This was odd; because, though cross to children, the old man was kind to
dumb beasts. Even his pig knew his voice and grunted, and held out his
nose to be scratched; and he always gave each successive pig a name,
Jack or Dick, and called them by it, and was quite affectionate to them,
one after the other, until the very day that they were killed. But they
were English pigs--and the pony was Scotch--and the Devonshire Gardener
hated every thing Scotch, he said; besides, he was not used to groom's
work, and the pony required such a deal of grooming on account of her
long hair. More than once Gardener threatened to clip it short, and turn
her into a regular English pony, but the children were in such distress
and mother forbade any such spoiling of Jessie's personal appearance.
At length, to keep things smooth, and to avoid the rough words and even
blows which poor Jess sometimes got, they sought in the village for a
boy to look after her, and found a great rough, shock-headed lad named
Bill, who, for a few shillings a week, consented to come up every
morning and learn the beginning of a groom's business; hoping to end, as
his mother said he should, in sitting, like the squire's fat coachman,
as broad as he was long, on the top of the hammer-cloth of a grand
carriage, and do nothing all day but drive a pair of horses as stout as
himself a few miles along the road and back again.
Bill would have liked this very much, he thought, if he could have been
a coachman all at once, for if there was one thing he disliked, it was
work. He much preferred to lie in the sun all day and do nothing; and he
only agreed to come and take care of Jess because she was such a very
little pony, that looking after her seemed next door to doing nothing.
But when he tried it, he found his mistake. True, Jess was a very gentle
beast, so quiet that the old mother-hen with fourteen chicks used,
instead of roosting with the rest of the fowls, to come regularly into
the portion of the cow-shed which was partitioned off for a stable, and
settle under a corner of Jess's manger for the night; and in the morning
the chicks would be seen running about fearlessly among her feet and
under her very nose.
But, for all that, she required a little management, for she did not
like her long hair to be roughly handled; it took a long time to clean
her; and, though she did not scream out like some silly little children
when her hair was combed, I am afraid she sometimes kicked and bounced
about, giving Bill a deal of trouble--all the more trouble, the more
impatient Bill was.
And then he had to keep within call, for the children wanted their pony
at all hours. She was their own especial property, and they insisted
upon learning to ride--even before they got a saddle. Hard work it was
to stick on Jess's bare back, but by degrees the boys did it, turn and
turn about, and even gave their sisters a turn too--a very little
one--just once round the field and back again, which was quite enough,
they considered, for girls. But they were very kind to their little
sisters, held them on so that they could not fall, and led Jess
carefully and quietly: and altogether behaved as elder brothers should.
Nor did they squabble very much among themselves, though sometimes it
was rather difficult to keep their turns all fair, and remember
accurately which was which. But they did their best, being, on the
whole, extremely good children. And they were so happy to have their
pony, that they would have been ashamed to quarrel over her.
Also, one very curious thing kept them on their good behavior. Whenever
they did begin to misconduct themselves--to want to ride out of their
turns, or to domineer over one another, or the boys, joining together,
tried to domineer over the girls, as I grieve to say boys not seldom
do--they used to hear in the air, right over their heads, the crack of
an unseen whip. It was none of theirs, for they had not got a whip; that
was a felicity which their father had promised when they could all ride
like a young gentleman and ladies; but there was no mistaking the
sound--indeed, it always startled Jess so that she set off galloping,
and could not be caught again for many minutes.
This happened several times, until one of them said, "Perhaps it's the
Brownie." Whether it was or not, it made them behave better for a good
while; till one unfortunate day the two eldest began contending which
should ride foremost and which hindmost on Jess's back, when
"Crick--crack!" went the whip in the air, frightening the pony so much
that she kicked up her heels, tossed both the boys over her head, and
scampered off, followed by a loud "Ha, ha, ha!"
It certainly did not come from the two boys, who had fallen--quite
safely, but rather unpleasantly--into a large nettle-bed; whence they
crawled out, rubbing their arms and legs, and looking too much ashamed
to complain. But they were rather frightened and a little cross, for
Jess took a skittish fit, and refused to be caught and mounted again,
till the bell rang for school--when she grew as meek as possible. Too
late--for the children were obliged to run indoors, and got no more
rides for the whole day.
Jess was from this incident supposed to be on the same friendly terms
with Brownie as were the rest of the household. Indeed, when she came,
the children had taken care to lead her up to the coal-cellar door and
introduce her properly--for they knew Brownie was very jealous of
strangers, and often played them tricks. But after that piece of
civility he would be sure, they thought, to take her under his
protection. And sometimes, when the little Shetlander was restless and
pricked up her ears, looking preternaturally wise under those shaggy
brows of hers, the children used to say to one another, "Perhaps she
sees the Brownie."
Whether she did or not, Jess sometimes seemed to see a good deal that
others did not see, and was apparently a favorite with the Brownie, for
she grew and thrived so much that she soon became the pride and delight
of the children and of the whole family. You would hardly have known her
for the rough, shaggy, half-starved little beast that had arrived a few
weeks before. Her coat was so silky, her limbs so graceful, and her head
so full of intelligence, that every body admired her. Then even Gardener
began to admire her too.
"I think I'll get upon her back; it will save me walking down to the
village," said he, one day. And she actually carried him--though, as his
feet nearly touched the ground, it looked as if the man were carrying
the pony, and not the pony the man. And the children laughed so
immoderately, that he never tried it afterward.
Nor Bill neither, though he had once thought he should like a ride, and
got astride on Jess; but she quickly ducked her head down, and he
tumbled over it. Evidently she had her own tastes as to her riders, and
much preferred little people to big ones.
Pretty Jess! when cantering round the paddock with the young folk she
really was quite a picture. And when at last she got a saddle--a new,
beautiful saddle, with a pommel to take off and on, so as to suit both
boys and girls--how proud they all were, Jess included! That day they
were allowed to take her into the market-town--Gardener leading her, as
Bill could not be trusted--and every body, even the blacksmith, who
hoped by-and-by to have the pleasure of shoeing her, said, what a
beautiful pony she was!
After this, Gardener treated Jess a great deal better, and showed Bill
how to groom her, and kept him close at it too, which Bill did not like
at all. He was a very lazy lad, and whenever he could shirk work he did
it; and many a time when the children wanted Jess, either there was
nobody to saddle her, or she had not been properly groomed, or Bill was
away at his dinner, and they had to wait till he came back and could put
her in order to be taken out for a ride like a genteel animal--which I
am afraid neither pony nor children enjoyed half so much as the old ways
before Bill came.
Still, they were gradually becoming excellent little horsemen and
horsewomen--even the youngest, only four years old, whom all the rest
were very tender over, and who was often held on Jess's back and given a
ride out of her turn because she was a good little girl, and never cried
for it. And seldomer and seldomer was heard the mysterious sound of the
whip in the air, which warned them of quarreling--Brownie hated
quarreling.
[Illustration: Jess quickly ducked her head down and Bill tumbled over
it.]
In fact, their only trouble was Bill, who never came to his work in
time, and never did things when wanted, and was ill-natured, lazy, and
cross to the children, so that they disliked him very much.
"I wish the Brownie would punish you," said one of the boys; "you'd
behave better then."
"The Brownie!" cried Bill, contemptuously; "if I caught him, I'd kick
him up in the air like this!"
And he kicked up his cap--his only cap, it was--which, strange to
relate, flew right up, ever so high, and lodged at the very top of a
tree which overhung the stable, where it dangled for weeks and weeks,
during which time poor Bill had to go bareheaded.
He was very much vexed, and revenged himself by vexing the children in
all sorts of ways. They would have told their mother, and asked her to
send Bill away, only she had a great many anxieties just then, for their
old grandmother was very ill, and they did not like to make a fuss about
any thing that would trouble her.
So Bill staid on, and nobody found out what a bad, ill-natured, lazy boy
he was.
But one day the mother was sent for suddenly, not knowing when she
should be able to come home again. She was very sad, and so were the
children, for they loved their grandmother--and as the carriage drove
off they all stood crying round the front-door for ever so long.
The servants even cried too--all but Bill.
"It's an ill wind that blows nobody good," said he. "What a jolly time I
shall have! I'll do nothing all day long. Those troublesome children
sha'n't have Jess to ride; I'll keep her in the stable, and then she
won't get dirty, and I shall have no trouble in cleaning her. Hurrah!
what fun!"
He put his hands in his pockets, and sat whistling the best part of the
afternoon.
The children had been so unhappy, that for that day they quite forgot
Jess; but next morning, after lessons were over, they came begging for a
ride.
"You can't get one. The stable-door's locked and I've lost the key." (He
had it in his pocket all the time.)
"How is poor Jess to get her dinner?" cried a thoughtful little girl.
"Oh, how hungry she will be!"
And the child was quite in distress, as were the two other girls. But
the boys were more angry than sorry.
"It was very stupid of you, Bill, to lose the key. Look about and find
it, or else break open the door."
"I won't," said Bill; "I dare say the key will turn up before night, and
if it doesn't, who cares? You get riding enough and too much. I'll not
bother myself about it, or Jess either."
And Bill sauntered away. He was a big fellow, and the little lads were
rather afraid of him. But as he walked, he could not keep his hand out
of his trowsers-pocket, where the key felt growing heavier and heavier,
till he expected it every minute to tumble through and come out at his
boots--convicting him before all the children of having told a lie.
Nobody was in the habit of telling lies to them, so they never suspected
him, but went innocently searching about for the key--Bill all the while
clutching it fast. But every time he touched it, he felt his fingers
pinched, as if there was a cockroach in his pocket--or little
lobster--or something, anyhow, that had claws. At last, fairly
frightened, he made an excuse to go into the cow-shed, took the key out
of his pocket and looked at it, and finally hid it in a corner of the
manger, among the hay.
As he did so, he heard a most extraordinary laugh, which was certainly
not from Dolly the cow, and, as he went out of the shed, he felt the
same sort of pinch at his ankles, which made him so angry that he kept
striking with his whip in all directions, but hit nobody for nobody was
there.
But Jess--who, as soon as she heard the children's voices, set up a most
melancholy whinnying behind the locked stable-door--began to neigh
energetically. And Boxer barked, and the hens cackled, and the
guinea-fowls cried "Come back, come back!" in their usual insane
fashion--indeed, the whole farmyard seemed in such an excited state,
that the children got frightened lest Gardener should scold them, and
ran away, leaving Bill master of the field.
What an idle day he had! How he sat on the wall with his hands in his
pockets, and lounged upon the fence, and sauntered around the garden! At
length, absolutely tired of doing nothing, he went and talked with the
Gardener's wife while she was hanging out her clothes. Gardener had gone
down to the lower field, with all the little folks after him, so that he
knew nothing of Bill's idling, or it might have come to an end.
By-and-by Bill thought it was time to go home to his supper. "But first
I'll give Jess her corn," said he, "double quantity, and then I need not
come back to give her her breakfast so early in the morning. Soh! you
greedy beast! I'll be at you presently, if you don't stop that noise."
For Jess, at sound of his footsteps, was heard to whinny in the most
imploring manner, enough to have melted a heart of stone.
"The key--where on earth did I put the key?" cried Bill, whose constant
habit it was to lay things out of his hand and then forget where he had
put them, causing himself endless loss of time in searching for them--as
now. At last he suddenly remembered the corner of the cow's manger,
where he felt sure he had left it. But the key was not there.
"You can't have eaten it, you silly old cow," said he, striking Dolly on
the nose as she rubbed herself against him--she was an affectionate
beast. "Nor you, you stupid old hen!" kicking the mother of the brood,
who, with her fourteen chicks, being shut out of their usual
roosting-place--Jess's stable--kept pecking about under Dolly's legs.
"It can't have gone without hands--of course it can't." But most
certainly the key was gone.
What in the world should Bill do? Jess kept on making a pitiful
complaining. No wonder, as she had not tasted food since morning. It
would have made any kind-hearted person quite sad to hear her, thinking
how exceedingly hungry the poor pony must be.
Little did Bill care for that, or for anything, except that he should be
sure to get into trouble as soon as he was found out. When he heard
Gardener coming into the farmyard, with the children after him, Bill
bolted over the wall like a flash of lightning, and ran away home,
leaving poor Jess to her fate.
All the way he seemed to hear at his heels a little dog yelping, and
then a swarm of gnats buzzing round his head, and altogether was so
perplexed and bewildered, that when he got into his mother's cottage he
escaped into bed, and pulled the blanket over his ears to shut out the
noise of the dog and the gnats, which at last turned into a sound like
somebody laughing. It was not his mother, she didn't often laugh, poor
soul!--Bill bothered her quite too much for that, and he knew it.
Dreadfully frightened, he hid his head under the bedclothes, determined
to go to sleep and think about nothing till next day.
Meantime Gardener returned, with all the little people trooping after
him. He had been rather kinder to them than usual this day, because he
knew their mother had gone away in trouble, and now he let them help him
to roll the gravel, and fetch up Dolly to be milked, and watch him milk
her in the cow-shed--where, it being nearly winter, she always spent the
night now. They were so well amused that they forgot all about their
disappointment as to the ride, and Jess did not remind them of it by
her whinnying. For as soon as Bill was gone she grew silent.
At last one little girl, the one who had cried over Jess's being left
hungry, remembered the poor pony, and, peeping through a crevice in the
cow-shed, saw her stand contentedly munching at a large bowlful of corn.
"So Bill did find the key. I'm very glad," thought the kind little
maiden, and to make sure looked again, when--what do you think she
beheld squatting on the manger? Something brown--either a large brown
rat, or a small brown man. But she held her tongue, since, being a very
little girl, people sometimes laughed at her for the strange things she
saw. She was quite certain she did see them, for all that.
So she and the rest of the children went indoors and to bed. When they
were fast asleep, something happened. Something so curious, that the
youngest boy, who, thinking he heard Jess neighing, got up to look out,
was afraid to tell, lest he too should be laughed at, and went back to
bed immediately.
In the middle of the night, a little old brown man carrying a lantern,
or at least having a light in his hand that looked like a lantern--went
and unlocked Jess's stable, and patted her pretty head. At first she
started, but soon she grew quiet and pleased, and let him do what he
chose with her. He began rubbing her down, making the same funny hissing
with his mouth that Bill did, and all grooms do--I never could find out
why. But Jess evidently liked it, and stood as good as possible.
[Illustration: Up the bank she scrambled, her long hair dripping.--Page
55]
"Isn't it nice to be clean?" said the wee man, talking to her as if she
were a human being, or a Brownie. "And I dare say your poor little
legs ache with standing so long. Shall we have a run together? the moon
shines bright in the clear, cold night. Dear me! I'm talking poetry."
But Brownies are not poetical fairies, quite commonplace, and up to all
sorts of work. So, while he talked, he was saddling and bridling Jess,
she not objecting in the least. Finally, he jumped on her back.
"'Off, said the stranger--off, off, and away!'" sang Brownie mimicking a
song of the Cook's. People in that house often heard their songs
repeated in the oddest way, from room to room, everybody fancying it was
somebody else that did it. But it was only the Brownie. "Now, 'A
southerly wind and a cloudy sky proclaim a hunting morning!'"
Or night--for it was the middle of the night, though bright as day--and
Jess galloped and the Brownie sat on her back as merrily as if they had
gone hunting together all their days.
Such a steeple-chase it was! They cleared the farmyard at a single
bound, and went flying down the road, and across the ploughed field, and
into the wood. Then out into the open country, and by-and-by into a
dark, muddy lane--and oh! how muddy Devonshire lanes can be sometimes!
"Let's go into the water to wash ourselves," said Brownie, and coaxed
Jess into a deep stream, which she swam as bravely as possible--she had
not had such a frolic since she left her native Shetland Isles. Up the
bank she scrambled, her long hair dripping as if she had been a
water-dog instead of a pony. Brownie, too, shook himself like a rat or a
beaver, throwing a shower round him in all directions.
"Never mind; at it again, my lass!" and he urged Jess into the water
once more. Out she came, wetter and brisker than ever, and went back
home again through the lane, and the wood, and the ploughed field,
galloping like the wind, and tossing back her ears and mane and tail,
perfectly frantic with enjoyment.
But when she reached her stable, the plight she was in would have driven
any respectable groom frantic too. Her sides were white with foam, and
the mud was sticking all over her like a plaster. As for her beautiful
long hair, it was all caked together in a tangle, as if all the combs in
the world would never make it smooth again. Her mane especially was
plaited into knots, which people in Devonshire call elf-locks, and say,
when they find them on their horses, that it is because the fairies have
been riding them.
Certainly, poor Jess had been pretty well ridden that night. When just
as the dawn began to break, Gardener got up and looked into the
farmyard, his sharp eye caught sight of the stable-door wide open.
"Well done, Bill," shouted he, "up early at last. One hour before
breakfast is worth three after."
But no Bill was there; only Jess, trembling and shaking, all in a foam,
and muddy from head to foot, but looking perfectly cheerful in her mind.
And out from under her fore legs ran a small creature which Gardener
mistook for Tiny, only Tiny was gray, and this dog was brown, of course!
I should not like to tell you all that was said to Bill when, an hour
after breakfast-time, he came skulking up to the farm. In fact, words
failing, Gardener took a good stick and laid it about Bill's shoulders,
saying he would either do this, or tell the mistress of him, and how he
had left the stable-door open all night, and some bad fellow had stolen
Jess, and galloped her all across the country, till, if she hadn't been
the cleverest pony in the world, she never could have got back again.
Bill durst not contradict this explanation of the story, especially as
the key was found hanging up in its proper place by the kitchen door.
And when he went to fetch it, he heard the most extraordinary sound in
the coal-cellar close by--like somebody snoring or laughing. Bill took
to his heels, and did not come back for a whole hour.
But when he did come back, he made himself as busy as possible. He
cleaned Jess, which was half a day's work at least. Then he took the
little people a ride, and afterward put his stable in the most beautiful
order, and altogether was such a changed Bill, that Gardener told him he
must have left himself at home and brought back somebody else: whether
or not, the boy certainly improved, so that there was less occasion to
find fault with him afterward.
Jess lived to be quite an old pony, and carried a great many
people--little people always, for she herself never grew any bigger. But
I don't think she ever carried a Brownie again.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
ADVENTURE THE FIFTH
BROWNIE ON THE ICE
WINTER was a grand time with the six little children especially when
they had frost and snow. This happened seldom enough for it to be the
greatest possible treat when it did happen; and it never lasted very
long, for the winters are warm in Devonshire.
There was a little lake three fields off, which made the most splendid
sliding-place imaginable. No skaters went near it--it was not large
enough; and besides, there was nobody to skate, the neighborhood being
lonely. The lake itself looked the loneliest place imaginable. It was
not very deep--not deep enough to drown a man--but it had a gravelly
bottom, and was always very clear. Also, the trees round it grew so
thick that they sheltered it completely from the wind, so, when it did
freeze, it generally froze as smooth as a sheet of glass.
"The lake bears!" was such a grand event, and so rare, that when it did
occur, the news came at once to the farm, and the children carried it as
quickly to their mother. For she had promised them that, if such a
thing did happen this year--it did not happen every year--lessons should
be stopped entirely, and they should all go down to the lake and slide,
if they liked, all day long.
So one morning, just before Christmas, the eldest boy ran in with a
countenance of great delight.
"Mother, mother, the lake bears!" (It was rather a compliment to call it
a lake, it being only about twenty yards across and forty long.) "The
lake really bears!"
"Who says so?"
"Bill. Bill has been on it for an hour this morning, and has made us two
such beautiful slides, he says--an upslide and a down-slide. May we go
directly?"
The mother hesitated.
"You promised, you know," pleaded the children.
"Very well, then; only be careful."
"And may we slide all day long, and never come home for dinner or any
thing?"
"Yes, if you like. Only Gardener must go with you, and stay all day."
This they did not like at all; nor, when Gardener was spoken to, did he.
"You bothering children! I wish you may all get a good ducking in the
lake! Serve you right for making me lose a day's work, just to look
after you little monkeys. I've a great mind to tell your mother I won't
do it."
But he did not, being fond of his mistress. He was also fond of his
work, but he had no notion of play. I think the saying of, "All work and
no play makes Jack a dull boy," must have been applied to him, for
Gardener, whatever he had been as a boy, was certainly a dull and
melancholy man. The children used to say that if he and idle Bill could
have been kneaded into one, and baked in the oven--a very warm
oven--they would have come out rather a pleasant person.
As it was, Gardener was any thing but a pleasant person; above all, to
spend a long day with, and on the ice, where one needs all one's
cheerfulness and good-humor to bear pinched fingers and numbed toes, and
trips and tumbles, and various uncomfortablenesses.
"He'll growl at us all day long--he'll be a regular spoil-sport!"
lamented the children. "Oh! mother, mightn't we go alone?"