After this they were left in peace for a short time, but week after
week the hounds came to Dunkery or to the forest, and though the Deer
were not always obliged to run their hardest, yet it was seldom that
they had not to fly, at any rate for a time, for their lives. So after
a few weeks the Hind led the Calf back to the wood where they had made
the acquaintance of the Vixen and the Badger; and there they were left
alone. For there came a hard frost which covered the moor with white
rime, and, though it sometimes sent them far afield for food, still
saved them from annoyance by hounds. But the poor Blackbirds and
Thrushes suffered much, for they were weak for want of food; and often
the Calf would see them in the hedges crawling over the dead leaves,
unable to fly. And then the old Vixen would come round (for she was
still there, though all her Cubs were scattered), and pick up the
poor struggling little birds, and make what meal she could of them,
though there was little left of them but skin and bone; for she too
was ravenous with hunger.
But at last the frost broke up and the warm rain came, and the days
grew longer, and the sun gathered strength. So after a time they began
to wander over the skirt of the moor again, and thus one day they saw
a curious sight. For in the midst of the heather stood a number of
Greyhens, looking very sober, and modest and respectable, and round
them, in a ring worn bare by the trampling of their feet, a number of
Blackcocks were dancing like mad creatures, with their beautiful
plumage fluffed out and their wings half spread, to show what handsome
fellows they were. While they watched them one splendid old Cock came
waltzing slowly round, with his feathers all gleaming in the chill
sunshine, and all the time looking out of the corner of his eye at one
of the Hens. And as generally happens when people look one way and go
another, particularly if they chance to be waltzing, he ran full
against another Cock, who was just in front of him, and nearly knocked
him over. Whereupon he asked the other Cock very angrily, "Now then,
where be coming to?"
But the other answered quite as angrily: "If you come knacking agin me
again like that, you old dumphead, I'll spoil your plumes for 'ee, I
will."
Then the old bird shook out all his feathers in a towering passion,
and said: "_You_ spoil my plumes, you little, miser'ble,
dirty-jacketed roog! You spoil my plumes! If you dare to come anigh
me, I'll give 'ee such a dressing as you won't get over this side
midsummer. I'll teach 'ee to call me dumphead!"
But the other was quite as quarrelsome, and answered very rudely: "You
give me a dressing? I'd like to see 'ee try it. Git out of the way,
and don't come here telling of your dressings. I bean't afeard to call
'ee dumphead. Now then, dumphead, dumphead, dumphead!"
And with that they flew at each other, and pecked and scratched and
ruffled, and beat each other with their wings, till all the ground was
covered with their feathers. And all the time the Greyhens kept
whispering to each other, "He's down--no, he's up--no, he's down
again. He's too strong for mun. Dear, dear, but the old bird's
sarving mun bad!" And so he was, for after a hard fight the old Cock
came back breathless and crowed with triumph, screaming, "Now, then,
who's the better bird?"
And the Greyhens answered in chorus: "Why, you be, my dear. Ah! you'm
a rare bird, sure enough. Get your breath, my dear, for 'tis sweetly
pretty to see 'ee dance."
So the Deer left them dancing and fighting, and making their way over
the moor again to Dunkery, went down into Horner Wood. And they found
the wood quiet and peaceful as if no hound had ever been near it; and
above their heads the oak-buds were swelled and ripe almost to
bursting, while under their feet was a carpet of glossy green and
blue, picked out with stars of pale yellow, for the bluebells and
primroses had thrust their heads through the dead leaves to welcome
the spring. The gorse, too, was flaming with yellow blossom, the
thorns were gay in their new green leaves, and the bracken was
thrusting up its green coils, impatient to uncurl and make a shelter
for the deer.
They rarely saw an old stag, though they met a young one or two, and
they did not even see many hinds, though they frequently met and
talked to Ruddy. And the Calf now became better friends than ever with
Ruddy's daughter, for, having both of them seen a great deal of the
world after a life of one whole year, they had plenty to talk about.
One day she told him, as a great secret, that her mother had promised
her a little brother before many months should be past; but all that
he did was to make her promise that she would still like him best. And
the truth is that he began to think himself rather too fine a fellow
to be interested in calves when there were older male deer to
associate with. For as soon as the ash began to sprout, all the male
deer in Horner formed clubs to go and eat the young shoots, for there
is nothing that they love so much to eat; and he of course went among
them and nibbled away as greedily as any, though not being the biggest
deer he did not of course get the biggest share.
Besides, not long after the ash was in leaf, he began to feel rather a
pain in his head; and although a headache is not generally a pleasant
thing, yet this was so slight and at the same time so interesting,
that he did not much mind it. For on each side of the crown of his
head there appeared a little swelling, very hot and tender, which
grew into a little knob of black velvet, and which he thought very
handsome, though you and I perhaps might not think so. But he was so
proud of it that he always looked at it in the water, when he went
down to drink of an evening, to see how it was growing. And the best
of it was, that not one of the big stags now had much more on their
heads than he had, for they had lost their horns, and were looking
very foolish with their great necks and manes and nothing to carry on
them. He saw the big stags so very seldom now that he could hardly
find an opportunity of asking them what had happened; and when at last
he got a chance of putting the question to a huge old fellow, whom he
came upon one day with his mouth full of ivy, he was in such a hurry
that I am afraid he must have seemed inquisitive. For the old Stag
stared at him for a minute with the ivy sticking out of his lips, and
then said very gruffly, "Go away, and mind your own business. Little
calves should be seen and not heard." And our Deer was so much vexed
at being called a little Calf, whereas he was really a Pricket, that
he slunk away down to the water to have a look at his velvet; but it
was getting on so beautifully that he felt quite comforted, and was
glad that, although the Stag had been so unkind, he had not said,
"You're another," or something rude and disrespectful of that kind,
which would have been most unbecoming in a Red-Deer.
A few days later the matter was partly explained to him. For early one
morning when he was out at feed in a growing corn-field with a number
of young male deer, a four-year-old came galloping up the hedge trough
with a sheep-dog racing after him. The four-year-old was in such a
flurry that he jumped the fence at the corner of the field without
noticing an overhanging branch, and thump! down fell both of his horns
on one side of the hedge, while he galloped on, leaving them behind
him, on the other. The rest of the deer also went off in a hurry, you
may be sure, after such a scare, for they did not expect a sheep-dog
to be out so early; and, indeed, it is quite possible that the
sheep-dog had no business to be out. His mother looked very grave when
our Pricket told her about it; and that very night they set out across
the moor, pointing straight for the covert where they had hidden
themselves during the last summer.
And there they found all their old friends; for the Badger had dug
himself a new earth and was quite happy, and the Vixen had found his
old house so convenient that she had turned it into a nursery; and, as
they passed, three little Cubs poked their heads out of one of the
holes, and winked at them like so many little vulgar boys. But on the
very day after they arrived they heard loud yapping, as of a little
dog, about the earth, and crossing to the other side of the valley,
they could faintly hear men's voices and the constant clink of iron
against stones. And when night came and they ventured to come nearer,
they found the old Vixen running about like one distracted, crying for
her Cubs; for the earth was all harried and destroyed, and there could
be no doubt that the men had dug the Cubs out and taken them away. And
the wailings of the poor old Vixen were so distressing that they left
the wood and turned up again over the moor.
Soon they began to pass over strange ground, which rose higher and
higher before them. The little streams grew more plentiful, coming
down from every side in deep clefts which they had dug through the
turf to hasten their journey to the sea; the ground beneath their feet
became softer and softer, though it was never so ill-mannered as to
give way under their light step, and the water dripped incessantly
down from the ragged edges of the turf above the clefts. But they went
on higher and higher, till at last they stood on a dreary waste of
rough grass, and miry pools, and turf-pits blanched by the white
bog-flower. For they were on the great ridge whence the rivers of
Exmoor take their source and flow down on all sides to the sea; and a
wild treacherous tract it is. They passed a little bird no bigger than
a thrush, who had his beak buried so deep in the mire that he could
not speak; and the Hind said, "Good day, Master Snipe. Your wife and
family are well, I hope?" Then the little bird hastily plucked a long
bill out of the ground, though his mouth was so full of a big worm
that he was obliged to be silent for a minute or two; nevertheless at
last he gulped the worm down, washed his bill in a little pool of
water, and piped out, "Very well, thank you, my lady, half-grown or
more."
"You couldn't tell me what there is over the hill?" asked the Hind.
"Not very well, not to tell your ladyship what you want to know," said
the Snipe, "but you'll find the old Wild-duck a bit farther on and
she'll tell 'ee." And he began routling about in the mire again with
his beak.
So they lay down till evening among the turf-pits, and after
travelling a little way farther they reached the very top of the hill
and saw a new world. For before them the high land of the moor plunged
down into a tangle of smaller hills, cut up by great green banks into
innumerable little fields, and seamed and slashed by a hundred wooded
valleys. Fifty miles before them the land rose high again and swelled
up to the tors of Dartmoor, which stood stately and clear and blue
against the sky. But on their right hand the moor seemed to leap at
one bound many miles to the sea; and they saw the white line of the
surf breaking on Bideford Bar, and beyond it Lundy, firm and solid in
mid-sea, and far beyond Lundy the wicked rocky snout of Hartland
Point, purple and gaunt beneath the sinking sun.
The Hind looked anxiously at the wooded valleys beneath their feet,
wondering which she should take; but presently they heard a loud
"Quack, quack, quack," and down she went in the direction of the
sound. And there in a pool of a little stream they found an old Duck,
very prim and matronly, swimming about with her brood all round her,
and the Mallard with them. Whereupon of course the Hind stopped in
her civil way to ask after her and her little Flappers.
"Why, bless 'ee, my lady, they'm getting 'most too big to be called
Flappers," answered the Duck, "and I shall take mun out and down the
river to see the world very soon. They do tell me that some ducks
takes their broods straight to the big waters, but they must be
strange birds, and I don't hold wi' such. 'Twas my Mallard was
a-telling me. What was it you told me you saw down the river, my
dear?"
But the old Mallard was shy and silent; he only mumbled out something
that they could not hear, and swam away apart. Then the old Duck went
on in a whisper: "You see, my lady, he's just a-beginning to change
his coat, and very soon he'll be so dingy as I be for a whole month,
till his new coat cometh. Every year 'tis the same, and he can't abear
it, my lady, for it makes folk think that he's a Duck and no Mallard.
Not but that I think that a Duck's coat is beautiful, but a Mallard's
more beautiful yet, I can't deny that; but you know, my lady, how vain
these husbands be. But he did tell me about they ducks, and I say
again I don't hold wi' mun. I reared my brood in the turf-pits and
taught mun to swim, and bringed them down the little streams where
they couldn't come to no harm till they was big enough to take care of
theirselves. And I don't hold with no other way, for I'm not a-going
to have my little ducks drownded."
"And is the river quiet?" asked the Hind; "and could we live in the
valley?"
"The valley's so quiet as a turf-pit, my lady," said the old Duck,
"beautiful great woods for miles down. Surely I've heard tell that
your family lived there years agone."
So they took leave of the Ducks, and going down into the strange
valley found it as she had said. The woods ran down by the little
river for miles; and though the valley left the moor far behind it,
yet there were fields of grass, and corn, and turnips, full of good
food whenever they might want it; so they decided to make themselves
very comfortable there for the whole summer.