The poor gander blushed, not being used to speaking in public; but he
began again bravely.
"Ma'am, seeing as how you're saved our lives, we've made up our minds to
be your faithful servants, and to go where you go, and do what you do."
"I'm sure it's very good of you," the Queen said, not knowing exactly
whether to be glad or sorry. "But I don't quite know where I am going;
though, as it's getting late in the day, I think I'd better be moving
on."
"Why don't you go back to the cottage?" the old gander said. "There'll
be no one there to bother you now."
"It's rather a good idea," the Queen said. "I've a good mind to."
"Do," the geese said. "There's a nice river near by."
And, although the latter inducement was inconsiderable, the Queen did as
she was asked. In their mad career they had come so great a distance
that it was close on nightfall before they reached the cottage again.
There everything was quiet and as they had left it, only the fire had
almost died away on the hearth.
So the Queen, who rather disliked the darkness, threw one or two turfs
on it and blew it up well with the bellows, so that the light glowed and
danced cheerfully on the farthest wall of the cottage.
So the Queen sat and looked at the leaping flames, and her shadow danced
large upon the walls. But outside, on the dunes before the door, the
geese were all asleep, with their heads under their wings. Their
shadows did not move in the moonlight. Only the old gander remained as
a sentinel, marching up and down before the door. No sentry was ever
more perfect in his goose-step.
So, when a fit of nervousness came over the Queen, and she went to look
out at the door for fear the old woman and her cat should return, she
felt quite reassured.
"It was we who saved the capitol," the old gander said; "so you're quite
safe."
And the remembrance soothed the Queen, so that she went and lay down on
the couch of dried fern that served for a bed, and soon was fast asleep.
After all, the geese were some companionship, and it was better to sleep
quietly on the bracken-couch than to glide along in a ghostly way under
the moon, with no company but one's shadow on the fields far, far down
below.
So the Queen slept until morning, and the first sound that awakened her
was the quacking of the geese, a really tremendous noise. The sun was
just up. The Queen sprang up, too, and dressed herself. There was a
pail in the hut, and, at no great distance, a well. So thither she
went, and, drawing a pail of water, washed herself well in it. It was
delightfully cold and refreshing.
The geese saluted her with a general chorus of good mornings and good
wishes, for which the Queen thanked them.
So, having made herself comfortable, she began to feel not a little
hungry, as did the geese. After looking about in the hut, she discovered
the cellar door, and, opening it, she went down, not without being a
little afraid that it might be full of old women or black cats. She
found no trace of either, but merely quite a lot of bread and cheese,
and hard biscuits, and a sack of corn, which was evidently intended for
the geese.
So she filled a measure with it and threw it to them, and gave them a
great pan of water from the well, after which she made a frugal
breakfast off a biscuit and an egg which one of the geese had laid.
Then the geese wanted to set forth for the river, and asked the Queen to
come with them, which she did willingly enough, after she had tidied the
house a little and had made up the fire so that it might not quite go
out.
Then gaily they trooped off over the sand-dunes towards the river, the
geese marching gravely in line; only the old grey gander went beside the
Queen and talked to her.
Just where the river ran was a green meadow with several pools of water
in it. And the meadow was perfectly alive with birds; everywhere their
wings seemed to be flapping and fluttering and showing the whites
underneath them.
They eyed the Queen with something like alarm, but the old grey gander
made a speech in which he referred to the Queen as their preserver and
friend; and the Queen said that, far from wishing to do them any harm,
she was very fond of birds.
And so the flapping of wings went on again, and the sun shone down upon
the gay meadow. But the geese led the Queen to the river's edge, and
there she sat down on the bank beneath a willow tree, whilst they jumped
in and revelled in the clear water.
So the sun rose higher and higher, and the shade of the tree grew more
and more grateful to the Queen, and the geese came out of the river and
arranged themselves for a nap on the grass around her.
During the sun's height, too, all the other birds were more silent; it
was too hot for violent exercise.
So the river gurgled among the rushes, and they rustled and bent their
heads, and the willow leaves forgot to tremble for want of a breeze. And
the great, placid flow of the river was without a dimple on its face,
save when a fish sprang gleaming out after a low-flying midge.
So the Queen felt happy and contented, and she, too, dozed off into a
little nap, whilst the woolly clouds slowly sailed across the blue
heaven.
But towards evening the birds all woke up; the peewits flew off in a
flock to the marshy flats down the river, and the snipe whirred away to
the mud-banks, and the geese arose and cropped the greensward with their
bills.
And then, towards sunset, they all rose in the air, and the Queen with
them, and went whirling round in great clouds of rustling pinions, dyed
red in the sunset, geese and peewits, and snipe and herons, all wheeling
about in sheer delight of life; until, when the sun was almost down, the
geese, with a great cry of farewell, flew off through the gloaming with
the Queen towards the hut.
And there she once more blew up the fire for company, whilst the geese
outside slept calmly. And so she went to bed again.
Thus it fell about that the Queen remained quite a long time in the hut
with the geese for her companions.
The days she spent down where the river whispered to the rushes. When
the sun was very hot, she would bathe in the stream and lie among the
rushes; and, having cut a pipe, she played upon it in tune with the
gurgle of the river.
Then the geese and the gulls and the peewits and the gaunt grey herons
would gather round and listen attentively--so attentively that if one of
the gulls made a slight rustling in changing legs, he always got a good
peck for disturbing them. And the great herons buried their bills in
the feathers of their breasts and shut their eyes, and did not move even
when the frogs crept out of the water and listened, with their
gold-rimmed eyes all agog, and their yellow throats palpitating.
Then when she had finished, the herons snapped their bills; and the
gulls cried, "Kee-ah;" and the peewits, "Peewit;" and the geese hissed,
with their necks stretched out--but that too signified applause.
As for the frogs, they made haste to spring with a plop into the rushes,
without any applause at all; but that was because the herons had opened
their eyes and were stalking towards them.
So the Queen was very much beloved in the bird-meadow, and the gulls
would come out of the shining pools to greet her when she came in the
freshness of the morning, and the herons would lay fish at her feet, and
the peewits would perch upon her shoulder and fly round her head, and
the whirr of wings was everywhere. But the geese were her guard of
honour.
One morning before they set out for the bird-meadow, whilst the Queen
was engaged in tidying up the hut, the geese suddenly set up a most
terrible hissing and quacking.
"Dear me!" the Queen said, "there'll be a terrible rain-storm soon."
But at that moment the old grey gander came running excitedly into the
hut.
"There's a man--two men--three men coming," he said, quite out of
breath.