A Nymph of the Wave.
“What I says is this, my dear,” said old Molly to Peggy McQueen, when
she found her up and dressed next morning at a little past six, “it
ain’t nateral, and if you take old Molly’s advice you’ll go back to bed
again, as fast as you likes.”
“But you are up yourself, Molly!”
“I be’s an old crittur, Miss Peggy, and old critturs doesn’t get so much
sleep as the young. ’Sides, Miss Peggy, they doesn’t need it.”
“But I’m going to the rocks, Molly, to fish. Don’t tell Johnnie, because
I want to be first to-day.”
Old Molly laughed.
“Oh, indeed, my dear; Johnnie’s been up this hour and more forbye.”
The tide was far back this morning, and there was not a breath of air to
stir the surface of the sleeping sea. It was one vast sheet of leaden
gray, with a haze on the horizon, through which a ship or two was
looming. Long strips of blackest rock, shaped like needles, jutted out
seawards, and on their extreme points the waves broke lazily. Great
stretches of yellow sand lay between. At the very end of one of these
rocky capes a figure no larger a pigeon could be seen moving about, very
actively indeed.
“Yonder’s Johnnie,” said Molly.
“I’m going to him, Molly. Come, Ralph.”
The dog bayed, and went bounding round his little mistress. Even Johnnie
on the rock point could hear that deep-mouthed sound and knew that his
cousin Peggy was coming, and next minute both she and the hound were
seen feathering across the sands in his direction. The boy’s handsome
face brightened when he saw his child companion.
“I somehow knew you would come this morning, Peggy.”
“Yes?” said the girl, inquiringly.
“Yes, I knew you wouldn’t go to the forest again to-day, after
yesterday.”
“Oh, but I might!” she answered, mischievously. “You know I’m always
going to take Ralph with me now.”
“Well, you’d better--or--I could come.”
“A dog,” said Peggy, sententiously, “is often better than a boy. A dog
is quieter, and a dog can bite.”
“Come, and we’ll fish some more, Peggy, and look at things among the
pools of the rock.”
Peggy sat down and extended her bare legs in front of her.
“Take my sandals off.”
Johnnie did as he was told, and slung them over his shoulder.
Then hand in hand away they went sight-seeing over the rocks and across
the pools. Ralph was in the water, splashing about and having great fun
with the jelly-fishes. Sometimes he took a big mouthful of water and
seemed to wonder it was so salt. Had it been fresh, he would have
swallowed some; as it was, he only let it run out of his red jowls
again.
But what a world of marine life was to be found among the weeds and in
the little, sandy-bottomed pools! Shell-fish of every shape and colour,
crimson medusa, and wee, wicked-looking crabs, like big spiders that
walked sideways and had their eyes on stalks handy for looking round
corners; brown crabs, blue crabs, gray and yellow crabs.
The seaweeds themselves were most beautiful to behold, specially the
tiny, fern-like ones, that floated pink and sienna in the clear pools.
Sometimes, when Peggy put her foot on one of the bladders which float
the very large algæ, it gave a crack like a small pistol, and quite
startled her.
They spent quite an hour at the seaside; but Peggy couldn’t find a
mermaid, though she felt sure there were little fairy ones, and that
they dwelt deep down in just such pools as these, and didn’t wear much
clothes, except bits of fringy seaweed around their waists to hide their
fishy tails.
“Oh!” cried Peggy, suddenly. She was some yards away from her companion.
“Now you’ve done it,” said the boy. “You want to be a mermaid yourself,
Peggy, I think.”
But he fished her out of the pond at once, and tried to wring her frock.
“No good,” sighed Peggy. “I must take it off and spread it in the sun to
dry.”
Johnnie helped her, and then made a tippet for her of his own merino
muffler to cover her bare shoulders.
“Oh, if you are going to dress me,” said Peggy, pouting, “I must have
something more than your merino wrap, though that does feel soft and
warm.”
She ran away a little distance shorewards to a spot where the rocks were
higher, only stopping just for a moment to wave her hand back to him.
“Go on shrimping, Jack. I’m going to the green-room to dress.”
When Peggy called Johnnie “Jack,” then Johnnie knew that Peggy meant
business.
But as she stood there for a moment on the top of a boulder, with bare
brown limbs and laughing face, Johnnie had to allow that she looked a
very pretty and a very provoking picture. Then she dropped down behind
the great boulder, and he saw her no more for a time.
“When I am a man,” said Johnnie to himself, “and have a house or a great
caravan, or a ship or something of my own, I shouldn’t wonder if I
married Peggy.”
He proceeded to seek for more shrimps and dabs, or whatever he could
find. He had a long trident, such as Neptune, the sea-god, is supposed
to carry. He lowered this almost to the bottom of a pool, and whenever
he noticed the sand stir, down went the three-pronged spear and up came
a flat fish. He got several thus, and one wriggley-waggley conger eel.
When he looked up, lo! there was Peggy, standing on her boulder again,
but how changed! She was Peggy still in face--she could be nothing
sweeter--but her whole body down to the knees, with the exception of her
shapely arms, was covered with a garment of seaweeds; strings of shells
were around her neck, her arms, and ankles, and her hair was adorned
with sea-mosses which matched its auburn beauty. Peggy possessed the
gift of “getting up,” but never before had she done anything so perfect
as this.
Johnnie wasn’t often taken back, but he was now; he merely opened his
eyes and said, “Oh, Peggy!”
The little minx tripped lightly down and took his trident from the boy’s
hands, then, holding it with the spear-points upwards, she stood on a
rock in the sunlight and began to sing.
If there were any fairy mermaids in those pools, I am sure they looked
and listened too.
“Do you like my new dress, Johnnie, boy?”
“Yes; and oh, Peggy, you must sing in it to-night. You look a perfect
little nymph of the wave. And now we are going to breakfast, dear
cousin.”
“What! In this dress of weeds?”
“Yes, and that trident and all. You won’t catch cold, will you?”
“No, silly; this dress is ever so cool and nice.”
The dog went bounding on in front, barking and baying; the children
followed, hand in hand as usual, and, as usual, singing.
They were _so_ happy. Oh, would that happiness would ever last!
When Johnnie led his cousin into the breakfast tent, Father Fitzroy
jumped up.
“By Jupiter, Peggy McQueen!” he cried, “you’re a genius. You look
somewhat damp, else, ’pon my honour, I’d take you in my arms and kiss
you. But, Johnnie, you may do so.”
But the saucy little sea-goddess wheeled round, lowered her trident to
the defensive, and repeated some lines from one of her favourite dramas.
“Come not near me, sirrah. Advance but one step and you have looked your
last on yonder sun. Seek to molest me, thou craven coward, and thy
life-blood dyes the heather!”
“Sit down, my dearie, sit down,” said Molly; “are ye sure ye won’t catch
cold in them cloes?”
“I’m going off to write a song. Now, at once.” This from Fitzroy. “The
music and words are ringing in my head even now--‘The Seaweed
Queen'--and you shall sing it to-night, my damp little darling. Molly,
keep my coffee hot.”
This evening was Peggy’s benefit, and the “house” was even more crowded
than ever. The same performance was gone through, and ‘The Seaweed
Queen’ was voted the greatest success of the season.
* * * * *
On the morning after Peggy’s benefit the camp was struck.
Striking camp seems an easy matter, does it not? But, having travelled
in caravans with tents for many a long year, I can assure my gentle and
my simple reader, that it is not half so easy to get clear away out of
one’s pitch as it may seem.
All hands had to be called very early to-day. It is no hardship,
however, for caravan people to rise betimes. They live constantly in
the open air, and are wont to consider morning the sweetest time of all
the day.
In the case of the Wandering Minstrels the trouble of striking camp was
minimised, because everyone had his own duties to perform, and all
obeyed the orders of Father Fitzroy, while he himself worked as hard as
anyone.
At four o’clock that morning Willie the dwarf shook himself clear of his
sack, and with his little bugle to his lips sounded the reveille. The
notes of his horn were very beautiful, as they rose and fell on the
still air of what was a blue-skied and heavenly morning. They went
swelling over the woods and startled the wild-birds; forest rangers
still abed heard them and wondered what they were, and fishermen out at
sea yonder, who had been toiling all night at their silver harvest,
turned their weary eyes shorewards and wondered.
Still with the bugle over his shoulder, Willie, without waiting to note
the effects of the blast he had blown, hurried away now and neatly
folded up his sack, and stuck it in its place beneath the two-horse
caravan. Then he took his bundle of straw away to some distance on the
lee-side of the camp, and coming back, proceeded to hang up all the
buckets and the field-lamp, and the oil-cans, the vegetable-baskets, and
other odds and ends daintily and neatly on their hooks below the vans.
He had, moreover, to see that nothing was left lying about the field. In
ten minutes’ time the camp-fire was lit and the kettle was filled and
hung over it.
Molly was soon busy bustling about to prepare the six o’clock breakfast.
Meanwhile, all the theatrical properties were loaded on the cart, which
Willie himself was permitted to drive, for dwarfs are strong for their
size. By the time this cart was loaded and the quiet horse harnessed,
the breakfast was ready in the tent. Though a little sorry to leave so
sweet a camping-ground, everyone was more or less excited with the
thought of starting off once more and through the woods in search of
further adventures.
It is needless to say that the breakfast was a hearty one. If there is
one thing in this world that gipsy people can do better than another, it
is making a good show at table. Even Willie the tiny did ample justice
to the good things Providence had placed before him. As for the giant--
“Well, my children,” he said, “I must confess I like a square meal.
Given a good breakfast, a jolly dinner, and a hearty supper, no one need
go hungry if he can only work in a few pints of good fruit between
whiles, and maybe a few cocoa-nuts.”
Then Molly cleared away and washed up. She stowed plates and dishes in
the rack of the big caravan, so neatly that they never even rattled
during the journey. The mugs that did duty as cups and saucers were hung
in the after-cabin, and knick-knacks placed in cupboards.
“Now, then, Molly, bear a hand,” cried the giant.
“I’se ready, Gourmie, my dear, and bless the Lord, lovie, that we’ve got
a fine day and a dry tent to pack. To pack up a wet tent is----”
Gourmand seized the big pole.
“Gee-ho-up!” he shouted; “stand clear, all hands that don’t want to be
smothered.”
Down came the tent!
“Honolulu!” he cried, a moment afterwards. “Where on earth is old
Molly?”
And a faint voice answered him from under the canvas--a skinny leg with
a boot on its foot was protruding from under it!
“I be’s a-scrambling in here, Gourmie. You’ve been and gone and lowered
the tent right atop of your poor Molly. Oh, my poor old bones!”
But Gourmand soon had her clear. Then she helped him to get out the pegs
and to smooth and fold the canvas, till it was all small enough to put
into the sack--pegs, mallet, divided pole and all. The bag was hoisted
on to the cart.
Then the harnessing of the horses began. Two horses to the great
caravan, one to Peggy’s bonnie wee one, and one to Willie’s cart. While
this was being done, the dwarf boy was as busy as a rag-picker. Every
morsel of paper or string or stick or straw was collected and placed on
the “burning-heap.”[A]
[A] A hole dug in the ground in which gipsies burn rubbish.
“Fire!” cried Fitzroy, as if he stood on a battle-deck.
Willie scratched a match, and lit his pile, after scattering oil over
it, and in five minutes more it was quite consumed.
“All ready?”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“Off!”
Crack went the whips; round went the wheels, and away rolled the show,
leaving the beautiful sea, with its grays and greens and stretches of
sand, and its wild, weedy rocks behind it.
“Good-bye!” cried Peggy, waving her little white handkerchief in the
breeze; “good-bye, dear old ocean; we will meet again another day.”
Then the silent woods swallowed them up, and the rooks and starlings
alone were left on the old camp pitch.