The moon had risen by the time that Pony Billy—properly shod—trotted
away from the village smithy to fetch Mary Ellen. The empty tilt-cart
rattled at his heels; jumping forward into the harness like a live
thing downhill; trundling gaily along the level. The pebbles on the
road sparkled in the dazzling moonlight. Pony Billy blew puffs of
white breath from his nostrils, and he stepped high—tap-tap-tappitty!
prancing to the tune of the smithy song.
He amused himself with step-dancing over the shadows of the hedgerow
trees; black shadows flung across the silver road from hedgebank to
hedge. Down below in the reed beds a wild duck was quacking. A roe-deer
barked far off in Gallop Wood. White mist covered the Dub; the woods
lay twinkling in the moonlight.
Up hill and down hill, Pony Billy trotted on and on; and the woods
stretched mile after mile. The tall, straight tree-trunks gleamed
in white ranks; trees in hundreds of thousands. Pony Billy glanced
skeerily right and left. Almost he seemed to hear phantom galloping
horseshoes, as his own shoes pattered on the road. Almost he seemed to
see again the fairy dancers of Mettle’s story by the forge.
Shadows of a shadow! Was that the shadow of a little hooded figure,
flitting across a forest ride? and a dark prowling shadow that followed
her? Was the trotting shadow on the road beside him the shadow of
himself? Or was it the shadow of another pony? A little bay pony in
a pony trap, with an old woman and a bob-tailed dog, caught in a
snowstorm in the woods?
[Illustration]
But this white road was not white with snow; and they were real
overtaking footsteps that caused Pony Billy to spring forward with a
start of panic. Three roe-deer cantered by. Their little black hoofs
scarcely touched the ground, so lightly they bounded along. They made
playful grunting noises, and dared Pony Billy to catch them; he arched
his neck and trotted his best, while he “hinnied” in answer to the
deer. They bore him merry company for longer than a mile; sometimes
gambolling alongside; sometimes cantering on before.
On and on they travelled; through many miles of woods. Past the black
firs; past the sele bushes in the swamp; past the grove of yew trees
on the crags; past the big beech trees; uphill and down. Sometimes a
rabbit darted across their path. And once they saw two strange dwarfy
figures crossing the road in front of them—stumpy, waddling figures,
broad as they were long; running, running. The second trundled a
handbarrow; the foremost pulled it with a rope—there go the Oakmen!
Are those pissamoor hills in the glade? or are they tiny charcoal
settings on the pit-steads? The gambolling roe-deer kick up their
heels. They know the weight of Oakman Huddikin’s sledge in winter! But
this is spring. The dwarfy red-capped figures, running like two little
fat badgers, disappeared in the moonlight behind the Great Oak.
At length the woods grew thinner. There began to be moonlit clearings;
small parrocks where the Big Folk last summer had hung white streamers
on sticks, to scare the red stags from the potato drills. The friendly
roe-deer turned aside and left him, leaping a roadside fence, with a
flicker of white scuts.
Pony Billy by himself reached a lonely farm-steading; he was pleasantly
warm after his long brisk trot. He turned up a narrow yard between
manure heaps and a high stone building, that showed a white-washed
front to the moon. He passed the doors of byres. Sleepy cows mooed
softly; their warm sweet breath smelled through the door-slats. A
ring-widdie clinked, as a cow turned her head to listen to the wheels.
Pony Billy passed several more doors. Old Tiny, the sow, was snoring
peacefully behind one of them. He drew the cart round the end of the
shippon into a cobble-paved yard, where the wheels rumbled over the
stones. He went up to the back door of the house. There was no light
upstairs; the window panes twinkled in the moonlight. A faint red glow
showed through the kitchen window and under the back door.
Mary Ellen, the farm cat, sat within; purring gently, and staring at
the hot white ashes on the open hearth; wood ash that burns low, but
never dies for years. She sat on a dun-coloured deer-skin, spread on
the kitchen flags. Pots and pans, buckets, firewood, coppy stools,
cumbered the floor; and a great brown cream mug was set to warm before
the hearth against the morrow’s churning. The half-stone weight
belonging to the butter scales was on the board that covered the mug;
Mary Ellen had not been sampling the cream. She sat before the hot wood
ash and purred. Crickets were chirping. All else was asleep in the
silent house.
[Illustration]
Mary Ellen listened to the sounds of wheels and horseshoes, which
came right up to the porch. Pony Billy’s soft nose snuffled about the
latch. He struck a light knock on the door with a forward swing of his
forefoot. Mary Ellen arose from the hearth. She went towards the
door, and looked through a crack between the door and the door-jamb.
“Good-evening, good Pony; good-evening to you, Sir! I would bid you
come in by, only the door is locked. Snecks I can lift; but the key is
upstairs.” Pony Billy explained his errand through the crack.
“Dear, dearie me! poor, poor young pig!” purred Mary Ellen, “and me
shut up here, accidental-like, with the cream! Dearie, dearie me, now!
to think of that! Asleep in the clothes-swill, I was, when the door got
locked. Yes! indeed, I do understand pig powders and herbs and clisters
and cataplasms and nutritions and triapharmacons etcy teera, etcy
teera!” purred Mary Ellen, “but pray, how am I to be got out, without
the door key?” Pony Billy pawed the cobblestones with an impatient hoof.
“Let me see, good Mr. Pony, do you think that you could push away that
block of wood that is set against a broken pane in the pantry window?
Yes? Now I will put on my shawly shawl; so,” purred Mary Ellen, “so! I
am stout, and the hole is small. Dearie, dearie me! what a squeeze! I
am afraid of broken glass. But there is nothing like trying!” purred
Mary Ellen, safely outside upon the pantry window-sill. “Now I can jump
down into your cart, if you will back, under the windy pindy.” “First
rate! Are you ready, M’mam?” said Pony Billy, backing against the wall
with a bump.
“Oh, dearie me! I have clean forgotten the herbs; I must climb in
again! Bunches and bunches of herbs!” purred Mary Ellen, pausing on the
window-sill, above the cart. “My Mistress Scales grows a plant of rue
on purpose for poor sick piggy-wiggies. Herb of Grace!” purred Mary
Ellen, “what says old Gerard in the big calfskin book? ‘St. Anthony’s
fire is quenched therewith; it killeth the shingles. Twelve pennyweight
of rue is a counter-poison to the poison of wolfs-bane; and mushrooms;
and TOADSTOOLS; and the bite of serpents; and the sting of scorpions,
and hornets, and bees, and wasps; in-so-much that if the weasel is to
fight the serpent, she armeth herself by eating rue.’ Toadstools! it
says so in the big book! the very thing!” purred Mary Ellen, squeezing
inside, and disappearing into the pantry. “Bunches and bunches of
herbs,” she purred, struggling out again through the broken window;
“bunches and bunches hanging from the kitchen ceiling! And a pot of
goose-grease on the jam board; and a gun. And onions. And a lambing
crook. And a fishing rod. And a brass meat-jack that winds up.”
“Am I to take all these things, M’mam?” inquired Pony Billy. “Bless
me no! only the herbs,” purred Mary Ellen, seating herself in the
cart. But no sooner had Pony Billy turned it in the yard, preparing
to start homewards, “Oh, dearie, dearie me! I’ve forgot my fur-lined
boots! No, not through the window this time. I keep my wardrobe in the
stick-house. And I would like an armful of brackens in the cart-kist,
to keep my footsies warm, please Mr. Pony Billy.” “We shall get away
sometime!” thought Pony William.
Once set off, Mary Ellen sat quietly enough; never moving anything
excepting her head, which she turned sharply from side to side, at the
slightest rustle in the woods, hoping to see rabbits. The roe-deer
did not show themselves again. The journey back to Codlin Croft Farm
was uneventful. Mary Ellen was set down safely at the stable door.
Cheesebox welcomed her effusively.
After assuring himself that Paddy Pig was still alive and kicking, Pony
Billy dragged the tilt-cart into the orchard, and tipped it up beside
the caravan. Himself he went up to the haystack for a well-earned bite
of supper. Afterwards he lay down on the west side of the stack; and
slept there, sheltered from the wind.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]