"I am going out now," said the old Witch as before. "I shall not be
back till to-morrow at dusk. I shall lock the door so you cannot get
out. Clean the place and have supper ready for me when I come back."
She took her broomstick and bound on it the double number of elastic
bags, perched her cat at the other end, mounted it astride, and with an
"Abracadabra," she was gone.
The next night at dusk she returned again with the bags full of water.
"Ha! ha! I stole it," said she to Jill. "A bag here, and a bag there.
They won't like it when they wake up to-morrow and find they have no
water to wash in and precious little water to drink." She ground her
iron teeth together and laughed again.
As before, Jill had to take the bags down to the vault, empty them in
the casks, and get a further supply of bags for the next day. And so
it went on for a year and a day.
* * * * * *
At the end of that time the numberless casks in the vault were all
full; the last to be filled being those labelled "Drinking-water
Possible," and "Reservoirs Old Fruity."
On the last evening the old Witch was in high spirits. "You have
worked well, my pretty dear," she said to Jill. "Go home now and enjoy
yourself," and she approached Jill as if to kiss her. But Jill fled
out of the door and through the gate-posts on to the hill outside.
She had never been outside the Witch's cottage since the day she came,
but she had often thought of the village street as she had seen it
last--cool and green and shady, with the babbling stream and chattering
ducks at the foot of the hill.
When she got outside the fence she stopped suddenly.
What had happened to the village?
It looked brown and baked and dusty. The sun was intolerably hot.
There was not a field to be seen, nothing but a wide dreary desert of
sand stretching on either side of the sun-baked houses. A few rotting
stumps by the roadside told where once the shady trees had been. As
Jill went slowly down the hill she looked into the little dried-up
yards that had once been gardens. Oh, how dusty it was! The stream
had disappeared, some bleaching bones told of the poor ducks' fate.
"Oh, I am thirsty!" said Jill as she went on down the hill to her own
cottage.
A dirty, thin, brown-skinned, weak-looking boy was lying in the porch.
"Jill," he said feebly.
"Is that you, Jack?"
"Yes, have you brought us any water?"
"Me, no; I was just going to ask you for a drink. I am so thirsty."
Jack smiled feebly. "There isn't any," he said.
Jill went indoors. A dirty table-cloth was spread on the dusty table.
"Ugh!" she said, coming out again, "isn't there any milk?"
"No," said Jack. "You see there is no grass for the cows. Where's the
water gone?" he cried, raising himself from his chair, "that's what I
want to know. I wish it would rain. My word, wouldn't I hang my
tongue out to catch the raindrops," and he sank back again exhausted.
"The water?" said Jill, suddenly realising what that year with the old
Witch had meant. "Why the old Witch has got it all! Her casks are
full of it! But she will never let us have it back again."
"Then we must go and fetch it," said Jack with a sudden burst of
energy. "You must come and show me where it is."
"Let us go at once," said Jill, "while the Witch is out. I know the
spell to open the doors. We must take a pail to put the water in."
So she went into the dusty, dirty kitchen and found a pail, and then
she and Jack set off to climb the glaring village street.
They passed some of the villagers. They all looked as brown and dirty
and thin as Jack.
"Where are you going?" they called after the children.
"To fetch a pail of water," answered Jack.
Poor Jack was so thin and tired, and Jill so hot and thirsty that they
were forced to stop many times on their way up the hill.
At last they reached the Witch's cottage.
"Abracadabra," called out Jill, and they both entered the house through
the window with the pail between them.
"Come along," said Jill, "she may come in at any minute." So they ran
to the corner of the kitchen.
"Lift up the floor
And open door,"
cried Jill, and they went down the steps.
Jack was so tired that he could hardly stand, but when he saw the casks
he clapped his hands.
"Quick," he cried, "Abracadabra!"
"What have you done?" called out Jill the next minute. "You said
Abracadabra to the thunder-storm cask. They will all be surging out in
a minute! Oh, dear! oh, dear! See, _this_ is the drinking-water cask.
"Abracadabra!"
The lid slid open.
She dipped the pail in. "You must not stop to drink now," she said.
"Come quickly before the thunder-storms pour out." And without
thinking what she was doing, she ran back, past all the casks, saying,
"Abracadabra," as quickly as ever she could. Then, with the full pail
in her hand, she stumbled up the steps, and Jack after her. She did
not wait to shut the trap-door, but ran out of the house half-way down
the hill.
Jack tottered after her.
"I must have a drink," he said.
He caught hold of the handle of the pail, and was about to dip in his
head when----
Flash! flash! across the sky came the lightning, and then a deafening
roar of thunder.
"It's the old Witch!" he cried, dropping the handle of the pail again.
"It's the thunder-storms tumbling out of the cask," said Jill, letting
go of her side of the pail too.
They started to run on home, but Jack caught his foot in the handle of
the pail as it rolled down the hill. He fell headlong, cutting his
head on a stone in the pathway. Jill tried to stop, but somehow got
entangled with Jack's feet, and fell headlong too.
All the while the lightning was flashing and the thunder roaring
overhead, and then, splash! splash! great drops of rain came pouring
down upon them.
How it rained! It splashed down in torrents! Streams and streams of
it! Drop after drop, shower after shower, storm after storm.
"I must have opened all the casks at once," said Jill.
Jack lay still where he was, he did not heed his broken head or his
drenched clothes.
"Oh, how good the rain is," was all _he_ said.
* * * * * *
When, at last, the rain did leave off, those who went to see, found
that the old Witch's cottage had been quite washed away. Nothing
remained to show where once it had been but one or two rotting casks,
and a worn-out elastic bag. The old Witch herself was never seen or
heard of in the village again, but she is probably still wandering
about somewhere. So don't be too anxious for the rain to leave off, in
case she should hear you, and come and steal all _your_ water!
LITTLE MISS MUFFET
_"Cowards are cruel_
_But the brave_
_Have mercy, and delight to save"_
Little Miss Muffet,
Sat on a tuffet,
Eating her curds and whey.
There came a big spider,
And sat down beside her,
Which frightened Miss Muffet away.
Of course if Miss Muffet had been just an ordinary little girl, she
would not have been afraid of spiders! But she wasn't an ordinary
little girl at all, she was a little fairy girl, which just makes all
the difference. That is why she is always known as "little" Miss
Muffet, because she was so very small, and spiders did seem to her so
very large; and that is why she is always called "Miss" Muffet, because
fairy girls only have sur-names, just as if they were grown-ups!
It was really extremely awkward that Miss Muffet was so afraid of
spiders, and of _the_ Spider in particular, because, you see, the one
thing a fairy cannot be is a coward. If a fairy once does a cowardly
act, unless he or she immediately makes it right by doing a brave one,
he or she will become a mortal at once. And think how dull it would be
to become a mere mortal, when you have been used to flying, or dancing,
or appearing in dreams, or granting wishes, or doing one of the hundred
and one exciting things that fairies do!
Miss Muffet lived under a gooseberry bush just outside the farm-house
door, and the Spider lived in the barn opposite, and there was a fine
tuft of grass in between, where they sometimes met. The farm people
knew all about fairies, and on Midsummer Eve always put out a bowl of
curds and whey for Miss Muffet in the true old-fashioned style. Miss
Muffet always hoped that the Spider would not see it and get there
first. Oh, Miss Muffet was certainly very much afraid of the Spider!
She was quite sure he had a hundred legs, whereas he had only eight;
quite sure that he was as big as a house, whereas he wasn't as big as
your little finger; and quite sure that he spent his life lying in wait
to eat her up, whereas he was far too busy about his own affairs ever
to think about her at all!
It was on one particular Midsummer Eve that Miss Muffet had her great
adventure with the Spider.
It was a beautiful moonlight night. Miss Muffet crept out from under
the gooseberry bush, and flew across to the tuft of grass. Yes, there
was the bowl of curds and whey as usual. It had never been forgotten
ever since Miss Muffet had come to live under the gooseberry bush.
Miss Muffet tripped up to the bowl, and began to sip the contents,
thinking all the while how glad she was that she was not a mortal,
when----
Plop!
Out of the barn dropped the Spider, close down beside her.
"Can you tell me where the best dewdrops----" he began. But Miss
Muffet only looked once in his direction, and then fled as fast as her
wings could carry her.
Trembling, she reached the gooseberry bush, and then, all of a sudden,
her wings failed her.
"Oh dear," she cried. "I have run away, and been a coward. If I don't
do something very brave at once I shall start turning into a mortal.
Oh, I don't want to be an ordinary little girl and be called Molly or
Dolly, and have to walk everywhere, and go to school, and put my hair
in pig-tails. I must do something brave this minute."
Then her eye fell on the gooseberry bush.
"I know," she said, "I will screw up my courage and kill that spider
dead. I will take a thorn from the gooseberry bush to spear him with."
So, with her tiny hands, she broke off a long thorn from the gooseberry
bush. Then, feeling very brave indeed, she shouldered the thorn and
flew back very slowly to the tuft.
At first she thought the spider had disappeared, as she could not see
him anywhere. But, happening to fly over the bowl of curds and whey,
she saw that he was lying struggling, in the very middle of it!
At first sight of him Miss Muffet felt all her old terror returning,
and had half a mind to fly away again. But then she remembered that
she had come to do a brave deed, and she held her big thorn tighter,
and forced herself to look at the Spider as he struggled in the curds
and whey.
"That will make it easier," she said, as she balanced herself on the
rim of the bowl. "He will not be able to fly away when I start to stab
him," and she poised the thorn all ready for a vigorous thrust.
The Spider looked up at her.
"Gracious lady," he began humbly. "Can you direct me as to the best
way out of this pond?"
Miss Muffet was so astonished at being addressed so humbly and so
politely by such a formidable person as the Spider, that she lowered
her spear-point in order to look at him more closely.
"Gracious lady," began the Spider again. "I beg you will show me the
way to get out of this pond soon. I have eight hours more work to do
to-night before my task is done."
"Work!" said Miss Muffet, almost to herself. "Do _you_ do any work?"
"Toil and spin, toil and spin, year in, year out," said the Spider
sadly. "It is my masterpiece that I am finishing to-night,--a woven
counterpane, light as air, threaded with sparkling dewdrops. I was
just going out to fetch a few more, and thought there might be some in
this pond; but it is a sticky pond, and I fell in, and now I cannot get
out again."
"Well, of all the idiots!" began Miss Muffet. "Of course you won't
find dewdrops in there," she continued hastily. "But tell me some more
about your work?"
So the Spider, still struggling in the curds and whey, told on. How he
helped the gardener by eating up the flies; how day and night he toiled
and spun, making and weaving carpets and counterpanes from silken
threads that he himself spun out of nothing. "It was my masterpiece I
was to finish to-night," he said again at the end.
All the while he was talking a great struggle was going on in Miss
Muffet's mind.
She raised the thorn again.
"I came here to kill him. I shall be a coward and turn into a mortal
if I don't kill him," she said to herself. "But if I kill him he will
never finish his masterpiece. Supposing I don't kill him after all,
but help him out, then he can finish his work and be happy." She
looked at him again and shuddered.
"Oh, if I help him out he will eat me!" she cried. "I _will_ be brave
and kill him."
So she shouldered the thorn, and poised herself once more upon the edge
of the bowl.
The Spider was still struggling, but more feebly, and Miss Muffet could
hear him muttering to himself, "Grey, threaded with silver and
sparkling dewdrops, oh, my masterpiece!"
"No!" she said, flinging the spear down on the tuft behind her. "I
_can't_ kill him. What does it matter if I turn into a mortal. I have
never done any work or made a masterpiece. Let him eat me if he likes.
I will _save_ him!"
"Here!" she said in a louder voice. "Give me one of your feet, and I
will pull you out."
"Ugh! how ugly he is," she continued to herself, as the Spider drew
nearer and lifted up one of his feet. She knelt down on the brim, and
stretching out her tiny hands seized the foot, and pulled him slowly up
the side of the bowl.
"Now he'll eat me!" she thought, as he stood for a moment shaking
himself on the edge.
But no, without a word he was gone, scuttling straight off to the barn
as fast as he could run. Was it possible that _he_ was afraid of _her_!
Miss Muffet looked round. Behind her on the ground lay the big thorn
with which she had set out to kill the Spider.
"I wonder it I have been a coward to spare him after all," she said as
she flew home. "Anyway, I shall know to-morrow morning. Perhaps this
is the last fly I shall ever have, and when I wake up to-morrow I shall
be just an ordinary little girl with no wings, and a serge frock and
pigtails." And murmuring "Coward, coward, I shall be an ordinary
little girl to-morrow!" she fell asleep.
But when she woke up to-morrow morning she found she was a fairy
still--wings and all; and moreover she found spread over her the
daintiest and most beautiful counterpane in the world, made of grey
threads woven with silver and diamented with dewdrops all glistening
and quivering in the morning sunlight. It was indeed a masterpiece!
* * * * * *
"Look what a lovely spider's web there is under the gooseberry bush!"
said the farmer's little girl, when she came to fetch the empty bowl of
curds and whey that morning.
PUSSY CAT, PUSSY CAT
"_The man who loses his opportunity loses himself_"
"Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, where have you been?"
"I've been to London to visit the Queen."
"Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat, what did you there?"
"I frightened a little mouse under her chair."
You would never think to look at Thomas now, as he lies blinking in
front of the fire, that he once had the chance of being King of England!
To us, Thomas only looks like an ordinary, sleek, well-fed, tabby cat.
But then, you see, you don't know Thomas' Private History. Thomas
himself is usually too sleepy to think about his early adventures now,
but time was, when the mere mention of the Queen's name, would start
him off purring at the thought of what might have been!
It was a long time ago, when Thomas was just emerging from the kitten
stage, that his Private History really began. It started one evening
when mother was reading the children the story of the White Cat in
front of the nursery fire before they went to bed. Thomas, who had
been more than usually frisky all day, was taking a little repose on
the hearthrug, and as the story was about a cat, had condescended to
listen.
You all know the story--how the White Cat, though in the form of a cat,
was really a princess, and how she married the prince, and changed back
into a princess at last.
Thomas listened enthralled, and from the moment the story ended, his
Private History began.
For, at the close of the story, Thomas had quite come to the conclusion
that he, too, was no ordinary cat. No! As the White Cat in the story
was really a princess, Thomas was now convinced that he was really a
prince, and only waiting to marry a princess, or better still, a Queen,
to show himself in his true guise.
It was soon after this idea entered his head that Thomas became almost
intolerable.
The airs he assumed! The graces he put on! The arts he practised!
The condescension of his smile! The upward tilt of his nose! The
twirl of his moustachios! The defiant angle of his tail!
He began, also, to exercise his voice at night. "Practising
serenades," was how he described it to the stable cat, for whom he had
the utmost contempt, though he was not above showing off his fine
person in front of her now and then.
It was about this time, too, that Thomas started on a long series of
nightly prowls. "Quests of adventure," was how he described them. He
also developed a habit of strolling in about breakfast time, and
listening to Papa reading aloud the morning paper; but it was only in
the Court news that he really took any interest. From this he gathered
that it was in London that the Queen lived, and he became filled with a
burning desire to go to London. Accordingly he made himself more than
usually agreeable to the family, in the hopes that they would take him
with them when they paid their yearly visit to town.
All this, of course, was Thomas' Private History at this time. To the
family he was only known as "an excellent mouser," and "so good with
the children."
This troubled Thomas not a little.
It also troubled him that he was so exceedingly fond of mice.
He far preferred them to milk, which was a much more princely diet.
Once, even, the idea just crossed his mind, that, as he was so fond of
mice, perhaps he wasn't a prince after all, but only an ordinary tabby
cat. This thought he thrust from him with a flick of his tail.
"Just wait till I get to London," he said to himself. "When the Queen
sees me she will at once recognise me for what I am," and he twitched
his nose contemptuously at the stable cat who was just crossing the
yard.
The next day the family went up to London. Thomas, to his great
delight, was taken too. "He is such an excellent mouser," Papa had
said, and the children, "Oh we can't leave Thomas, he is such a
darling."
This had annoyed Thomas, and hurt his dignity. So, just before
starting, he went out to say good-bye to the stable cat.
"Good-bye," he said. "I don't suppose you will see me again, or if you
do, I don't suppose you will recognise me. I am going up to London to
marry the Queen."
The stable cat expressed no surprise at this remarkable statement. She
merely winked her yellow eyes and answered nothing.
"I suppose she thinks I am too fine to be spoken to by such as she!"
said Thomas to himself as he stalked away.
The journey up to London was certainly not a success as far as Thomas
was concerned.
He was put in a basket. This he considered undignified, as well as
uncomfortable, and he took no pains to conceal his feelings. He
scratched and spluttered at the side of the basket, and uttered his
opinion of the family with no uncertain voice. But nobody paid any
attention to him.
"Very well," he cried at last. "When I am King of England you won't
put me in a basket any more. The next time I go on a journey, it will
be in a coach and four."
Then he started thinking of how many mice he had caught last week, and
this thought comforted him so much that he curled round and went to
sleep for the rest of the journey.
The evening after they arrived, one of the young ladies of the family
was to go and see the Queen. Thomas privately decided to go with her.
He did not tell her he was coming too.
"Though, of course, if she knew I was her future King, she would be
only too delighted to be going with me," he thought. "All the same, I
think I will go quite quietly without any fuss, there will be plenty of
time for that afterwards."
He assisted while the young lady was being dressed. She looked very
beautiful, with a long train, and feathers in her hair, and a sheaf of
lilies in her arms.
"Just like a fairy princess," thought Thomas.
She went downstairs. Thomas followed her. She got into her carriage.
Thomas, concealed by her train, crept in too.
"I thought Thomas got in with me," she said anxiously.
But Thomas hid himself under the seat. When they arrived at the door
of the palace, she alighted, and Thomas got out after her.
The crowd was so occupied in gazing at the young lady's beauty that
they never looked at Thomas at all.
This annoyed him. He was almost inclined to mew with vexation.
"Never mind," he consoled himself, "she, poor girl, has only this one
chance of being looked at, but everyone will always be looking at me
when I am King of England," so he refrained from mewing.
The young lady walked in through the folding doors. Thomas followed,
still concealed by the folds of her train.
They went along what seemed to Thomas miles and miles of red carpet,
and were finally ushered, through a great door, into a great room.
Thomas disengaged himself from the young lady's train and sniffed, just
to show that he was quite at home.
That sniff was fatal, for he scented a mouse somewhere!
The room was hung with red and gold, and surrounded with glittering
mirrors. There was a rustle of silks and satins. On every side were
court lords and ladies dressed in all their gorgeous splendour. Fans
fluttered, feathers nodded, diamonds sparkled in all directions. Over
all floated a strain of delicious dreamy music. At the end of the long
room, up six red-carpeted steps was the Queen's golden chair of state.
On it sat the Queen herself, smiling graciously. She was dressed in
white and blazing with jewels, and she had a crown of gold upon her
head.
It was Thomas' great opportunity! Who knows but that if he had walked
sedately up to the Queen and asked her hand in marriage that she might
not have consented, and then he might have turned into a Prince, and
been King of England! Yes, it was certainly Thomas' opportunity.
That fatal sniff!
He never saw the splendid room. He never saw the beautiful ladies and
the gorgeous dresses. Worse than all, he never saw the Queen herself
at all. All thoughts of being a Prince had flown out of his head. As
though he had been bewitched, he had only one idea.
There was a mouse somewhere!
He was no longer Thomas the Prince in Disguise, he was only Thomas "the
good mouser."
He crept forward cautiously, sniffing as he went, and slid noiselessly
up to the Queen's great chair. Yes, there was the mouse peeping out
from behind one of the golden legs. Thomas sprang forward.
"What is that cat doing here?" called out the Queen. "Send him out of
the room immediately."
A dozen hands were stretched forward to seize the unfortunate Thomas.
He saw the mouse run like a dart towards a hole in the wall. He dashed
after it.
Then ensued such a hue and cry as never was seen. People rushed here,
and rushed there, and stepped on each other's toes, and tore each
other's gowns. Several ladies fainted, and everyone hurried in pursuit
of Thomas.
He ran this way and that, and turned and twisted himself in every
direction. At last he found himself near the door, and slipped out
with the whole crowd after him. He ran and ran till he had
outdistanced them all, and even then he still ran on from mere fright.
It was a very draggled and dishevelled Thomas that appeared next
morning at the stable door of his old home in the country.
"Hm, I thought so," said the old stable cat when she at last recognised
him. "Cat you were born, and cat you will remain all the rest of your
days. King of England indeed!"
Thomas has no Private History now.
HEY, DIDDLE, DIDDLE!
"_Live merrily_"
Hey, diddle, diddle!
The Cat and the Fiddle,
The Cow jumped over the moon.
The little Dog laughed to see such sport,
And the Dish ran away with the Spoon.
Once upon a time in a large white farm-house upon an open moor there
lived a Wizard.
As you know, wizards work very hard; and about once a year, usually
towards the middle of March, they take a holiday--and then very
extraordinary things happen.
One March night this particular Wizard set off upon his holiday as
usual.