The Secret Society
School re-opened on January 18, and Sylvia found herself driving up to
the well-known door with very different feelings from those she had
experienced on her first arrival there. On the whole she was quite
pleased to be back again, to meet all her friends, and compare notes
about the holidays. There was one change in the third class which,
however it might affect others, seemed to Sylvia a decided
improvement. Hazel Prestbury had left. An aunt residing in Paris had
offered to take her for a time to give her the opportunity of special
study in French and music, and her parents had arranged for her to go
at once, sending Brenda, a younger sister, to Heathercliffe House in
her place. Brenda was a very different child from Hazel, and had soon
sworn eternal friendship with Connie Camden, so that at last Sylvia
felt she had her dear Linda absolutely and entirely to herself.
"I don't know how it is," said Nina one chilly February evening when
the members of the third class were gathered round the high fireguard
in the playroom, "there never seems half so much fun going on in the
spring term. In the autumn we have Hallowe'en and the fifth of
November and the Christmas party, and in the summer there are picnics
and the shore, and the sports, and the prize-giving; but unless Miss
Kaye takes us a long walk there isn't anything to look forward to now
until Easter."
"And that's eleven whole weeks off," groaned Connie. "I wish it had
come early this year."
"It wouldn't make any difference if it did," said Marian; "Miss Kaye
keeps to the term. We should only have to spend Easter at school, and
go home as usual in the middle of April."
"That would be horrid. Why should she?"
"Because it would make too long a summer term, and because she likes
our holidays to be the same as those of the boys' schools."
"I hadn't thought of that. Of course it would be no fun to go home if
Percy and Frank and Bertie and Godfrey weren't there. Still, I wish
terms were a little shorter, or that something nice would happen." And
Connie ruffled up her hair with both hands as an expression of her
discontent.
"Couldn't we do something just amongst ourselves?" said Sylvia. "Not
the whole school, but our class."
"There isn't anything new," said Brenda, "unless someone can invent a
fresh game. We're getting tired of table croquet."
"I don't mean exactly a game. Suppose we were each to write a story,
and then have a meeting to read them all out."
"Start a kind of magazine?" said Marian. "That's a good idea. We could
put our tales together into an old exercise book, and perhaps paste
pictures in for illustrations, and make up puzzles and competitions
for the end."
"Oh yes, that would be lovely!" cried the others. "Like _Little Folks
or The Girl's Realm_."
"But look here," said Linda. "The second class mustn't hear a word
about it. They'd only make dreadful fun of us, and it will be ever so
much nicer if we keep it a secret."
"Let us form a secret society, then," suggested Sylvia. "We'll pinch
each others' little fingers, and vow we won't tell a soul in the
school."
"How horridly inquisitive they'll be!" said Nina.
"All the more fun. We'll let them know that we're doing something,
enough to make them wildly curious, but they shan't have a hint of
what it is, and they'll imagine the most ridiculous things, and then
we can just laugh at them and say they're quite wrong."
The girls agreed cordially with Sylvia's scheme, and the society was
formed on the spot. There was a good deal of discussion as to a
suitable name. Linda thought of "The Heathercliffe Magaziners", but
Nina said that was tame, and that, moreover, "Magaziners" was not to
be found in the dictionary of the English language. Connie considered
"The 'Wouldn't you like to know?' Club" might be appropriate, but
nobody approved of her title. At last Marian, who was fond of long,
grand-sounding names, suggested "The Secret Society of Literary
Undertakings", which was carried unanimously by the others. Marian was
elected President and Sylvia Secretary, and the latter at once devoted
a new notebook to writing the names of the members and the rules of
the association.
"We must have rules," said Marian, "even if we don't always quite keep
them. You'll have to hide the book away most carefully, Sylvia, for
fear any of the second class get hold of it."
It took a long time to think of sufficiently strict and binding
regulations, but at length they decided upon the following:--
1. This Society is to be called "The Secret Society of Literary
Undertakings", and it can be known for short as the S.S.L.U.
2. Each member pledges herself that she will never tell a word
of what goes on in it.
3. Any member who tells anything will never be spoken to again
by the rest of the class.
4. There is to be a weekly magazine.
5. Every member must write something for it.
6. Even if a member says she cannot write anything, she will
have to try.
7. If she does not try, she will be expelled from the society.
8. The meetings are to be held in the playroom after the fourth
class has gone to bed.
9. Any member who is expelled will have to stay outside in the
passage during the meetings.
10. All members are requested to write as clearly as they can.
11. The Secretary is to arrange the magazine.
12. The President is to read it out at the weekly meeting.
As Nina had prophesied, the S.S.L.U. aroused a good deal of curiosity
among the second class, which, while it affected to look down upon the
third, was nevertheless rather interested in what was going on there.
Being permitted to know the initials, though not the full name, the
elder girls promptly added a G, and christened the members "The
Slugs", a title which stuck to them long after the society was
abandoned. It was most difficult to preserve the secret from the
little ones, who shared the playroom, but by instituting a series of
private signs and signals they managed to keep up the mystery and
obtain a great amount of enjoyment out of the matter. Brenda Prestbury
covered herself with glory by recalling the deaf-and-dumb alphabet,
the various letters of which she had learnt at home, and now taught to
the others, who were soon able to talk on their fingers, a rather slow
method of conversation, but delightful when they felt that nobody but
a member could understand. Unfortunately they carried their
accomplishment somewhat too far one day. Connie, seated at her drawing
board in the studio, began signalling an interesting remark to Linda,
who was at the opposite side of the table, and Linda was in the middle
of her reply when Mr. Dawson, the visiting master, suddenly cleared
his throat.
"I think I ought to tell you, young ladies," he said nervously, "that
I am very well acquainted with the deaf-and-dumb alphabet, having
taught the subject for several years at an institution for
deaf-mutes."
Connie went extremely red, as well she might, for she had asked Linda
where Mr. Dawson got the flower in his buttonhole, and if Miss Coleman
had given it to him? The girls never ventured after that to try
talking in the drawing class, though they did a little surreptitiously
during dancing.
The first grand meeting of the society was felt to be an occasion of
great importance. The playroom door was carefully shut, after
ascertaining that no one was in the passage, and Brenda even peeped
under the table and behind the window curtains to make quite sure that
none of the second class were concealed there. At last, considering
themselves secure, the magazine was produced by the Secretary, and
handed to the President, who, according to the rules, was to read it
aloud from beginning to end. It was written on sheets of paper torn
from exercise books, stitched together inside an old arithmetic cover,
the back of which had been adorned with scraps and transfers and
S.S.L.U. printed on a school label and gummed in the middle. The idea
of illustrations had to be abandoned, because nobody had any magazines
which they would spare to be cut up, neither did anybody's talent rise
to the pitch of original drawings; but on the whole that did not much
matter.
"It's stories we want, not pictures," said Marian, settling herself on
the seat of honour with a piece of toffee handy, in case her throat
grew troublesome through her arduous duties.
"The first on the list," she began, "is--
THE KNIGHT'S VENGEANCE
A Story in Two Parts
By Nina Millicent Forster
Author of 'The Baron's Secret'; 'The Mystery of the Castle'; &c.
&c.
PART I
The forest was dark and gloomy as Sir Brian de Fotheringay rode
along on his superb white charger, carrying his shield in one
hand and his sword in the other."
"How did he manage to hold the reins?" enquired Connie Camden.
"You musn't interrupt," said Marian. "Perhaps he held them bunched up
with the sword. No, that would be the wrong hand, wouldn't it?"
"The horse knew its own way," explained Nina. "But if Connie's going
to find fault with everything one puts----"
"She shan't!" said Marian hastily. "Nobody's to make any remarks till
the end of the story. Now I'm going on.
His undaunted spirit heeded little the perils of his path, and
as the moonlight flashed on his steel helmet he bade defiance to
all his foes. In front of him stood the Castle, its tall towers
strongly guarded by a force of armed men. The drawbridge was up,
and the portcullis was down. But dangers were welcome to Sir
Brian de Fotheringay, for they did but prove how much he could
accomplish for the sake of his lady love. She stood at the
turret window, the beautiful Lady Guinevere de Montmorency, the
greatest heiress in the land. Leaving his charger on the bank,
he swam the moat, and, flinging a rope ladder up to her window,
he begged her to fly with him.
'Knight, for thee would I dare all!' she replied, but before she
could say more, a stern figure in armour appeared in the turret
behind her and seized her by her flowing golden locks. It was
her angry father.
'Hence!' he cried. 'Hence, Sir Brian, ere I kill thee. You,
lady, will be immured in the dungeon until you have promised to
wed Lord Vivian de Fitz Bracy, the suitor of my choice.'
With a shriek she disappeared from the view of her despairing
knight.
PART II
Determined to save his lady love from so terrible a fate, Sir
Brian de Fotheringay collected all his retainers, together with
a band of outlaws to whom he had rendered some services, and who
had promised to assist him in time of need. Uttering his
warcry, they rushed at the Castle, the portcullis gave way
before their furious attack, and the archers were slain at their
posts.
'Yield thee, Sir Guy de Montmorency!' cried Sir Brian, waving
his invincible sword.
'Never!' shouted the Baron, but it was his last word, for Sir
Brian stabbed him to the heart.
He had soon forced open the dungeon and released the beautiful
Lady Guinevere. The Castle was now hers, so they were married
without delay, and the King and Queen themselves came to the
wedding."
"It's perfectly splendid!" cried the girls, when Marian had finished
reading. "Nina, how did you manage to think of it?"
"Oh, I don't know; it just came!" said Nina, modestly. "I'm rather
fond of making up tales."
"There's only one thing," said Connie. "Wasn't the lady rather sorry
when her father was stabbed to the heart, even if he had shut her up
in a dungeon? I should be."
"I don't think people minded in the Middle Ages," said Nina. "You see,
somebody had to get killed, and she liked the knight best."
"But her own father!" objected Connie.
"I'm going to read the next one now," said Marian, who, as President,
felt bound to keep the peace. "I think Nina's story's very good, and
makes a capital beginning. This one seems much shorter. It's called:
MOST HASTE, LEAST SPEED
By GWENDOLEN WOODHOUSE
Matilda Jane was a girl who was always in a hurry. One day her
grandmother told her to take the bucket and fetch some water
from the well, but to be sure to tie her boot lace first. Now
Matilda Jane wanted to be very quick, so that she might go and
play, and she did not stop to tie her boot lace. As she ran out
of the door, she tripped over it and fell. The bucket rolled
from her hand and hit the dog; the dog howled and made the geese
cackle; the geese cackling made the pigs grunt; the pigs
grunting frightened the hens into the field; the hens frightened
the cow, which began to run; when the horse saw the cow running,
it ran too, and they both jumped over the hedge into the road;
then the hens flew after the horse and the cow, and the pigs
went after the hens, and the geese followed the pigs, and the
dog chased the geese, and it took Matilda Jane and her
grandmother the whole afternoon to drive them back, and all
because she had been in too great a hurry to tie her boot lace.
The moral of this tale is 'Most haste, least speed!'"
The girls laughed.
"I don't generally like stories with a moral," said Brenda, "but I
don't mind this one at any rate. Go on, Marian!"
"The next is a piece of poetry," said Marian.
THE KITTENS' CHORUS
By SYLVIA LINDSAY
Miew! Miew! Miew! Miew!
We want to catch mice, we do, we do!
But our mother, the old white cat,
Says we are rather too young for that.
Miew! Miew! Miew! Miew!
We want to catch flies, we do, we do!
But our mother says that if we do it
We'll grow so thin that we soon shall rue it!
Miew! Miew! Miew! Miew!
We want to catch mother's tail we do!
But she says she is not such a common cat
As to let her kits be so pert as that.
Miew! Miew! Miew! Miew!
We want to be good, we do, we do!
But that's much harder to do than to say,
So we'll think about that another day.
The poem proved so popular that Marian had to read it over again. It
was the first time that the class had heard any of Sylvia's effusions,
and they were quite impressed.
"I'm afraid mine will seem very stupid after it," said Brenda. "I
couldn't think of anything to write, but I was obliged to put
something."
"The title sounds interesting," said Marian.
MY VISIT TO FRANCE
By BRENDA G. PRESTBURY
Last summer Mother took Hazel and me with her to France, to
visit Aunt Cecily, who was staying near Rouen. The first thing
we saw was a funny old woman in a big white cap, like a large
poke bonnet, and wooden shoes on her feet. The porters all wore
baggy blue blouses something like pinafores. We were obliged to
go through the Customs. A man in a uniform was looking to see if
anybody had brought any tea. He took a little girl's doll away
from her, and felt it to see if it had any tea inside it; then
he took a lady's cushion, and because she got angry, he stuck
his sword through it, and all the feathers came out over his
grand coat. We were so glad! There were no carpets in the house
where Aunt Cecily was living; the floors were of polished wood,
and so slippery. Jean, the servant, used to rub them with
beeswax every morning, but he was very cross in French when
Hazel and I made slides on them. We used to have coffee and
lovely little rolls at seven in the morning, and then proper
breakfast at eleven, and we had quite different things to eat
from what you get in England. One day Hazel and I went such a
long walk that we got lost, and we couldn't remember enough
French to ask our way home. A woman came along with a donkey
and two big baskets on it, and when she saw us crying she gave
us each an apple, and took us to the cure of the village, who
could speak English. He was very kind; he showed us round his
garden, and then he borrowed a cart from the farmer, and drove
us home to Aunt Cecily's. This is all I can tell you about my
visit to France.
"I know it's horrid!" said Brenda. "But I really can't write well, and
make up tales like Nina. I don't know how she does it!"
"It's jolly!" said Marian. "We've none of us been to France, so we
like to hear about it. I wish you had written more. The next one's
very short indeed.
THE LADY AND THE SNAKE
By JESSIE ELLIS
A lady who lived in Australia one day put a great log of wood on
to the fire. In a little while she was going to poke it, and she
stooped to pick up what she thought was the poker, but it was
really a horrible black snake, which coiled at once round her
arm. She had the presence of mind not to move, but remained very
still, and in a few moments it slid down on to the ground. A
gentleman who was in the room killed it, and taking the log from
the fire he carried it into the yard, where seven more snakes
dropped out of it. The wood was hollow, and they had made a nest
inside it, and gone to sleep, and the warmth of the fire had
wakened them up."
"It's quite true," said Jessie. "The lady was my aunt. She told us
about it in a letter."
"What a horrid thing to happen!" cried the girls.
"A nice tale, but too short," commented the President. "I'm afraid
Linda hasn't written a long one either.
THE STORY OF A DOG
By LINDA ACTON MARSHALL
I have a little dog called Scamp, that follows me wherever I go.
He can sit up and beg, and catch biscuits on his nose, and do
all kinds of tricks. One day I was in bed with a bad cold, and
Scamp came upstairs to my room. I told him I was ill, and he
gave a sharp bark, and ran out. I could hear him trot up to the
attic, and soon he returned with a biscuit in his mouth, and
laid it on my pillow, wagging his tail, and looking very sorry
for me, and very pleased at himself. He must have kept a store
of biscuits in the attic. I think he is just the cleverest
little dog in the world."
"My tale's true, too," said Linda. "No, I didn't make it up, Nina; he
really did. There are only two stories left now, Connie's and
Marian's. I wonder which comes next."
"Connie's," said Marian. "And it's in poetry, too. It's called:
THE S.S.L.U.
By CONSTANCE MARY CAMDEN
Said the girls of the third class 'All we
A Secret Society will be.
Though the second may hover
Our words to discover,
It's nothing they'll hear or they'll see.
They may listen at doors in the hall,
Or round by the keyhole may crawl,
They may search through the schools,
But they won't find our rules,
And they'll never know nothing at all'."
The girls clapped, both at the sentiments expressed, and at the
poetical setting.
"I know they'd listen if they could," said Connie. "They're mean
enough for anything. What's that noise?"
"Why, nothing."
"I thought I heard a kind of snorting."
"I expect it was only my cold," said Nina. "Do go on, Marian; we want
your story."
"But I did hear something," persisted Connie. "I believe it was
outside the door, too, and I'm going to look."
She rose hastily, and, creeping softly to the door, opened it
suddenly, disclosing the laughing faces of half a dozen of the second
class, who had been taking it in turns to listen at the keyhole, and
who jumped up in a hurry and fled from the outburst of wrath which
greeted them.
"Oh! Oh!" shouted Sybil Lake. "Won't they hear or see anything? Don't
make too sure!"
"I have a little dog that swallows me wherever I go!" called Eileen
Butler. "I think he's just the cleverest little dog in the world!"
"The slugs are crawling fast!" cried Lucy Martin. The injured third
had risen in a body and pursued the intruders along the passage even
to the door of their own sitting-room; but, seeing Miss Barrett coming
downstairs, they did not dare to carry the fight into the enemy's
camp, and were obliged to return to the playroom, and hold an
indignation meeting over the glasses of milk and biscuits which
arrived at that moment for supper.
"We must read Marian's story to-morrow," said Sylvia. "Wasn't it
horrid of them? I wonder how much they really heard? Next time we
shall have to stuff up the keyhole, and keep opening the door every
few minutes to see that the coast is clear. There's one good thing:
they didn't discover our signs, or the password, and they'll have hard
work to find the rules, because the book's hidden under the oilcloth
in the corner by the piano; only be sure and don't let the little ones
know, because I don't believe there's one of them that can keep a
secret!"
CHAPTER XIII
A Spring Picnic
The beginning of March brought such delightful, mild, balmy weather
that winter seemed to have gathered her chilly garments together and
said good-bye. The month came in like a lamb, and, though it would
probably justify the old proverb by going out like a lion, in the
meantime the sunshine was pleasant, and everyone enjoyed the foretaste
of spring. Miss Kaye, never slow to take advantage of the bright days,
announced one Saturday at breakfast-time that the girls might put on
their thickest boots, and prepare for a ramble up the hills.
"We will start at once," she said, "to get the best of the morning,
and carry sandwiches in our pockets. Then we can return here for tea
at four o'clock."
The expedition was considered too far for the little ones, but the
third class was of course included, and all its eight members set off
in wild spirits. Though Sylvia was in her second term at Heathercliffe
House, she had not seen much of the beautiful country in the
neighbourhood; the weather in the autumn had been too damp for
picnics, and they had only gone walks on the outskirts of the town, or
occasionally on to the beach or along the promenade.
Miss Kaye had made a wise choice when she decided to establish her
school at Aberglyn. It had the advantage of both mountain and sea air,
and was within easy reach of a number of interesting places. The goal
of to-day's walk was a Druids' circle which lay high up on a steep
mountainside overlooking the sea, and to reach it would require a
climb of several hours. Their way, after leading at first along a
suburban road, lined with pretty houses and gardens, began to grow
more countrified, and at last they climbed over a stile into a
romantic-looking wood. It was the foot of a gorge through which flowed
a splendid torrent, dashing its way over great boulders, and the glen
was so sheltered that ferns were growing even on the trunks and
branches of the trees, and the moss was like a green carpet under
foot.
The girls of course rushed down to the edge of the stream, scrambling
over the rocks, flinging stones into the water, and trying to make
pebbles skim on the smooth pools. Luckily nobody fell in, though both
Connie and Brenda had such a narrow escape that Miss Kaye called her
flock to order, and bade them march on once more up the proper path.
The trees gradually began to give way to grassy banks which were
already spangled with celandine, coltsfoot, and actually a few early
primroses; the hazel bushes were covered with catkins that sent
showers of golden pollen over the children when they gathered them,
and in a cosy sheltered spot in the hedge they found a thrush's nest
with three blue eggs in it.
"How sweet of her to build just here!" said Sylvia, looking with deep
interest at the clay-lined structure so cunningly hidden behind a
long spray of ivy, "I can't think how she did it all with her beak.
Isn't she clever? Oh, Connie, please don't lift out the eggs! I'm sure
you'll break them. She won't come back while we're here, so let us go
away, or else they'll get quite cold, and won't hatch out."
"Look what I've found!" cried Marian, climbing up the bank with a
small white starlike flower in her hand. "Isn't it early? It's a piece
of saxifrage."
"No, that's stitchwort," said Sylvia, who had learnt a little botany
at home, and liked to air her knowledge.
"It's saxifrage," said Marian decidedly. "My mother told me so once
herself."
"And my mother told me it was stitchwort."
"My mother's always right. She knows everything!"
"And so does mine! She couldn't make a mistake!"
"You'd better ask Miss Kaye," laughed Linda, "and then she can decide
between you. I've heard it called Star of Bethlehem, so that makes a
third name."
Miss Kaye agreed at once with Sylvia, much to Marian's chagrin; she
did not like to be put in the wrong, and indeed kept obstinately to
her own opinion, and still insisted upon calling the flower saxifrage,
though Miss Kaye told her she would show her a picture of it with the
name underneath in her botany book when they returned.
"You must notice all the things you see or find to-day," said Miss
Kaye. "I shall expect everybody to write a composition next week on
the excursion."
There were certainly plenty of items for the girls to put down on
their lists. A squirrel with a splendid bushy tail ran across the
path, and scrambled hastily up a fir tree, peeping at them from the
safety of the top branches before he made a mighty spring into an
adjoining ash. A heron sailed majestically overhead, its long legs
hanging like those of a stork, and its grey plumage dark against the
sky. A whole flight of lapwings rose, screaming "peewit", from a field
where they were feeding in company with a flock of seagulls, following
the plough that a labourer was driving through the rich red earth. On
a sheltered wall a lizard lay basking in the sunshine; and Linda very
nearly caught him, but he whisked away in a moment, and was gone down
a hole among the stones before half the class had seen him. There were
lambs frisking about in the meadows, and as the girls passed through a
farmyard they found a woman sitting on a doorstep feeding one from a
bottle, like a baby. It had lost its mother, so she told them, and had
readily accepted her as its nurse, becoming so tame that it followed
her everywhere about the house, and slept in a corner of the kitchen.
"We had to feed one of our puppies at home like that," said Linda. "We
used a tiny doll's bottle, and it was such fun to mix the milk and
warm water, and taste it first to see if it was sweet enough. I always
loved Jill much the best, but we couldn't rear her. Oswald was silly
enough to give her a bath when she was too young; I don't think he
dried her properly, and she took cold and died. That's generally the
way with one's pets," she added with a sigh.
"So it is," said Marian. "A most dreadful thing happened to Gwennie
and me. We had a lovely black rabbit, and Mother said we had better
not keep it when we went to school, because the little ones couldn't
look after it properly, and she wouldn't have time herself. A man in
the village asked if he might buy it from us, and we thought he wanted
it as a pet for his children, so we sold it to him. Then one day I met
him on the road, and he said: 'Oh, Missie, that rabbit of yours was a
good one! It made us two whole dinners, and a basin of broth as well.'
We had never dreamt he meant to kill it, and we were so horribly
sorry."
"Canaries are the worst," said Connie. "I've had three. I hung the
first outside the nursery window, and the nail gave way, and the poor
little fellow tumbled right to the ground and was killed. He was such
a good singer, too. The cat got the second. Then I had a third, called
'Tweetie'. I let him out of his cage one day when Bertie was filing
the keel of his boat, and we suppose he must have picked up some of
the bits of lead, because he grew quite ill and died. I buried him
under the rosebush in my garden, and Granny offered a prize to whoever
could write the best piece of poetry about him, an epitaph, she called
it."
"Who won the prize?"
"Bertie himself. I can't quite remember it, but it began:
'Under this rose tree's fragrant shade
Our little favourite is laid'.
It was quite the best of all. Frank was very indignant because he
didn't win, but we none of us liked his poetry. He'd put:
'Poor Tweetie is dead.
He ate up some lead
Which was lying about on the floor:
It stuck in his gizzard,
And as I'm no wizard,
He'll never eat lead any more'.
He said it was true, at any rate, but Granny decided that gizzard
wasn't as romantic as a rose tree, even if it did rhyme with wizard."
"We have a cat that stole a kitten," said Jessie Ellis. "She had two
kittens of her own, and our cook drowned them both. Poor Puss was so
miserable; she went about all day looking for them, mewing and wailing
till we felt quite wretched to hear her. Then she disappeared for
nearly a week, and came back one afternoon carrying a tiny kitten in
her mouth. She was so pleased with it, and kept licking it, and
purring all the time. Mother said she must have adopted it, and she
would let her keep it, and it's grown such a beautiful cat, a real
Persian with a ruff and a bushy tail. We often wonder where she took
it from."
While the children were talking they had been climbing steadily
uphill, and now left the glen by a path which led them directly on to
the open moor. It was glorious up there. In one direction rose the
mountains, peak beyond peak, till in the distance they could just
catch a glimpse of the rugged outline of Snowdon, half-hidden by a
wreath of cloud. Below them lay a vast expanse of sea, with Anglesey
stretched out like a map, and little Puffin Island close by.
"We ought almost to see Ireland to-day," said Mercy, straining her
eyes to discover whether any faint speck of blue outline were visible
on the distant horizon. "People say they've seen the Isle of Man, too,
but it has never been clear enough when I've been up here. Look at the
steamers out on the water; I wonder if one of them's going to China. I
can just remember coming home in a big vessel, and passing the Stack
Lighthouse at Holyhead, and then landing at Liverpool."
"It's splendid to be able to look miles whichever way you turn," said
Sylvia.
She liked the solitude of the moors, which were covered only with
short grass and low whinberry bushes; there was no sound except the
occasional bleat of a sheep or the cry of a curlew, and no human being
in sight but themselves, though one or two small whitewashed farms, at
long distances apart, gave evidence of life by their smoking chimneys.
Not very far away they came upon the Druids' circle, a ring of tall
upright stones, so ancient that all tradition of them had long been
lost, though Miss Kaye explained to the girls that they had probably
been used as a kind of temple for sun worship by the early tribes who
lived there, long before the Romans discovered Britain.
"I wish they could speak and tell us their story," she said. "They
would have strange tales about the rough skinclad men who reared
them, and the priests who stood watching amongst them for the first
glimpse of the sun on Midsummer morning. Who knows but that they may
have witnessed human sacrifices, and at any rate there must have been
wolves, and cave bears, and hyenas, and many wild animals prowling
about which are extinct in Wales now. We can tell that, because the
bones and teeth of these creatures have been found in a cave at
Llandudno. Some day I may perhaps take you to see it. The skeletons of
a man and a woman were found there embedded in the rock, and round
their throats were necklaces made of bears' teeth. We can hardly
imagine what life was like in those early times."
The girls always found Miss Kaye's talks interesting, but the healthy
mountain air had so sharpened their appetites that they turned readily
from ancient stones to modern lunch, and, sitting down inside the
famous circle, drew out the packets of sandwiches and oranges which
they had brought with them. Everything seemed to taste particularly
good, and everybody could have eaten a little more, but the very last
crumb of biscuit had been consumed, and they were obliged to remain
content until teatime. Miss Kaye made the girls gather up their pieces
of orange peel, wrap them in their sandwich papers, and poke them away
under a boulder.
"Nothing is so horrible," she declared, "as to leave traces of one's
picnic about to spoil the place for the next people who come. If
everyone would do the same, there would be few complaints that
tourists ruin the scenery."
After lunch the girls were allowed to ramble on the moors as they
liked, with an injunction not to go too far, and to return to the
Druids' circle when Miss Kaye blew a whistle. It was hardly possible
to get lost, because, as Linda said, they could see all round for
miles, and unless you hid yourself under a bush, someone would be sure
to find you. The members of the third class went off together, racing
over the springy grass with as much agility as the small Welsh sheep
that seemed capable of climbing the stones like goats, to judge by the
achievement of an old ewe, which ran up a loose-built wall as easily
as a kitten, and led its lamb after it.
In a hollow at the farther side of the circle the children found a
sheet of shallow water evidently formed by the February rains and
melting snow. At one end was a rough raft and a long pole, with which
some boy had no doubt been amusing himself. The temptation was too
great to be resisted. In three seconds Connie, Brenda, and Sylvia were
making a trial trip, the last two squatting close together in the
middle to balance the raft, while Connie pushed off with the pole, and
punted them out into the middle of the pond. It was a most delightful
sensation. The water was clear, and they could see down several feet
where there were green weeds growing at the bottom, and great floating
masses of some jellylike substance, that Connie declared was frog
spawn.
"I'm going to get a lump of it," she cried, "and take it back to
school and put it in a basin; then we can watch the tadpoles hatch out
and grow into little frogs. I'll run the raft against this island.
There seems to be a heap of it here."
Though the trio nearly upset their craft in their efforts, they found
it very difficult to get hold of any of the spawn; it was as
transparent and slimy as the white of an egg, and kept slipping
through their fingers as fast as they touched it. Connie managed at
last to secure a small piece by holding her handkerchief under it in
the water; then she tied the four corners tightly together, and put
the wet messy bundle into her pocket.
"Ugh! How can you!" exclaimed Sylvia. "Suppose they hatch on the way?"
"That's not very likely," replied Connie; "but I don't mind if they
do. I'm fond of tadpoles."
The other girls, who had been clamouring for some time from the bank,
demanding a turn at the raft, now grew so indignant at the delay that
Connie punted back and tried to pacify their wrath.
"It's not fair to keep it all the time!" said Marian. "Some of us want
to try it just as much as you. And you don't know how to work that
pole properly. If you give it to me I'll soon show you!"
"All right, Miss Clever!" said Brenda. "You always do things better
than everybody else, don't you? Go on!"
Marian jumped on to the raft, and seized the pole with an exceedingly
high and mighty air; she gave a push off as an example of the graceful
manner in which it ought to be done, but alas! she had not taken into
account the fact that the raft was not balanced with the weight of
the other children, and, stepping too much to one side, she found it
suddenly tilted over, and deposited her in the pond. The water was
only a foot deep so close to the edge, but by the time she had
scrambled out her boots and stockings were wet through, and covered
with mud. The rest of the girls subsided on to the bank in peals of
laughter.
"If that's your way, I'd rather not try it, thank you!" said Nina.
"And you've broken the pole, too!" said Connie.
"Oh, catch the raft, somebody!" exclaimed Linda. "Look! It's drifting
right away, and we shan't be able to go on it."
Unluckily the raft was by this time well out of reach, and nobody was
able to fetch it back, much to the disappointment of those who had not
yet had a chance to try it. Marian was very offended at what she
considered the ill-timed mirth of her companions.
"You're most unkind!" she said angrily, walking away by herself and
trying to wipe her boots clean on the grass.
Feeling that they had had the best of the joke, the girls bore no
malice, and, after leaving her for a few minutes to get over her
sulks, they made overtures of friendship.
"I'll tell you what," said Linda; "I found a box of wax matches in the
road on the way up, and put them in my pocket. Suppose we set a light
to this little gorse bush; it's all withered, and will make quite a
bonfire. Then Marian can dry her boots."
The bush caught fire with the greatest ease, and blazed away at once.
Marian pulled off her boots and stockings, and, standing barefoot on
the grass, held them up to the flame, while the others collected
round, wishing they had some chestnuts or potatoes with them, or a
kettle which could be boiled for tea.
"I believe the grass is beginning to burn too!" said Nina. "Stand
back, Connie! Why, it's caught the next bush as well!"
The children looked at each other with horrified faces. The fire was
spreading rapidly along the ground, and two large bushes were soon in
a blaze. Their modest beginning was evidently leading to more than
they had ever imagined. Fortunately the white column of smoke suddenly
rising up through the clear air attracted Miss Kaye's attention, and
brought her hurrying over the crest of the hill to discover the cause.
She was much surprised to find the members of the third class, one of
them with bare feet, apparently dancing like wild Indians round a
fire, and lost no time in running to the spot.
"You naughty girls!" she exclaimed. "What have you been doing? Marian,
where are your boots? I am astonished at you! Who lighted this fire?"
"We're trying to stamp it out," said Brenda. "It was catching all the
grass."
"But who lighted it?"
"We did, Miss Kaye," replied Linda, rather shamefacedly, "to dry
Marian's boots."
"People often set fire to the moors," added Connie. "I've seen whole
hillsides burning sometimes, so I don't suppose it matters. We're
helping the farmer."
"The farmer may like to set his own furze alight, but he wouldn't
thank any chance strangers for doing so for him. If we don't mind
he'll be claiming damages from us," said Miss Kaye. "We must not leave
here until these bushes have burnt themselves safely out, and we must
stamp on any sparks which fall from them on to the grass. This is the
way that a great prairie fire is often started in America; the flames
will grow in strength, and sweep over miles of country, destroying
farms and villages, and carrying desolation and destruction before
them. I didn't think you would have been in such mischief directly my
back was turned."
Miss Kaye looked so grave and annoyed that the girls felt their grand
idea had fallen rather flat; and the moment the fire was out she told
Marian to put on her stockings and boots at once, and gave the signal
to return home. It was a very unpleasant walk to Marian, as her boots
had dried stiff, and felt much too tight for her, while the stockings
were still rather moist and muddy. Everyone was tired, and the second
class made teasing remarks about the Slugs being fond of slimy ponds,
and announced that they were looking forward to hearing a sentimental
account of the adventure through the keyhole on the occasion of the
next meeting of the S.S.L.U.
"You won't do anything of the sort. You know nothing, really, about
the society, and it's horribly mean to listen. You may be in the upper
school, but I can't say much for your manners. I'm glad I'm not in
the second class!" retorted Marian, adding privately to Gwennie,
however: "I'm afraid they do know a good deal; and it's just spoilt
the S.S.L.U. I don't think I shall trouble to write for it again.
Doesn't it seem twice as far coming back as going, although it's all
downhill? And oh! aren't you dreadfully, cruelly, desperately hungry,
and absolutely starving for your tea?"
CHAPTER XIV
Whitweek with Linda
The Easter holidays were short and sweet. The brief fortnight seemed
to be over almost before Sylvia had realized she was at home, and both
she and her mother found it harder than ever to part when the last day
arrived. There was one compensation, however, which consoled Sylvia
for saying goodbye. Mercy Ingledew had spent the vacation with Miss
Coleman, and on her way back to Aberglyn was allowed to accept Mrs.
Lindsay's invitation to stay a couple of days with Sylvia and travel
with her to school, while Miss Coleman went to see a relation at
Llangollen. The visit was a great success. Mr. and Mrs. Lindsay were
delighted with Mercy and glad that their little daughter should have
made so charming a friend among the elder girls, while Sylvia
thoroughly enjoyed both acting hostess and the return journey together
to Heathercliffe House.
It was now the summer term, which most of the girls considered the
pleasantest time of the year. Every available moment was spent
out-of-doors. Tennis and croquet were in full swing, and the younger
ones amused themselves with rounders and hide-and-seek. Sylvia, who a
year ago had affected to dislike running about, might now be seen
racing round the garden as enthusiastically as anybody at a game of
"follow my leader" or "I spy", and she would have been utterly
astonished if anyone had reminded her of her former tastes.
The school was granted a brief holiday at Whitsuntide, and as it
seemed hardly worth while to make the long journey home for so short a
period, Sylvia was very delighted when she was allowed to accept Mrs.
Marshall's invitation to return with Linda and spend the few days at
Garth Avon. Both little girls looked forward to the event with keen
pleasure. It was the first time that Sylvia had ever paid a visit by
herself, and she felt quite grown-up when she thought about it.
They were to go by train as far as Conway, where Mr. Marshall was to
meet them and drive them home in the dogcart to Craigwen, the place
where his house was situated. Miss Coleman saw them off at Aberglyn,
giving many last injunctions not to lean against the carriage door, or
hang out of the window, or otherwise misbehave themselves, and to be
sure not to get out at a wrong station, which did not seem a very
probable mistake, as Linda knew the line so well. She added a word to
the guard which caused him to come and peep at them with a smiling
face, and assure them that he would see them safely to Conway, and
they need not be in the least afraid. Linda and Sylvia were rather
insulted.
"He needn't treat us like babies!" said Linda. "I've come alone more
than once. It's all Miss Coleman's fussiness. We might be going to
London, instead of only to Conway. There, we're off at last!"
The guard had put the children in a first-class compartment and locked
the door, so that they had it all to themselves. They leaned back
luxuriously, each in a corner, admiring the photographs which adorned
the partitions or the view of the sea from the windows. They were in
the highest spirits, and to travel thus seemed a very good beginning
to a journey which was all too short. They were quite loath to get out
when the train reached Conway, but the stop was of the briefest, and
the friendly guard whisked both them and their bags from the carriage
in a hurry, and, blowing his whistle, jumped into his van as it passed
him.
"There's Daddy!" cried Linda, running to meet her father, who was
waiting for them on the platform, and seizing his hand. "Oh, Daddy
dear, did you let Scamp come with you? And have you brought Bess or
Beauty in the trap?"
"Bess," said Mr. Marshall, when he had welcomed Sylvia. "And Scamp is
tied up outside. I didn't dare to let him into the station. Are these
two bags all you've brought with you? Give them both to me."
Scamp was a lively little fox terrier, which seemed so pleased to see
Linda again that he nearly overwhelmed her with his affection, and ran
round and round, barking like a mad creature, till Mr. Marshall picked
him up and put him in the back of the trap.
"He ran the whole way here," he said, "so I think it would be too far
for him to trot home as well, though he never appears to be the least
tired."
There was just room on the front seat for Linda and Sylvia side by
side, Sylvia in the middle, and Linda at the end, because she was less
likely to fall out. Mr. Marshall touched Bess with his whip, and they
started off through the old streets, past the castle, under the arched
gateway, and away towards the mountains that rose up before them in
the distance. It was all new country to Sylvia, who much admired the
view when they had climbed the great hill out of the town, and could
see the beautiful expanse of the Vale of Conway stretched below them,
with the silvery river winding through its midst. She thoroughly
enjoyed the drive. Bess, the brown cob, went along at a good fast
pace, and so soon covered the ground that by four o'clock they had
passed under the tall avenue of beeches that shaded the road, and
drawn up at the hospitable doorway of Garth Avon. It was a pretty,
oldfashioned house, overgrown with creepers, and at present the walls
were a mass of beautiful pink and white roses, which scented the air
with their fragrance. In front was a lawn, where garden seats, basket
chairs, and a table spread with a white cloth and cups and saucers had
a very inviting appearance.
"I knew you would like to have tea out-of-doors," said Mrs. Marshall,
kissing both the children. "Ellen has made an iced spongecake on
purpose, and baked some scones, and when Mrs. M'Allister heard you
were coming home, she sent over a box of real Scotch shortbread.
Linda, take Sylvia upstairs, and then you can bring her into the
garden again when you have washed your hands. Lizzie has carried up
your bags."
Sylvia was to sleep with Linda in the spare bedroom, a pleasant room
with an oriel window, and a large bed hung with blue curtains, that
looked big enough to hold four little girls instead of two.
"My own room is over the porch," said Linda, "but it only has one very
small bed in it, and Mother thought you'd feel lonely if you slept
here quite by yourself. It's much nicer to be together as we are at
school, isn't it?" To this Sylvia cordially agreed.
"The boys are coming home too, this evening," continued Linda.
"They're going to bicycle all the way from Rhyl. Their school doesn't
break up until afternoon, so they couldn't start until four. I expect
they'll have a nice ride, if Artie's tyre keeps up. He was afraid he
had a puncture. Hilda hasn't any holiday at Whitweek in London. She's
not so well off as when she was at Miss Kaye's, but she'd got beyond
even the first class, you know. She's seventeen, and she's to leave
altogether soon. I wish you'd seen her!"
It was very pleasant sitting at tea in the dear old garden. The beds
were a blaze of flowers, and so were the tall vases which ornamented
the flight of steps leading down to the tennis lawn. Scamp joined the
party, and also a large white Persian cat, which astonished Sylvia by
sitting up and begging as cleverly as her canine companion, with whom
she seemed on excellent terms.
"Scamp is very fond of Snowball," said Linda, "but he hates all other
cats, and he'd kill them if he could catch them. One day, in Conway,
he saw a white puss rather like ours, and it was so funny to watch
him, because he couldn't make up his mind whether he ought to lick it
or chase it."
"How beautifully clean she is!" said Sylvia, taking the pretty soft
creature on her lap, and stroking the long, silky fur. "Do you wash
her?"
"We do sometimes," replied Linda. "But she doesn't like it at all,
poor dear. It takes three of us to manage it, two to hold her, and the
other to soap and rinse her. I never try it without the boys. Once I
thought I had such a splendid idea. I was going to try dry cleaning. I
rubbed her fur thoroughly well with flour, and I was just brushing it
out again when she screwed herself from my arms and jumped through the
open window. It was pouring with rain, and when she came back she was
simply a pudding. I didn't know what to do, and the boys were away; so
I let out the parrot, and put her inside the cage, and then watered
her with the watering can till I got the paste off her."
"Poor Pussie, what a shame!" said Sylvia.
"So it was, but I really couldn't help it that time. She should keep
herself clean, and then she wouldn't need to go through such troubles.
Would you like to come and see the hens and my bantams?"
There was a stableyard at the back of the house which led into a field
where the fowls were kept. They were a pet hobby with Mrs. Marshall,
who spent many hours among her poultry, and had a particularly good
strain of white Leghorns which she greatly valued. There were a number
of neat wire runs, each with its small wooden henhouse, and in
several of these were interesting families of chickens, varying in
size from sweet fluffy atoms, as yellow as canaries, to long-legged
creatures which Sylvia thought were not pretty at all.
"They haven't grown their full feathers yet," said Linda. "They're
ugly ducklings still, but they'll be very handsome by and by. Look at
this fussy old hen. I set her myself during the Easter holidays. She
was so broody that she actually insisted on sitting on a Liebig pot. I
suppose she took it for an egg. She'd have wondered why it didn't
hatch, I expect, if I hadn't given her some real eggs instead."
"You seem to know all about keeping hens," said Sylvia.
"I know a little more now, but I made a most dreadful mistake once.
Mother told me to go to the henhouse, and see if there were any eggs
to send to Aunt Edith. I knew that sometimes the hens laid in the
barn, so I thought I would go there instead. I hunted about and found
a nest with ten lovely brown eggs in it. They were quite warm, so I
was sure they must be perfectly fresh, and I put them in my basket and
carried them to the house. Mother was in a hurry for the post; she
didn't ask where I had got them, but only said I had been quick, and
packed them up in a box at once. Next morning she went to the barn to
feed a broody hen that was sitting there on some very particular eggs
that she had bought specially, and to her horror she found them all
gone! They would have hatched in a few days, so you can imagine how
angry she felt, and what a scolding she gave me for not going to the
henhouse as I was told. I think it was even worse, though, for Aunt
Edith. She had meant to make a Simnel cake with the eggs Mother sent
her, and she broke one after another, and each had a little chicken
inside it!"
"How dreadful!" laughed Sylvia; "I should think she didn't made her
cake."
"Not with our eggs at any rate, and she's always teased me dreadfully
about it since. Now I want to show you the bantams. I like them best,
because they're my own."
The bantams had a special wired run to themselves. They were extremely
neat little birds, with prettily marked plumage, so tame that they
flew readily on to their mistress's outstretched arm to eat the bread
she had brought for them. Linda showed Sylvia their small house with
much pride, and was particularly pleased to find two tiny eggs in the
nesting box.
"We can each have one for breakfast to-morrow morning," she declared;
"they must have laid them on purpose for us. I only got my bantams at
Easter, and these are their first eggs. I'm hoping so much that one of
the little hens will sit. Wouldn't it be lovely to have some wee
chicks about as big as tomtits?"
Sylvia had not much experience with pets, but she was deeply
interested in Linda's possessions: the starling that lived in a cage
in the kitchen, and had learnt to say: "Come kiss me!" and "Who's at
the door?"; the dormouse that was kept in a cosy box lined with hay,
and would scamper round the table in the evenings and eat the nuts
which were given him like a miniature squirrel; and Bute, the rough,
bouncing yard dog, that slept in the big kennel, and was not allowed
to come into the house at all.
"There's something else I'd like you to see," said Linda, taking
Sylvia's arm, and leading her on to the lawn again, then through a
small door into the kitchen garden, a delightful walled enclosure,
full of currant and gooseberry bushes, young apple trees, early
vegetables, and pot herbs, with patches of pinks, pansies, and
forget-me-nots growing in between, and great fragrant bushes of
rosemary, lavender, and southernwood, which smelled most delicious
when the children rubbed them between their hands. In a corner under a
blossoming syringa was a little grave, with a small tombstone at its
head, on which was roughly carved the following inscription:
IN LOVING MEMORY OF
JOCK
THE BEST AND MOST FAITHFUL DOG THAT EVER LIVED
Died February 27, 1907
Aged 8 Years.
"It needs cleaning up and weeding," said Linda. "We always keep it
very tidy when we're at home, but of course, when the boys are away
too, there's nobody to look after it. It's rather nicely done, isn't
it?"
"Very," said Sylvia. "Who did it?"
"Oswald. He's clever with his hands, and he chipped it out with a
chisel. It took him a frightfully long time, but he said Jock
deserved it. We couldn't let him be forgotten."
"What kind of a dog was he?"
"I'm afraid he was only a mongrel; he was big, and grey, and shaggy,
but we thought him lovely. There never was another so nice."
"Not even Scamp?"
"No, not quite. Jock was such a friend, and so obedient and gentle. We
got him from a farm when he was a tiny puppy; the farmer was just
going to drown him, but Oswald begged so hard to be allowed to keep
him instead, that Mother said he might. Our nurse was quite angry at
first; she said he'd be as much trouble as another child to look
after, but he was so good, she soon grew fond of him, and he used to
live in the nursery. Artie was a baby then, and Jock would keep guard
over his cradle, or watch him when he was put to roll on a rug in the
garden, and no matter how much Artie pulled his hair, he never dreamt
of biting. He used to sleep on the mat at the door of our bedroom, and
the first thing in the morning he'd come running in, wagging his tail.
"One summer we went to stay at Llandudno, and Mother said we musn't take
Jock with us, because the people at the lodgings wouldn't care to have
him. We were dreadfully sorry to leave him behind, and I'm sure he knew
we were going without him, for he cried so. Father said he must be tied
up in the stable to prevent him from following the trap, and we all went
to say goodbye to him; even Nellie, our nurse, kissed him on the nose.
We missed him so much that evening when we got to Llandudno, but next
morning, when we were sitting at breakfast, we heard a whining and
scratching at the door, and in rushed Jock, with about half a yard of
rope dangling at his neck. He must have gnawed it through, and set off
after us. But wasn't it clever of him to know where we'd gone, and to
find out the very house where we were staying? Father said he must have
heard us talking about Llandudno, and have asked all the other dogs he
met on the road which was the right way! Mother was afraid we should
have to send him home again, but when the landlady heard what he'd done,
she allowed him to stay, and he went everywhere with us, and was no
trouble to anybody.
"One day Nellie took us a long walk on the Great Orme's Head. We had
baskets with us, and we wandered about picking blackberries the whole
afternoon. Artie was quite a little fellow then, not more than three
years old; he hadn't even been put into knickerbockers. I suppose we
were so busy filling our baskets that nobody noticed him; at any rate
he managed to run away from Nellie, and go close to the edge of the
cliff where there were some blackberries growing. We think he must
have been trying to lean down to gather them, and have overbalanced
himself, because we suddenly heard him shrieking at the pitch of his
voice, and when we rushed to see what was the matter, there was our
baby hanging over the cliffside, just caught by the brambles, and Jock
holding on to his kilt like grim death. Artie was howling, and Jock
was making the queerest noise; he couldn't bark properly, because he
daren't open his mouth for fear of letting go Artie's clothes. Nellie
pulled them both back together, and sat down on the grass and cried,
and we all hugged Jock and kissed him. Mother said afterwards she
thought he must have been allowed to find his way to Llandudno on
purpose to save Artie's life.
"After that, of course, he was a greater pet even than he'd been
before, and we never went away from home without taking him. Granny
used to put in a special invitation to Jock when she asked us, and she
made him a little cake once on his birthday, and sent it to him by
post. He ate it in three gulps.
"We were so dreadfully sorry when he died. Hilda said she'd like to go
into mourning, and Artie and I inked black edges to some sheets of
tiny notepaper, and wrote on them to tell Granny and Aunt Edith. We
had a beautiful funeral for him, and made wreaths to lay on his grave,
and planted the prettiest flowers we could dig up out of our gardens
on it. It was Oswald who thought of the stone during the Easter
holidays. It wasn't finished until Hilda had gone back to London, so
she hasn't seen it yet. I'm sure she'll like it."
There seemed so many interesting things to see and hear at Garth Avon
that the two girls amused themselves out-of-doors until after seven
o'clock, when they heard a brisk ringing of bells, and, running to the
gate, were just in time to open it for Linda's brothers, who came
riding up on their bicycles. Oswald was a few years older than Linda,
and Artie a little younger; both were nice hearty boys, who seemed
ready to make friends at once with their sister's visitor.
"We've heard such a jolly lot about you, you know," said Oswald,
shaking hands. "Lin can talk of nobody else. We always say the school
must be made up of Sylvia and Miss Kaye."
"You're late, aren't you?" asked Linda. "We thought you'd have been
here an hour ago."
"We may well be late. Artie's tyre punctured on the road between
Abergele and Llandulas, and we had to walk our machines to Colwyn Bay
before we could get anyone to mend it. We tried to patch it up
ourselves, but I hadn't a big enough piece of rubber to cover it. Then
the fellow at the bicycle shop was such a slow chap, I thought he was
going to be all night fiddling over it, and we didn't dare to pump it
till it had dried a little. Luckily we got some tea before we left
school, but we're hungry enough now. Isn't supper ready?"
"Ready and spoiling," said Linda. "It's sausages, and I could smell
them cooking through the kitchen window half an hour ago. Sylvia and I
have been watching in the garden for you ever so long. Be quick and
come down; I want to tell you about a most delightful plan I've
thought of for to-morrow."
CHAPTER XV
An Excursion with a Donkey
Linda's plan proved such a promising one that both the boys and Sylvia
fell in readily with her ideas. She suggested that they should all
four make an excursion to the top of Pen y Gaer, a mountain in the
neighbourhood, where were the remains of a very fine British camp, and
from which they could obtain an excellent view over the whole of the
Conway valley. As it was rather a long walk from Craigwen, she thought
they might borrow a donkey and take it in turns to ride, and also
carry their lunch on its back. They could no doubt buy milk, and get
hot water at a farm, so that they would be able to make tea before
they returned, and thus enjoy a whole day on the moors. Mrs. Marshall
willingly gave her consent. Her children were fond of picnics, and
steady enough to look after themselves without any grown-up person
being with them; she had always encouraged the boys at any rate to be
self-reliant, and though Artie was apt to fall occasionally into
mischief, she knew Oswald would take care of the little girls and
bring them home safely in the evening.
Sylvia looked forward so much to the expedition that she could
scarcely sleep for excitement when she got into the large spare bed
with Linda and the candle was blown out. She lay awake for quite a
long time, listening to an owl hooting in the trees, and the soft
rippling sound of a stream which flowed at the bottom of the garden;
then at last they both merged into a confused dream, and she
remembered nothing more till she woke with the sun pouring in through
the window, and Linda's voice proclaiming that it was a particularly
fine, warm morning, and the very day in all the year which she would
have chosen to scale the heights of Pen y Gaer.
Directly breakfast was over, the children started off first to a
neighbouring farm to borrow the donkey, a shaggy little creature
called Teddie, which was chiefly used by his owner to fetch sacks of
flour from the mill. He was not accustomed to either saddle or bridle,
but the boys led him home by a halter, and tied a cushion on to his
back with a piece of rope. They slung their lunch baskets and two
enamelled tin mugs on either side, like saddle-bags, then, giving
Sylvia the first ride, they helped her to mount, and set off towards
the mountains with Scamp and Bute racing in wild excitement around
them.
It was a very hot day, so it was pleasant to think that they would
soon be out of the close woods, and away on the breezy moors. The
country was at its best; the fields were blue with wild hyacinths, and
the hedgerows yellow with gorse and broom, while everywhere the tender
shoots of the young bracken were unfolding, and showing delicate
golden-green fronds. It was a little late for birds'-nesting, yet
Oswald and Artie, boylike, could not resist hunting in each
likely-looking spot, though a blackbird's second brood, a deserted
linnet's nest, and a last year's yellow-hammer's were the sole result
of their search.
"I wish we could make the donkey trot!" said Sylvia, who had
dismounted to spare poor Teddie's legs for the hardest part of the
hill, but had taken her seat again on reaching a level piece of road.
"We'll try what we can do," said Artie, producing his penknife and
cutting a stick carefully from a hazel tree. "I'll give him a switch,
but I advise you to hold on tight, in case he kicks."
It was not a very hard blow, but Teddie seemed to resent it extremely.
He was a donkey with a character, and instead of galloping on, as
Sylvia had hoped, he ran straight into the hedge, where he entangled
both her hat and hair so successfully in a wild-rose bush, that she
had to scream to be released.
"Perhaps you hit him on the wrong side," she suggested, when the
donkey's nose had been pulled out into the lane again.
"Then we'll try the other," said Artie, who, having dropped his stick,
administered a sounding smack on the thick, shaggy coat.
Teddie, however, evidently did not intend to be coerced; he made at
once for the opposite hedge, and Sylvia found herself in equal
difficulties with a long spray of bramble.
"He's the most obstinate little beast I've ever known," said Linda.
"We'll try him just once more. Oswald, you hold his head exactly in
the middle of the road, then Artie and I'll each give him a thump at
the same second, one on each side. Are you ready, Artie! One, two,
three, off!"
[Illustration: "HE ENTANGLED BOTH HER HAT AND HAIR IN A WILD-ROSE
BUSH"]
This time it was really off and away. The donkey took to his heels,
and cantered along the road in fine style, with the boys and Linda
racing after him, encouraging Sylvia, who was laughing and trying to
hold on her hat and to keep the lunch from falling, while Scamp and
Bute barked themselves hoarse. The enamelled mugs bumped against poor
Teddie's sides, and alarmed him so much that perhaps he thought
somebody was switching him in front, and intended him to run
backwards, for he stopped quite suddenly, and lowered his head, with
the result that Sylvia shot over his neck, and found herself sitting
in the dusty road.
"It serves me right!" she laughed. "No, I'm not hurt in the least.
It's too bad to make him trot when he's carrying both me and the
lunch. I'll walk now, and give him a rest, and then it will be Linda's
turn to ride him."
The road, after winding uphill for several miles between woods and
high banks, led at last on to the moors, where there was a kind of
tableland flanked on two sides by chains of mountains.
"We're not such a very long way from the Druids' circle," said Linda.
"It's only over that peak, I believe."
"It's farther than you'd imagine," said Oswald. "Hilda and I went to
it once, and we thought we should never get there. It's a much easier
way from Aberglyn. Things look so very plain in this clear air that
you often think you're quite close when really you're several miles
off, and you walk and walk, and never seem to get any nearer."
"I hope that won't happen with Pen y Gaer; we can see it so well now,"
said Linda, gazing at the round green top that did not show its full
height from the plateau, though it looked imposing enough from the
valley below.
"It's quite far enough to make me want lunch before I go any farther,"
said Oswald. "There's a stream down here where we can get some water
to drink. Suppose we fasten Teddie to the gate, and camp out on the
stones."
The others agreed. The donkey had already satisfied its thirst at a
brooklet that crossed the road, so they tied it to the rail of the
gate with a piece of rope long enough to allow it to crop the grass at
the edge of the path, and, descending themselves to the bed of the
river, spread out their lunch on a large flat boulder. Mrs. Marshall
had experience in the matter of picnics. First there were ham
sandwiches, sufficiently thick to take the keen edge off their
appetites, but not enough to spoil the hard-boiled eggs and bread and
butter which followed; then came marmalade sandwiches and seed cake;
and last of all some delicious little turnovers, made with tops like
mince pies, and with strawberry jam inside. Everybody was hungry, and
everybody did such ample justice to the good fare that there was
nothing but a solitary turnover left, which they decided to divide
between the dogs, which had already had their share of the meal.
"It's not enough to keep for tea," said Oswald. "I expect we can get
some bread and butter at the farm, as well as the milk and hot water.
Look! there are trout in this stream. I saw a big fellow just then
swimming across the pool."
"So did I," said Artie. "He went under that rock. I'm going to wade
and see if I can get him out."
Both boys pulled off their shoes and stockings, and, plunging into the
river, began to engage in the very unsportsmanlike pastime of tickling
trout. They paddled cautiously upstream, putting their hands under
every likely stone till they felt a fish, then, very gently moving
their fingers along until they had him by the gills, would manage with
a quick jerk to toss him out of the water on to the bank. Linda and
Sylvia followed along the side, much excited at this new form of
fishing, and gathering up the trout placed them in one of the lunch
baskets. The boys had succeeded in catching five or six, which lay
shining and silvery, gasping their last, and they were both trying for
a particularly big one which they could see lying in the cranny of a
rock.
"He'll be a tough subject," said Oswald. "I'll do my best, but you be
ready to make a grab if I miss him!"
Oswald stealthily put forward his hand, but the trout was on the
alert, and long before he could reach its gills it had darted into the
pool, escaping Artie also, who nearly fell into the water in his
efforts to secure it.
"Missed him! What a shame! And he was such a beauty!" cried the
disconsolate boys.
"Now then, what are you doing there, you young poachers?" shouted a
voice from the opposite bank, and, looking up, the children saw a tall
man, in a corduroy velveteen suit and a soft round hat, frowning at
them with a most unamiable expression of countenance.
They were so astonished that none of them knew what to say.
"Come out of that stream this minute!" he commanded the boys, who
obeyed, but naturally on the side where Linda and Sylvia were standing
looking rather frightened at such an unexpected and angry visitor. The
man, who had the appearance of a gamekeeper, crossed the river easily
by jumping from stone to stone, and striding up to the little girls,
peeped inside their basket.
"As I thought!" he remarked. "Now, you young rascals, do you know that
I can take you all up and send you to prison for poaching?"
"Why," gasped Oswald, "we were only catching some trout!"
"Only catching some trout! He says he was only catching some trout!"
echoed the man, as if he were appealing to an imaginary companion. "I
suppose he wouldn't call that poaching? Oh, no!"
"We get them like this in our own stream at home," said Artie.
"That's quite a different matter. Because you get bread and butter at
home's no reason why you should walk into my house and take mine, is
it? This fishing happens to be preserved, and I've got the care of it.
It's a very serious offence is poaching. I've caught you red-handed.
There's the trout in that basket to prove my words."
The boys looked at each other in much consternation.
"We didn't know we were doing any harm," said Oswald at last.
"That's just what folks always tell me in a little affair of this
kind," said the man, producing a pencil and a notebook. "I'm getting
rather tired of the story. I'll trouble you for your names and
addresses, if you please."
"Why do you want them?" asked Artie cautiously.
"You'll know why when you find yourselves charged at the Llanrwst
County Court," replied the man with a grin, "or your father will, to
the tune of five pounds and costs, I reckon, or pretty near. It'll
take all your pocket money or more."
"I'll go to prison first," said Oswald stoutly.
"And so will I," declared Artie.
"Oh, no, no!" cried Linda, thoroughly frightened, and dissolving into
tears. "Please don't send them to prison! Look, I'll put the fish back
into the water. We didn't know it was wrong to take them; we didn't
indeed!"
The man coughed softly behind his hand.
"I wouldn't like to disoblige the young lady," he said; "but it's no
use putting dead fish back into the stream. There," as Linda's tears
flowed faster, "I won't be too hard on you this time. Give me the
trout, and we'll say no more about it. But don't let me catch any of
you poaching here again, or I can't let you go so easy. I've my orders
from headquarters. Now be off with you all!"
Much relieved that the boys should escape fine or imprisonment, Linda
emptied the fish from the basket on to the grass, and, seizing
Sylvia's hand, ran as fast as she could up the bank to where they had
left the donkey tied to the gate, followed by Oswald and Artie, who
only stopped to pick up their shoes and stockings by the way. They
were glad to place the stone wall between themselves and the angry
gamekeeper, and as soon as the boys had put on their footgear, they
loosed Teddie, and started off once more on the road towards Pen y
Gaer.
"What a horrid cross man!" said Sylvia. "I peeped over the wall just
now, and he was still standing there, and shook his fist at me."
"I didn't know any of the water was preserved," said Oswald, who felt
sore at the remembrance. "Well, he needn't think we want to go there
again after his old fish; they aren't such treasures as he supposes."
"Sour grapes!" laughed Artie.
"Oh, shut up! It was you who suggested tickling them first!" said
Oswald, who was thoroughly out of temper, and ready to quarrel with
anybody.
Artie, however, was a good-natured little fellow, and had the tact
simply to whistle, and leave his brother to get over his ill humour.
As nobody was riding the donkey, he mounted it himself, and,
persuading Linda and Sylvia to try what he called "the double-smack
method", indulged in a splendid gallop, which did not meet with so
disastrous a termination as the last one.
They had almost reached the goal of their walk, and, taking Teddie to
a farm which stood near, they asked the woman to allow them to leave
him there while they scaled the summit of Pen y Gaer, and to have her
kettle boiling by the time they came back. Their path now led away
from the road, and over a stile on to the heather. It was a stiff
climb, and made more difficult by the thick gorse through which they
were obliged to push their way, but the view from the top was
sufficient compensation for any trouble they had in arriving there. On
one hand they could see the whole extent of the valley from Bettws y
Coed to Conway, and even the houses on the promenade at Llandudno
fully ten miles away; while on the other stretched the beautiful moors
leading to the gloomy hollow of Lake Dulyn, behind which the mountain
ridges showed purple and jagged against the sky. All around they could
trace the ruins of the old British fort, great piles of stones that
must have been rolled there with incredible labour, perhaps by the
very tribe which had reared the Druids' circle on the slope of Tal y
fan.