“IS this one of your own stories that you are
going to tell us, Pigeon Pretty?” inquired
the squirrel, when they were next assembled
around the cottage door.
“No,” replied the wood-pigeon. “This is a
story I heard a short time ago. I was flying
home, after paying a visit to some cousins of mine
who live in a village some miles away. As I
passed by a pretty white cottage, something like
this, I noticed that there were crumbs scattered
on one of the window-sills. ‘Here lives somebody
who is fond of birds!’ said I to myself, and as I
was rather hungry, I stopped to pick up some of
the crumbs. The window was open, and looking
in, I saw a pretty and neatly furnished room.
Near the window was a bed, in which lay a boy of
about Toto’s age. He was evidently ill, for he
had a bandage tied round his head, and he looked
pale and thin. Beside the bed sat a little girl,
apparently a year or two older; a sweet, pretty
girl, as one would wish to see. She was reading
aloud to her brother (I suppose he was her
brother) from a large red book. Neither of the
children noticed me, so I sat on the window-sill
for some time, and heard the whole of this story,
which you shall now hear in your turn. It is
called
THE STORY OF THE TAIL OF THE BARON’S
WAR-HORSE.
Many years ago there lived a Baron, famous
in peace and war, but chiefly in the latter. War
was his great delight, fighting his natural occupation;
and he was never so much in his element as
when leading his valiant troops to battle, mounted
on his noble iron-gray charger. Ah! what a
charger that was!—stately and strong, swift and
sure, fiery and bold, yet ready to obey his master’s
lightest touch or softest word; briefly, a horse in
ten thousand. Right proud the Baron was of his
gallant steed; and right well did they love each
other, horse and master.
The vassals of the Baron knew no greater
pleasure than to see their lord ride by mounted on
Gray Berold; it filled their souls with joy, and
caused them to throw up their caps and shout
“Hi!” in a hilarious manner. As for the lovely
Ermengarde, the Baron’s young and beautiful
wife, she would far rather have gone without her
dinner than have missed the sight. Whenever
Gray Berold was brought to the door, she hastened
out, and overwhelmed him with caresses
and words of endearment, proffering meanwhile
the toothsome sugar and the crisp and sprightly
apple, neither of which the engaging animal disdained
to accept. In truth, it was a goodly sight
to see the golden locks of the lady (for was she
not known in all the country as Ermengarde of
the Fair Tresses?) mingling with the wavy silver
of the charger’s mane as he bent his head lovingly
over his fair young mistress,—a goodly sight,
and one which often sent the bold Baron rejoicing
on his way, with a tender smile on his otherwise
slightly ferocious countenance.
It chanced one day that a great tournament
was about to take place in the neighborhood. All
the knights in the country round, and many bold
champions from a greater distance, were to show
their prowess in riding at the ring, and in friendly
combat with each other. Among the gallant
knights, who so ready for the tournament as our
bold Baron? He fairly pranced for the fray; for
there had been no war for two months, and he was
very weary of the long peaceful days. He had
been practising for a week past, riding at any
number of rings of different sizes, and tilting with
his squire, whom he had run through the body
several times, thereby seriously impairing that
worthy’s digestive powers.
And now the eventful morning was come.
The vassals were assembled in the courtyard of
the castle, a goodly array, to see their master
depart in pomp and pride.
Gray Berold was brought round to the door,
magnificently caparisoned, his bridle and housings
glittering with precious stones. The gallant
steed pawed the ground, and tossed his head
proudly, as impatient of delay as his master.
From a balcony above leaned the lovely Ermengarde,
her golden tresses crowned with a nightcap
of rare and curious design; for the Baron was
making an early start, and his fair lady had not
yet completed her toilet.
Amid the vociferous cheers of his vassals, the
Baron descended the steps, armed _cap-à-pie_, his
good sword by his side, and his mace, battle-axe,
cutlass, and shillalah displayed about his stately
person in a very imposing manner. He could
scarcely walk, it is true, so many and so weighty
were his accoutrements; but then, as he himself
aptly observed, he did not want to walk.
He got into the saddle with some difficulty,
owing to the tendency of his battle-axe to get
between his legs; but once there, the warrior was
at home. An attendant handed him his lance,
with its glittering pennon. Gray Berold pranced
and curvetted, making nothing of the enormous
weight on his back; the Lady Ermengarde waved
her broidered kerchief; and, with a parting glance
at his lovely bride, the Baron rode slowly out of
the courtyard.
But, alas! he was not destined to ride far.
Alas for the proud Baron! Alas and alack for the
gallant steed!
He had scarcely ridden a hundred paces when
he heard a fearful growl behind him, which caused
him to turn quickly in his saddle. What was his
horror to see a huge bear spring out of the woods
and come rushing towards him!
For one moment the Baron was paralyzed; the
next, he wheeled his horse round, and couching
his lance, prepared to meet his savage assailant.
“The bear caught the charger by the tail.”
But Gray Berold had not bargained for this.
Many a fair fight had he seen in battle-field and in
tourney; many a time he had faced danger as
boldly as his rider, and had borne the brunt of
many a fierce attack. But those fights were
with men and horses. He knew what they were,
and how they should be met; but this was something
very different. This great creature, that
came rushing along with its head down and its
mouth open, was something Berold did not know;
moreover, it was something he did not like. Stand
there and be rushed at by a thing that was neither
horse nor man? Not if he knew it! And just
when the bear was close upon him, Gray Berold,
with a squeal of mingled terror and anger, wheeled
short round. The bear made a spring, and
caught the charger by the tail. The terrified
animal bounded forward; the Baron made a downward
stroke with his battle-axe that would have
felled an ox, and Master Bruin (no offence to
you, my dear fellow! it’s the name of all your
family, you know) rolled over and over in the
dust.
But alas! and alas! _he took the tail with him_! That
noble tail, the pride of the stable-yard, the glory
of the grooms, lay in the road, a glittering mass
of silver; and it was a tailless steed that now
galloped frantically back into the castle-court,
from which only a few short minutes ago he had
so proudly emerged.
The Baron was mad with fury. Pity for his
gallant horse, rage and mortification at the ridiculous
plight he was in, anxiety lest he should be
late for the tournament, all combined to make
him for a time beside himself; he rushed up and
down the courtyard, whirling his battle-axe round
his head, and uttering the most fearful imprecations.
Finally, however, yielding to the tears and
entreaties of his retainers, he calmed his noble
frenzy, and set himself to think what was best
to be done. “Give up the tournament? Perish
the thought! Ride another horse than Berold?
Never while he lives! Ride him tailless and
unadorned? Shades of my ancestors forbid!”
thus cried the Baron at every new suggestion
of his sympathizing retainers.
At last the head groom had an idea. “Let us
fasten on another tail,” he said, “an’t please your
worship!”
“Ha!” cried the Baron, starting at the notion.
“’Tis well! Ho! there, Hodge, Barnaby, Perkin!
Cut me the tails from the three cart-horses, and
tie them together. And be quick about it, ye
knaves!”
The three grooms flew to execute their master’s
mandate, and returned in a few minutes, bearing
a magnificent tail, whose varied hues of black,
sorrel, and white, showed it to be the spoil of
Dobbin, Smiler, and Bumps, the three stout Flemish
cart-horses.
“By my halidome, a motley tail!” exclaimed
the Baron. “But it boots not, so it be a tail!
Fasten it on with all speed, for time presses!—ha!
what is this!”
Well might the Baron start, and exclaim.
The moment the three grooms touched the
flanks of Gray Berold, before they had time to
lay hands on the stump of his tail, they found
themselves flying through the air, and tumbling
in a very uncomfortable sort of way against the
wall of the courtyard. Marry, that was a brave
kick! and when he had given it, the charger
looked round after the unhappy grooms, and
tossed his stately head, and snorted, evidently
meaning to say, “_Don’t_ you want to try it
again?”
But the grooms did not want to try it again.
They picked themselves up, and rubbed their
poor shins and their poor heads, and proceeded
to hobble off on their poor feet as fast as they
could. But they did not hobble far, for the voice
of the Baron was heard in angry expostulation.
“They found themselves flying through the air.”
“How now, varlets!” cried that nobleman.
“Do you slink away like beaten hounds because,
forsooth, the good beast shakes off a fly, or lashes
out his heels in playful sport? Shame on ye, coward
hinds! Back, I command ye, and tie me on
that tail. Obey, sirrahs, or else—hum—ha—hrrrrugh!!!”
and the Baron waved his battle-axe,
and looked as if he had swallowed the meat-chopper
and the gridiron and the blunderbuss, all at
one mouthful.
Hodge, Barnaby, and Perkin were in a bad way,
assuredly. On the one hand was the charger,
snorting defiance, and with his heels all ready for
the next kick, should they presume to touch him;
on the other was the furious Baron, also snorting,
and with his battle-axe all ready for the next
whack, should they presume _not_ to touch him.
Here were two sharp horns to a dilemma!
Cautiously the poor knaves crept up once
more behind Gray Berold. “Vault thou upon
his back, Perkin!” whispered Barnaby. “Perchance
from there—” Whizz! whack! thud!—This
time Berold did not wait for them to touch
him: the sound of their voices was enough; there
they all lay again in a heap against the wall,
moaning sore and cursing the day they were
born.
But now the Baron’s humor changed. “Beshrew
me!” he cried. “’Tis a gallant steed.
He will not brook, at such a moment, the touch
of hireling hands. ’Tis well! give _me_ the tail,
my masters! and ye shall see.”
Alas! they did see; they saw their Baron rolling
over and over on the ground. They saw
their Baron roll; they heard their Baron rave;
they turned and fled for their lives.
At this moment the portal swung open, and
the Lady Ermengarde appeared. She had seen
all from an upper window, and she now hastened
to raise her fallen lord, who sat spluttering and
cursing on the ground, unable to rise, owing to
the weight of his armor. “Oh! blame not the
steed!” cried the lovely lady. “Chide not the
gallant beast, good my lord! ’twas not the touch,
’twas the _tail_, he could not brook. Tie the rustic
tail of a plebeian cart-horse on Gray Berold?
Oh! fie, my lord! it may not be. _I_ will provide
a tail for your charger!”
“You!” exclaimed the Baron. “What mean
you, lady?”
The Lady Ermengarde replied by drawing from
the embroidered pouch which hung from her jewelled
girdle a pair of shears. Snip! snap! snip!
snap! and before her astonished lord could interfere,
the golden tresses, the pride of the whole
country-side, were severed from her head. Deftly
she tied the shining curls together; lightly she
stepped to where Gray Berold stood. She stroked
his noble head; she spoke to him; she showed him
the tresses, and told him what she had done.
Then with her own hands she tied them on to
the stump of his tail with her embroidered girdle;
and Gray Berold moved not fore-leg nor hind, but
stood like a steed of granite till it was done.
The retainers were dissolved in tears; the Baron
sobbed aloud as he climbed, with the assistance of
seven hostlers, into the saddle; but the heroic
lady smiled, and bade them be of good cheer.
She could get a black wig, she said; and she
had always thought she should look better as a
brunette.
And to make a long story short, said the wood-pigeon,
she _did_ get a black wig, and looked like
a beauty in it. And the Baron went to the
tournament, and won all the prizes. And Gray
Berold lived to be sixty years old, and wore the
golden tail to the end of his days. And that’s
all.