Whilst Sandy and the poultry were entertaining each other in the
orchard, Pony Billy, saddled and bridled, trotted away in search of the
truant Paddy Pig. He passed in front of the farmhouse windows, clink!
clink! went his shoes on the cobblestones in the yard. Mrs. Hodgson
darning stockings in the sunny window-seat looked up and listened.
Nothing could she see; she threaded her needle in and out, out and in,
through the stocking foot. Pony Billy passed by the sweet-smelling
wallflowers in the old-fashioned garden, where beehives, all a-row,
stood on a deep stone shelf of the wall that faced the sun. The
bees were stirring busily after their drowsy winter’s sleep. He
came along a cart-track, and through a gate, on to the public road.
Little sunshiny whirly winds had powdered white dust upon the king
cups under the hedge; belated March dust in April. The cows looked
over the hedge at Pony Billy. Said White-stockings to Fancy, “There
goes a brave little saddle pony! Look how proudly he arches his neck,
and tosses his cunning head! See the brass lockets glittering in the
sun, and the stirrup irons, and the saddle leather. Look at his long
flowing tail; and how gaily he picks his steps! He lifts his feet as
prettily as Merry-legs or Cricket, who won the prize at Helsington.
Where is he trotting to, think you?” said Buttercup Cow to Nancy. Pony
Billy trotted along. It was dinner time with the Big Folk. He met
nobody except old Quaker Goodman, jogging leisurely homeward in a low
two-wheeled tub. The fat Quaker pony could see Pony Billy in spite of
fern seed; it swerved across the road to leave him room to pass. Old
Mr. Goodman laid his whip very gently along the ribs of the fat pony,
as it were patting her with the handle of the whip, “What Daisey! Why,
Daisey? What is thee shying at, Daisey? Tch-tckk-tckk!” Staid iron-gray
Daisey plodded steadily on; her thick bob-tail swung from side to side.
Horses can see things where the Big Folk can see nothing—nothing but a
silly white stone, or a stump on the roadside bank. But horses can see.
So likewise can little young children. Two toddling youngsters at play
in the dust caught a fleeting glimpse of the fairy pony; they prattled
baby talk, and clapped their dirty chubby hands. Pony Billy breasted
the hill at a canter; he slackened his pace to a walk as he came along
over the croft. He pricked his ears and looked down at the village. The
Big Folk were all indoors at dinner. Maggret, the Codlin Croft mare,
dozed under the pent-house at the smithy. Farmer Hodgson was gossiping
at the inn, whilst he waited for the blacksmith.
Pony Billy came down the croft at a quick, high-stepping trot; his
brass lockets shone in the sun; his bright eyes sparkled. He hailed
the smithy with eager neighings, “Hinny ho! Mettle! Bellows and shoes,
Mettle! Hinny ho!”
Out came Mettle, barking; a hard-haired yellow terrier, wearing a
little leather apron, “Good-day to you, Pony Billy! So the caravan is
round again? What can I do for you this time? Another hoop? Another new
circus trick?” “I wish to have my shoes removed and put on backwards.”
“Certainly; four removes; we will soon have them off,” said Mettle,
“it does not sound very comfortable; but just as you please. I will
blow up the fire (c-r-e-a-k, puff; Mettle leaned upon the handle of the
bellows, c-r-e-a-k, puff, puff), they will require a little fitting.
(Mettle turned the shoe upon the hearth amongst the small hot coal,
puff, puff.) I will take it out in tickets; and treat our smithy cat
to an outing (puff, puff!). I owe her one. I pulled her tail. She did
scratch me (puff, puff)! Why did I do it? (C-r-e-a-k, puff, puff!) I
did it because she was black. I thought she was a stray black cat! She
went up the chimney tortoise-shell and white, and she came down black!
Cheesebox, our smithy cat.”
Farmer Hodgson’s mare yawned dismally. “I am sorry, Maggret, I cannot
offer to fit your shoes; your feet are so large I could not lift
them.” (The mare laid her ears back.) “No offence to a lady! My master
says he likes a horse with a big open foot.”
Mettle took the white-hot horseshoe from the hearth with a little pair
of tongs and hammered it daintily on the anvil; “Now your shoes are
little fairy shoes, Pony Billy”; tick, tock, tap, tock! hammered Mettle
merrily and sang, “Shoe the horse and shoe the mare, but let the little
colt go bare! Now lift up your foot till I fit it. Have you ever gone
short of fern seed since that night in the snow, Pony Billy?” “Never,”
said Pony Billy, shaking his mane to feel the precious packet nestling
against his neck. Tap, tap, tap! hammered Mettle, “Here a nail and
there a trod; now the horse is well shod! Yes, Cheesebox and I will be
coming to the circus this evening.”
Then Maggret pricked her ears and whinnied at sound of hob-nailed
boots; her master and the blacksmith came into the pent-house together.
Just then Pony Billy came out. Farmer Hodgson did feel as though he had
bumped against something soft; but there was nothing to be seen. It
might have been the door-post.
Pony Billy walked up a stony lane picking his footsteps carefully.
It is not agreeable to trot amongst stones with four newly-shod
back-to-front shoes. He stepped in the softest places. By banks
and hollows and turnings, by muddy places and dry, always leaving
back-to-front horseshoe marks behind him, as though he had come down
the lane, instead of having gone up. He turned into another lane,
crossed a shallow ford; came roundabout behind the wood, and looked
over a tumble-down wall.
Pringle Wood lay before him, silent, still; crowned with golden green
in a pale spring afternoon. Almost silent, almost still; save for a
whispering breath amongst the golden green leaves, and a faint tingle
ringle from the bluebells on the fairy hill of oaks. How blue the
bluebells were! a sea of soft pale blue; tree behind tree; and beneath
the trees, wave upon wave, a blue sea of bluebells. Below the low
stone wall, between it and the wooded hill, was a tangly boggy dell,
matted with brambles and wild raspberry canes, and last year’s withered
meadow-sweet and keshes. Young larch trees and spruces struggled
through the briars; a little stream slid gently round the hill,
beneath ellers and hazel bushes.
Pony Billy came over a gap in the wall, and pushed his way through the
tangle, leaving back-to-front footsteps as he squelched through the
black earth and moss. Briars tugged his mane; raspberry canes pulled
his tail as though they were fingers; he left tufts of his shaggy coat
upon the brambles. He whinnied, “Hinny ho! where are you hiding, Paddy
Pig?” No one answered. Only there seemed to be a faint tingle ringle of
laughing from the thousands of bluebells in the wood.
Pony Billy got out of the bog with a jump and a scramble up the steep
grassy slope of the hill. Round and round and round he went underneath
the oaks; always going widdershins, contrary to the sun; always leaving
back-to-front misleading marks behind him. Six times round he went; and
he saw nothing but the bluebells and the oaks. But the seventh time
round he saw a little Jenny Wren, chittering and fussing round an old
hollow tree. “What are you scolding, you little Jenny Wren?” She did
not stay to answer; she darted through the wood twittering gaily. “I
had better go and look inside that hollow tree myself,” thought Pony
Billy. He walked up to it, and looked in. “Ho, ho! what are you doing
in there, Paddy Pig? Come out!” “Never no more,” replied Paddy Pig. He
was sitting huddled up inside the tree, with his fore-trotters pressed
against his tummy; “never again. I cannot break through the ropes.”
“Ropes? don’t be silly! there is nothing but cobwebs.” “What, what? no
ropes?” “Come out at once,” said Pony William, stamping. “I am ill,”
replied Paddy Pig; he pressed his trotters on his waistcoat. “What have
you been eating?” “Tartlets.” “Tartlets in Pringle Wood! more likely to
be toadstools. Come out, you pig; you are keeping the circus waiting.”
“Never no more shall I return to the go-cart and the caravan.” Pony
Billy thrust his head through the spider webs in the opening, seized
Paddy Pig’s coat-collar with his teeth, and jerked him out of the tree.
“What, what? no ropes? but it is all in vain.” He sat upon the grass
and wept. “Try a potato? I brought you some on purpose.” “What, what?
potatoes! but is it safe to eat them?” “Certainly it is,” said Pony
Billy, “they did not grow in Pringle Wood. Eat them while I have my
nosebag. Then I will carry you home again pig-a-back.” “We will be
chased. And I will fall off.” He ate all the potatoes; “I feel a little
better; but I know, I will fall off. Oh, oh, oh! Something is pinching
my ears!”
Whatever might be the matter, Paddy Pig’s behaviour was odd. He got
up on a tree-stump, and he tried to climb into the saddle. First he
climbed too far and tumbled over the other side; then he climbed too
short and tumbled; then he fell over the pony’s head; then he slipped
backwards over the crupper, just as though someone were pulling him. He
sat upon the ground and sobbed, “Leave me to my fate. Go away and tell
my friends that I am a prisoner for life in Pringle Wood.” “Try once
more. Sit straight, and hold on to the strap of lockets,” said Pony
Billy, trampling through the bluebells.
He came out from under the trees into the sunshine. He trotted across
the green grass of the open meadow, and carried Paddy Pig safely back
to camp.
[Illustration]