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A LITTLE BOY LOST
* * * * *
UNUSUAL BOOKS _FOR BOYS AND GIRLS_
THREE AND THE MOON BY JACQUES DOREY
_DECORATED BY BORIS ARTZYBASHEFF_
THE KINGDOM AND THE POWER AND THE GLORY BIBLE STORIES
_SELECTED AND DECORATED BY JAMES DAUGHERTY_
THE RUNAWAY SARDINE
_TOLD AND ILLUSTRATED BY EMMA L. BROCK_
THE THREE MULLA-MULGARS BY WALTER DE LA MARE
_ILLUSTRATED BY DOROTHY LATHROP_
COME HITHER BY WALTER DE LA MARE
_DECORATED BY ALEC BUCKELS_
* * * * *
[Illustration: HE IN TURN, LEANING OVER THE ROCK STARED BACK INTO
MARTIN'S FACE WITH HIS IMMENSE FISHY EYES.]
A LITTLE BOY LOST
by
W . H . HUDSON
Author of "Green Mansions," Etc.
Illustrated by Dorothy . P . Lathrop
[Illustration]
New York
Alfred . A . Knopf
MCMXXXVI
Copyright 1920 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
in any form without permission in writing from the publisher,
except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages or reproduce
not more than three illustrations in a review to be printed
in a magazine or newspaper.
Published September 18, 1920
Manufactured in the United States of America
_Contents_
I THE HOME ON THE GREAT PLAIN, 13
II THE SPOONBILL AND THE CLOUD, 20
III CHASING A FLYING FIGURE, 29
IV MARTIN IS FOUND BY A DEAF OLD MAN, 33
V THE PEOPLE OF THE MIRAGE, 44
VI MARTIN MEETS WITH SAVAGES, 60
VII ALONE IN THE GREAT FOREST, 68
VIII THE FLOWER AND THE SERPENT, 76
IX THE BLACK PEOPLE OF THE SKY, 86
X A TROOP OF WILD HORSES, 95
XI THE LADY OF THE HILLS, 109
XII THE LITTLE PEOPLE UNDERGROUND, 117
XIII THE GREAT BLUE WATER, 129
XIV THE WONDERS OF THE HILLS, 135
XV MARTIN'S EYES ARE OPENED, 144
XVI THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST, 153
XVII THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA, 163
XVIII MARTIN PLAYS WITH THE WAVES, 173
NOTE, 184
_Illustrations_
He in turn, leaning over the rock stared back into Martin's face
with his immense fishy eyes _Frontispiece_
PAGE
"Oh, poor bird," he cried suddenly, "open your wings and fly
away!" 28
Groping his way to the bucket of cold water--he managed to
raise it up in his arms, and poured it over the sleeper 39
"The Queen wishes to speak to you--stand up, little boy" 52
How strange it seemed when, holding on to a twig, he bent over
and saw himself reflected in that black mirror 71
He quickly ate it, and then pulled another and ate that, and then
another, and still others, until he could eat no more 79
Then the wild man, catching Martin up, leaped upon the back of
one of the horses 103
She raised him in her arms and pressed him to her bosom, wrapping
her hair like a warm mantle around him 115
For a moment or two he was tempted to turn and run back into the
passage through which he had come 122
The doe--timidly smelt at his hand, then licked it with her long
pink tongue 140
Throwing up her arms, she uttered a long call, and the birds
began to come lower and lower down 145
One of the mist people--held the shell to Martin's ear,--and
Martin knew--that it was the voice of the sea 156
A LITTLE BOY LOST
[Illustration]
_Chapter One_
_The Home on the Great Plain_
Some like to be one thing, some another. There is so much to be done, so
many different things to do, so many trades! Shepherds, soldiers,
sailors, ploughmen, carters--one could go on all day naming without
getting to the end of them. For myself, boy and man, I have been many
things, working for a living, and sometimes doing things just for
pleasure; but somehow, whatever I did, it never seemed quite the right
and proper thing to do--it never quite satisfied me. I always wanted to
do something else--I wanted to be a carpenter. It seemed to me that to
stand among wood-shavings and sawdust, making things at a bench with
bright beautiful tools out of nice-smelling wood, was the cleanest,
healthiest, prettiest work that any man can do. Now all this has
nothing, or very little, to do with my story: I only spoke of it
because I had to begin somehow, and it struck me that would make a start
that way. And for another reason, too. _His father was a carpenter_. I
mean Martin's father--Martin, the Little Boy Lost. His father's name was
John, and he was a very good man and a good carpenter, and he loved to
do his carpentering better than anything else; in fact as much as I
should have loved it if I had been taught that trade. He lived in a
seaside town, named Southampton, where there is a great harbour, where
he saw great ships coming and going to and from all parts of the world.
Now, no strong, brave man can live in a place like that, seeing the ships
and often talking to the people who voyaged in them about the distant
lands where they had been, without wishing to go and see those distant
countries for himself. When it is winter in England, and it rains and
rains, and the east wind blows, and it is grey and cold and the trees
are bare, who does not think how nice it would be to fly away like the
summer birds to some distant country where the sky is always blue and
the sun shines bright and warm every day? And so it came to pass that
John, at last, when he was an old man, sold his shop, and went abroad.
They went to a country many thousands of miles away--for you must know
that Mrs. John went too; and when the sea voyage ended, they travelled
many days and weeks in a wagon until they came to the place where they
wanted to live; and there, in that lonely country, they built a house,
and made a garden, and planted an orchard. It was a desert, and they
had no neighbours, but they were happy enough because they had as much
land as they wanted, and the weather was always bright and beautiful;
John, too, had his carpenter's tools to work with when he felt inclined;
and, best of all, they had little Martin to love and think about.
But how about Martin himself? You might think that with no other child
to prattle to and play with or even to see, it was too lonely a home for
him. Not a bit of it! No child could have been happier. He did not want
for company; his play-fellows were the dogs and cats and chickens, and
any creature in and about the house. But most of all he loved the little
shy creatures that lived in the sunshine among the flowers--the small
birds and butterflies, and little beasties and creeping things he was
accustomed to see outside the gate among the tall, wild sunflowers.
There were acres of these plants, and they were taller than Martin, and
covered with flowers no bigger than marigolds, and here among the
sunflowers he used to spend most of the day, as happy as possible.
He had other amusements too. Whenever John went to his carpenter's
shop--for the old man still dearly loved his carpentering--Martin would
run in to keep him company. One thing he loved to do was to pick up the
longest wood-shavings, to wind them round his neck and arms and legs,
and then he would laugh and dance with delight, happy as a young Indian
in his ornaments.
A wood-shaving may seem a poor plaything to a child with all the
toyshops in London to pick and choose from, but it is really very
curious and pretty. Bright and smooth to the touch, pencilled with
delicate wavy lines, while in its spiral shape it reminds one of winding
plants, and tendrils by means of which vines and creepers support
themselves, and flowers with curling petals, and curled leaves and
sea-shells and many other pretty natural objects.
One day Martin ran into the house looking very flushed and joyous,
holding up his pinafore with something heavy in it.
"What have you got now?" cried his father and mother in a breath,
getting up to peep at his treasure, for Martin was always fetching in
the most curious out-of-the-way things to show them.
"My pretty shaving," said Martin proudly.
When they looked they were amazed and horrified to see a spotted green
snake coiled comfortably up in the pinafore. It didn't appear to like
being looked at by them, for it raised its curious heart-shaped head and
flicked its little red, forked tongue at them.
His mother gave a great scream, and dropped the jug she had in her hand
upon the floor, while John rushed off to get a big stick. "Drop it,
Martin--drop the wicked snake before it stings you, and I'll soon kill
it."
Martin stared, surprised at the fuss they were making; then, still
tightly holding the ends of his pinafore, he turned and ran out of the
room and away as fast as he could go. Away went his father after him,
stick in hand, and out of the gate into the thicket of tall wild
sunflowers where Martin had vanished from sight. After hunting about for
some time, he found the little run-away sitting on the ground among the
weeds.
"Where's the snake?" he cried.
"Gone!" said Martin, waving his little hand around. "I let it go and you
mustn't look for it."
John picked the child up in his arms and marched back to the room and
popped him down on the floor, then gave him a good scolding. "It's a
mercy the poisonous thing didn't sting you," he said. "You're a naughty
little boy to play with snakes, because they're dangerous bad things,
and you die if they bite you. And now you must go straight to bed;
that's the only punishment that has any effect on such a harebrained
little butterfly."
Martin, puckering up his face for a cry, crept away to his little room.
It was very hard to have to go to bed in the daytime when he was not
sleepy, and when the birds and butterflies were out in the sunshine
having such a good time.
"It's not a bit of use scolding him--I found that out long ago," said
Mrs. John, shaking her head. "Do you know, John, I can't help thinking
sometimes that he's not our child at all."
"Whose child do you think he is, then?" said John, who had a cup of
water in his hand, for the chase after Martin had made him hot, and he
wanted cooling.
"I don't know--but I once had a very curious dream."
"People often do have curious dreams," said wise old John.
"But this was a very curious one, and I remember saying to myself, if
this doesn't mean something that is going to happen, then dreams don't
count for much."
"No more they do," said John.
"It was in England, just when we were getting ready for the voyage, and
it was autumn, when the birds were leaving us. I dreamed that I went out
alone and walked by the sea, and stood watching a great number of
swallows flying by and out over the sea--flying away to some distant
land. By-and-by I noticed one bird coming down lower and lower as if he
wanted to alight, and I watched it, and it came down straight to me, and
at last flew right into my bosom. I put my hand on it, and looking close
saw that it was a martin, all pure white on its throat and breast, and
with a white patch on its back. Then I woke up, and it was because of
that dream that I named our child Martin instead of John as you wished
to do. Now, when I watch swallows flying about, coming and going round
the house, I sometimes think that Martin came to us like that one in the
dream, and that some day he will fly away from us. When he gets bigger,
I mean."
"When he gets littler, you mean," said John with a laugh. "No, no, he's
too big for a swallow--a Michaelmas goose would be nothing to him for
size. But here I am listening to your silly dreams instead of watering
the melons and cucumbers!" And out he went to his garden, but in a
minute he put his head in at the door and said, "You may go and tell him
to get up if you like. Poor little fellow! Only make him promise not to
go chumming with spotted snakes any more, and not to bring them into the
house, because somehow they disagree with me."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_Chapter Two_
_The Spoonbill and the Cloud_
As Martin grew in years and strength, his age being now about seven, his
rambles began to extend beyond the waste grounds outside of the fenced
orchard and gate. These waste grounds were a wilderness of weeds: here
were the sunflowers that Martin liked best; the wild cock's-comb,
flaunting great crimson tufts; the yellow flowering mustard, taller than
the tallest man; giant thistle, and wild pumpkin with spotted leaves;
the huge hairy fox-gloves with yellow bells; feathery fennel, and the
big grey-green thorn-apples, with prickly burs full of bright red seed,
and long white wax-like flowers, that bloomed only in the evening. He
could never get high enough on anything to see over the tops of these
plants; but at last he found his way through them, and discovered on
their further side a wide grassy plain with scarcely a tree on it,
stretching away into the blue distance. On this vast plain he gazed with
wonderment and delight. Behind the orchard and weedy waste the ground
sloped down to a stream of running water, full of tall rushes with dark
green polished stems, and yellow water-lilies. All along the moist banks
grew other flowers that were never seen in the dry ground above--the
blue star, and scarlet and white verbenas; and sweet-peas of all
colours; and the delicate red vinegar flower, and angel's hair, and the
small fragrant lilies called Mary's-tears, and tall scattered flags,
flaunting their yellow blossoms high above the meadow grass.
Every day Martin ran down to the stream to gather flowers and shells;
for many curious water-snails were found there with brown purple-striped
shells; and he also liked to watch the small birds that build their
nests in the rushes.
There were three of these small birds that did not appear to know that
Martin loved them; for no sooner would he present himself at the stream
than forth they would flutter in a great state of mind. One, the
prettiest, was a tiny, green-backed little creature, with a crimson
crest and a velvet-black band across a bright yellow breast: this one
had a soft, low, complaining voice, clear as a silver bell. The second
was a brisk little grey and black fellow, with a loud, indignant chuck,
and a broad tail which he incessantly opened and shut, like a Spanish
lady playing with her fan. The third was a shy, mysterious little brown
bird, peering out of the clustering leaves, and making a sound like the
soft ticking of a clock. They were like three little men, an Italian, a
Dutchman, and a Hindoo, talking together, each in his own language, and
yet well able to understand each other. Martin could not make out what
they said, but suspected that they were talking about him; and he feared
that their remarks were not always of a friendly nature.
At length he made the discovery that the water of the stream was
perpetually running away. If he dropped a leaf on the surface it would
hasten down stream, and toss about and fret impatiently against anything
that stood in its way, until, making its escape, it would quickly hurry
out of sight. Whither did this rippling, running water go? He was
anxious to find out. At length, losing all fear and fired with the sight
of many new and pretty things he found while following it, he ran along
the banks until, miles from home, he came to a great lake he could
hardly see across, it was so broad. It was a wonderful place, full of
birds; not small, fretful creatures flitting in and out of the rushes,
but great majestic birds that took very little notice of him. Far out on
the blue surface of the water floated numbers of wild fowl, and chief
among them for grace and beauty was a swan, pure white with black head
and neck and crimson bill. There also were stately flamingoes, stalking
along knee-deep in the water, which was shallow; and nearer to the shore
were flocks of rose-coloured spoonbills and solitary big grey herons
standing motionless; also groups of white egrets, and a great multitude
of glossy ibises, with dark green and purple plumage and long
sickle-like beaks.
The sight of this water with its beds of rushes and tall flowering
reeds, and its great company of birds, filled Martin with delight; and
other joys were soon to follow. Throwing off his shoes, he dashed with a
shout into the water, frightening a number of ibises; up they flew, each
bird uttering a cry repeated many times, that sounded just like his old
father's laugh when he laughed loud and heartily. Then what was Martin's
amazement to hear his own shout and this chorus of bird ha, ha, ha's,
repeated by hundreds of voices all over the lake. At first he thought
that the other birds were mocking the ibises; but presently he shouted
again, and again his shouts were repeated by dozens of voices. This
delighted him so much that he spent the whole day shouting himself
hoarse at the waterside.
When he related his wonderful experience at home, and heard from his
father that the sounds he had heard were only echoes from the beds of
rushes, he was not a bit wiser than before, so that the echoes remained
to him a continual wonder and source of never-failing pleasure.
Every day he would take some noisy instrument to the lake to startle the
echoes; a whistle his father made him served for a time; after that he
marched up and down the banks, rattling a tin canister with pebbles in
it; then he got a large frying-pan from the kitchen, and beat on it with
a stick every day for about a fortnight. When he grew tired of all these
sounds, and began casting about for some new thing to wake the echoes
with, he all at once remembered his father's gun--just what he wanted,
for it was the noisiest thing in the world. Watching his opportunity, he
got secretly into the room where it was kept loaded, and succeeded in
carrying it out of the house without being seen; then, full of joyful
anticipations, he ran as fast as the heavy gun would let him to his
favourite haunt.
When he arrived at the lake three or four spoonbills--those beautiful,
tall, rose-coloured birds--were standing on the bank, quietly dozing in
the hot sunshine. They did not fly away at his approach, for the birds
were now so accustomed to Martin and his harmless noises that they took
very little notice of him. He knelt on one knee and pointed the gun at
them.
"Now, birdies, you don't know what a fright I'm going to give you--off
you go!" he cried, and pulled the trigger.
The roar of the loud report travelled all over the wide lake, creating a
great commotion among the feathered people, and they rose up with a
general scream into the air.
All this was of no benefit to Martin, the recoil of the gun having sent
him flying over, his heels in the air; and before he recovered himself
the echoes were silent, and all the frightened birds were settling on
the water again. But there, just before him, lay one of the spoonbills,
beating its great rose-coloured wings against the ground.
Martin ran to it, full of keen distress, but was powerless to help; its
life's blood was fast running away from the shot wounds it had received
in its side, staining the grass with crimson. Presently it closed its
beautiful ruby-coloured eyes and the quivering wings grew still.
Then Martin sat down on the grass by its side and began to cry. Oh, that
great bird, half as tall as himself, and so many times more lovely and
strong and beautiful in its life--he had killed it, and it would never
fly again! He raised it up very tenderly in his arms and kissed
it--kissed its pale green head and rosy wings; then out of his arms it
tumbled back again on to the grass.
"Oh, poor bird," he cried suddenly, "open your wings and fly away!"
But it was dead.
Then Martin got up and stared all round him at the wide landscape, and
everything looked strange and dim and sorrowful. A shadow passed over
the lake, and a murmur came up out of the rushes that was like a voice
saying something that he could not understand. A great cry of pain rose
from his heart and died to a whisper on his lips; he was awed into
silence. Sinking down upon the grass again, he hid his face against the
rosy-breasted bird and began to sob. How warm the dead bird felt against
his cheek--oh, so warm--and it could not live and fly about with the
others.
At length he sat up and knew the reason of that change that had come
over the earth. A dark cloud had sprung up in the south-west, far off as
yet, and near the horizon; but its fringe already touched and obscured
the low-hanging sun, and a shadow flew far and vast before it. Over the
lake flew that great shadow: the waters looked cold and still,
reflecting as in a polished glass the motionless rushes, the glassy
bank, and Martin, sitting on it, still clasping in his arms the dead
rose-coloured bird.
Swifter and vaster, following close upon the flying shadow, came the
mighty cloud, changing from black to slaty grey; and then, as the sun
broke forth again under its lower edge, it was all flushed with a
brilliant rose colour. But what a marvellous thing it was, when the
cloud covered a third of the wide heavens, almost touching the horizon
on either side with its wing-like extremities; Martin, gazing steadily
at it, saw that in its form it was like an immense spoonbill flying
through the air! He would gladly have run away then to hide himself from
its sight, but he dared not stir, for it was now directly above him; so,
lying down on the grass and hiding his face against the dead bird, he
waited in fear and trembling.
He heard the rushing sound of the mighty wings: the wind they created
smote on the waters in a hurricane, so that the reeds were beaten flat
on the surface, and a great cry of terror went up from all the wild
birds. It passed, and when Martin raised his bowed head and looked
again, the sun, just about to touch the horizon with its great red
globe, shone out, shedding a rich radiance over the earth and water;
while far off, on the opposite side of the heavens, the great cloud-bird
was rapidly fading out of sight.
[Illustration: "OH, POOR BIRD," HE CRIED SUDDENLY, "OPEN YOUR WINGS AND
FLY AWAY!"]
[Illustration]
_Chapter Three_
_Chasing a Flying Figure_
After what had happened Martin could never visit the waterside and look
at the great birds wading and swimming there without a feeling that was
like a sudden coldness in the blood of his veins. The rosy spoonbill he
had killed and cried over and the great bird-cloud that had frightened
him were never forgotten. He grew tired of shouting to the echoes: he
discovered that there were even more wonderful things than the marsh
echoes in the world, and that the world was bigger than he had thought
it. When spring with its moist verdure and frail, sweet-smelling flowers
had gone; when the great plain began to turn to a rusty-brown colour,
and the dry hard earth was full of cracks, and the days grew longer and
the heat greater, there came an appearance of water that quivered and
glittered and danced before his wondering sight, and would lead him
miles from home every day in his vain efforts to find out what it was.
He could talk of nothing else, and asked endless questions about it, and
they told him that this strange thing was nothing but the Mirage, but of
course that was not telling him enough, so that he was left to puzzle
his little boy-brains over this new mystery, just as they had puzzled
before over the mystery of the echoes. Now this Mirage was a glittering
whiteness that looked just like water, always shining and dancing before
him and all round him, on the dry level plain where there was no water.
It was never quiet, but perpetually quivering and running into wavelets
that threw up crests and jets of sprays as from a fountain, and showers
of brilliant drops that flashed like molten silver in the sunlight
before they broke and vanished, only to be renewed again. It appeared
every day when the sun was high and the air hot, and it was often called
_The False Water_. And false it was, since it always flew before him as
he ran, so that although he often seemed to be getting nearer to it he
could never quite overtake it. But Martin had a very determined spirit
for a small boy, and although this appearance of water mocked his
efforts a hundred times every day with its vanishing brightness and
beauty, he would not give up the pursuit.
Now one day when there was not a cloud on the great hot whitey-blue sky,
nor a breath of air stirring, when it was all silent, for not even a
grass-hopper creaked in the dead, yellow, motionless grass, the whole
level earth began to shine and sparkle like a lake of silvery water, as
Martin had never seen it shine before. He had wandered far away from
home--never had he been so far--and still he ran and ran and ran, and
still that whiteness quivered and glittered and flew on before him; and
ever it looked more temptingly near, urging him to fresh exertions. At
length, tired out and overcome with heat, he sat down to rest, and
feeling very much hurt at the way he had been deceived and led on, he
shed one little tear. There was no mistake about that tear; he felt it
running like a small spider down his cheek, and finally he saw it fall.
It fell on to a blade of yellow grass and ran down the blade, then
stopped so as to gather itself into a little round drop before touching
the ground. Just then, out of the roots of the grass beneath it, crept a
tiny dusty black beetle and began drinking the drop, waving its little
horns up and down like donkey's ears, apparently very much pleased at
its good fortune in finding water and having a good drink in such a dry,
thirsty place. Probably it took the tear for a drop of rain just fallen
out of the sky.
"You _are_ a funny little thing!" exclaimed Martin, feeling now less
like crying than laughing.
The wee beetle, satisfied and refreshed, climbed up the grass-blade, and
when it reached the tip lifted its dusty black wing-cases just enough to
throw out a pair of fine gauzy wings that had been neatly folded up
beneath them, and flew away.
Martin, following its flight, had his eyes quite dazzled by the intense
glitter of the False Water, which now seemed to be only a few yards
from him: but the strangest thing was that in it there appeared a
form--a bright beautiful form that vanished when he gazed steadily at
it. Again he got up and began running harder than ever after the flying
mocking Mirage, and every time he stopped he fancied that he could see
the figure again, sometimes like a pale blue shadow on the brightness;
sometimes shining with its own excessive light, and sometimes only seen
in outline, like a figure graved on glass, and always vanishing when
looked at steadily. Perhaps that white water-like glitter of the Mirage
was like a looking-glass, and he was only chasing his own reflection. I
cannot say, but there it was, always before him, a face as of a
beautiful boy, with tumbled hair and laughing lips, its figure clothed
in a fluttering dress of lights and shadows. It also seemed to beckon to
him with its hand, and encourage him to run on after it with its bright
merry glances.
At length when it was past the hour of noon, Martin sat down under a
small bush that gave just shade enough to cover him and none to spare.
It was only a little spot of shade like an island in a sea of heat and
brightness. He was too hot and tired to run more, too tired even to keep
his eyes open, and so, propping his back against the stem of the small
bush, he closed his tired hot eyes.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_Chapter Four_
_Martin is Found by a Deaf Old Man_
Martin kept his eyes shut for only about a minute, as he thought; but he
must have been asleep some time, for when he opened them the False Water
had vanished, and the sun, looking very large and crimson, was just
about to set. He started up, feeling very thirsty and hungry and
bewildered; for he was far, far from home, and lost on the great plain.
Presently he spied a man coming towards him on horseback. A very
funny-looking old man he proved to be, with a face wrinkled and tanned
by sun and wind, until it resembled a piece of ancient shoe-leather left
lying for years on some neglected spot of ground. A Brazil nut is not
darker nor more wrinkled than was the old man's face. His long matted
beard and hair had once been white, but the sun out of doors and the
smoke in his smoky hut had given them a yellowish tinge, so that they
looked like dry dead grass. He wore big jack-boots, patched all over,
and full of cracks and holes; and a great pea-jacket, rusty and ragged,
fastened with horn buttons big as saucers. His old brimless hat looked
like a dilapidated tea-cosy on his head, and to prevent it from being
carried off by the wind it was kept on with an old flannel shirt-sleeve
tied under his chin. His saddle, too, like his clothes, was old and full
of rents, with wisps of hair and straw-stuffing sticking out in various
places, and his feet were thrust into a pair of big stirrups made of
pieces of wood and rusty iron tied together with string and wire.
"Boy, what may you being a doing of here?" bawled this old man at the
top of his voice: for he was as deaf as a post, and like a good many
deaf people thought it necessary to speak very loud to make himself
heard.
"Playing," answered Martin innocently. But he could not make the old man
hear until he stood up on tip-toe and shouted out his answer as loud as
he could.
"Playing," exclaimed the old man. "Well, I never in all my life! When
there ain't a house 'cepting my own for leagues and leagues, and he says
he's playing! What may you be now?" he shouted again.
"A little boy," screamed Martin.
"I knowed that afore I axed," said the other. Then he slapped his legs
and held up his hand with astonishment, and at last began to chuckle.
"Will you come home along o' me?" he shouted.
"Will you give me something to eat?" asked Martin in return.
"Haw, haw, haw," guffawed the old fellow. It was a tremendous laugh, so
loud and hollow, it astonished and almost frightened Martin to hear it.
"Well I never!" he said. "He ain't no fool, neither. Now, old Jacob,
just you take your time and think a bit afore you makes your answer to
that."
This curious old man, whose name was Jacob, had lived so long by himself
that he always thought out loud--louder than other people talk: for,
being deaf, he could not hear himself, and never had a suspicion that he
could be heard by others.
"He's lost, that's what he is," continued old Jacob aloud to himself.
"And what's more, he's been and gone and forgot all about his own home,
and all he wants is summat to eat. I'll take him and keep him, that's
what I'll do: for he's a stray lamb, and belongs to him that finds him,
like any other lamb I finds. I'll make him believe I'm his old dad; for
he's little and will believe most anything you tells him. I'll learn him
to do things about the house--to boil the kettle, and cook the wittels,
and gather the firewood, and mend the clothes, and do the washing, and
draw the water, and milk the cow, and dig the potatoes, and mind the
sheep and--and--and that's what I'll learn him. Then, Jacob, you can sit
down and smoke your pipe, 'cos you'll have some one to do your work for
you."
Martin stood quietly listening to all this, not quite understanding the
old man's kind intentions. Then old Jacob, promising to give him
something to eat, pulled him up on to his horse, and started home at a
gallop.
Soon they arrived at a mud hovel, thatched with rushes, the roof sloping
down so low that one could almost step on to it; it was surrounded with
a ditch, and had a potato patch and a sheep enclosure; for old Jacob was
a shepherd, and had a flock of sheep. There were several big dogs, and
when Martin got down from the horse, they began jumping round him,
barking with delight, as if they knew him, half-smothering him with
their rough caresses. Jacob led him into the hut, which looked extremely
dirty and neglected, and had only one room. In the corners against walls
were piles of sheep-skins that had a strong and rather unpleasant smell:
the thatch above was covered with dusty cobwebs, hanging like old rags,
and the clay floor was littered with bones, sticks, and other rubbish.
The only nice thing to see was a tea-kettle singing and steaming away
merrily on the fire in the grate. Old Jacob set about preparing the
evening meal; and soon they sat down at a small deal table to a supper
of cold mutton and potatoes, and tea which did not taste very nice, as
it was sweetened with moist black sugar. Martin was too hungry to turn
up his nose at anything, and while he ate and drank the old man chuckled
and talked aloud to himself about his good fortune in finding the little
boy to do his work for him. After supper he cleared the table, and put
two mugs of tea on it, and then got out his clay pipe and tobacco.
"Now, little boy," he cried, "let's have a jolly evening together. Your
very good health, little boy," and here he jingled his mug against
Martin's, and took a sip of tea.
"Would you like to hear a song, little boy?" he said, after finishing
his pipe.
"No," said Martin, who was getting sleepy; but Jacob took no to mean
yes, and so he stood up on his legs and sang this song:--
"My name is Jacob, that's my name;
And tho' I'm old, the old man's game--
The air it is so good, d'ye see:
And on the plain my flock I keep,
And sing all day to please my sheep,
And never lose them like Bo-Peep,
Becos the ways of them are known to me.
"When winter comes and winds do blow,
Unto my sheep so good I go--
I'm always good to them, d'ye see--
Ho, sheep, say I, both ram, both ewe,
I've sung you songs all summer through,
Now lend to me a skin or two,
To keep the cold and wet from out o' me."
This song, accompanied with loud raps on the table, was bellowed forth
in a dreadfully discordant voice; and very soon all the dogs rushed into
the room and began to bark and howl most dismally, which seemed to
please the old man greatly, for to him it was a kind of applause. But
the noise was too much for Martin; so he stopped up his ears, and only
removed his fingers from them when the performance was over. After the
song the old man offered to dance, for he had not yet had amusement
enough.
"Boy, can you play on this?" he shouted, holding up a frying-pan and a
big stick to beat it with.
Of course Martin could play on _that_ instrument: he had often enough
played on one like it to startle the echoes on the lake, in other days.
And so, when he had been lifted on to the table, he took the frying-pan
by the handle, and began vigorously beating on it with the stick. He did
not mind the noise now since he was helping to make it. Meanwhile old
Jacob began flinging his arms and legs about in all directions, looking
like a scarecrow made to tumble about by means of springs and wires. He
pounded the clay floor with his ponderous old boots until the room was
filled with a cloud of dust; then in his excitement he kicked over
chairs, pots, kettle, and whatever came in his way, while he kept on
revolving round the table in a kind of crazy fandango. Martin thought it
fine fun, and screamed with laughter, and beat his gong louder than
ever; then to make matters worse old Jacob at intervals uttered whoops
and yells, which the dogs answered with long howls from the door, until
the din was something tremendous.
At length they both grew tired, and then after resting and sipping some
more cold tea, prepared to go to bed. Some sheep-skins were piled up
in a corner for Martin to sleep on, and old Jacob covered him with a
horse-rug, and tucked him in very carefully. Then the kind old man
withdrew to his own bed on the opposite side of the room.
[Illustration: GROPING HIS WAY TO THE BUCKET OF COLD WATER--HE MANAGED
TO RAISE IT UP IN HIS ARMS, AND POURED IT OVER THE SLEEPER.]
About midnight Martin was wakened by loud horrible noises in the room,
and started up on bed trembling with fear. The sounds came from the old
man's nose, and resembled a succession of blasts on a ram's horn, which,
on account of its roughness and twisted shape, makes a very bad trumpet.
As soon as Martin discovered the cause of the noise he crept out of bed
and tried to waken the old snorer by shouting to him, tugging at his
arms and legs, and finally pulling his beard. He refused to wake. Then
Martin had a bright idea, and groping his way to the bucket of cold
water standing beside the fire-place, he managed to raise it up in his
arms, and poured it over the sleeper.
The snoring changed to cries of loud choking snorts, then ceased.
Martin, well pleased at the success of his experiment, was about to
return to his bed when old Jacob struggled up to a sitting posture.
"Hullo, wake up, little boy!" he shouted. "My bed's all full o'
water--goodness knows where it comes from."
"I poured it over you to wake you up. Don't you know you were making a
noise with your nose?" cried Martin at the top of his voice.
"You--you--you throwed it over me! You--O you most wicked little
villain you! You throwed it over me did you!" and here he poured out
such a torrent of abusive words that Martin was horrified and cried out,
"O what a naughty, wicked, bad old man you are!"
It was too dark for old Jacob to see him, but he knew his way about the
room, and taking up the wet rug that served him for covering he groped
his way to Martin's bed and began pounding it with the rug, thinking the
naughty little boy was there.
"You little rascal you--I hope you like that!--and that!--and that!" he
shouted, pounding away. "I'll learn you to throw water over your poor
old dad! And such a--a affectionate father as I've been too, giving him
sich nice wittles--and--and singing and dancing to him to teach him
music. Perhaps you'd like a little more, you takes it so quietly? Well,
then, take that!--and that!--and that! Why, how's this--the young
warmint ain't here arter all! Well, I'm blowed if that don't beat
everythink! What did he go and chuck that water over me for? What a
walloping I'll give him in the morning when it's light! and now, boy,
you may go and sleep on my bed, 'cos it's wet, d'ye see; and I'll sleep
on yourn, 'cos it's dry."
Then he got into Martin's bed, and muttered and grumbled himself to
sleep. Martin came out from under the table, and after dressing himself
with great secrecy crept to the door to make his escape. It was locked
and the key taken away. But he was determined to make his escape
somehow, and not wait to be whipped; so, by and by, he drew the little
deal table close against the wall, and getting on to it began picking
the rushes one by one out of the lower part of the thatch. After working
for half-an-hour, like a mouse eating his way out of a soft wooden box,
he began to see the light coming through the hole, and in another half
hour it was large enough for him to creep through. When he had got out,
he slipped down to the ground, where the dogs were lying. They seemed
very glad to see him, and began pressing round to lick his face; but he
pushed them off, and ran away over the plain as fast as he could. The
stars were shining, but it was very dark and silent; only in moist
places, where the grass grew tall, he heard the crickets strumming sadly
on their little harps.
At length, tired with running, he coiled himself in a large tussock of
dry grass and went to sleep, just as if he had been accustomed to sleep
out of doors all his life.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_Chapter Five_
_The People of the Mirage_
In that remote land where Martin was born, with its bright warm climate
and rich soil, no person need go very long hungry--not even a small boy
alone and lost on that great grassy plain. For there is a little useful
plant in that place, with small leaves like clover leaves and a pretty
yellow flower, which bears a wholesome sweet root, about as big as a
pigeon's egg and of a pearly white colour. It is so well known to the
settlers' children in that desert country that they are always wandering
off to the plain to look for it, just as the children in a town are
always running off with their halfpence to the sweet-stuff shop. This
pretty white root is watery, so that it satisfies both hunger and thirst
at the same time. Now when Martin woke next morning, he found a great
many of the little three-leaved plants growing close to the spot where
he had slept, and they supplied him with a nice sweet breakfast. After
he had eaten enough and had amused himself by rolling over and over
several times on the grass, he started once more on his travels, going
towards the sunrise as fast as he could run. He could run well for a
small boy, but he got tired at last and sat down to rest. Then he jumped
up and went on again at a trot: this pace he kept up very steadily, only
pausing from time to time to watch a flock of small white birds that
followed him all the morning out of curiosity. At length he began to
feel so hot and tired that he could only walk. Still he kept on; he
could see no flowers nor anything pretty in that place--why should he
stay in it? He would go on, and on, and on, in spite of the heat, until
he came to something. But it grew hotter as the day advanced, and the
ground about him more dry and barren and desolate, until at last he came
to ground where there was scarcely a blade of grass: it was a great,
barren, level plain, covered with a slight crust of salt crystals that
glittered in the sun so brightly that it dazzled and pained his
eyesight. Here were no sweet watery roots for refreshment, and no
berries; nor could Martin find a bush to give him a little shade and
protection from the burning noonday sun. He saw one large dark object in
the distance, and mistaking it for a bush covered with thick foliage he
ran towards it; but suddenly it started up, when he was near, and waving
its great grey and white wings like sails, fled across the plain. It was
an ostrich!
Now this hot, shadeless plain seemed to be the very home and
dwelling-place of the False Water. It sparkled and danced all round him
so close that there only appeared to be a small space of dry ground for
him to walk on; only he was always exactly in the centre of the dry
spot; for as he advanced, the glittering whiteness, that looked so like
shiny water, flew mockingly before his steps. But he hoped to get to it
at last, as every time he flagged in the chase the mysterious figure of
the day before appeared again to lure him still further on. At length,
unable to move another step, Martin sat right down on the bare ground:
it was like sitting on the floor of a heated oven, but there was no help
for it, he was so tired. The air was so thick and heavy that he could
hardly breathe, even with his mouth wide open like a little gasping
bird; and the sky looked like metal, heated to a white heat, and so low
down as to make him fancy that if he were to throw up his hands he would
touch it and burn his fingers.
And the Mirage--oh, how it glistened and quivered here where he had sat
down, half blinding him with its brightness! Now that he could no longer
run after it, nor even walk, it came to him, breaking round and over him
in a thousand fantastic shapes, filling the air with a million white
flakes that whirled about as if driven by a furious wind, although not a
breath was stirring. They looked like whitest snow-flakes, yet stung his
cheeks like sparks of fire. Not only did he see and feel, he could even
_hear_ it now: his ears were filled with a humming sound, growing louder
and louder every minute, like the noise made by a large colony of
bumble-bees when a person carelessly treads on their nest, and they are
angered and thrown into a great commotion and swarm out to defend their
home. Very soon out of this confused murmur louder, clearer sounds began
to rise; and these could be distinguished as the notes of numberless
musical instruments, and voices of people singing, talking, and
laughing. Then, all at once, there appeared running and skipping over
the ground towards him a great company of girls--scores and hundreds of
them scattered over the plain, exceeding in loveliness all lovely things
that he had ever beheld. Their faces were whiter than lilies, and their
loose, fluttering hair looked like a mist of pale shining gold; and
their skirts, that rustled as they ran, were also shining like the wings
of dragon-flies, and were touched with brown reflections and changing,
beautiful tints, such as are seen on soap-bubbles. Each of them carried
a silver pitcher, and as they ran and skipped along they dipped their
fingers in and sprinkled the desert with water. The bright drops they
scattered fell all around in a grateful shower, and flew up again from
the heated earth in the form of a white mist touched with rainbow
colours, filling the air with a refreshing coolness.
At Martin's side there grew a small plant, its grey-green leaves lying
wilted on the ground, and one of the girls paused to water it, and as
she sprinkled the drops on it she sang:--
"Little weed, little weed,
In such need,
Must you pain, ask in vain,
Die for rain,
Never bloom, never seed,
Little weed?
O, no, no, you shall not die,
From the sky
With my pitcher down I fly.
Drink the rain, grow again,
Bloom and seed,
Little weed."
Martin held up his hot little hands to catch some of the falling drops;
then the girl, raising her pitcher, poured a stream of cool water right
into his face, and laughing at what she had done, went away with a hop,
skip, and jump after her companions.
The girls with pitchers had all gone, and were succeeded by troops of
boys, just as beautiful, many of them singing and some playing on wind
and stringed instruments; and some were running, others quietly walking,
and still others riding on various animals--ostriches, sheep, goats,
fawns, and small donkeys, all pure white. One boy was riding a ram, and
as he came by, strum-strumming on a little silver-stringed banjo, he
sang a very curious song, which made Martin prick up his ears to listen.
It was about a speckled snake that lived far away on a piece of waste
ground; how day after day he sought for his lost playmate--the little
boy that had left him; how he glided this way and that on his smooth,
bright belly, winding in and out among the tall wild sunflowers; how he
listened for the dear footsteps--listened with his green leaf-shaped,
little head raised high among the leaves. But his playmate was far away
and came no more to feed him from his basin of bread and milk, and
caress his cold, smooth coils with his warm, soft, little hand.
Close after the boy on the ram marched four other little boys on foot,
holding up long silver trumpets in readiness to blow. One of them
stopped, and putting his trumpet down close to Martin's ear, puffed out
his little, round cheeks, and blew a blast that made him jump. Laughing
at the joke, they passed on, and were succeeded by others and still
others, singing, shouting, twanging their instruments, and some of them
stopping for a few moments to look at Martin or play some pretty little
trick on him.
But now all at once Martin ceased to listen or even look at them, for
something new and different was coming, something strange which made him
curious and afraid at the same time. It was a sound, very deep and
solemn, of men's voices singing together a song that was like a dirge
and coming nearer and nearer, and it was like the coming of a storm with
wind and rain and thunder. Soon he could see them marching through the
great crowd of people--old men moving in a slow procession, and they had
pale dark faces and their hair and long beards were whiter than snow,
and their long flowing robes were of the silvery dark colour of a
rain-cloud. Then he saw that the leaders of the procession were followed
by others who carried a couch of mother-o'-pearl resting on their
shoulders, that on the couch reposed a pale sweet-looking youth dressed
in silk clothes of a delicate rose-colour. He also wore crimson shoes,
and a tight-fitting apple-green skull cap, which made his head look very
small. His eyes were ruby-red, and he had a long slender nose like a
snipe's bill, only broad and flattened at the tip. And then Martin saw
that he was wounded, for he had one white hand pressed to his side and
it was stained with blood, and drops of blood were trickling through his
fingers.