FOOTPRINTS in the snow have been unfailing provokers of sentiment ever
since snow was first a white wonder in this drab-coloured world of ours.
In a poetry-book presented to one of us by an aunt, there was a poem by
one Wordsworth, in which they stood out strongly--with a picture all to
themselves, too--but we didn't think very highly either of the poem or
the sentiment. Footprints in the sand, now, were quite another matter,
and we grasped Crusoe's attitude of mind much more easily than
Wordsworth's. Excitement and mystery, curiosity and suspense--these were
the only sentiments that tracks, whether in sand or in snow, were able
to arouse in us.
We had awakened early that winter morning, puzzled at first by the added
light that filled the room. Then, when the truth at last fully dawned
on us and we knew that snow-balling was no longer a wistful dream, but a
solid certainty waiting for us outside, it was a mere brute fight for
the necessary clothes, and the lacing of boots seemed a clumsy
invention, and the buttoning of coats an unduly tedious form of
fastening, with all that snow going to waste at our very door.
When dinner-time came we had to be dragged in by the scruff of our
necks. The short armistice over, the combat was resumed; but presently
Charlotte and I, a little weary of contests and of missiles that ran
shudderingly down inside one's clothes, forsook the trampled
battle-field of the lawn and went exploring the blank virgin spaces of
the white world that lay beyond. It stretched away unbroken on every
side of us, this mysterious soft garment under which our familiar world
had so suddenly hidden itself. Faint imprints showed where a casual bird
had alighted, but of other traffic there was next to no sign; which made
these strange tracks all the more puzzling.
We came across them first at the corner of the shrubbery, and pored over
them long, our hands on our knees. Experienced trappers that we knew
ourselves to be, it was annoying to be brought up suddenly by a beast we
could not at once identify.
"Don't you know?" said Charlotte, rather scornfully. "Thought you knew
all the beasts that ever was."
This put me on my mettle, and I hastily rattled off a string of animal
names embracing both the arctic and the tropic zones, but without much
real confidence.
"No," said Charlotte, on consideration; "they won't any of 'em quite do.
Seems like something _lizardy_. Did you say a iguanodon? Might be that,
p'raps. But that's not British, and we want a real British beast. _I_
think it's a dragon!"
"'Tisn't half big enough," I objected.
"Well, all dragons must be small to begin with," said Charlotte: "like
everything else. P'raps this is a little dragon who's got lost. A little
dragon would be rather nice to have. He might scratch and spit, but he
couldn't _do_ anything really. Let's track him down!"
So we set off into the wide snow-clad world, hand in hand, our hearts
big with expectation,--complacently confident that by a few smudgy
traces in the snow we were in a fair way to capture a half-grown
specimen of a fabulous beast.
We ran the monster across the paddock and along the hedge of the next
field, and then he took to the road like any tame civilised tax-payer.
Here his tracks became blended with and lost among more ordinary
footprints, but imagination and a fixed idea will do a great deal, and
we were sure we knew the direction a dragon would naturally take. The
traces, too, kept reappearing at intervals--at least Charlotte
maintained they did, and as it was _her_ dragon I left the following of
the slot to her and trotted along peacefully, feeling that it was an
expedition anyhow and something was sure to come out of it.
Charlotte took me across another field or two, and through a copse, and
into a fresh road; and I began to feel sure it was only her confounded
pride that made her go on pretending to see dragon-tracks instead of
owning she was entirely at fault, like a reasonable person. At last she
dragged me excitedly through a gap in a hedge of an obviously private
character; the waste, open world of field and hedgerow disappeared, and
we found ourselves in a garden, well-kept, secluded, most
undragon-haunted in appearance. Once inside, I knew where we were. This
was the garden of my friend the circus-man, though I had never
approached it before by a lawless gap, from this unfamiliar side. And
here was the circus-man himself, placidly smoking a pipe as he strolled
up and down the walks. I stepped up to him and asked him politely if he
had lately seen a Beast.
"May I inquire," he said, with all civility, "what particular sort of a
Beast you may happen to be looking for?"
"It's a _lizardy_ sort of Beast," I explained. "Charlotte says it's a
dragon, but she doesn't really know much about beasts."
The circus-man looked round about him slowly. "I don't _think_," he
said, "that I've seen a dragon in these parts recently. But if I come
across one I'll know it belongs to you, and I'll have him taken round to
you at once."
"Thank you very much," said Charlotte, "but don't _trouble_ about it,
please, 'cos p'raps it isn't a dragon, after all. Only I thought I saw
his little footprints in the snow, and we followed 'em up, and they
seemed to lead right in here, but maybe it's all a mistake, and thank
you all the same."
"Oh, no trouble at all," said the circus-man, cheerfully. "I should be
only too pleased. But of course, as you say, it _may_ be a mistake. And
it's getting dark, and he seems to have got away for the present,
whatever he is. You'd better come in and have some tea. I'm quite alone,
and we'll make a roaring fire, and I've got the biggest Book of Beasts
you ever saw. It's got every beast in the world, and all of 'em
coloured; and we'll try and find _your_ beast in it!"
We were always ready for tea at any time, and especially when combined
with beasts. There was marmalade, too, and apricot-jam, brought in
expressly for us; and afterwards the beast-book was spread out, and, as
the man had truly said, it contained every sort of beast that had ever
been in the world.
The striking of six o'clock set the more prudent Charlotte nudging me,
and we recalled ourselves with an effort from Beastland, and reluctantly
stood up to go.
"Here, I'm coming along with you," said the circus-man. "I want another
pipe, and a walk'll do me good. You needn't talk to me unless you like."
Our spirits rose to their wonted level again. The way had seemed so
long, the outside world so dark and eerie, after the bright warm room
and the highly-coloured beast-book. But a walk with a real Man--why,
that was a treat in itself! We set off briskly, the Man in the middle. I
looked up at him and wondered whether I should ever live to smoke a big
pipe with that careless sort of majesty! But Charlotte, whose young mind
was not set on tobacco as a possible goal, made herself heard from the
other side.
"Now, then," she said, "tell us a story, please, won't you?"
The Man sighed heavily and looked about him. "I knew it," he groaned. "I
_knew_ I should have to tell a story. Oh, why did I leave my pleasant
fireside? Well, I _will_ tell you a story. Only let me think a minute."
So he thought a minute, and then he told us this story.
* * * * *
Long ago--might have been hundreds of years ago--in a cottage half-way
between this village and yonder shoulder of the Downs up there, a
shepherd lived with his wife and their little son. Now the shepherd
spent his days--and at certain times of the year his nights too--up on
the wide ocean-bosom of the Downs, with only the sun and the stars and
the sheep for company, and the friendly chattering world of men and
women far out of sight and hearing. But his little son, when he wasn't
helping his father, and often when he was as well, spent much of his
time buried in big volumes that he borrowed from the affable gentry and
interested parsons of the country round about. And his parents were very
fond of him, and rather proud of him too, though they didn't let on in
his hearing, so he was left to go his own way and read as much as he
liked; and instead of frequently getting a cuff on the side of the head,
as might very well have happened to him, he was treated more or less as
an equal by his parents, who sensibly thought it a very fair division of
labour that they should supply the practical knowledge, and he the
book-learning. They knew that book-learning often came in useful at a
pinch, in spite of what their neighbours said. What the Boy chiefly
dabbled in was natural history and fairy-tales, and he just took them as
they came, in a sandwichy sort of way, without making any distinctions;
and really his course of reading strikes one as rather sensible.
One evening the shepherd, who for some nights past had been disturbed
and preoccupied, and off his usual mental balance, came home all of a
tremble, and, sitting down at the table where his wife and son were
peacefully employed, she with her seam, he in following out the
adventures of the Giant with no Heart in his Body, exclaimed with much
agitation:
"It's all up with me, Maria! Never no more can I go up on them there
Downs, was it ever so!"
"Now don't you take on like that," said his wife, who was a _very_
sensible woman: "but tell us all about it first, whatever it is as has
given you this shake-up, and then me and you and the son here, between
us, we ought to be able to get to the bottom of it!"
"It began some nights ago," said the shepherd. "You know that cave up
there--I never liked it, somehow, and the sheep never liked it neither,
and when sheep don't like a thing there's generally some reason for it.
Well, for some time past there's been faint noises coming from that
cave--noises like heavy sighings, with grunts mixed up in them; and
sometimes a snoring, far away down--_real_ snoring, yet somehow not
_honest_ snoring, like you and me o'nights, you know!"
"_I_ know," remarked the Boy, quietly.
"Of course I was terrible frightened," the shepherd went on; "yet
somehow I couldn't keep away. So this very evening, before I come down,
I took a cast round by the cave, quietly. And there--O Lord! there I saw
him at last, as plain as I see you!"
"Saw _who_?" said his wife, beginning to share in her husband's nervous
terror.
"Why _him_, I'm a telling you!" said the shepherd. "He was sticking
half-way out of the cave, and seemed to be enjoying of the cool of the
evening in a poetical sort of way. He was as big as four cart-horses,
and all covered with shiny scales--deep-blue scales at the top of him,
shading off to a tender sort o' green below. As he breathed, there was
that sort of flicker over his nostrils that you see over our chalk roads
on a baking windless day in summer. He had his chin on his paws, and I
should say he was meditating about things. Oh, yes, a peaceable sort o'
beast enough, and not ramping or carrying on or doing anything but what
was quite right and proper. I admit all that. And yet, what am I to do?
_Scales_, you know, and claws, and a tail for certain, though I didn't
see that end of him--I ain't _used_ to 'em, and I don't _hold_ with 'em,
and that's a fact!"
The Boy, who had apparently been absorbed in his book during his
father's recital, now closed the volume, yawned, clasped his hands
behind his head, and said sleepily:
"It's all right, father. Don't you worry. It's only a dragon."
"Only a dragon?" cried his father. "What do you mean, sitting there, you
and your dragons? _Only_ a dragon indeed! And what do _you_ know about
it?"
"'Cos it _is_, and 'cos I _do_ know," replied the Boy, quietly. "Look
here, father, you know we've each of us got our line. _You_ know about
sheep, and weather, and things; _I_ know about dragons. I always said,
you know, that that cave up there was a dragon-cave. I always said it
must have belonged to a dragon some time, and ought to belong to a
dragon now, if rules count for anything. Well, now you tell me it _has_
got a dragon, and so _that's_ all right. I'm not half as much surprised
as when you told me it _hadn't_ got a dragon. Rules always come right if
you wait quietly. Now, please, just leave this all to me. And I'll
stroll up to-morrow morning--no, in the morning I can't, I've got a
whole heap of things to do--well, perhaps in the evening, if I'm quite
free, I'll go up and have a talk to him, and you'll find it'll be all
right. Only, please, don't you go worrying round there without me. You
don't understand 'em a bit, and they're very sensitive, you know!"
"He's quite right, father," said the sensible mother. "As he says,
dragons is his line and not ours. He's wonderful knowing about
bookbeasts, as every one allows. And to tell the truth, I'm not half
happy in my own mind, thinking of that poor animal lying alone up there,
without a bit o' hot supper or anyone to change the news with; and maybe
we'll be able to do something for him; and if he ain't quite respectable
our Boy'll find it out quick enough. He's got a pleasant sort o' way
with him that makes everybody tell him everything."
Next day, after he'd had his tea, the Boy strolled up the chalky track
that led to the summit of the Downs; and there, sure enough, he found
the dragon, stretched lazily on the sward in front of his cave. The
view from that point was a magnificent one. To the right and left, the
bare and willowy leagues of Downs; in front, the vale, with its
clustered homesteads, its threads of white roads running through
orchards and well-tilled acreage, and, far away, a hint of grey old
cities on the horizon. A cool breeze played over the surface of the
grass and the silver shoulder of a large moon was showing above distant
junipers. No wonder the dragon seemed in a peaceful and contented mood;
indeed, as the Boy approached he could hear the beast purring with a
happy regularity. "Well, we live and learn!" he said to himself. "None
of my books ever told me that dragons purred!"
"Hullo, dragon!" said the Boy, quietly, when he had got up to him.
The dragon, on hearing the approaching footsteps, made the beginning of
a courteous effort to rise. But when he saw it was a Boy, he set his
eyebrows severely.
"Now don't you hit me," he said; "or bung stones, or squirt water, or
anything. I won't have it, I tell you!"
"Not goin' to hit you," said the Boy, wearily, dropping on the grass
beside the beast: "and don't, for goodness' sake, keep on saying
'Don't;' I hear so much of it, and it's monotonous, and makes me tired.
I've simply looked in to ask you how you were and all that sort of
thing; but if I'm in the way I can easily clear out. I've lots of
friends, and no one can say I'm in the habit of shoving myself in where
I'm not wanted!"
"No, no, don't go off in a huff," said the dragon, hastily; "fact
is,--I'm as happy up here as the day's long; never without an
occupation, dear fellow, never without an occupation! And yet, between
ourselves, it _is_ a trifle dull at times."
The Boy bit off a stalk of grass and chewed it. "Going to make a long
stay here?" he asked, politely.
"Can't hardly say at present," replied the dragon. "It seems a nice
place enough--but I've only been here a short time, and one must look
about and reflect and consider before settling down. It's rather a
serious thing, settling down. Besides--now I'm going to tell you
something! You'd never guess it if you tried ever so!--fact is, I'm such
a confoundedly lazy beggar!"
"You surprise me," said the Boy, civilly.
"It's the sad truth," the dragon went on, settling down between his paws
and evidently delighted to have found a listener at last: "and I fancy
that's really how I came to be here. You see all the other fellows were
so active and _earnest_ and all that sort of thing--always rampaging,
and skirmishing, and scouring the desert sands, and pacing the margin of
the sea, and chasing knights all over the place, and devouring damsels,
and going on generally--whereas I liked to get my meals regular and then
to prop my back against a bit of rock and snooze a bit, and wake up and
think of things going on and how they kept going on just the same, you
know! So when it happened I got fairly caught."
"When _what_ happened, please?" asked the Boy.
[Illustration: THE RELUCTANT DRAGON
"_'What's your mind always occupied about?' asked the Boy. 'That's what
I want to know.'_"]
"That's just what I don't precisely know," said the dragon. "I
suppose the earth sneezed, or shook itself, or the bottom dropped out of
something. Anyhow there was a shake and a roar and a general stramash,
and I found myself miles away underground and wedged in as tight as
tight. Well, thank goodness, my wants are few, and at any rate I had
peace and quietness and wasn't always being asked to come along and _do_
something. And I've got such an active mind--always occupied, I assure
you! But time went on, and there was a certain sameness about the life,
and at last I began to think it would be fun to work my way upstairs and
see what you other fellows were doing. So I scratched and burrowed, and
worked this way and that way and at last I came out through this cave
here. And I like the country, and the view, and the people--what I've
seen of 'em--and on the whole I feel inclined to settle down here."
"What's your mind always occupied about?" asked the Boy. "That's what I
want to know."
The dragon coloured slightly and looked away. Presently he said
bashfully:
"Did you ever--just for fun--try to make up poetry--verses, you know?"
"'Course I have," said the Boy. "Heaps of it. And some of it's quite
good, I feel sure, only there's no one here cares about it. Mother's
very kind and all that, when I read it to her, and so's father for that
matter. But somehow they don't seem to--"
"Exactly," cried the dragon; "my own case exactly. They don't seem to,
and you can't argue with 'em about it. Now you've got culture, you have,
I could tell it on you at once, and I should just like your candid
opinion about some little things I threw off lightly, when I was down
there. I'm awfully pleased to have met you, and I'm hoping the other
neighbours will be equally agreeable. There was a very nice old
gentleman up here only last night, but he didn't seem to want to
intrude."
"That was my father," said the Boy, "and he _is_ a nice old gentleman,
and I'll introduce you some day if you like."
"Can't you two come up here and dine or something to-morrow?" asked the
dragon, eagerly. "Only, of course, if you've got nothing better to do,"
he added politely.
"Thanks awfully," said the Boy, "but we don't go out anywhere without my
mother, and, to tell you the truth, I'm afraid she mightn't quite
approve of you. You see there's no getting over the hard fact that
you're a dragon, is there? And when you talk of settling down, and the
neighbours, and so on, I can't help feeling that you don't quite realise
your position. You're an enemy of the human race, you see!"
"Haven't got an enemy in the world," said the dragon, cheerfully. "Too
lazy to make 'em, to begin with. And if I _do_ read other fellows my
poetry, I'm always ready to listen to theirs!"
"Oh, dear!" cried the Boy, "I wish you'd try and grasp the situation
properly. When the other people find you out, they'll come after you
with spears and swords and all sorts of things. You'll have to be
exterminated, according to their way of looking at it! You're a scourge,
and a pest, and a baneful monster!"
"Not a word of truth in it," said the dragon, wagging his head
solemnly. "Character'll bear the strictest investigation. And now,
there's a little sonnet-thing I was working on when you appeared on the
scene--"
"Oh, if you _won't_ be sensible," cried the Boy, getting up, "I'm going
off home. No, I can't stop for sonnets; my mother's sitting up. I'll
look you up to-morrow, sometime or other, and do for goodness' sake try
and realise that you're a pestilential scourge, or you'll find yourself
in a most awful fix. Good-night!"
The Boy found it an easy matter to set the mind of his parents at ease
about his new friend. They had always left that branch to him, and they
took his word without a murmur. The shepherd was formally introduced and
many compliments and kind inquiries were exchanged. His wife, however,
though expressing her willingness to do anything she could,--to mend
things, or set the cave to rights, or cook a little something when the
dragon had been poring over sonnets and forgotten his meals, as male
things _will_ do,--could not be brought to recognise him formally. The
fact that he was a dragon and "they didn't know who he was" seemed to
count for everything with her. She made no objection, however, to her
little son spending his evenings with the dragon quietly, so long as he
was home by nine o'clock: and many a pleasant night they had, sitting on
the sward, while the dragon told stories of old, old times, when dragons
were quite plentiful and the world was a livelier place than it is now,
and life was full of thrills and jumps and surprises.
What the Boy had feared, however, soon came to pass. The most modest and
retiring dragon in the world, if he's as big as four cart-horses and
covered with blue scales, cannot keep altogether out of the public view.
And so in the village tavern of nights the fact that a real live dragon
sat brooding in the cave on the Downs was naturally a subject for talk.
Though the villagers were extremely frightened, they were rather proud
as well. It was a distinction to have a dragon of your own, and it was
felt to be a feather in the cap of the village. Still, all were agreed
that this sort of thing couldn't be allowed to go on. The dreadful
beast must be exterminated, the country-side must be freed from this
pest, this terror, this destroying scourge. The fact that not even a
hen-roost was the worse for the dragon's arrival wasn't allowed to have
anything to do with it. He was a dragon, and he couldn't deny it, and if
he didn't choose to behave as such that was his own lookout. But in
spite of much valiant talk no hero was found willing to take sword and
spear and free the suffering village and win deathless fame; and each
night's heated discussion always ended in nothing. Meanwhile the dragon,
a happy Bohemian, lolled on the turf, enjoyed the sunsets, told
antediluvian anecdotes to the Boy, and polished his old verses while
meditating on fresh ones.
One day the Boy, on walking in to the village, found everything wearing
a festal appearance which was not to be accounted for in the calendar.
Carpets and gay-colored stuffs were hung out of the windows, the
church-bells clamoured noisily, the little street was flower-strewn, and
the whole population jostled each other along either side of it,
chattering, shoving, and ordering each other to stand back. The Boy saw
a friend of his own age in the crowd and hailed him.
"What's up?" he cried. "Is it the players, or bears, or a circus, or
what?"
"It's all right," his friend hailed back. "He's a-coming."
"_Who's_ a-coming?" demanded the Boy, thrusting into the throng.
"Why, St. George, of course," replied his friend. "He's heard tell of
our dragon, and he's comin' on purpose to slay the deadly beast, and
free us from his horrid yoke. O my! won't there be a jolly fight!"
Here was news indeed! The Boy felt that he ought to make quite sure for
himself, and he wriggled himself in between the legs of his good-natured
elders, abusing them all the time for their unmannerly habit of shoving.
Once in the front rank, he breathlessly awaited the arrival.
Presently from the far-away end of the line came the sound of cheering.
Next, the measured tramp of a great war-horse made his heart beat
quicker, and then he found himself cheering with the rest, as, amidst
welcoming shouts, shrill cries of women, uplifting of babies and waving
of handkerchiefs, St. George paced slowly up the street. The Boy's heart
stood still and he breathed with sobs, the beauty and the grace of the
hero were so far beyond anything he had yet seen. His fluted armour was
inlaid with gold, his plumed helmet hung at his saddle-bow, and his
thick fair hair framed a face gracious and gentle beyond expression till
you caught the sternness in his eyes. He drew rein in front of the
little inn, and the villagers crowded round with greetings and thanks
and voluble statements of their wrongs and grievances and oppressions.
The Boy heard the grave gentle voice of the Saint, assuring them that
all would be well now, and that he would stand by them and see them
righted and free them from their foe; then he dismounted and passed
through the doorway and the crowd poured in after him. But the Boy made
off up the hill as fast as he could lay his legs to the ground.
"It's all up, dragon!" he shouted as soon as he was within sight of the
beast. "He's coming! He's here now! You'll have to pull yourself
together and _do_ something at last!"
The dragon was licking his scales and rubbing them with a bit of
house-flannel the Boy's mother had lent him, till he shone like a great
turquoise.
"Don't be _violent_, Boy," he said without looking round. "Sit down and
get your breath, and try and remember that the noun governs the verb,
and then perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me _who's_ coming?"
"That's right, take it coolly," said the Boy. "Hope you'll be half as
cool when I've got through with my news. It's only St. George who's
coming, that's all; he rode into the village half-an-hour ago. Of course
you can lick him--a great big fellow like you! But I thought I'd warn
you, 'cos he's sure to be round early, and he's got the longest,
wickedest-looking spear you ever did see!" And the Boy got up and began
to jump round in sheer delight at the prospect of the battle.
"O deary, deary me," moaned the dragon; "this is too awful. I won't see
him, and that's flat. I don't want to know the fellow at all. I'm sure
he's not nice. You must tell him to go away at once, please. Say he can
write if he likes, but I can't give him an interview. I'm not seeing
anybody at present."
"Now dragon, dragon," said the Boy, imploringly, "don't be perverse and
wrongheaded. You've _got_ to fight him some time or other, you know,
'cos he's St. George and you're the dragon. Better get it over, and then
we can go on with the sonnets. And you ought to consider other people a
little, too. If it's been dull up here for you, think how dull it's been
for me!"
"My dear little man," said the dragon, solemnly, "just understand, once
for all, that I can't fight and I won't fight. I've never fought in my
life, and I'm not going to begin now, just to give you a Roman holiday.
In old days I always let the other fellows--the _earnest_ fellows--do
all the fighting, and no doubt that's why I have the pleasure of being
here now."
"But if you don't fight he'll cut your head off!" gasped the Boy,
miserable at the prospect of losing both his fight and his friend.
"Oh, I think not," said the dragon in his lazy way. "You'll be able to
arrange something. I've every confidence in you, you're such a
_manager_. Just run down, there's a dear chap, and make it all right. I
leave it entirely to you."
The Boy made his way back to the village in a state of great
despondency. First of all, there wasn't going to be any fight; next, his
dear and honoured friend the dragon hadn't shown up in quite such a
heroic light as he would have liked; and lastly, whether the dragon was
a hero at heart or not, it made no difference, for St. George would most
undoubtedly cut his head off. "Arrange things indeed!" he said bitterly
to himself. "The dragon treats the whole affair as if it was an
invitation to tea and croquet."
The villagers were straggling homewards as he passed up the street, all
of them in the highest spirits, and gleefully discussing the splendid
fight that was in store. The Boy pursued his way to the inn, and passed
into the principal chamber, where St. George now sat alone, musing over
the chances of the fight, and the sad stories of rapine and of wrong
that had so lately been poured into his sympathetic ears.
"May I come in, St. George?" said the Boy, politely, as he paused at the
door. "I want to talk to you about this little matter of the dragon, if
you're not tired of it by this time."
"Yes, come in, Boy," said the Saint, kindly. "Another tale of misery and
wrong, I fear me. Is it a kind parent, then, of whom the tyrant has
bereft you? Or some tender sister or brother? Well, it shall soon be
avenged."
"Nothing of the sort," said the Boy. "There's a misunderstanding
somewhere, and I want to put it right. The fact is, this is a _good_
dragon."
"Exactly," said St. George, smiling pleasantly, "I quite understand. A
good _dragon_. Believe me, I do not in the least regret that he is an
adversary worthy of my steel, and no feeble specimen of his noxious
tribe."
"But he's _not_ a noxious tribe," cried the Boy, distressedly. "Oh dear,
oh dear, how _stupid_ men are when they get an idea into their heads! I
tell you he's a _good_ dragon, and a friend of mine, and tells me the
most beautiful stories you ever heard, all about old times and when he
was little. And he's been so kind to mother, and mother'd do anything
for him. And father likes him too, though father doesn't hold with art
and poetry much, and always falls asleep when the dragon starts talking
about _style_. But the fact is, nobody can help liking him when once
they know him. He's so engaging and so trustful, and as simple as a
child!"
"Sit down, and draw your chair up," said St. George. "I like a fellow
who sticks up for his friends, and I'm sure the dragon has his good
points, if he's got a friend like you. But that's not the question. All
this evening I've been listening, with grief and anguish unspeakable, to
tales of murder, theft, and wrong; rather too highly coloured, perhaps,
not always quite convincing, but forming in the main a most serious roll
of crime. History teaches us that the greatest rascals often possess all
the domestic virtues; and I fear that your cultivated friend, in spite
of the qualities which have won (and rightly) your regard, has got to be
speedily exterminated."
"Oh, you've been taking in all the yarns those fellows have been telling
you," said the Boy, impatiently. "Why, our villagers are the biggest
story-tellers in all the country round. It's a known fact. You're a
stranger in these parts, or else you'd have heard it already. All they
want is a _fight_. They're the most awful beggars for getting up
fights--it's meat and drink to them. Dogs, bulls, dragons--anything so
long as it's a fight. Why, they've got a poor innocent badger in the
stable behind here, at this moment. They were going to have some fun
with him to-day, but they're saving him up now till _your_ little
affair's over. And I've no doubt they've been telling you what a hero
you were, and how you were bound to win, in the cause of right and
justice, and so on; but let me tell you, I came down the street just
now, and they were betting six to four on the dragon freely!"
"Six to four on the dragon!" murmured St. George, sadly, resting his
cheek on his hand. "This is an evil world, and sometimes I begin to
think that all the wickedness in it is not entirely bottled up inside
the dragons. And yet--may not this wily beast have misled you as to his
real character, in order that your good report of him may serve as a
cloak for his evil deeds? Nay, may there not be, at this very moment,
some hapless Princess immured within yonder gloomy cavern?"
The moment he had spoken, St. George was sorry for what he had said, the
Boy looked so genuinely distressed.
"I assure you, St. George," he said earnestly, "there's nothing of the
sort in the cave at all. The dragon's a real gentleman, every inch of
him, and I may say that no one would be more shocked and grieved than he
would, at hearing you talk in that--that _loose_ way about matters on
which he has very strong views!"
"Well, perhaps I've been over-credulous," said St. George. "Perhaps I've
misjudged the animal. But what are we to do? Here are the dragon and I,
almost face to face, each supposed to be thirsting for each other's
blood. I don't see any way out of it, exactly. What do you suggest?
Can't you arrange things, somehow?"
"That's just what the dragon said," replied the Boy, rather nettled.
"Really, the way you two seem to leave everything to me--I suppose you
couldn't be persuaded to go away quietly, could you?"
"Impossible, I fear," said the Saint. "Quite against the rules. _You_
know that as well as I do."
"Well, then, look here," said the Boy, "it's early yet--would you mind
strolling up with me and seeing the dragon and talking it over? It's not
far, and any friend of mine will be most welcome."
"Well, it's _irregular_," said St. George, rising, "but really it seems
about the most sensible thing to do. You 're taking a lot of trouble on
your friend's account," he added, good-naturedly, as they passed out
through the door together. "But cheer up! Perhaps there won't have to be
any fight after all."
"Oh, but I hope there will, though!" replied the little fellow,
wistfully.
"I've brought a friend to see you, dragon," said the Boy, rather loud.
The dragon woke up with a start. "I was just--er--thinking about
things," he said in his simple way. "Very pleased to make your
acquaintance, sir. Charming weather we're having!"
"This is St. George," said the Boy, shortly. "St. George, let me
introduce you to the dragon. We've come up to talk things over quietly,
dragon, and now for goodness' sake do let us have a little straight
common-sense, and come to some practical business-like arrangement, for
I'm sick of views and theories of life and personal tendencies, and all
that sort of thing. I may perhaps add that my mother's sitting up."
"So glad to meet you, St. George," began the dragon, rather nervously,
"because you've been a great traveller, I hear, and I've always been
rather a stay-at-home. But I can show you many antiquities, many
interesting features of our country-side, if you're stopping here any
time--"
"I think," said St. George, in his frank, pleasant way, "that we'd
really better take the advice of our young friend here, and try to come
to some understanding, on a business footing, about this little affair
of ours. Now don't you think that after all the simplest plan would be
just to fight it out, according to the rules, and let the best man win?
They re betting on you, I may tell you, down in the village, but I don't
mind that!"
"Oh, yes, _do_, dragon," said the Boy, delightedly; "it'll save such a
lot of bother!"
"My young friend, you shut up," said the dragon, severely. "Believe me,
St. George," he went on, "there's nobody in the world I'd sooner oblige
than you and this young gentleman here. But the whole thing's nonsense,
and conventionality, and popular thick-headedness. There's absolutely
nothing to fight about, from beginning to end. And anyhow I'm not going
to, so that settles it!"
"But supposing I make you?" said St. George, rather nettled.
"You can't," said the dragon, triumphantly. "I should only go into my
cave and retire for a time down the hole I came up. You'd soon get
heartily sick of sitting outside and waiting for me to come out and
fight you. And as soon as you'd really gone away, why, I'd come up again
gaily, for I tell you frankly, I like this place, and I'm going to stay
here!"
St. George gazed for a while on the fair landscape around them. "But
this would be a beautiful place for a fight," he began again
persuasively. "These great bare rolling Downs for the arena,--and me in
my golden armour showing up against your big blue scaly coils! Think
what a picture it would make!"
"Now you're trying to get at me through my artistic sensibilities," said
the dragon. "But it won't work. Not but what it would make a very pretty
picture, as you say," he added, wavering a little.
"We seem to be getting rather nearer to _business_," put in the Boy.
"You must see, dragon, that there's got to be a fight of some sort, 'cos
you can't want to have to go down that dirty old hole again and stop
there till goodness knows when."
"It might be arranged," said St. George, thoughtfully. "I _must_ spear
you somewhere, of course, but I'm not bound to hurt you very much.
There's such a lot of you that there must be a few _spare_ places
somewhere. Here, for instance, just behind your foreleg. It couldn't
hurt you much, just here!"
"Now you're tickling, George," said the dragon, coyly. "No, that place
won't do at all. Even if it didn't hurt,--and I'm sure it would,
awfully,--it would make me laugh, and that would spoil everything."
"Let's try somewhere else, then," said St. George, patiently. "Under
your neck, for instance,--all these folds of thick skin,--if I speared
you here you'd never even know I'd done it!"
"Yes, but are you sure you can hit off the right place?" asked the
dragon, anxiously.
"Of course I am," said St. George, with confidence. "You leave that to
me!"
"It's just because I've _got_ to leave it to you that I'm asking,"
replied the dragon, rather testily. "No doubt you would deeply regret
any error you might make in the hurry of the moment; but you wouldn't
regret it half as much as I should! However, I suppose we've got to
trust somebody, as we go through life, and your plan seems, on the
whole, as good a one as any."
"Look here, dragon," interrupted the Boy, a little jealous on behalf of
his friend, who seemed to be getting all the worst of the bargain: "I
don't quite see where _you_ come in! There's to be a fight, apparently,
and you're to be licked; and what I want to know is, what are _you_
going to get out of it?"
"St. George," said the dragon, "just tell him, please,--what will happen
after I'm vanquished in the deadly combat?"
"Well, according to the rules I suppose I shall lead you in triumph down
to the market-place or whatever answers to it," said St. George.
"Precisely," said the dragon. "And then--"
"And then there'll be shoutings and speeches and things," continued St.
George. "And I shall explain that you're converted, and see the error of
your ways, and so on."
"Quite so," said the dragon. "And then--?"
"Oh, and then--" said St. George, "why, and then there will be the usual
banquet, I suppose."
"Exactly," said the dragon; "and that's where _I_ come in. Look here,"
he continued, addressing the Boy, "I'm bored to death up here, and no
one really appreciates me. I'm going into Society, I am, through the
kindly aid of our friend here, who's taking such a lot of trouble on my
account; and you'll find I've got all the qualities to endear me to
people who entertain! So now that's all settled, and if you don't
mind--I'm an old-fashioned fellow--don't want to turn you out, but--"
"Remember, you'll have to do your proper share of the fighting, dragon!"
said St. George, as he took the hint and rose to go; "I mean ramping,
and breathing fire, and so on!"
"I can _ramp_ all right," replied the dragon, confidently; "as to
breathing fire, it's surprising how easily one gets out of practice; but
I'll do the best I can. Good-night!"
They had descended the hill and were almost back in the village again,
when St. George stopped short, "_Knew_ I had forgotten something," he
said. "There ought to be a Princess. Terror-stricken and chained to a
rock, and all that sort of thing. Boy, can't you arrange a Princess?"
The Boy was in the middle of a tremendous yawn. "I'm tired to death," he
wailed, "and I _can't_ arrange a Princess, or anything more, at this
time of night. And my mother's sitting up, and _do_ stop asking me to
arrange more things till to-morrow!"
* * * * *
Next morning the people began streaming up to the Downs at quite an
early hour, in their Sunday clothes and carrying baskets with
bottlenecks sticking out of them, every one intent on securing good
places for the combat. This was not exactly a simple matter, for of
course it was quite possible that the dragon might win, and in that case
even those who had put their money on him felt they could hardly expect
him to deal with his backers on a different footing to the rest. Places
were chosen, therefore, with circumspection and with a view to a speedy
retreat in case of emergency; and the front rank was mostly composed of
boys who had escaped from parental control and now sprawled and rolled
about on the grass, regardless of the shrill threats and warnings
discharged at them by their anxious mothers behind.
The Boy had secured a good front place, well up towards the cave, and
was feeling as anxious as a stage-manager on a first night. Could the
dragon be depended upon? He might change his mind and vote the whole
performance rot; or else, seeing that the affair had been so hastily
planned, without even a rehearsal, he might be too nervous to show up.
The Boy looked narrowly at the cave, but it showed no sign of life or
occupation. Could the dragon have made a moon-light flitting?
The higher portions of the ground were now black with sightseers, and
presently a sound of cheering and a waving of handkerchiefs told that
something was visible to them which the Boy, far up towards the
dragon-end of the line as he was, could not yet see. A minute more and
St. George's red plumes topped the hill, as the Saint rode slowly forth
on the great level space which stretched up to the grim mouth of the
cave. Very gallant and beautiful he looked, on his tall war-horse, his
golden armour glancing in the sun, his great spear held erect, the
little white pennon, crimson-crossed, fluttering at its point. He drew
rein and remained motionless. The lines of spectators began to give back
a little, nervously; and even the boys in front stopped pulling hair and
cuffing each other, and leaned forward expectant.
"Now then, dragon!" muttered the Boy, impatiently, fidgeting where he
sat. He need not have distressed himself, had he only known. The
dramatic possibilities of the thing had tickled the dragon immensely,
and he had been up from an early hour, preparing for his first public
appearance with as much heartiness as if the years had run backwards,
and he had been again a little dragonlet, playing with his sisters on
the floor of their mother's cave, at the game of saints-and-dragons, in
which the dragon was bound to win.
A low muttering, mingled with snorts, now made itself heard; rising to a
bellowing roar that seemed to fill the plain. Then a cloud of smoke
obscured the mouth of the cave, and out of the midst of it the dragon
himself, shining, sea-blue, magnificent, pranced splendidly forth; and
everybody said, "Oo oo-oo!" as if he had been a mighty rocket! His
scales were glittering, his long spiky tail lashed his sides, his claws
tore up the turf and sent it flying high over his back, and smoke and
fire incessantly jetted from his angry nostrils. "Oh, well done,
dragon!" cried the Boy, excitedly. "Didn't think he had it in him!" he
added to himself.
St. George lowered his spear, bent his head, dug his heels into his
horse's sides, and came thundering over the turf. The dragon charged
with a roar and a squeal,--a great blue whirling combination of coils
and snorts and clashing jaws and spikes and fire.
"Missed!" yelled the crowd. There was a moment's entanglement of golden
armour and blue-green coils, and spiky tail, and then the great horse,
tearing at his bit, carried the Saint, his spear swung high in the air,
almost up to the mouth of the cave.
The dragon sat down and barked viciously, while St. George with
difficulty pulled his horse round into position.
"End of Round One!" thought the Boy. "How well they managed it! But I
hope the Saint won't get excited. I can trust the dragon all right. What
a regular play-actor the fellow is!"
St. George had at last prevailed on his horse to stand steady, and was
looking round him as he wiped his brow. Catching sight of the Boy, he
smiled and nodded, and held up three fingers for an instant.
"It seems to be all planned out," said the Boy to himself. "Round Three
is to be the finishing one, evidently. Wish it could have lasted a bit
longer. Whatever's that old fool of a dragon up to now?"
The dragon was employing the interval in giving a ramping-performance
for the benefit of the crowd. Ramping, it should be explained, consists
in running round and round in a wide circle, and sending waves and
ripples of movement along the whole length of your spine, from your
pointed ears right down to the spike at the end of your long tail. When
you are covered with blue scales, the effect is particularly pleasing;
and the Boy recollected the dragon's recently expressed wish to become a
social success.
St. George now gathered up his reins and began to move forward, dropping
the point of his spear and settling himself firmly in the saddle.
"Time!" yelled everybody excitedly; and the dragon, leaving off his
ramping, sat up on end, and began to leap from one side to the other
with huge ungainly bounds, whooping like a Red Indian. This naturally
disconcerted the horse, who swerved violently, the Saint only just
saving himself by the mane; and as they shot past the dragon delivered a
vicious snap at the horse's tail which sent the poor beast careering
madly far over the Downs, so that the language of the Saint, who had
lost a stirrup, was fortunately inaudible to the general assemblage.
Round Two evoked audible evidence of friendly feeling towards the
dragon. The spectators were not slow to appreciate a combatant who could
hold his own so well and clearly wanted to show good sport; and many
encouraging remarks reached the ears of our friend as he strutted to and
fro, his chest thrust out and his tail in the air, hugely enjoying his
new popularity.
St. George had dismounted and was tightening his girths, and telling his
horse, with quite an Oriental flow of imagery, exactly what he thought
of him, and his relations, and his conduct on the present occasion; so
the Boy made his way down to the Saint's end of the line, and held his
spear for him.
"It's been a jolly fight, St. George!" he said with a sigh. "Can't you
let it last a bit longer?"
"Well, I think I'd better not," replied the Saint. "The fact is, your
simple-minded old friend's getting conceited, now they've begun cheering
him, and he'll forget all about the arrangement and take to playing the
fool, and there's no telling where he would stop. I'll just finish him
off this round."
He swung himself into the saddle and took his spear from the Boy. "Now
don't you be afraid," he added kindly. "I've marked my spot exactly, and
he's sure to give me all the assistance in his power, because he knows
it's his only chance of being asked to the banquet!"
St. George now shortened his spear, bringing the butt well up under his
arm; and, instead of galloping as before, trotted smartly towards the
dragon, who crouched at his approach, flicking his tail till it cracked
in the air like a great cart-whip. The Saint wheeled as he neared his
opponent and circled warily round him, keeping his eye on the spare
place; while the dragon, adopting similar tactics, paced with caution
round the same circle, occasionally feinting with his head. So the two
sparred for an opening, while the spectators maintained a breathless
silence.
Though the round lasted for some minutes, the end was so swift that all
the Boy saw was a lightning movement of the Saint's arm, and then a
whirl and a confusion of spines, claws, tail, and flying bits of turf.
The dust cleared away, the spectators whooped and ran in cheering, and
the Boy made out that the dragon was down, pinned to the earth by the
spear, while St. George had dismounted, and stood astride of him.
It all seemed so genuine that the Boy ran in breathlessly, hoping the
dear old dragon wasn't really hurt. As he approached, the dragon lifted
one large eyelid, winked solemnly, and collapsed again. He was held fast
to earth by the neck, but the Saint had hit him in the spare place
agreed upon, and it didn't even seem to tickle.
"Bain't you goin' to cut 'is 'ed orf, master?" asked one of the
applauding crowd. He had backed the dragon, and naturally felt a trifle
sore.
"Well, not to-day, I think," replied St. George, pleasantly. "You see,
that can be done at any time. There's no hurry at all. I think we'll all
go down to the village first, and have some refreshment, and then I'll
give him a good talking-to, and you'll find he'll be a very different
dragon!"
At that magic word refreshment the whole crowd formed up in procession
and silently awaited the signal to start. The time for talking and
cheering and betting was past, the hour for action had arrived. St.
George, hauling on his spear with both hands, released the dragon, who
rose and shook himself and ran his eye over his spikes and scales and
things, to see that they were all in order. Then the Saint mounted and
led off the procession, the dragon following meekly in the company of
the Boy, while the thirsty spectators kept at a respectful interval
behind.
There were great doings when they got down to the village again, and had
formed up in front of the inn. After refreshment St. George made a
speech, in which he informed his audience that he had removed their
direful scourge, at a great deal of trouble and inconvenience to
himself, and now they weren't to go about grumbling and fancying they'd
got grievances, because they hadn't. And they shouldn't be so fond of
fights, because next time they might have to do the fighting themselves,
which would not be the same thing at all. And there was a certain badger
in the inn stables which had got to be released at once, and he'd come
and see it done himself. Then he told them that the dragon had been
thinking over things, and saw that there were two sides to every
question, and he wasn't going to do it any more, and if they were good
perhaps he'd stay and settle down there. So they must make friends, and
not be prejudiced, and go about fancying they knew everything there was
to be known, because they didn't, not by a long way. And he warned them
against the sin of romancing, and making up stories and fancying other
people would believe them just because they were plausible and
highly-coloured. Then he sat down, amidst much repentant cheering, and
the dragon nudged the Boy in the ribs and whispered that he couldn't
have done it better himself. Then every one went off to get ready for
the banquet.
Banquets are always pleasant things, consisting mostly, as they do, of
eating and drinking; but the specially nice thing about a banquet is,
that it comes when something's over, and there's nothing more to worry
about, and to-morrow seems a long way off. St. George was happy because
there had been a fight and he hadn't had to kill anybody; for he didn't
really like killing, though he generally had to do it. The dragon was
happy because there had been a fight, and so far from being hurt in it
he had won popularity and a sure footing in society. The Boy was happy
because there had been a fight, and in spite of it all his two friends
were on the best of terms. And all the others were happy because there
had been a fight, and--well, they didn't require any other reasons for
their happiness. The dragon exerted himself to say the right thing to
everybody, and proved the life and soul of the evening; while the Saint
and the Boy, as they looked on, felt that they were only assisting at a
feast of which the honour and the glory were entirely the dragon's. But
they didn't mind that, being good fellows, and the dragon was not in the
least proud or forgetful. On the contrary, every ten minutes or so he
leant over towards the Boy and said impressively: "Look here! you will
see me home afterwards, won't you?" And the Boy always nodded, though he
had promised his mother not to be out late.
At last the banquet was over, the guests had dropped away with many
good-nights and congratulations and invitations, and the dragon, who had
seen the last of them off the premises, emerged into the street followed
by the Boy, wiped his brow, sighed, sat down in the road and gazed at
the stars. "Jolly night it's been!" he murmured. "Jolly stars! Jolly
little place this! Think I shall just stop here. Don't feel like
climbing up any beastly hill. Boy's promised to see me home. Boy had
better do it then! No responsibility on my part. Responsibility all
Boy's!" And his chin sank on his broad chest and he slumbered
peacefully.
"Oh, get up, dragon," cried the Boy, piteously. "You know my mother's
sitting up, and I'm so tired, and you made me promise to see you home,
and I never knew what it meant or I wouldn't have done it!" And the Boy
sat down in the road by the side of the sleeping dragon, and cried.
The door behind them opened, a stream of light illumined the road, and
St. George, who had come out for a stroll in the cool night-air, caught
sight of the two figures sitting there--the great motionless dragon and
the tearful little Boy.
"What's the matter, Boy?" he inquired kindly, stepping to his side.
"Oh, it's this great lumbering _pig_ of a dragon!" sobbed the Boy.
"First he makes me promise to see him home, and then he says I'd better
do it, and goes to sleep! Might as well try to see a _haystack_ home!
And I'm so tired, and mother's--" here he broke down again.
"Now don't take on," said St. George. "I'll stand by you, and we'll
_both_ see him home. Wake up, dragon!" he said sharply, shaking the
beast by the elbow.
The dragon looked up sleepily. "What a night, George!" he murmured;
"what a--"
"Now look here, dragon," said the Saint, firmly. "Here's this little
fellow waiting to see you home, and you _know_ he ought to have been in
bed these two hours, and what his mother'll say _I_ don't know, and
anybody but a selfish pig would have _made_ him go to bed long ago--"
"And he _shall_ go to bed!" cried the dragon, starting up. "Poor little
chap, only fancy his being up at this hour! It's a shame, that's what it
is, and I don't think, St. George, you've been very considerate--but
come along at once, and don't let us have any more arguing or
shilly-shallying. You give me hold of your hand, Boy--thank you, George,
an arm up the hill is just what I wanted!"
So they set off up the hill arm-in-arm, the Saint, the Dragon, and the
Boy. The lights in the little village began to go out; but there were
stars, and a late moon, as they climbed to the Downs together. And, as
they turned the last corner and disappeared from view, snatches of an
old song were borne back on the night-breeze. I can't be certain which
of them was singing, but I _think_ it was the Dragon!
"Here we are at your gate," said the man, abruptly, laying his hand on
it. "Good-night. Cut along in sharp, or you'll catch it!"
Could it really be our own gate? Yes, there it was, sure enough, with
the familiar marks on its bottom bar made by our feet when we swung on
it.
"Oh, but wait a minute!" cried Charlotte. "I want to know a heap of
things. Did the dragon really settle down? And did--"
"There isn't any more of that story," said the man, kindly but firmly.
"At least, not tonight. Now be off! Good-bye!"
"Wonder if it's all true?" said Charlotte, as we hurried up the path.
"Sounded dreadfully like nonsense, in parts!"
"P'raps it's true for all that," I replied encouragingly.
Charlotte bolted in like a rabbit, out of the cold and the dark; but I
lingered a moment in the still, frosty air, for a backward glance at the
silent white world without, ere I changed it for the land of firelight
and cushions and laughter. It was the day for choir-practice, and
caroltime was at hand, and a belated member was passing homewards down
the road, singing as he went:--
"Then St. George: ee made rev'rence: in the stable so dim,
Oo vanquished the dragon: so fearful and grim.
So-o grim: and so-o fierce: that now may we say
All peaceful is our wakin': on Chri-istmas Day!"
The singer receded, the carol died away. But I wondered, with my hand on
the door-latch, whether that was the song, or something like it, that
the dragon sang as he toddled contentedly up the hill.
[Illustration]