The homestead of Codlin Croft was dominated by Charles, our cock, a
silver campine with handsome white neck hackles, finely barred and
spotted breast, and a magnificent tail. He also had a big red comb; and
spurs. Besides Charles there was a turkey cock of large size; and a
sow still larger; and a cat and three farm dogs. Charles treated them
all alike with contempt. When the caravan arrived in the lane, Charles
and the turkey were having one of their usual combats. Charles was
dancing round and churtling—cluck cur-cuck-cuck-cuck! jumping and
spurring at Bubbly-jock’s painfully red wattles and tassels. The turkey
was bursting with rage; he scrunched the tips of his wings along the
gravel (which spoilt nothing but his own feathers). Whenever he got a
chance he trod heavily upon the spot where Charles had recently stood.
Charles, in the meantime, had darted between the turkey’s legs. When
Charles became short of breath, he slipped nimbly through the narrow
bars of an iron gate, and pretended to be picking up titbits, in full
view of the maddened turkey cock, who was unable to follow him. Then
he scratched up dirt, and crowed. Charles and Sandy never hit it off
very well; they both had a habit of scratching up the earth, and they
mutually irritated one another. But all the same, Charles graciously
did the honours of Codlin Croft, and invited the company into the
orchard through a broken gate.
The orchard which gives Codlin Croft Farm its name is a long
rambling strip of ground, with old bent pear trees and apple trees
that bear ripe little summer pears in August and sweet codlin
apples in September. At the end nearest to the buildings there are
clothes-props, hen-coops, tubs, troughs, old oddments; and pig-styes
that adjoin the calf hulls and cow byres. The back windows of the
farmhouse look out nearly level with the orchard grass; little back
windows of diamond panes not made to open. The far end of the orchard
is a neglected pretty wilderness, with mossy old trees, elder bushes,
and long grass; handy for a pet lamb or two in spring, and for the
calves in summer.
At this time of year, a north country April, the pear blossom was out
and the early apple blossom was budding. The snowdrops that had been
a sheet of white—white as the linen sheets bleaching on the drying
green—had passed; and now there were daffodils in hundreds. Not the
big bunchy tame ones that we call “Butter-and-eggs,” but the little
wild daffodillies that dance in the wind. Through the broken gate at
top of Codlin Croft orchard came Pony Billy with the caravan. He drew
it up comfortably in shelter of Farmer Hodgson’s haystack, which stood,
four-square and prosperous, half in the orchard and half in the field.
“Only, Jenny Ferret, if I put the caravan here you must promise not to
light a fire. We must not burn Farmer Hodgson’s hay for him.” “And how
will I boil the kettle without a fire? Take us further down the orchard
near the well, behind the bour-tree bushes.” “All right,” agreed Pony
Billy, pulling into the collar again; “perhaps it would be safer. I can
come up to the stack by myself for a bite.”
“Cluck-cur-cuck-cuck!” said Charles, “I recommend that flat place
between the pig-stye and the middenstead.” “Yes, indeed, cluck,
cluck! there are lots of worms if you scratch up the manure,” clucked
Selina Pickacorn. “Are they going to put up a tent?” asked the
calves. “Oh, yes, lots of nice red worms,” clucked Tappie-tourie and
Chucky-partlet. “What’s that funny old woman they call Jenny Ferret?
she has got whiskers?” asked an inquisitive cat, sitting on the roof
of the pig-stye. “Quack, quack! stretch your long neck and peep in
at the window, Dilly Duckling.” “I cannot see; quack quack; I cannot
see anything through the curtains.” “Gobble-gobble-gobble!” shouted
the turkey cock, strutting after Charles. Sandy curled his tail
tightly; “Go further down beyond the bour-tree bushes, Pony William,
further away from the farmyard.” When the caravan had been drawn into
position, it became necessary for Sandy to do a large loud determined
barking all round, in order to disperse the poultry.
After pitching camp in the orchard Pony Billy and Sandy held an anxious
consultation, “Did you notice anything while we were coming through
the wood?” “Yes. Pig’s trotter marks.” “How many times did we go round
and round that hill, Pony William?” “We would be going round it yet,
if I had not gone widdershins.” “What shall we do about Paddy Pig?” “I
am going back to fetch him.” “What! into Pringle Wood?” “Yes,” said
Pony Billy; “but first I want a saddle and bridle. And look whether my
packet of fern seed is safe; for I shall have to go amongst the Big
Folk in broad daylight.”
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Pony Billy borrowed several things, by permission of the farm dogs,
Roy, Bobs, and Matt, who were lying lazily in the sun before the stable
door. He asked for the loan of a nosebag containing chopped hay, and
straw, and Uveco; also for two pounds of potatoes; and a saddle and
bridle, and for the chest-strap with brass ornaments belonging to the
cart harness. There were four brass lockets on the strap; a swan,
a galloping horse, a catherine wheel, and a crescent. The last named
is a charm that has been worn by English horses since the days of
the crusaders. The strap was too long; it swung between his knees;
but Pony Billy felt fortified and valiant. “Do you think you will
be chased?” asked the dogs. “I shall not. I am going to the smithy
to have my shoes turned back to front.” “Our mare Maggret is at the
smithy,” said Bobs. “You will have to go past the back door and the
wash-house if you want potatoes,” said Matt. “Nobody can see me,” said
Pony Billy. He clattered across the flags, bold in possession of fern
seed and invisibility. Mrs. Hodgson, inside the house, called to her
maid-servant, “Look out at the door, Grace; is that the master I hear
coming home with the mare?” “I hear summat, but I see nought,” answered
Grace, perplexed.
Pony Billy started on his quest. The farm dogs went to sleep again in
the sun.
Sandy with his tail uncurled trailed back disconsolately to the orchard
camp. The ducks and calves had wandered away; but Charles and
his inquisitive hens were still in close attendance, and conversing
endlessly.
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The conversation was about losing things. Xarifa’s scissors were
missing. Jenny Ferret as usual suspected Ikey Shepster, the starling.
He was not present to deny the charge; he had flown off foraging with
the sparrows.
“Losses,” said Charles, sententiously, “losses occur in the best
regulated establishments. Likewise finds; but finds are less frequent;
and, therefore, more noteworthy. One afternoon I and my hens were
promenading in the meadow. I heard Tappie-tourie—that bird with
the rose comb—-clucking loudly in the ashpit. I inquired of Selina
Pickacorn whether Tappie-tourie had laid an egg? Selina replied that it
seemed improbable, as Tappie-tourie had already laid one that morning
in the henhouse. But hens are fools enough to do anything; I ordered
Selina to proceed to the ashpit, to ask Tappie-tourie whether she had
laid a second egg or not. When one hen runs—all the other hens run
too; being idiots; cluck-cur-cuck cuck cuck!” “Oh, Charles! Charles!”
remonstrated Selina and Chucky-partlet coyly. “Aggravating idiots,”
repeated Charles, who did not believe in encouraging pride amongst
female poultry. “As the whole of my hens continued to cluck in the
ashpit in total disregard of my commands to come out—I stalked across
the field, and I looked in. I said, ‘What are you doing, Tappie-tourie?
you are a perfect sweep. Selina Pickacorn, you are equally dirty.
Chucky-doddie, you are even worse. Come out of the ashpit.’ They
replied, all clucking together—‘Oh, Charles! do look what a treasure
we have found! But none of us know how to stick it on, because it has
no safety-pin.’ They showed me Mrs. Hodgson’s big cairngorm broach
that had been missing for a fortnight. They asked me if it was worth
a hundred pounds. Cock-a-doodle-doo! A hundred pounds, indeed!” said
Charles, swelling with scorn. “I told them it was absolutely worthless
to us who wear no collars; not worth so much as one grain of wheat;
cluck-cur-cuck cuck cuck! Hens always were noodles, and always will be.
Ask them to tell you the tale of the demerara sugar.”
“That?” said Selina Pickacorn, quite unabashed, “oh, that happened long
ago when we were inexperienced young pullets. Besides, it was all
along of the parrot.” “Pray explain to us the responsibility of the
parrot?” said Sandy. Five or six hens all commenced to cluck at once.
Charles interjected cock-a-doodles. Consequently their explanation
became somewhat mixed. Therefore it must be understood that this
story—like the corn in their crops—is a digest.
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