Upon fine days in spring the parrot’s cage was set out of doors
upon top of the garden wall, opposite the farmhouse windows. In the
intervals of biting its perch and swinging wrong-side up, the parrot
addressed remarks to the poultry in the yard below. The words which
it uttered most frequently in the hearing of those innocent birds
were, “Demerara sugar! demerara sug! dem, dem, dem, Pretty Polly!” The
chickens listened attentively.
When the chickens were feathered, they were taken to live in a wooden
hut on wheels in the stubble field. They picked up the scattered
grain; and grew into fine fat pullets. In autumn the farmer talked of
taking the hen-hut home. But he was busy with other work; he delayed
till winter.
In the night before Christmas Eve there came a fall of snow. When
Tappie-tourie looked out next morning the ground was white. She
drew back into the hut in consternation. Then Selina Pickacorn and
Chucky-doddie looked out. None of them had ever seen snow before; they
were April hatched pullets without a single experienced old hen to
advise them.
“Is it a tablecloth?” asked Chucky-doddie. They knew all about
tablecloths because they had been reared under a hen-coop on the drying
green. They had been scolded for leaving dirty foot-marks on a clean
tablecloth which was bleaching upon the grass.
The hens slid nervously down the hen ladder on to the snow. No; it
was not a tablecloth. Said Tappie-tourie, “I’ll tell you what! I do
believe it is the parrot’s demerara sugar!” (Now the parrot ought to
have told them that demerara sugar is _not_ white.) Selina Pickacorn
tasted a beakful. “It is nothing extra special nice; he need not have
talked so much about it.” “How horribly cold and wet it feels.” Just
then the farmer came into the field with a horse and cart. He drove the
hens back into the hut, fastened the door with a peg, and tied the hut
behind his cart with a rope in order to drag it homewards through the
snow.
The hen-hut did not run smoothly; it had a tiresome little waggling
wheel at one end, that caught in ruts. It bumped along; and the pullets
inside it cackled and fluttered. Before the procession had got clear
of the field—the hut door flew open. Out bounced Tappie-tourie,
Chucky-doddie, Selina Pickacorn, and five other hens. The farmer and
his dog caught five of them, none too gently. But the three first-named
birds flew back screaming to the spot where the hen-hut had stood
originally, before it had been removed.
The farmer was obliged to leave them for the present.
Tappie-tourie, Chucky-doddie, and Selina wandered around in the snow;
the field seemed very large and lost under its wide white covering.
“The hut is gone,” said Tappie-tourie, with a brain wave. “That is so,”
agreed Selina Pickacorn, “we fell out of the hut.” “What shall we do?”
asked Chucky-doddie. “I see nothing for it but a Christmas picnic,”
said Tappie-tourie; “here is sugar in plenty, but where is the tea and
bread and butter?”
Large flakes of snow commenced to fall. “Perhaps this is the bread
and butter coming,” said Tappie-tourie, looking up hopefully at the
darkening sky. “My feather petticoat is getting so wet,” grumbled
Chucky-doddie; “let us try to walk along the top of that wall, towards
the wood.” The wall had a thick white topping of snow; it proved to be
a most uncomfortable walk, with frequent tumblings off. They crossed
Wilfin Beck on a wooden rail. The water below ran dark and sullen
between the white banks. By the time they had reached the wood it was
dusk; for the last hundred yards the hens had been floundering through
snowdrifts. “If this is a Christmas picnic—it is horrid! Let us get
up into that spruce tree, and roost there till morning.” They managed
to fly up. They perched in a row on a branch, fluffing out their
feathers to warm their cold wet feet. They were one speckled hen and
two white hens; only the white hens looked quite yellow against the
whiter snow. “The picnic is a long time commencing,” said the speckled
hen, Tappie-tourie. It was soon black as pitch amongst the spreading
branches of the spruce.
Down below in the glen the waters of the stream tinkled through the
ground ice. Now and then there was a soft rushing sound, as the wet
snow slipped off the sapling trees that bent beneath its weight, and
sprang upwards again, released. Far off in the woods, a branch snapped
under its load, like the sound of a gun at night. The stream murmured,
flowing darkly. Dead keshes, withered grass, and canes stood up through
the snow on its banks, under a fringe of hazel bushes.
Between the stream and the tree where the hens were roosting, there
was a white untrodden slope. Only one tree grew there, a very small
spruce, a little Christmas tree some four foot high. As the night grew
darker—the branches of this little tree became all tipped with light,
and wreathed with icicles and chains of frost. Brighter and brighter
it shone, until it seemed to bear a hundred fairy lights; not like the
yellow gleam of candles, but a clear white incandescent light.
Small voices and music began to mingle with the sound of the water.
Up by the snowy banks, from the wood and from the meadow beyond,
tripped scores of little shadowy creatures, advancing from the
darkness into the light. They trod a circle on the snow around the
Christmas tree, dancing gaily hand-in-hand. Rabbits, moles, squirrels,
and wood-mice—even the half blind mole, old Samson Velvet, danced
hand-in-paw with a wood-mouse and a shrew—whilst a hedgehog played the
bagpipes beneath the fairy spruce.
Tappie-tourie and her sisters craned forward on their branch. “Is the
Christmas picnic commencing? May we fly down and share it? Shall we,
too, join the dance?” They slid and sidled forward, shaking down a
shower of melting snow and ice. “Cluck, cluck!” cackled the hens, as
they clutched and fluttered amongst slippery boughs.
The lights on the Christmas tree quivered, and went out. All was
darkness and silence. “I’m afraid the Christmas picnic was only a
dream; we shall have to roost here till morning.” “Hush! sit still,”
said Tappie-tourie, “it was not us that frightened them away. Something
is stirring near the stream! What is it?” The moon shone out between
the clouds, throwing long shadows on the snow; shadows of the hazels
and tall keshes. A little figure, questing and snuffling, came out
into the moonlight: a small brown figure in a buttoned-up long coat.
He examined the footsteps on the snow round the Christmas tree. Then,
horrible to relate! he came straight up the snowy slope and stood under
the spruce; looking up at the hens. He was a disagreeable fusky musky
person, called John Stoat Ferret. (At this point Charles thought it
necessary to apologize to Jenny Ferret who was knitting on the caravan
steps. She accepted the apology in good part, and said of course she
was not answerable for disagreeable relations—a horrid fusky musky
smelly relation, with short legs, and rather a bushy tail.) First he
tried to climb the tree, but he could not do so. Then he cried, “Shoo!
shoo!” and threw sticks at the hens. And then he butted against the
tree, and tried to shake them down. They clung, cackling and terrified,
in the boughs high over head.
Then John Stoat Ferret thought of another plan; he determined to
make them dizzy. He set to work. He danced. It was not at all nice
dancing. At first he circled slowly; very, very slowly; then gradually
faster, faster, faster, until he was spinning like a top. And always a
nasty fusky musky smell steamed upwards into the tree. Tappie-tourie,
Chucky-doddie, and Selina Pickacorn, overhead, watched him. They had
left off clucking; they watched him in fascinated terrified silence,
craning over their branch. And still he spun round and round and round,
and the fusky smell rose up into the spruce. Tappie-tourie twisted her
head round, following his movements as he danced. And Chucky-doddie
twisted her neck round. And Selina Pickacorn not only twisted her head,
she began to turn round herself upon the branch. All the hens were
growing giddy.
John Stoat Ferret danced and spun more furiously, the fusky musky
smell rose higher. All three hens commenced to turn round dizzily.
In another minute they would fall off. John Stoat Ferret capered
and twirled. But all of a sudden he stopped. He sat up, motionless,
listening. Voices were approaching up the cart road that skirts the
wood.
Upon Christmas Eve it is a pleasant custom amongst the Big Folk for
carol singers to go singing from farm to farm; even to the lonely
cottages on the outskirts of the great woods.
Two small boys, who had been out with the carollers, were going home
to supper. Their Christmas picnic had been more prosperous than poor
Tappie-tourie’s. Their pockets were full of apples and toffy and
pennies.
“George,” said Jimmy, “give us a ginger snap.”
“Na-a!” said George, “it will gummy your teeth tegidder, that you
cannot sing. Whooop!” shouted George, jumping into a snowdrift, sing
another—
“Wassail, wassail! to our town!
The bowl is white, and the ale is brown;
The bowl is made of the rosemary tree, and so is the ale, of the good barlee.
Little maid, little maid, tirl the pin!
Open the door, and let us come in!”
John Stoat Ferret listened intently. “Whooop!” shouted Jimmy, kicking
the snow about, and swinging his candle lantern; sing another one—
“Here us comes a wassailing, under the holly green,
Here us comes a wandering, so merry to be seen.
Good luck good Master Hodgin, and kind Mistress also,
And all the little childer that round the table go!
Your pockets full of money, your cupboards of good cheer,
A merry Christmas, Guizzards, and a Happy New Year!”
“Jimmy!” exclaimed George suddenly, “I smell stoat. Look over the wall
with the lantern.” John Stoat Ferret departed hurriedly. And as if
a spell were broken, Chucky-doddie, Tappie-tourie, and Selina found
their voices. They cackled loudly, up in the tree. “Eh, sithee!” said
George, “them’s our three hens that father lost out of t’ hen-hut.
Fetch ’em down: I’se haud lantern.” “This wall’s gaily slape!” giggled
Jimmy, balancing himself on the slippery top stones. He reached up into
the tree, and got hold of Tappie-tourie first, by the legs. “Ketch!”
said he, and flung her out into the snowdrift in the lane. “Here’s
another fat ’un!” He threw Chucky-doddie across. Selina flew after
them of her own accord. The boys picked the hens out of the snow, and
trudged homewards; George, with a hen tucked under each arm; and Jimmy,
with one hen and the candle lantern. It was an inglorious ending to
Tappie-tourie’s Christmas picnic; but at one time it looked like ending
much worse—“very much worse, Cluck-cur-cuck-cuck-cluck!” said Charles
the cock.
Sandy looked thoughtful. “Was the parrot an elderly bird?” “Very aged
by his own account, if truthful,” replied Charles.
“I wonder whether he was the same parrot who had an adventure with a
hawk, long ago. The parrot, which I am referring to, belonged to Squire
Browne of Cumberland. The Squire also had a chestnut cob on which he
went out riding; and he employed an old groom-gardener, named John
Geddes. When Squire Browne came downstairs on fine mornings, he called
through the open staircase window to John Geddes in the stable-yard. He
said, ‘I’m riding today, John Geddes!’ Then he scratched the parrot’s
head, and read the newspaper, and had breakfast.
“Now the parrot was so tame that he was allowed to come out of his
cage; and one day he was waddling about on the lawn, when—shocking to
say—a large hawk swooped down from the sky, and seized poor Polly in
its claws. The hawk rose into the air, over the house and stable-yard;
and the parrot, looking down for the last time at its home, saw the old
groom-gardener sweeping with the yard broom. ‘I’m riding to-day, John
Geddes!’ shouted Polly. Whereupon the hawk was so startled that it let
go the parrot, who skimmed downwards from the clouds to safety.”
“Cuck, cuck, cluck! I think I have heard that anecdote before,” said
Charles. “Possibly,” replied Sandy, bristling up his moustache,
“possibly. But Squire Browne’s parrot was the first one it happened
to.” Xarifa intervened hastily, in the cause of peace, “Was it not Miss
Browne, a very, very old lady, who told us the story?” “It was,” said
Sandy, eyeing Charles, the cock. “And did she not tell us other pretty
stories?” continued Xarifa, “the story of the fairy clogs; and that
pretty tale about the water-lilies? How they went adrift and sailed
away, along the lake and down the river? In each water-lily flower
was a fairy sitting, with golden curls, in the white lily flowers;
and a fairy in green, on each broad round leaf, rowing with oars made
of rushes?” “What was the end of that story, Xarifa?” asked Tuppenny.
“Unfortunately, I do not remember. I don’t think it had any end; or
else I fell asleep.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]