"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 their 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 you're 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 house-work, 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 house-work 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 to the door-step, 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 Johnny, 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 won't you
tell us about the Fairies?"
"Hush! hush! my dears. 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."
"Oh Granny, we are so hungry and miserable, what can it matter?"
"Well, that's true enough," she sighed. "Trouts' 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 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 gray 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 color 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 all had 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 fluffyness.
"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 am 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 a 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 labor 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 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 _shew_ 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 have 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 musn'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 labor
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,--
"Mother! Mother! Trout's luck has come again." "And yet, no!" he
thought, "the old lady's asleep, it's a shame to wake her, I'll tell
those idle rascally lads, they'll be more pleased than they deserve.
It was Tommy after all that set the water and caught him." "Boys!
boys!" he shouted at the foot of the ladder, "the Brownie has
come!--and if he hasn't found my measure!" he added on returning to
the kitchen, "this is as good as a day's work to me."
There was great excitement in the small household that day. The boys
kept their own counsel. The old Grandmother was triumphant, and tried
not to seem surprised. The Tailor made no such vain effort, and
remained till bed-time in a state of fresh and unconcealed amazement.
"I've often heard of the Good People," he broke out towards the end of
the evening. "And I've heard folk say they've known those that have
seen them capering round the gray rocks on the moor at midnight: but
this is wonderful! To come and do the work for a pan of cold water!
Who could have believed it?"
"You might have believed it if you'd believed me, Son Thomas," said
the old lady tossily. "I told you so. But young people always know
better than their elders!"
"I didn't see him," said the Tailor, beginning his story afresh; "but
I thought as I came in I heard a sort of laughing and rustling."
"My mother said they often heard him playing and laughing about the
house," said the old lady. "I told you so."
"Well, he shan't want for a bowl of bread and milk to-morrow, anyhow,"
said the Tailor, "if I have to stick to Farmer Swede's waistcoat till
midnight."
But the waistcoat was finished by bed-time, and the Tailor set the
bread and milk himself, and went to rest.
"I say," said Tommy, when both the boys were in bed, "the Old Owl was
right, and we must stick to it. But I'll tell you what I don't like,
and that is, father thinking we're idle still. I wish he knew we were
the Brownies."
"So do I," said Johnnie; and he sighed.
"I tell you what," said Tommy, with the decisiveness of elder
brotherhood, "we'll keep quiet for a bit for fear we should leave off;
but when we've gone on a good while, I shall tell him. It was only the
Old Owl's grandmother's great-grandmother who said it was to be kept
secret, and the Old Owl herself said grandmothers were not always in
the right."
"No more they are," said Johnnie; "look at Granny about this."
"I know," said Tommy. "She's in a regular muddle."
"So she is," said Johnnie. "But that's rather fun, I think."
And they went to sleep.
Day after day went by, and still the Brownies "stuck to it," and did
their work. It is no such very hard matter after all to get up early
when one is young and light-hearted, and sleeps upon heather in a loft
without window-blind, and with so many broken window-panes that the
air comes freely in. In old times the boys used to play at tents among
the heather, while the Tailor did the house-work; now they came down
and did it for him.
Size is not everything, even in this material existence. One has heard
of dwarfs who were quite as clever, (not to say as powerful,) as
giants, and I do not fancy that Fairy Godmothers are ever very large.
It is wonderful what a comfort Brownies may be in the house that is
fortunate enough to hold them! The Tailor's Brownies were the joy of
his life; and day after day they seemed to grow more and more
ingenious in finding little things to do for his good.
Now-a-days Granny never picked a scrap for herself. One day's
shearings were all neatly arranged the next morning, and laid by her
knitting-pins; and the Tailor's tape and shears were no more absent
without leave.
One day a message came to him to offer him two or three days'
tailoring in a farm-house some miles up the valley. This was pleasant
and advantageous sort of work; good food, sure pay, and a cheerful
change; but he did not know how he could leave his family, unless,
indeed, the Brownie might be relied upon to "keep the house together,"
as they say. The boys were sure that he would, and they promised to
set his water, and to give as little trouble as possible; so, finally,
the Tailor took up his shears and went up the valley, where the green
banks sloped up into purple moor, or broke into sandy rocks, crowned
with nodding oak fern. On to the prosperous old farm, where he spent a
very pleasant time, sitting level with the window geraniums on a table
set apart for him, stitching and gossiping, gossiping and stitching,
and feeling secure of honest payment when his work was done. The
mistress of the house was a kind good creature, and loved a chat; and
though the Tailor kept his own secret as to the Brownies, he felt
rather curious to know if the Good People had any hand in the comfort
of this flourishing household, and watched his opportunity to make a
few careless inquiries on the subject.
"Brownies?" laughed the dame. "Ay, Master, I have heard of them. When
I was a girl, in service at the old hall, on Cowberry Edge, I heard a
good deal of one they said had lived there in former times. He did
house-work as well as a woman, and a good deal quicker, they said. One
night one of the young ladies (that were then, they're all dead now,)
hid herself in a cupboard, to see what he was like."
"And what was he like?" inquired the Tailor, as composedly as he was
able.
"A little fellow, they said;" answered the Farmer's wife, knitting
calmly on. "Like a dwarf, you know, with a largish head for his body.
Not taller than--why, my Bill, or your eldest boy, perhaps. And he was
dressed in rags, with an old cloak on, and stamping with passion at a
cobweb he couldn't get at with his broom. They've very uncertain
tempers, they say. Tears one minute, and laughing the next."
"You never had one here, I suppose?" said the Tailor.
"Not we," she answered; "and I think I'd rather not. They're not canny
after all; and my master and me have always been used to work, and
we've sons and daughters to help us, and that's better than meddling
with the Fairies, to my mind. No! no!" she added, laughing, "If we had
had one you'd have heard of it, whoever didn't, for I should have had
some decent clothes made for him. I couldn't stand rags and old
cloaks, messing and moth-catching in my house."
"They say it's not lucky to give them clothes, though," said the
Tailor; "they don't like it."
"Tell me!" said the dame, "as if any one that liked a tidy room,
wouldn't like tidy clothes, if they could get them. No! no! when we
have one, you shall take his measure, I promise you."
And this was all the Tailor got out of her on the subject. When his
work was finished, the Farmer paid him at once; and the good dame
added half a cheese, and a bottle-green coat.
"That has been laid by for being too small for the master now he's so
stout," she said; "but except for a stain or two it's good enough, and
will cut up like new for one of the lads."
The Tailor thanked them, and said farewell, and went home. Down the
valley, where the river, wandering between the green banks and the
sandy rocks, was caught by giant mosses, and bands of fairy fern, and
there choked and struggled, and at last barely escaped with an
existence, and ran away in a diminished stream. On up the purple hills
to the old ruined house. As he came in at the gate he was struck by
some idea of change, and looking again, he saw that the garden had
been weeded, and was comparatively tidy. The truth is, that Tommy and
Johnnie had taken advantage of the Tailor's absence to do some
Brownie's work in the day-time.
"It's that Blessed Brownie!" said the Tailor. "Has he been as usual?"
he asked, when he was in the house.
"To be sure," said the old lady; "all has been well, Son Thomas."
"I'll tell you what it is," said the Tailor, after a pause. "I'm a
needy man, but I hope I'm not ungrateful. I can never repay the
Brownie for what he has done for me and mine; but the mistress up
yonder has given me a bottle-green coat that will cut up as good as
new; and as sure as there's a Brownie in this house, I'll make him a
suit of it."
"You'll _what?_" shrieked the old lady. "Son Thomas, Son Thomas,
you're mad! Do what you please for the Brownies, but never make them
clothes."
"There's nothing they want more," said the Tailor, "by all accounts.
They're all in rags, as well they may be, doing so much work."
"If you make clothes for this Brownie, he'll go for good," said the
Grandmother, in a voice of awful warning.
"Well, I don't know," said her son. "The mistress up at the farm is
clever enough, I can tell you; and as she said to me, fancy any one
that likes a tidy room, not liking a tidy coat!" For the Tailor, like
most men, was apt to think well of the wisdom of woman-kind in other
houses.
"Well, well," said the old lady, "go your own way. I'm an old woman,
and my time is not long. It doesn't matter much to me. But it was new
clothes that drove the Brownie out before, and Trout's luck went with
him."
"I know, Mother," said the Tailor, "and I've been thinking of it all
the way home; and I can tell you why it was. Depend upon it, _the
clothes didn't fit_. But I'll tell you what I mean to do. I shall
measure them by Tommy--they say the Brownies are about his size--and
if ever I turned out a well-made coat and waistcoat, they shall be
his."
"Please yourself," said the old lady, and she would say no more.
"I think you're quite right, Father," said Tommy, "and if I can, I'll
help you to make them."
Next day the father and son set to work, and Tommy contrived to make
himself so useful, that the Tailor hardly knew how he got through so
much work.
"It's not like the same thing," he broke out at last, "to have some
one a bit helpful about you; both for the tailoring and for company's
sake. I've not done such a pleasant morning's work since your poor
mother died. I'll tell you what it is, Tommy," he added, "if you were
always like this, I shouldn't much care whether Brownie stayed or
went. I'd give up his help to have yours."
"I'll be back directly," said Tommy, who burst out of the room in
search of his brother.
"I've come away," he said squatting down, "because I can't bear it. I
very nearly let it all out, and I shall soon. I wish the things
weren't going to come to me," he added, kicking a stone in front of
him. "I wish he'd measured you, Johnnie."
"I'm very glad he didn't," said Johnnie. "I wish he'd kept them
himself."
"Bottle-green, with brass buttons," murmured Tommy, and therewith fell
into a reverie.
The next night the suit was finished, and laid by the bread and milk.
"We shall see," said the old lady, in a withering tone. There is not
much real prophetic wisdom in this truism, but it sounds very awful,
and the Tailor went to bed somewhat depressed.
Next morning the Brownies came down as usual.
"Don't they look splendid?" said Tommy, feeling the cloth. "When we've
tidied the place I shall put them on."
But long before the place was tidy, he could wait no longer, and
dressed up.
"Look at me!" he shouted; "bottle-green and brass buttons! Oh,
Johnnie, I wish you had some."
"It's a good thing there are two Brownies," said Johnnie, laughing,
"and one of them in rags still. I shall do the work this morning." And
he went flourishing round with a broom, while Tommy jumped madly
about in his new suit. "Hurrah!" he shouted, "I feel just like the
Brownie. What was it Grannie said he sang when he got his clothes? Oh,
I know--
'What have we here? Hemten hamten,
Here will I never more tread nor stampen.'"
And on he danced, regardless of the clouds of dust raised by Johnnie,
as he drove the broom indiscriminately over the floor, to the tune of
his own laughter.
It was laughter which roused the Tailor that morning, laughter coming
through the floor from the kitchen below. He scrambled on his things
and stole down-stairs.
"It's the Brownie," he thought; "I must look, if it's for the last
time."
At the door he paused and listened. The laughter was mixed with
singing, and he heard the words--
"What have we here? Hemten hamten,
Here will I never more tread nor stampen."
He pushed in, and this was the sight that met his eyes:
The kitchen in its primeval condition of chaos, the untidy particulars
of which were the less apparent, as everything was more or less
obscured by the clouds of dust, where Johnnie reigned triumphant, like
a witch with her broomstick; and, to crown all, Tommy capering and
singing in the Brownie's bottle-green suit, brass buttons and all.
"What's this?" shouted the astonished Tailor, when he could find
breath to speak.
"It's the Brownies," sang the boys; and on they danced, for they had
worked themselves up into a state of excitement from which it was not
easy to settle down.
"Where _is_ Brownie?" shouted the father.
"He's here," said Tommy; "we are the Brownies."
"Can't you stop that fooling?" cried the Tailor, angrily. "This is
past a joke. Where is the real Brownie, I say?"
"We are the only Brownies, really, father," said Tommy, coming to a
full stop, and feeling strongly tempted to run down from laughing to
crying. "Ask the Old Owl. It's true, really."
The Tailor saw the boy was in earnest, and passed his hand over his
forehead.
"I suppose I'm getting old," he said; "I can't see daylight through
this. If you are the Brownie, who has been tidying the kitchen
lately?"
"We have," said they.
"But who found my measure?"
"I did," said Johnnie.
"And who sorts your grandmother's scraps?"
"We do," said they.
"And who sets breakfast, and puts my things in order?"
"We do," said they.
"But when do you do it?" asked the Tailor.
"Before you come down," said they.
"But I always have to call you," said the Tailor.
"We get back to bed again," said the boys.
"But how was it you never did it before?" asked the Tailor doubtfully.
"We were idle, we were idle," said Tommy.