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THE BROWNIES
AND OTHER TALES.
BY
JULIANA HORATIA EWING.
LONDON:
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,
NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C.
NEW YORK: E. & J.B. YOUNG & CO.
[Published under the direction of the General Literature Committee.]
DEDICATED
TO
MY VERY DEAR AND HONOURED MOTHER.
J.H.E.
1871.
CONTENTS.
THE BROWNIES
THE LAND OF LOST TOYS
THREE CHRISTMAS TREES
AN IDYLL OF THE WOOD
CHRISTMAS CRACKERS
AMELIA AND THE DWARFS
THE BROWNIES.
A little girl sat sewing and crying on a garden seat. She had fair
floating hair, which the breeze blew into her eyes, and between the
cloud of hair, and the mist of tears, she could not see her work very
clearly. She neither tied up her locks, nor dried her eyes, however;
for when one is miserable, one may as well be completely so.
"What is the matter?" said the Doctor, who was a friend of the
Rector's, and came into the garden whenever he pleased.
The Doctor was a tall stout man, with hair as black as crow's feathers
on the top, and grey underneath, and a bushy beard. When young, he had
been slim and handsome, with wonderful eyes, which were wonderful
still; but that was many years past. He had a great love for children,
and this one was a particular friend of his.
"What is the matter?" said he.
"I'm in a row," murmured the young lady through her veil; and the
needle went in damp, and came out with a jerk, which is apt to result
in what ladies called "puckering."
"You are like London in a yellow fog," said the Doctor, throwing
himself on to the grass, "and it is very depressing to my feelings.
What is the row about, and how came you to get into it?"
"We're all in it," was the reply; and apparently the fog was
thickening, for the voice grew less and less distinct--"the boys and
everybody. It's all about forgetting, and not putting away, and leaving
about, and borrowing, and breaking, and that sort of thing. I've had
Father's new pocket-handkerchiefs to hem, and I've been out climbing
with the boys, and kept forgetting and forgetting, and Mother says I
always forget; and I can't help it. I forget to tidy his newspapers for
him, and I forget to feed Puss, and I forgot these; besides, they're a
great bore, and Mother gave them to Nurse to do, and this one was lost,
and we found it this morning tossing about in the toy-cupboard."
"It looks as if it had been taking violent exercise," said the Doctor.
"But what have the boys to do with it?"
"Why, then there was a regular turn out of the toys," she explained,
"and they're all in a regular mess. You know, we always go on till the
last minute, and then things get crammed in anyhow. Mary and I did tidy
them once or twice; but the boys never put anything away, you know, so
what's the good?"
"What, indeed!" said the Doctor. "And so you have complained of them?"
"Oh! no!" answered she. "We don't get them into rows, unless they are
very provoking; but some of the things were theirs, so everybody was
sent for, and I was sent out to finish this, and they are all tidying.
I don't know when it will be done, for I have all this side to hem; and
the soldiers' box is broken, and Noah is lost out of the Noah's Ark,
and so is one of the elephants and a guinea-pig, and so is the
rocking-horse's nose; and nobody knows what has become of Rutlandshire
and the Wash, but they're so small, I don't wonder; only North America
and Europe are gone too."
The Doctor started up in affected horror. "Europe gone, did you say?
Bless me! what will become of us!"
"Don't!" said the young lady, kicking petulantly with her dangling
feet, and trying not to laugh. "You know I mean the puzzles; and if
they were yours, you wouldn't like it."
"I don't half like it as it is," said the Doctor. "I am seriously
alarmed. An earthquake is one thing; you have a good shaking, and
settle down again. But Europe gone--lost--Why, here comes Deordie, I
declare, looking much more cheerful than we do; let us humbly hope that
Europe has been found. At present I feel like Aladdin when his palace
had been transported by the magician; I don't know where I am."
"You're here, Doctor; aren't you?" asked the slow curly-wigged brother,
squatting himself on the grass.
"_Is_ Europe found?" said the Doctor tragically.
"Yes," laughed Deordie. "I found it."
"You will be a great man," said the Doctor. "And--it is only common
charity to ask--how about North America?"
"Found too," said Deordie. "But the Wash is completely lost."
"And my six shirts in it!" said the Doctor. "I sent them last Saturday
as ever was. What a world we live in! Any more news? Poor Tiny here has
been crying her eyes out."
"I'm so sorry, Tiny," said the brother. "But don't bother about it.
It's all square now, and we're going to have a new shelf put up."
"Have you found everything?" asked Tiny.
"Well, not the Wash, you know. And the elephant and the guinea-pig are
gone for good; so the other elephant and the other guinea-pig must walk
together as a pair now. Noah was among the soldiers, and we have put
the cavalry into a night-light box. Europe and North America were
behind the book-case; and, would you believe it? the rocking-horse's
nose has turned up in the nursery oven."
"I can't believe it," said the Doctor. "The rocking-horse's nose
couldn't turn up, it was the purest Grecian, modelled from the Elgin
marbles. Perhaps it was the heat that did it, though. However, you seem
to have got through your troubles very well, Master Deordie. I wish
poor Tiny were at the end of her task."
"So do I," said Deordie ruefully. "But I tell you what I've been
thinking, Doctor. Nurse is always nagging at us, and we're always in
rows of one sort or another, for doing this, and not doing that, and
leaving our things about. But, you know, it's a horrid shame, for there
are plenty of servants, and I don't see why we should be always
bothering to do little things, and--"
"Oh! come to the point, please," said the Doctor; "you do go round the
square so, in telling your stories, Deordie. What have you been
thinking of?"
"Well," said Deordie, who was as good-tempered as he was slow, "the
other day Nurse shut me up in the back nursery for borrowing her
scissors and losing them; but I'd got 'Grimm' inside one of my
knickerbockers, so when she locked the door, I sat down to read. And I
read the story of the Shoemaker and the little Elves who came and did
his work for him before he got up; and I thought it would be so jolly
if we had some little Elves to do things instead of us."
"That's what Tommy Trout said," observed the Doctor.
"Who's Tommy Trout?" asked Deordie.
"Don't you know, Deor?" said Tiny. "It's the good boy who pulled the
cat out of the what's-his-name.
'Who pulled her out?
Little Tommy Trout.'
Is it the same Tommy Trout, Doctor? I never heard anything else about
him except his pulling the cat out; and I can't think how he did that."
"Let down the bucket for her, of course," said the Doctor. "But listen
to me. If you will get that handkerchief done, and take it to your
mother with a kiss, and not keep me waiting, I'll have you all to tea,
and tell you the story of Tommy Trout."
"This very night?" shouted Deordie.
"This very night."
"Every one of us?" inquired the young gentleman with rapturous
incredulity.
"Every one of you.--Now, Tiny, how about that work?"
"It's just done," said Tiny.--"Oh! Deordie, climb up behind, and hold
back my hair, there's a darling, while I fasten off. Oh! Deor, you're
pulling my hair out. Don't."
"I want to make a pig-tail," said Deor.
"You can't," said Tiny, with feminine contempt. "You can't plait.
What's the good of asking boys to do anything? There! it's done at
last. Now go and ask Mother if we may go.--Will you let me come,
Doctor," she inquired, "if I do as you said?"
"To be sure I will," he answered. "Let me look at you. Your eyes are
swollen with crying. How can you be such a silly little goose?"
"Did you never cry?" asked Tiny.
"When I was your age? Well, perhaps so."
"You've never cried since, surely," said Tiny.
The Doctor absolutely blushed.
"What do you think?" said he.
"Oh, of course not," she answered. "You've nothing to cry about. You're
grown up, and you live all alone in a beautiful house, and you do as
you like, and never get into rows, or have anybody but yourself to
think about; and no nasty pocket-handkerchiefs to hem."
"Very nice; eh, Deordie?" said the Doctor.
"Awfully jolly," said Deordie.
"Nothing else to wish for, eh?"
"_I_ should keep harriers, and not a poodle, if I were a man," said
Deordie; "but I suppose you could, if you wanted to."
"Nothing to cry about, at any rate?"
"I should think not!" said Deordie.--"There's Mother, though; let's go
and ask her about the tea;" and off they ran.
The Doctor stretched his six feet of length upon the sward, dropped his
grey head on a little heap of newly-mown grass, and looked up into the
sky.
"Awfully jolly--no nasty pocket-handkerchiefs to hem," said he,
laughing to himself. "Nothing else to wish for; nothing to cry about."
Nevertheless, he lay still, staring at the sky, till the smile died
away, and tears came into his eyes. Fortunately, no one was there to
see.
What could this "awfully jolly" Doctor be thinking of to make him cry?
He was thinking of a grave-stone in the churchyard close by, and of a
story connected with this grave-stone which was known to everybody in
the place who was old enough to remember it. This story has nothing to
do with the present story, so it ought not to be told.
And yet it has to do with the Doctor, and is very
short, so it shall be put in, after all.
THE STORY OF A GRAVE-STONE.
One early spring morning, about twenty years before, a man going to his
work at sunrise through the churchyard, stopped by a flat stone which
he had lately helped to lay down. The day before, a name had been cut
on it, which he stayed to read; and below the name some one had
scrawled a few words in pencil, which he read also--_Pitifully behold
the sorrows of our hearts_. On the stone lay a pencil, and a few feet
from it lay the Doctor, face downwards, as he had lain all night, with
the hoar frost on his black hair.
Ah! these grave-stones (they were ugly things in those days; not the
light, hopeful, pretty crosses we set up now), how they seem
remorselessly to imprison and keep our dear dead friends away from us!
And yet they do not lie with a feather's weight upon the souls that are
gone, while GOD only knows how heavily they press upon the souls that
are left behind. Did the spirit whose body was with the dead, stand
that morning by the body whose spirit was with the dead, and pity him?
Let us only talk about what we know.
After this it was said that the Doctor had got a fever, and was dying,
but he got better of it; and then that he was out of his mind, but he
got better of that, and came out looking much as usual, except that his
hair never seemed quite so black again, as if a little of that night's
hoar frost still remained. And no further misfortune happened to him
that I ever heard of; and as time went on he grew a beard, and got
stout, and kept a German poodle, and gave tea-parties to other people's
children. As to the grave-stone story, whatever it was to him at the
end of twenty years, it was a great convenience to his friends; for
when he said anything they didn't agree with, or did anything they
couldn't understand, or didn't say or do what was expected of him, what
could be easier or more conclusive than to shake one's head and say,
"The fact is, our Doctor has been a little odd, _ever since_--!"
THE DOCTOR'S TEA-PARTY.
There is one great advantage attendant upon invitations to tea with a
doctor. No objections can be raised on the score of health. It is
obvious that it must be fine enough to go out when the Doctor asks you,
and that his tea-cakes may be eaten with perfect impunity.
Those tea-cakes were always good; to-night they were utterly delicious;
there was a perfect _abandon_ of currants, and the amount of citron
peel was enervating to behold. Then the housekeeper waited in awful
splendour, and yet the Doctor's authority over her seemed as absolute
as if he were an Eastern despot. Deordie must be excused for believing
in the charms of living alone. It certainly has its advantages. The
limited sphere of duty conduces to discipline in the household, demand
does not exceed supply in the article of waiting, and there is not that
general scrimmage of conflicting interests which besets a large family
in the most favoured circumstances. The housekeeper waits in black silk,
and looks as if she had no meaner occupation than to sit in a
rocking-chair, and dream of damson cheese.
Rustling, hospitable, and subservient, this one retired at last, and--
"Now," said the Doctor, "for the verandah; and to look at the moon."
The company adjourned with a rush, the rear being brought up by the
poodle, who seemed quite used to the proceedings; and there under the
verandah, framed with passion-flowers and geraniums, the Doctor had
gathered mats, rugs, cushions, and arm-chairs, for the party; while far
up in the sky, a yellow-faced harvest moon looked down in awful
benignity.
"Now!" said the Doctor. "Take your seats. Ladies first, and gentlemen
afterwards. Mary and Tiny, race for the American rocking-chair. Well
done! Of course it will hold both. Now, boys, shake down. No one is to
sit on the stone, or put his feet on the grass: and when you're ready,
I'll begin."
"We're ready," said the girls.
The boys shook down in a few minutes more, and the Doctor began the
story of
"THE BROWNIES."
"Bairns are a burden," said the Tailor to himself as he sat at work. He
lived in a village on some of the glorious moors of the north of
England; and by bairns he meant children, as every Northman knows.
"Bairns are a burden," and he sighed.
"Bairns are a blessing," said the old lady in the window. "It is the
family motto. The Trouts have had large families and good luck for
generations; that is, till your grandfather's time. He had one only
son. I married him. He was a good husband, but he had been a spoilt
child. He had always been used to be waited upon, and he couldn't fash
to look after the farm when it was his own. We had six children. They
are all dead but you, who were the youngest. You were bound to a
tailor. When the farm came into your hands, your wife died, and you
have never looked up since. The land is sold now, but not the house.
No! no! you're right enough there; but you've had your troubles, son
Thomas, and the lads _are_ idle!"
It was the Tailor's mother who spoke. She was a very old woman, and
helpless. She was not quite so bright in her intellect as she had been,
and got muddled over things that had lately happened; but she had a
clear memory for what was long past, and was very pertinacious in her
opinions. She knew the private history of almost every family in the
place, and who of the Trouts were buried under which old stones in the
churchyard; and had more tales of ghosts, doubles, warnings, fairies,
witches, hobgoblins, and such like, than even her grandchildren had
ever come to the end of. Her hands trembled with age, and she regretted
this for nothing more than for the danger it brought her into of
spilling the salt. She was past housework, but all day she sat knitting
hearth-rugs out of the bits and scraps of cloth that were shred in the
tailoring. How far she believed in the wonderful tales she told, and
the odd little charms she practised, no one exactly knew; but the older
she grew, the stranger were the things she remembered, and the more
testy she was if any one doubted their truth. "Bairns are a blessing!"
said she. "It is the family motto."
"_Are they_?" said the Tailor emphatically.
He had a high respect for his mother, and did not like to contradict
her, but he held his own opinion, based upon personal experience; and
not being a metaphysician, did not understand that it is safer to found
opinions on principles than on experience, since experience may alter,
but principles cannot.
"Look at Tommy," he broke out suddenly. "That boy does nothing but
whittle sticks from morning till night. I have almost to lug him out of
bed o' mornings. If I send him an errand, he loiters; I'd better have
gone myself. If I set him to do anything, I have to tell him
everything; I could sooner do it myself. And if he does work, it's done
so unwillingly, with such a poor grace; better, far better, to do it
myself. What housework do the boys ever do but looking after the baby?
And this afternoon she was asleep in the cradle, and off they went, and
when she awoke, _I_ must leave my work to take her. _I_ gave her her
supper, and put her to bed. And what with what they want and I have to
get, and what they take out to play with and lose, and what they bring
in to play with and leave about, bairns give some trouble, Mother, and
I've not an easy life of it. The pay is poor enough when one can get
the work, and the work is hard enough when one has a clear day to do it
in; but housekeeping and bairn-minding don't leave a man much time for
his trade. No! no! Ma'am, the luck of the Trouts is gone, and 'Bairns
are a burden,' is the motto now. Though they are one's own," he muttered
to himself, "and not bad ones, and I did hope once would have been a
blessing."
"There's Johnnie," murmured the old lady, dreamily. "He has a face like
an apple."
"And is about as useful," said the Tailor. "He might have been
different, but his brother leads him by the nose."
His brother led him in as the Tailor spoke, not literally by his snub,
though, but by the hand. They were a handsome pair, this lazy couple.
Johnnie especially had the largest and roundest of foreheads, the
reddest of cheeks, the brightest of eyes, the quaintest and most
twitchy of chins, and looked altogether like a gutta-percha cherub in a
chronic state of longitudinal squeeze. They were locked together by two
grubby paws, and had each an armful of moss, which they deposited on
the floor as they came in.
"I've swept this floor once to-day," said the father, "and I'm not
going to do it again. Put that rubbish outside." "Move it, Johnnie!"
said his brother, seating himself on a stool, and taking out his knife
and a piece of wood, at which he cut and sliced; while the
apple-cheeked Johnnie stumbled and stamped over the moss, and scraped
it out on the doorstep, leaving long trails of earth behind him, and
then sat down also.
"And those chips the same," added the Tailor; "I will _not_ clear up the
litter you lads make."
"Pick 'em up, Johnnie," said Thomas Trout, junior, with an exasperated
sigh; and the apple tumbled up, rolled after the flying chips, and
tumbled down again.
"Is there any supper, Father?" asked Tommy.
"No, there is not, Sir, unless you know how to get it," said the
Tailor; and taking his pipe, he went out of the house.
"Is there really nothing to eat, Granny?" asked the boy.
"No, my bairn, only some bread for breakfast to-morrow."
"What makes Father so cross, Granny?"
"He's wearied, and you don't help him, my dear."
"What could I do, Grandmother?"
"Many little things, if you tried," said the old lady. "He spent
half-an-hour to-day, while you were on the moor, getting turf for the
fire, and you could have got it just as well, and he been at his work."
"He never told me," said Tommy.
"You might help me a bit just now, if you would, my laddie," said the
old lady coaxingly; "these bits of cloth want tearing into lengths, and
if you get 'em ready, I can go on knitting. There'll be some food when
this mat is done and sold."
"I'll try," said Tommy, lounging up with desperate resignation. "Hold
my knife, Johnnie. Father's been cross, and everything has been
miserable, ever since the farm was sold. I wish I were a big man, and
could make a fortune.--Will that do, Granny?"
The old lady put down her knitting and looked. "My dear, that's too
short. Bless me! I gave the lad a piece to measure by."
"I thought it was the same length. Oh, dear! I am so tired;" and he
propped himself against the old lady's chair.
"My dear! don't lean so; you'll tipple me over!" she shrieked.
"I beg your pardon, Grandmother. Will _that_ do?"
"It's that much too long."
"Tear that bit off. Now it's all right."
"But, my dear, that wastes it. Now that bit is of no use. There goes my
knitting, you awkward lad!"
"Johnnie, pick it up!--Oh! Grandmother, I _am_ so hungry." The boy's
eyes filled with tears, and the old lady was melted in an
instant.
"What can I do for you, my poor bairns?" said she. "There, never mind
the scraps, Tommy."
"Tell us a tale, Granny. If you told us a new one, I shouldn't keep
thinking of that bread in the cupboard.--Come, Johnnie, and sit against
me. Now then!"
"I doubt if there's one of my old-world cracks I haven't told you,"
said the old lady, "unless it's a queer ghost story was told me years
ago of that house in the hollow with the blocked-up windows."
"Oh! not ghosts!" Tommy broke in; "we've had so many. I know it was a
rattling, or a scratching, or a knocking, or a figure in white; and if
it turns out a tombstone or a white petticoat, I hate it."
"It was nothing of the sort as a tombstone," said the old lady with
dignity. "It's a good half-mile from the churchyard. And as to white
petticoats, there wasn't a female in the house; he wouldn't have one;
and his victuals came in by the pantry window. But never mind! Though
it's as true as a sermon."
Johnnie lifted his head from his brother's knee.
"Let Granny tell what she likes, Tommy. It's a new ghost, and I should
like to know who he was, and why his victuals came in by the window."
"I don't like a story about victuals," sulked Tommy. "It makes me think
of the bread. O Granny dear! do tell us a fairy story. You never will
tell us about the Fairies, and I know you know."
"Hush! hush!" said the old lady. "There's Miss Surbiton's Love-letter,
and her Dreadful End."
"I know Miss Surbiton, Granny. I think she was a goose. Why don't you
tell us about the Fairies?"
"Hush! hush! my dear. There's the Clerk and the Corpse-candles."
"I know the Corpse-candles, Granny. Besides, they make Johnnie dream,
and he wakes me to keep him company. _Why_ won't you tell us about
the Fairies?"
"My dear, they don't like it," said the old lady.
"O Granny dear, why don't they? Do tell! I shouldn't think of the bread
a bit, if you told us about the Fairies. I know nothing about them."
"He lived in this house long enough," said the old lady. "But it's not
lucky to name him."
"O Granny, we are so hungry and miserable, what can it matter?"
"Well, that's true enough," she sighed. "Trout's luck is gone; it went
with the Brownie, I believe."
"Was that _he_, Granny?"
"Yes, my dear, he lived with the Trouts for several generations."
"What was he like, Granny?"
"Like a little man, they say, my dear."
"What did he do?"
"He came in before the family were up, and swept up the hearth, and
lighted the fire, and set out the breakfast, and tidied the room, and
did all sorts of house-work. But he never would be seen, and was off
before they could catch him. But they could hear him laughing and
playing about the house sometimes."
"What a darling! Did they give him any wages, Granny?"
"No! my dear. He did it for love. They set a pancheon of clear water
for him over night, and now and then a bowl of bread-and-milk, or
cream. He liked that, for he was very dainty. Sometimes he left a bit
of money in the water. Sometimes he weeded the garden, or threshed the
corn. He saved endless trouble, both to men and maids."
"O Granny! why did he go?"
"The maids caught sight of him one night, my dear, and his coat was so
ragged, that they got a new suit, and a linen shirt for him, and laid
them by the bread-and-milk bowl. But when Brownie saw the things, he
put them on, and dancing round the kitchen, sang,
'What have we here? Hemten hamten!
Here will I never more tread nor stampen,'
and so danced through the door, and never came back again."
"O Grandmother! But why not? Didn't he like the new clothes?"
"The Old Owl knows, my dear; I don't."
"Who's the Old Owl, Granny?"
"I don't exactly know, my dear. It's what my mother used to say when we
asked anything that puzzled her. It was said that the Old Owl was Nanny
Besom (a witch, my dear!), who took the shape of a bird, but couldn't
change her voice, and that's why the owl sits silent all day for fear
she should betray herself by speaking, and has no singing voice like
other birds. Many people used to go and consult the Old Owl at
moon-rise, in my young days."
"Did you ever go, Granny?"
"Once, very nearly, my dear."
"Oh! tell us, Granny dear.--There are no Corpse-candles, Johnnie; it's
only moonlight," he added consolingly, as Johnnie crept closer to his
knee, and pricked his little red ears.
"It was when your grandfather was courting me, my dears," said the old
lady, "and I couldn't quite make up my mind. So I went to my mother,
and said, 'He's this on the one side, but then he's that on the other,
and so on. Shall I say yes or no?' And my mother said, 'The Old Owl
knows;' for she was fairly puzzled. So says I, 'I'll go and ask her
to-night, as sure as the moon rises.'
"So at moon-rise I went, and there in the white light by the gate stood
your grandfather. 'What are you doing here at this time o' night?' says
I. 'Watching your window,' says he. 'What are _you_ doing here at this
time o' night?' 'The Old Owl knows,' said I, and burst out
crying."
"What for?" said Johnnie.
"I can't rightly tell you, my dear," said the old lady, "but it gave me
such a turn to see him. And without more ado your grandfather kissed
me. 'How dare you?' said I. 'What do you mean?' 'The Old Owl knows,'
said he. So we never went."
"How stupid!" said Tommy.
"Tell us more about Brownie, please," said Johnnie, "Did he ever live
with anybody else?"
"There are plenty of Brownies," said the old lady, "or used to be in my
mother's young days. Some houses had several." "Oh! I wish ours would
come back!" cried both the boys in chorus. "He'd--
"tidy the room," said Johnnie;
"fetch the turf," said Tommy;
"pick up the chips," said Johnnie;
"sort your scraps," said Tommy;
"and do everything. Oh! I wish he hadn't gone away."
"What's that?" said the Tailor, coming in at this moment.
"It's the Brownie, Father," said Tommy. "We are so sorry he went, and
do so wish we had one."
"What nonsense have you been telling them, Mother?" asked the Tailor.
"Heighty teighty," said the old lady, bristling. "Nonsense, indeed! As
good men as you, son Thomas, would as soon have jumped off the crags,
as spoken lightly of _them_, in my mother's young days."
"Well, well," said the Tailor, "I beg their pardon. They never did
aught for me, whatever they did for my forbears; but they're as welcome
to the old place as ever, if they choose to come. There's plenty to
do."
"Would you mind our setting a pan of water, Father?" asked Tommy very
gently. "There's no bread-and-milk."
"You may set what you like, my lad," said the Tailor; "and I wish there
were bread-and-milk for your sakes, bairns. You should have it, had I
got it. But go to bed now."
They lugged out a pancheon, and filled it with more dexterity than
usual, and then went off to bed, leaving the knife in one corner, the
wood in another, and a few splashes of water in their track.
There was more room than comfort in the ruined old farm-house, and the
two boys slept on a bed of cut heather, in what had been the old
malt-loft. Johnnie was soon in the land of dreams, growing rosier and
rosier as he slept, a tumbled apple among the grey heather. But not so
lazy Tommy. The idea of a domesticated Brownie had taken full
possession of his mind; and whither Brownie had gone, where he might be
found, and what would induce him to return, were mysteries he longed to
solve. "There's an owl living in the old shed by the mere," he thought.
"It may be the Old Owl herself, and she knows, Granny says. When
Father's gone to bed, and the moon rises, I'll go." Meanwhile he lay
down.
* * * * *
The moon rose like gold, and went up into the heavens like silver,
flooding the moors with a pale ghostly light, taking the colour out of
the heather, and painting black shadows under the stone walls. Tommy
opened his eyes, and ran to the window. "The moon has risen," said he,
and crept softly down the ladder, through the kitchen, where was the
pan of water, but no Brownie, and so out on to the moor. The air was
fresh, not to say chilly; but it was a glorious night, though
everything but the wind and Tommy seemed asleep. The stones, the walls,
the gleaming lanes, were so intensely still; the church tower in the
valley seemed awake and watching, but silent; the houses in the village
round it had all their eyes shut, that is, their window-blinds down;
and it seemed to Tommy as if the very moors had drawn white sheets over
them, and lay sleeping also.
"Hoot! hoot!" said a voice from the fir plantation behind him. Somebody
else was awake, then. "It's the Old Owl," said Tommy; and there she
came, swinging heavily across the moor with a flapping stately flight,
and sailed into the shed by the mere. The old lady moved faster than
she seemed to do, and though Tommy ran hard she was in the shed some
time before him. When he got in, no bird was to be seen, but he heard a
crunching sound from above, and looking up, there sat the Old Owl,
pecking and tearing and munching at some shapeless black object, and
blinking at him--Tommy--with yellow eyes.
"Oh dear!" said Tommy, for he didn't much like it.
The Old Owl dropped the black mass on to the floor; and Tommy did not
care somehow to examine it.
"Come up! come up!" said she hoarsely.
She could speak, then! Beyond all doubt it was _the_ Old Owl, and none
other. Tommy shuddered.
"Come up here! come up here!" said the Old Owl.
The Old Owl sat on a beam that ran across the shed. Tommy had often
climbed up for fun; and he climbed up now, and sat face to face with
her, and thought her eyes looked as if they were made of flame.
"Kiss my fluffy face," said the Owl.
Her eyes were going round like flaming catherine wheels, but there are
certain requests which one has not the option of refusing. Tommy crept
nearer, and put his lips to the round face out of which the eyes shone.
Oh! it was so downy and warm, so soft, so indescribably soft. Tommy's
lips sank into it, and couldn't get to the bottom. It was unfathomable
feathers and fluffiness.
"Now, what do you want?" said the Owl.
"Please," said Tommy, who felt rather re-assured, "can you tell me
where to find the Brownies, and how to get one to come and live with
us?"
"Oohoo!" said the Owl, "that's it, is it? I know of three Brownies."
"Hurrah!" said Tommy. "Where do they live?"
"In your house," said the Owl.
Tommy was aghast.
"In our house!" he exclaimed. "Whereabouts? Let me rummage them out.
Why do they do nothing?"
"One of them is too young," said the Owl.
"But why don't the others work?" asked Tommy.
"They are idle, they are idle," said the Old Owl, and she gave herself
such a shake as she said it, that the fluff went flying through the
shed, and Tommy nearly tumbled off the beam in his fright.
"Then we don't want them," said he. "What is the use of having Brownies
if they do nothing to help us?"
"Perhaps they don't know how, as no one has told them," said the Owl.
"I wish you would tell me where to find them," said Tommy; "I could
tell them."
"Could you?" said the Owl. "Oohoo! oohoo!" and Tommy couldn't tell
whether she were hooting or laughing.
"Of course I could," he said. "They might be up and sweep the house,
and light the fire, and spread the table, and that sort of thing,
before Father came down. Besides, they could _see_ what was wanted.
The Brownies did all that in Granny's mother's young days. And then
they could tidy the room, and fetch the turf, and pick up my chips,
and sort Granny's scraps. Oh! there's lots to do."
"So there is," said the Owl. "Oohoo! Well, I can tell you where to find
one of the Brownies; and if you find him, he will tell you where his
brother is. But all this depends upon whether you feel equal to
undertaking it, and whether you will follow my directions."
"I am quite ready to go," said Tommy, "and I will do as you shall tell
me. I feel sure I could persuade them. If they only knew how every one
would love them if they made themselves useful!"
"Oohoo! oohoo!" said the Owl. "Now pay attention. You must go to the
north side of the mere when the moon is shining--('I know Brownies like
water,' muttered Tommy)--and turn yourself round three times, saying
this charm:
'Twist me, and turn me, and show me the Elf--
I looked in the water, and saw--'
When you have got so far, look into the water, and at the same moment
you will see the Brownie, and think of a word that will fill up the
couplet, and rhyme with the first line. If either you do not see the
Brownie, or fail to think of the word, it will be of no use."
"Is the Brownie a merman," said Tommy, wriggling himself along the
beam, "that he lives under water?"
"That depends on whether he has a fish's tail," said the Owl, "and this
you can discover for yourself."
"Well, the moon is shining, so I shall go," said Tommy. "Good-bye, and
thank you, Ma'am;" and he jumped down and went, saying to himself as he
ran, "I believe he is a merman all the same, or else how could he live
in the mere? I know more about Brownies than Granny does, and I shall
tell her so;" for Tommy was somewhat opinionated, like other young
people.
The moon shone very brightly on the centre of the mere. Tommy knew the
place well, for there was a fine echo there. Round the edge grew rushes
and water plants, which cast a border of shadow. Tommy went to the
north side, and turning himself three times, as the Old Owl had told
him, he repeated the charm--
"Twist me, and turn me, and show me the Elf--
I looked in the water, and saw--"
Now for it! He looked in, and saw--the reflection of his own face.
"Why, there's no one but myself!" said Tommy. "And what can the word
be? I must have done it wrong."
"Wrong!" said the Echo.
Tommy was almost surprised to find the echo awake at this time of
night.
"Hold your tongue!" said he. "Matters are provoking enough of
themselves. Belf! Celf! Delf! Felf! Gelf! Helf! Jelf! What rubbish!
There can't be a word to fit it. And then to look for a Brownie, and
see nothing but myself!"
"Myself," said the Echo.
"Will you be quiet?" said Tommy. "If you would tell one the word there
would be some sense in your interference; but to roar 'Myself!' at one,
which neither rhymes nor runs--it does rhyme though, as it happens," he
added; "and how very odd! it runs too--
'Twist me, and turn me, and show me the Elf--
I looked in the water, and saw myself,'
which I certainly did. What can it mean? The Old Owl knows, as Granny
would say; so I shall go back and ask her."
"Ask her!" said the Echo.
"Didn't I say I should?" said Tommy. "How exasperating you are! It is
very strange. _Myself_ certainly does rhyme, and I wonder I did not
think of it long ago."
"Go," said the Echo.
"Will you mind your own business, and go to sleep?" said Tommy. "I am
going; I said I should."
And back he went. There sat the Old Owl as before.
"Oohoo!" said she, as Tommy climbed up. "What did you see in the mere?"
"I saw nothing but myself," said Tommy indignantly.
"And what did you expect to see?" asked the Owl.
"I expected to see a Brownie," said Tommy; "you told me so."
"And what are Brownies like, pray?" inquired the Owl.
"The one Granny knew was a useful little fellow, something like a
little man," said Tommy.
"Ah!" said the Owl, "but you know at present this one is an idle little
fellow, something like a little man. Oohoo! oohoo! Are you quite sure
you didn't see him?"
"Quite," answered Tommy sharply. "I saw no one but myself."
"Hoot! toot! How touchy we are! And who are you, pray?"
"I'm not a Brownie," said Tommy.
"Don't be too sure," said the Owl. "Did you find out the word?"
"No," said Tommy. "I could find no word with any meaning that would
rhyme but 'myself.'"
"Well, that runs and rhymes," said the Owl. "What do you want? Where's
your brother now?"
"In bed in the malt-loft," said Tommy.
"Then now all your questions are answered," said the Owl, "and you know
what wants doing, so go and do it. Good-night, or rather good-morning,
for it is long past midnight;" and the old lady began to shake her
feathers for a start.
"Don't go yet, please," said Tommy humbly. "I don't understand it. You
know I'm not a Brownie, am I?"
"Yes, you are," said the Owl, "and a very idle one too. All children
are Brownies."
"But I couldn't do work like a Brownie," said Tommy.
"Why not?" inquired the Owl. "Couldn't you sweep the floor, light the
fire, spread the table, tidy the room, fetch the turf, pick up your own
chips, and sort your grandmother's scraps? You know 'there's lots to
do.'"
"But I don't think I should like it," said Tommy. "I'd much rather have
a Brownie to do it for me."
"And what would you do meanwhile?" asked the Owl. "Be idle, I suppose;
and what do you suppose is the use of a man's having children if they
do nothing to help him? Ah! if they only knew how every one would love
them if they made themselves useful!"
"But is it really and truly so?" asked Tommy, in a dismal voice. "Are
there no Brownies but children?"
"No, there are not," said the Owl. "And pray do you think that the
Brownies, whoever they may be, come into the house to save trouble for
the idle healthy little boys who live in it? Listen to me, Tommy," said
the old lady, her eyes shooting rays of fire in the dark corner where
she sat. "Listen to me, you are a clever boy, and can understand when
one speaks; so I will tell you the whole history of the Brownies, as it
has been handed down in our family from my grandmother's
great-grandmother, who lived in the Druid's Oak, and was intimate with
the fairies. And when I have done you shall tell me what you think they
are, if they are not children. It's the opinion I have come to at any
rate, and I don't think that wisdom died with our great-grandmothers."
"I should like to hear if you please," said Tommy.
The Old Owl shook out a tuft or two of fluff, and set her eyes a-going
and began:
"The Brownies, or, as they are sometimes called, the Small Folk, the
Little People, or the Good People, are a race of tiny beings who
domesticate themselves in a house of which some grown-up human being
pays the rent and taxes. They are like small editions of men and women,
they are too small and fragile for heavy work; they have not the
strength of a man, but are a thousand times more fresh and nimble. They
can run and jump, and roll and tumble, with marvellous agility and
endurance, and of many of the aches and pains which men and women groan
under, they do not even know the names. They have no trade or
profession, and as they live entirely upon other people, they know
nothing of domestic cares; in fact, they know very little upon any
subject, though they are often intelligent and highly inquisitive. They
love dainties, play, and mischief. They are apt to be greatly beloved,
and are themselves capriciously affectionate. They are little people,
and can only do little things. When they are idle and mischievous, they
are called Boggarts, and are a curse to the house they live in. When
they are useful and considerate, they are Brownies, and are a
much-coveted blessing. Sometimes the Blessed Brownies will take up
their abode with some worthy couple, cheer them with their romps and
merry laughter, tidy the house, find things that have been lost, and
take little troubles out of hands full of great anxieties. Then in time
these Little People are Brownies no longer. They grow up into men and
women. They do not care so much for dainties, play, or mischief. They
cease to jump and tumble, and roll about the house. They know more, and
laugh less. Then, when their heads begin to ache with anxiety, and they
have to labour for their own living, and the great cares of life come
on, other Brownies come and live with them, and take up their little
cares, and supply their little comforts, and make the house merry once
more."
"How nice!" said Tommy.
"Very nice," said the Old Owl. "But what"--and she shook herself more
fiercely than ever, and glared so that Tommy expected nothing less than
that her eyes would set fire to her feathers and she would be burnt
alive. "But what must I say of the Boggarts? Those idle urchins who eat
the bread-and-milk, and don't do the work, who lie in bed without an
ache or pain to excuse them, who untidy instead of tidying, cause work
instead of doing it, and leave little cares to heap on big cares, till
the old people who support them are worn out altogether."
"Don't!" said Tommy. "I can't bear it."
"I hope when Boggarts grow into men," said the Old Owl, "that their
children will be Boggarts too, and then they'll know what it is!"
"Don't!" roared Tommy. "I won't be a Boggart. I'll be a Brownie."
"That's right," nodded the Old Owl. "I said you were a boy who could
understand when one spoke. And remember that the Brownies never are
seen at their work. They get up before the household, and get away
before any one can see them. I can't tell you why. I don't think my
grandmother's great-grandmother knew. Perhaps because all good deeds
are better done in secret."
"Please," said Tommy, "I should like to go home now, and tell Johnnie.
It's getting cold, and I am so tired!"
"Very true," said the Old Owl, "and then you will have to be up early
to-morrow. I think I had better take you home."
"I know the way, thank you," said Tommy.
"I didn't say _show_ you the way, I said _take_ you--carry you," said
the Owl. "Lean against me."
"I'd rather not, thank you," said Tommy.
"Lean against me," screamed the Owl. "Oohoo! how obstinate boys are to
be sure!"
Tommy crept up very unwillingly.
"Lean your full weight, and shut your eyes," said the Owl.
Tommy laid his head against the Old Owl's feathers, had a vague idea
that she smelt of heather, and thought it must be from living on the
moor, shut his eyes, and leant his full weight, expecting that he and
the Owl would certainly fall off the beam together.
Down--feathers--fluff--he sank and sank, could feel nothing solid,
jumped up with a start to save himself, opened his eyes, and found that
he was sitting among the heather in the malt-loft, with Johnnie
sleeping by his side.
"How quickly we came!" said he; "that is certainly a very clever Old
Owl. I couldn't have counted ten whilst my eyes were shut. How very
odd!"
But what was odder still was, that it was no longer moonlight, but
early dawn.
"Get up, Johnnie," said his brother, "I've got a story to tell you."
And while Johnnie sat up, and rubbed his eyes open, he related his
adventures on the moor.
"Is all that true?" said Johnnie. "I mean, did it really happen?"
"Of course it did," said his brother; "don't you believe it?"
"Oh yes," said Johnnie. "But I thought it was perhaps only a true
story, like Granny's true stories. I believe all those, you know. But
if you were there, you know, it is different--"
"I was there," said Tommy, "and it's all just as I tell you: and I tell
you what, if we mean to do anything we must get up: though, oh dear! I
should like to stay in bed. I say," he added, after a pause, "suppose
we do. It can't matter being Boggarts for one night more. I mean to be
a Brownie before I grow up, though. I couldn't stand boggarty
children."
"I won't be a Boggart at all," said Johnnie, "it's horrid. But I don't
see how we can be Brownies, for I'm afraid we can't do the things. I
wish I were bigger!"
"I can do it well enough," said Tommy, following his brother's example
and getting up. "Don't you suppose I can light a fire? Think of all the
bonfires we have made! And I don't think I should mind having a regular
good tidy-up either. It's that stupid
putting-away-things-when-you've-done-with-them that I hate so!"
The Brownies crept softly down the ladder and into the kitchen. There
was the blank hearth, the dirty floor, and all the odds and ends lying
about, looking cheerless enough in the dim light. Tommy felt quite
important as he looked round. There is no such cure for untidiness as
clearing up after other people; one sees so clearly where the fault
lies.
"Look at that door-step, Johnnie," said the Brownie-elect, "what a mess
you made of it! If you had lifted the moss carefully, instead of
stamping and struggling with it, it would have saved us ten minutes'
work this morning."
This wisdom could not be gainsaid, and Johnnie only looked meek and
rueful.
"I am going to light the fire," pursued his brother;--"the next turfs,
you know, _we_ must get--you can tidy a bit. Look at that knife I gave
you to hold last night, and that wood--that's my fault though, and so
are those scraps by Granny's chair. What are you grubbing at that
rat-hole for?"
Johnnie raised his head somewhat flushed and tumbled.
"What do you think I have found?" said he triumphantly. "Father's
measure that has been lost for a week!"
"Hurrah!" said Tommy, "put it by his things. That's just a sort of
thing for a Brownie to have done. What will he say? And I say, Johnnie,
when you've tidied, just go and grub up a potato or two in the garden,
and I'll put them to roast for breakfast. I'm lighting such a bonfire!"
The fire was very successful. Johnnie went after the potatoes, and
Tommy cleaned the door-step, swept the room, dusted the chairs and the
old chest, and set out the table. There was no doubt he could be handy
when he chose.
"I'll tell you what I've thought of, if we have time," said Johnnie, as
he washed the potatoes in the water that had been set for Brownie. "We
might run down to the South Pasture for some mushrooms. Father said the
reason we found so few was that people go by sunrise for them to take
to market. The sun's only just rising, we should be sure to find some,
and they would do for breakfast."
"There's plenty of time," said Tommy; so they went. The dew lay heavy
and thick upon the grass by the road-side, and over the miles of
network that the spiders had woven from blossom to blossom of the
heather. The dew is the Sun's breakfast; but he was barely up yet, and
had not eaten it, and the world felt anything but warm. Nevertheless,
it was so sweet and fresh as it is at no later hour of the day, and
every sound was like the returning voice of a long-absent friend. Down
to the pastures, where was more network and more dew, but when one has
nothing to speak of in the way of boots, the state of the ground is of
the less consequence.
The Tailor had been right, there was no lack of mushrooms at this time
of the morning. All over the pasture they stood, of all sizes, some
like buttons, some like tables; and in the distance one or two ragged
women, stooping over them with baskets, looked like huge fungi also.
"This is where the fairies feast," said Tommy. "They had a large party
last night. When they go, they take away the dishes and cups, for they
are made of gold; but they leave their tables, and we eat them."
"I wonder whether giants would like to eat our tables," said Johnnie.
This was beyond Tommy's capabilities of surmise; so they filled a
handkerchief, and hurried back again, for fear the Tailor should have
come down-stairs.
They were depositing the last mushroom in a dish on the table, when his
footsteps were heard descending.
"There he is!" exclaimed Tommy. "Remember, we mustn't be caught. Run
back to bed."
Johnnie caught up the handkerchief, and smothering their laughter, the
two scrambled back up the ladder, and dashed straight into the heather.
Meanwhile the poor Tailor came wearily down-stairs. Day after day,
since his wife's death, he had come down every morning to the same
desolate sight--yesterday's refuse and an empty hearth. This morning
task of tidying was always a sad and ungrateful one to the widowed
father. His awkward struggles with the house-work in which _she_
had been so notable, chafed him. The dirty kitchen was dreary, the
labour lonely, and it was an hour's time lost to his trade. But life
does not stand still while one is wishing, and so the Tailor did that
for which there was neither remedy nor substitute; and came down this
morning as other mornings to the pail and broom. When he came in he
looked round, and started, and rubbed his eyes; looked round again,
and rubbed them harder: then went up to the fire and held out his hand,
(warm certainly)--then up to the table and smelt the mushrooms,
(esculent fungi beyond a doubt)--handled the loaf, stared at the open
door and window, the swept floor, and the sunshine pouring in, and
finally sat down in stunned admiration. Then he jumped up and ran to
the foot of the stairs, shouting,