_How can a bird that is born for joy
Sit in a cage and sing?
How can a child when fears annoy
But droop his tender wing
And forget his youthful spring?_
W. BLAKE.
It was late the next day when Mousie opened her eyes. She had lain
sensible of discomfort for some time before she wholly woke, and now
a sense of movement and the gritting of wheels on a road shook sleep
finally from her. She raised herself and looked round. She was lying
in a little box-bed, only just large enough to hold her. A rough
sheet was thrown across her of the dingiest nature, and the muscles
of her neck and shoulders ached when she turned about. And there in
the corner of the van, lying on the floor with his head on a bundle
of clothes, lay Robin. A very old woman sat in a chair beside him,
and every now and then she would bend down and look earnestly into
his sleeping face.
“Robin, wake up,” cried Mousie; “Robin, where are we?”
“Whist there, with your wake up,” said the woman in a low voice. “Be
silent, will ’ee? rousing him from the first bit o’ quiet sleep he’s
had the whole night long.”
She looked at Mousie long after her half-whispered words were
uttered, scowling from under her shaggy brows; and the child kept
her eyes fixed on the old woman’s evil face. She had never seen so
sinister and wrinkled a countenance--it held her spell-bound; she
dared not so much as move in her box-bed. Slowly the van ground along
the flinty roads, sometimes lurching this way and that, sometimes
almost overturning in the stony inequalities. The old hag moved
about, but was never far from Robin, bathing his temples with a
moistened rag, or forcing the pale lips asunder, and giving him a
spoonful of brown liquid. Then Mousie saw that Robin moved languidly,
and every now and then opened his eyes. That he should be awake and
not seek her seemed strange, but so long as the old hag watched over
them, she dared say nothing.
Then the van stopped, and the door was thrown roughly open. The old
woman climbed down the steps into the fresh air.
“Now then, get up, and let’s see what you’re good for,” she said
crossly, as she looked back threateningly at Mousie, and disappeared.
The child rose from her box-bed and followed.
The delight was great to feel the warm clear sunlight round her, as
she stepped out on to the soft grass. They were in a wide track with
ragged thorn hedges, and two or three gipsies were unharnessing the
horses. Freedom, the girl who had swooned in the wood, was building
a fire with sticks and great branches. Mousie ran eagerly towards
her, but to her surprise Freedom seemed hardly to recognise her, and
Mousie shrank back before the strange void of her face. It was as if
she moved in her sleep, barely conscious of her surroundings.
The gang consisted of seven gipsies, three men and three women, and a
boy. There was Bill and Mr. Petulengro, a shrivelled old man, whose
grey hair toned ill with the deep brown of his complexion. There was
a younger man than Bill, whom they called Farrer, and the boy Abel.
The other woman, Maria, had a baby in the shawl at her back.
Soon the men had picketed out the ponies, and gone their various
ways, leaving Freedom, the old grandmother, and Maria, in charge of
the encampment on the Down.
Mousie was made to do the old Grannie’s behests. She had to clean
the utensils, see to the fire, haul out the murky rags that made
their tents, and generally fetch and carry. She got more scoldings in
half-an-hour than she had in a month at her own home, and there was
no time to look peaky over it.
“Just ’ee set that sack down where ’ee took un from, and come ’ee
here, and peel these potatoes, and if ’ee cut deeper than the rind,
I tell ’ee I’ll cut into ’ee! Oho, my sweet pigeon, and it’s fine
ladies we are, and the likes as I never see; and when you’ve done the
potatoes do ’ee cut up that hill in double-quick time and bring me
back some tent-pins, and if ’ee gather crooked ones, I’ll prick yer
skin with them, I promise ye--I’ll prick yer pretty skin for ’ee!
I’ll prick yer skin!”
She leered, and scowled, and coughed, and spat, while she shambled
about talking, sometimes pinching Mousie’s cheek with her clawlike
hand, or raising her skinny arm as if to strike her. It was a new
experience for Mousie, and had she been given less to do, would have
frightened her severely. As it was she just obeyed, and dared not
question, far less object or make delay. Meanwhile Maria sat on the
steps of the van, crooning over her baby. And the words of her song
were these:--
“Holly stands within the hall, faire to behold;
Ivy stands without the door, she is full sore a-cold.
Holly and his merry men they dancen and they sing;
Ivy and her maidens, they weepen and they wring.
Ivy hath a smooth leaf, she wraps it like a cloak
Round about the ash-tree, round about the oak.
Holly hath his berries as red as any rose.
The foresters, the hunters, they keep them fro’ the does.
Ivy hath her berries as black as any sloe.
For wayfarers a bitter wine as any they may know.
Holly hath his birds, a full faire flocke--
The nightingale, the perpinguy, the gentle laverocke.
And Ivy, good Ivy, what birds hast thou?
None but the howlet that crieth Whoo, whoo.”
Mousie heard these words as she peeled the potatoes, and liked the
list of the birds’ names. She didn’t know, however, that she was
listening to a song hundreds of years old, a song that has been sung
by voices long since dead and silent. Yet there was the holly-tree
in the hedge, as lusty as ever, his strong spiny leaves giving back
the sunshine, each one a polished green. And below at his feet,
creeping through a wattle and wrapping an old ash pollard, was the
insidious ivy.
“Ivy and her maidens, they weepen and they wring.”
There are some characters like Ivy, gentle and clinging, yet as
terribly strong. They cannot stand alone, others must support
them--yes, till the weight kills. And Ivy, the dependent, takes this
service. At first tentatively, even timidly--one tender little trail
innocently feeling its way up the great stem; no one would think
there is any mischief here. But Ivy must know while she weaves her
mats and meshes, that she kills to live. For all the fruit she bears
is bitter.
Throughout that day Robin lay sick and ailing in the gipsy’s van, and
when Freedom came back from a long errand, she climbed into the van
and stayed there, speaking to no one.
Towards evening the men returned, and old Granny prepared the dinner.
Mousie liked the tripod with the heavy kettle hanging from it,
and the smell of the burning wood. Then Freedom stepped out again
carrying Robin in her strong arms, and brought him to the camp fire.
But when Mousie looked at him she cried out, for he was as brown as
a nut all over. His little face and neck, and his hands and arms,
and his feet and legs, all stained with walnut juice, and his curls
cropped like a convict. This was Freedom’s doing, and Mousie’s heart
sank when she realised it, for she had silently counted on Freedom as
their friend. How should they ever get home again if Freedom wanted
to hide and disguise them?
However, as the days went on, the children learnt to look on her once
more as in some sort an ally, partly because she got almost as many
harsh words as they, partly, because when no one was looking, she
would do them a kindness if she could.
And so the hard days passed over, full of work and blows, and
chidings; ugly with the sound of oaths, and rough voices, and coarse
food.