THE WHITE SPOT ON THE HILL
"O reader! had you in your mind
Such stores as silent thought can bring,
O gentle reader! you would find
A tale in everything.
What more I have to say is short,
And you must kindly take it:
It is no tale; but, should you think,
Perhaps a tale you'll make it."
W. WORDSWORTH.
"TELLING stories," when the teller is only five and some months old, and
the hearers one and a quarter and three, is rather a curious
performance. But Peggy was well used to it, and when in good spirits
quite able to battle with the difficulties of amusing Hal and Baby at
the same time. And these difficulties were not small, for, compared with
Baby, Hal was really "grown-up."
It is all very well for people who don't know much about tiny children
to speak of them all together, up to--six or seven, let us say--as
"babies," but we who think we _do_ know something about them, can assure
the rest of the world that this is an immense mistake. One year in
nursery arithmetic counts for ten or even more in _real_ "grown-up"
life. There was a great difference between Peggy and Hal for instance,
but a still greater between Hal and Baby, and had there been a new baby
below him again, of course it would have been the greatest of all. Peggy
could not have explained this in words, but she knew it thoroughly all
the same, and she had learnt to take it into account in her treatment of
the two, especially in her stories telling. In reality the story itself
was all for Hal, but there was a sort of running accompaniment for Baby
which he enjoyed very much, and which, to tell the truth, I rather think
Hal found amusing too, though he pretended it was for Baby's sake.
This morning her glance out of the window had made Peggy feel so happy
that the story promised to be a great success. She sat still for a
minute or two, her arms clasped round Baby's waist, gently rocking
herself and him to and fro, while her gray eyes stared before her, as if
reading stories in the carpet or on the wall.
"Peggy," said Hal at last, giving her a hug--he had been waiting what he
thought a very long time--"Peggy, 'do on--no, I mean begin, p'ease."
"Yes, Hal, d'reckly," said Peggy. "It's coming, Hal, yes, now I think
it's comed. Should we do piggies first, to please Baby before we begin?"
"Piggies is _so_ silly," said Hal, disdainfully.
"Well, we'll kiss him instead--another kiss all together, he does so
like that;" and when the kissing was over--"now, Baby dear, listen, and
p'raps you'll understand _some_, and if you're good we'll have piggies
soon."
Baby gave a kind of grunt; perhaps he was thinking of the pigs, but most
likely it was just his way of saying he would be very good.
"There was onst," Peggy began, "a little girl who lived in a big house
all by herself."
"Hadn't she no mamma, or nurse, or--or--brudders?" Hal interrupted.
"No, not none," Peggy went on. "She lived quite alone, and she didn't
like it. The house was as big as a--as a church, and she hadn't no bed,
and no chairs or tables, and there was very, _very_ high stairs."
"Is there stairs in churches?" asked Hal.
Peggy looked rather puzzled.
"Yes, I think there is," she said. "There's people high up in churches,
so there must be stairs. But I didn't say it _were_ a church, Hal; I
only said as big as a church. And the stairs was for Baby--you'll
hear--p'raps there wasn't _reelly_ stairs. Now, Baby; one day a little
piggy-wiggy came up the stairs--one, two, three," and Peggy's hand came
creeping up Baby's foot and leg and across his pinafore and up his bare
arm again, by way of illustrating piggy's progress, "and when he got to
the top he said 'grumph,' and poked his nose into the little girl's
neck"--here Peggy's own nose made a dive among Baby's double chins, to
his exceeding delight, setting him off chuckling to himself for some
time, which left Peggy free to go on with the serious part of the story
for Hal's benefit--"and there was a window in the big house, and the
little girl used to sit there always looking out."
"Always?" asked Hal again. "All night too? Didn't her ever go to bed?"
"She hadn't no bed, I told you. No, she didn't sit there all night, 'cos
she couldn't have see'd in the dark. Never mind about the night. She sat
there all day, always looking out, 'cos there was something she liked
to see. If I tell you you won't tell nobody what it was, will you. Hal?"
Hal looked very mystified, but replied obediently,
"No, won't tell nobody," he said.
"Well, then, I'll tell you what it was. It was a----" But at this moment
Baby, having had enough of his own meditations, began to put in a claim
to some special attention. The piggy had to be summoned and made to run
up and down stairs two or three times before he would be satisfied and
allow Peggy to proceed.
"Well, Peggy?" said Hal eagerly.
"It was a----" Oh dear, interrupted again! But this time the
interruption was a blessing in disguise. It was nurse come to fetch Baby
for his morning sleep.
"And thank you, Miss Peggy, my dear, for keeping him so nice and good. I
heard you come up, and I knew they'd be all right with you," she said,
as she walked away with Baby, who was by no means sure that he wanted to
go.
"Now," said Hal, edging closer to Peggy, "we'll be comfable. Go on,
Peggy--what she sawed."
"It was a hill--far, far away, neely as far as the sky," said Peggy in a
mysterious tone. "When the sun comed she could see it plain--the hill
and what was there, but when the sun goed she couldn't. There was a
white spot on the hill, Hal, and that white spot was a lovely white
cottage. She knowed it, though she'd never see'd it."
"How did she know it?"
"Her mam--no, that's wrong, she hadn't no mamma--well, never mind,
_somebody_'d told her."
"Were it _God_?" asked Hal, in an awestruck whisper.
"I don't know. No, I don't think so. I think it's a little naughty to
say that, Hal. No, dear, don't cry," for signs of disturbance were
visible in Hal's round face. "You didn't mean, and it isn't never
naughty when we don't mean, you know. We'll go on about the little girl.
She knowed it was a lovely cottage, and she wanted _very_ much, as much
as could be, to go there, for the big house wasn't pretty, and it was
dark, nearly black, and the cottage was all white."
"Her house wasn't as nice as _zit_, were it? Zit house isn't b'ack,"
said Hal.
"No," said Peggy, doubtfully. "_It_ wasn't as nice as this, but the
white house was much prettier than this."
"How?" asked Hal.
"Oh!" said Peggy, letting her eyes and her fancy rove about together, "I
think it was beautiful all over. It was all shiny white; the walls was
white, and the carpets was white, and the tables and the chairs was
white--all shiny and soft like--like----"
"Baby's best sash," suggested Hal.
"Well, p'raps--that'll do. And there was a cow and chickens and sheep,
and a kitchen where you could make cakes, and a garden with lots of
flowers and strawberries----"
"All white?" asked Hal.
"No, of course not. Strawberries couldn't be white, and flowers is all
colours. 'Twas the _droind-room_ that was all white."
"And the milk and the eggs. Zem _is_ white," said Hal, triumphantly.
"Very well. I didn't say they wasn't. But the story goes on that the
little girl didn't know how to get there; it was so far and so high up.
So she sat and cried all alone at the window."
"All alone, _poor_ little girl," said Hal, with deep feeling. "Kick,
Peggy, kick, I'm 'doing to cry; make it come right _kick_. The crying's
just coming."
"Make it wait a minute. I can't make it come right all so quick," said
Peggy. "It's going to come, so make the crying wait. One day she was
crying d'edful, worst than never, 'cos the sun had goned, and she
couldn't see the white cottage no more, and just then she heard
something saying, 'mew, mew,' and it was a kitten outside the window,
and it was just going to fall down and be killed."
"That's not coming right. I _must_ cry," said Hal.
"But she opened the window--there now, you see--and she pulled the
kitten in, so it didn't fall down, and it was so pleased it kissed her,
and when it kissed her it turned into a fairy, and it touched her neck
and made wings come, and then it opened the window again and flewed away
with the little girl till they came to the white cottage, and then the
little girl was quite happy for always."
"Did the fairy stay with her always?" asked Hal.
"No; fairies never does like that. They go back to fairyland. But the
little girl had nice milk and eggs and cakes, and she made nosegays with
the flowers, and the sun was _always_ shining, so she was quite, _quite_
happy."
"Her couldn't be happy all alone," said Hal. "I don't like zat story,
Peggy. You haven't made it nice at all. It's a nonsense story."
Hal wriggled about and seemed very cross. Poor Peggy was not so much
indignant as distressed at failing in her efforts to amuse him. What was
the matter? It couldn't be that he was getting sleepy--it was far too
early for his morning sleep.
"It isn't a nonsense story," she said, and she glanced towards the
window as she spoke. Yes, the sun was shining brightly, the morning
clouds had quite melted away; it was going to be a fine day after all.
And clear and white gleamed out the spot on the distant hill which Peggy
loved to gaze at! "Come here, Hal," she said, getting on to her feet and
helping Hal on to his, "come with me to the window and you'll see if
it's a nonsense story. Only you've never to tell nobody. It's Peggy's
own secret."
[Illustration: 'And above the top of all the houses, clear though faint,
was now to be seen the outline of a range of hills, so softly gray-blue
in the distance that but for the irregular line never changing in its
form, one could easily have fancied it was only the edge of a quickly
passing ridge of clouds. Peggy, however, knew better.
"See, Hal," she said, "over there, far, far away, _neely_ in the sky,
does you see that bluey hill?"']
Hal forgot his crossness in a minute; he felt so proud and honoured.
Peggy led him to the window. It was not a very pretty prospect; they
looked out on to a commonplace street, houses on both sides, though just
opposite there was a little variety in the shape of an old-fashioned,
smoke-dried garden. Beyond that again, more houses, more streets,
stretching away out into suburbs, and somewhere beyond all that again
the mysterious, beautiful, enchanting region which the children spoke
of and believed in as "the country," not really so far off after all,
though to them it seemed so.
And above the tops of all the houses, clear though faint, was now to be
seen the outline of a range of hills, so softly gray-blue in the
distance that but for the irregular line never changing in its form, one
could easily have fancied it was only the edge of a quickly passing
ridge of clouds. Peggy, however, knew better.
"See, Hal," she said, "over there, far, far away, _neely_ in the sky,
does you see that bluey hill?"
Of course he saw, agreeing so readily that Peggy was sure he did not
distinguish rightly, which was soon proved to be the case by his
announcing that "The 'ill were sailing away."
"No, no, it isn't," Peggy cried. "You've mustooked a cloud, Hal. See
now," and by bringing her own eyes exactly on a level with a certain
spot on the glass she was able to place his correctly, "just over that
little bubble in the window you can see it. Its top goes up above the
bubble and then down and then up again, and it never moves like the
clouds--does you see now, Hallie dear?"
"Zes, zes," said Hal, "but it's a _wenny_ little 'ill, Peggy."
"No, dear," his sister explained. "It only looks little 'cos it's so far
away. _You_ is too little to understand, dear, but it's true that it's a
big hill, neely a mounting, Hal. Mamma told me."
"Oh," said Hal, profoundly impressed and quite convinced.
"Mountings is _old_ hills, or big hills," Peggy continued, herself
slightly confused. "I don't know if they is the papas and mammas of the
little ones, but I think it's something like that, for onst in church I
heard the clergymunt read that the little hills jumped for joy, so they
must be the children. I'll ask mamma, and then I'll tell you. I'm not
quite sure if he meaned the same kind, for these hills never
jumps--that's how mamma told me to know they wasn't clouds."
"Zes," said Hal, "but go on about the secret, Peggy. Hal doesn't care
about the 'ills."
"But the secret's _on_ the hills," replied Peggy. "Look more, Hal--does
you see a teeny, _teeny_ white spot on the bluey hill? Higher up than
the bubble, but not at the top quite?"
Hal's eyes were good and his faith was great.
"Zes, zes," he cried. "I does see it--kite plain, Peggy."
"Well, Hallie," Peggy continued, "_that's_ my secret."
"Is it the fairy cottage, and is the little girl zere now?" Hal asked,
breathlessly.
Peggy hesitated.
"It is a white cottage," she said. "Mamma told me. She looked at it
through a seeing pipe."
"What's a seeing pipe?" Hal interrupted.
"I can't tell you just now. Ask mamma to show you hers some day. It's
too difficult to understand, but it makes you see things plain. And
mamma found out it was reelly a cottage, a white cottage, all alone up
on the hill--isn't it sweet of it to be there all alone, Hallie? And she
said I might think it was a fairy cottage and keep it for my own secret,
only I've telled you, Hal, and you mustn't tell nobody."
"And is it all like Baby's best sash, and are there cakes and f'owers
and cows?" asked Hal.
"I don't know. I made up the story, you know, Hal, to please you. I've
made lots--mamma said I might. But I've never see'd the cottage, you
know. I _daresay_ it's beautiful, white and gold like the story, that's
why I said it. It does so shine when the sun's on it--look, look, Hal!"
For as she spoke the sunshine had broken out again more brilliantly; and
the bright, thin sparkle which often dazzles one between the showers in
unsettled weather, lighted up that quarter of the sky where the children
were gazing, and, to their fancy at least, the white spot caught and
reflected the rays.
"Oh zes, I see," Hal repeated. "But, Peggy, I'd like to _go_ zere and to
see it. Can't we go, Peggy? It would be so nice, nicer than making up
stories. And do you think--oh do you think, Peggy, that p'raps there's
_pigs_ zere, real pigs?"
He clasped his hands entreatingly as he spoke. Peggy must say there were
pigs. Poor Peggy--it was rather a comedown after her fairy visions. But
she was too kind to say anything to vex Hal.
"I thought you said pigs was silly," she objected, gently.
"Playing pigs to make Baby laugh is silly," said Hal, "and pigs going to
market and stayin' at 'ome and roast beefin', is _d'edful_ silly. But
not real pigs."
"Oh well, then, _you_ may think pigs if you like," said Peggy. "I don't
think I will, but that doesn't matter. You may have them in the cottage
if you like, only you mustn't tell Thor and Terry and Baldwin about it."
"I won't tell, on'y you _might_ have them too," said Hal discontentedly.
"You're not kind, Peggy."
"Don't let's talk about the cottage any more, then," said Peggy, though
her own eyes were fixed on the far-off white spot as she spoke. "I think
p'raps, Hallie, you're _rather_ too little to care about it."
"I'm not," said Hal, "and I do care. But I do like pigs, real pigs. I
sawed zem in the country."
"You can't remember," said Peggy. "It's two whole years since we was in
the real country, Hallie, and you're only three and a half. I know it's
two years. I heard mamma say so to papa, so you wasn't two then."
"But I did see zem and I do 'amember, 'cos of pictures," said Hal.
"Oh yes, dear, there is pictures of pigs in your scrap-book, I know,"
Peggy agreed. "You get it now and we'll look for them."
Off trotted Hal, returning in a minute with his book, and for a quarter
of an hour or so his patient little sister managed to keep him happy and
amused. At the end of that time, however, he began to be cross and
discontented again. Peggy did not know what to make of him this morning,
he was not often so difficult to please. She was very glad when nurse
came in to say it was now _his_ time for his morning sleep, and though
Hal grumbled and scolded and said he was not sleepy she carried him off,
and Peggy was left in peace.
She was not at a loss to employ herself. At half-past eleven she usually
went down to mamma for an hour's lessons, and it must be nearly that
time now. She got her books together and sat looking over the one verse
she had to learn, her thoughts roving nevertheless in the direction they
loved best--away over the chimneys and the smoke; away, away, up, up to
the fairy cottage on the distant hill.