughts she remembered Mrs. Grudge, and drew
back; it would never do to get Jane into trouble.
But whatever would she do? How could she ever get through the long
night with all this excitement bottled up inside her?
“I believe I shall positively explode!” she muttered, as she clambered
back into the old bed.
For what seemed long, long ages she lay and tossed from side to side.
The night would never pass! The solemn “Tick-tock! Tick-tock!” of the
grandfather clock outside her door told her so.
“Never-never! Never-never! NEVER-NEVER!” it seemed to say.
Her head burned upon the pillow, which seemed to grow larger and
larger, till it almost smothered her. She turned it over to the cool
side, and closed her eyes tightly.
“Never-never! Never-never!” ticked the old clock.
A sudden gust of wind shook the window, followed by the patter of
raindrops on the pane.
“That doesn’t sound much like the first of December,” she thought, and
shivered a little as it came again.
“Whatever shall I do if it isn’t a fine day to-morrow? Why, I must have
a fine day for Mummie and Daddy to arrive on--a real scrumptious, warm,
December day.”
The more she thought about it the more important it seemed. “It would
be dreadful if it wasn’t even fine.”
She sat up in bed to consider this all-important question, and as she
did so, a large Book of Travels which she had been reading fell on to
the floor with a loud thump.
Coppertop jumped. Then, bending over the edge of the big bed to pick up
the Book, she noticed, to her great surprise, that it had risen of its
own accord, and was walking sedately over to the window.
“That’s awfully strange!” exclaimed Coppertop.
[Illustration: “If a Book of Travels can’t move about a bit, who can?”]
“Not a bit,” replied the Book without turning round. “I must improve
my circulation somehow! And if a book of travels can’t move about a
bit, who can, I should like to know?”
[Illustration: “Come along,” cried Tibbs (p. 19).]
While Coppertop was wondering what reply to make, the Book reached out
its hand and pulled the blind, which went up with such force that it
twirled round and round the roller at the top.
“What a day for the first of December!” exclaimed the Book. “I’m going
to look for something better,” and so saying, it sat on the floor and
rapidly turned over its own pages, saying as it did so:
“North, South, East, West,
Weather’s never at its best.
India, Egypt, or Japan,
Give us better, if you can.”
Coppertop blinked at the book of travels, and then at the window,
unable to believe her eyes.
It was daybreak, and RAINING HARD.
“Oh dear, oh dear, how dreadfully botherating!” she exclaimed, almost
in tears.
“I simply must get a fine December day somehow. It will never do for
‘them’ to arrive on a soaking wet day like this. It’s all the fault of
that stupid old clerk of the weather, he does get things so mixed up!
Why, this is more like a horrid July day!”
“That’s what it is,” muttered the Book of Travels.
“Oh, I do wish Tibbs and Kiddiwee were here to help me,” continued the
child; “I don’t know what to do.”
“I expect they’re waiting for you on the roof,” remarked the Book.
“Follow me,” he continued, “we’ll soon put this little matter right.”
And so saying, the book of travels ran over to the fireplace.
“You may have to go all round the world to find a really fine December
day,” he added, “so you’ve no time to lose. Come along!”
And with a flap of his covers he flew up the chimney.
“It looks as if it’s going to be a truly grand adventure,” cried
Coppertop, with her eyes sparkling. And, springing out of the big
four-posted bed, she followed quickly after the book.