MASTER PHIL.
"Who comes from the world of flowers?
Daisy and crocus, and sea-blue bell,
And violet shrinking in dewy cell--
Sly cells that know the secrets of night,
When earth is bathed in fairy light--
Scarlet, and blue, and golden flowers."
And so Mr. Kneebreeches had no reason to complain of his pupil that day.
And Miss Grizzel congratulated herself more heartily than ever on her
wise management of children.
And Miss Tabitha repeated that Sister Grizzel might indeed congratulate
herself.
And Griselda became gradually more and more convinced that the only way
as yet discovered of getting through hard tasks is to set to work and
do them; also, that grumbling, as things are at present arranged in this
world, does not _always_, nor I may say _often_, do good; furthermore,
that an ill-tempered child is not, on the whole, likely to be as much
loved as a good-tempered one; lastly, that if you wait long enough,
winter will go and spring will come.
For this was the case this year, after all! Spring had only been sleepy
and lazy, and in such a case what could poor old winter do but fill the
vacant post till she came? Why he should be so scolded and reviled for
faithfully doing his best, as he often is, I really don't know. Not that
all the ill words he gets have much effect on him--he comes again just
as usual, whatever we say of or to him. I suppose his feelings have long
ago been frozen up, or surely before this he would have taken
offence--well for us that he has not done so!
But when the spring did come at last this year, it would be impossible
for me to tell you how Griselda enjoyed it. It was like new life to her
as well as to the plants, and flowers, and birds, and insects. Hitherto,
you see, she had been able to see very little of the outside of her
aunt's house; and charming as the inside was, the outside, I must say,
was still "charminger." There seemed no end to the little up-and-down
paths and alleys, leading to rustic seats and quaint arbours; no limits
to the little pine-wood, down into which led the dearest little
zig-zaggy path you ever saw, all bordered with snow-drops and primroses
and violets, and later on with periwinkles, and wood anemones, and those
bright, starry, white flowers, whose name no two people agree about.
This wood-path was the place, I think, which Griselda loved the best.
The bowling-green was certainly very delightful, and so was the terrace
where the famous roses grew; but lovely as the roses were (I am
speaking just now, of course, of later on in the summer, when they were
all in bloom), Griselda could not enjoy them as much as the
wild-flowers, for she was forbidden to gather or touch them, except with
her funny round nose!
"You may _scent_ them, my dear," said Miss Grizzel, who was of opinion
that smell was not a pretty word; "but I cannot allow anything more."
And Griselda did "scent" them, I assure you. She burrowed her whole rosy
face in the big ones; but gently, for she did not want to spoil them,
both for her aunt's sake, and because, too, she had a greater regard for
flowers now that she knew the secret of how they were painted, and what
a great deal of trouble the butterflies take about them.
But after a while one grows tired of "scenting" roses; and even the
trying to walk straight across the bowling-green with her eyes shut,
from the arbour at one side to the arbour exactly like it at the other,
grew stupid, though no doubt it would have been capital fun with a
companion to applaud or criticize.
So the wood-path became Griselda's favourite haunt. As the summer grew
on, she began to long more than ever for a companion--not so much for
play, as for some one to play with. She had lessons, of course, just as
many as in the winter; but with the long days, there seemed to come a
quite unaccountable increase of play-time, and Griselda sometimes found
it hang heavy on her hands. She had not seen or heard anything of the
cuckoo either, save, of course, in his "official capacity" of
time-teller, for a very long time.
"I suppose," she thought, "he thinks I don't need amusing, now that the
fine days are come and I can play in the garden; and certainly, if I
had _any one_ to play with, the garden would be perfectly lovely."
But, failing companions, she did the best she could for herself, and
this was why she loved the path down into the wood so much. There was a
sort of mystery about it; it might have been the path leading to the
cottage of Red-Ridinghood's grandmother, or a path leading to fairyland
itself. There were all kinds of queer, nice, funny noises to be heard
there--in one part of it especially, where Griselda made herself a seat
of some moss-grown stones, and where she came so often that she got to
know all the little flowers growing close round about, and even the
particular birds whose nests were hard by.
She used to sit there and _fancy_--fancy that she heard the wood-elves
chattering under their breath, or the little underground gnomes and
kobolds hammering at their fairy forges. And the tinkling of the brook
in the distance sounded like the enchanted bells round the necks of the
fairy kine, who are sent out to pasture sometimes on the upper world
hill-sides. For Griselda's head was crammed full, perfectly full, of
fairy lore; and the mandarins' country, and butterfly-land, were quite
as real to her as the every-day world about her.
But all this time she was not forgotten by the cuckoo, as you will see.
One day she was sitting in her favourite nest, feeling, notwithstanding
the sunshine, and the flowers, and the soft sweet air, and the pleasant
sounds all about, rather dull and lonely. For though it was only May, it
was really quite a hot day, and Griselda had been all the morning at her
lessons, and had tried very hard, and done them very well, and now she
felt as if she deserved some reward. Suddenly in the distance, she heard
a well-known sound, "Cuckoo, cuckoo."
"Can that be the cuckoo?" she said to herself; and in a moment she felt
sure that it must be. For, for some reason that I do not know enough
about the habits of real "flesh and blood" cuckoos to explain, that bird
was not known in the neighbourhood where Griselda's aunts lived. Some
twenty miles or so further south it was heard regularly, but all this
spring Griselda had never caught the sound of its familiar note, and she
now remembered hearing it never came to these parts.
So, "it must be my cuckoo," she said to herself. "He must be coming out
to speak to me. How funny! I have never seen him by daylight."
She listened. Yes, again there it was, "Cuckoo, cuckoo," as plain as
possible, and nearer than before.
"Cuckoo," cried Griselda, "do come and talk to me. It's such a long time
since I have seen you, and I have nobody to play with."
But there was no answer. Griselda held her breath to listen, but there
was nothing to be heard.
"Unkind cuckoo!" she exclaimed. "He is tricking me, I do believe; and
to-day too, just when I was so dull and lonely."
The tears came into her eyes, and she was beginning to think herself
very badly used, when suddenly a rustling in the bushes beside her made
her turn round, more than half expecting to see the cuckoo himself. But
it was not he. The rustling went on for a minute or two without anything
making its appearance, for the bushes were pretty thick just there, and
any one scrambling up from the pinewood below would have had rather hard
work to get through, and indeed for a very big person such a feat would
have been altogether impossible.
It was not a very big person, however, who was causing all the rustling,
and crunching of branches, and general commotion, which now absorbed
Griselda's attention. She sat watching for another minute in perfect
stillness, afraid of startling by the slightest movement the squirrel or
rabbit or creature of some kind which she expected to see. At last--was
that a squirrel or rabbit--that rosy, round face, with shaggy, fair hair
falling over the eager blue eyes, and a general look of breathlessness
and over-heatedness and determination?
A squirrel or a rabbit! No, indeed, but a very sturdy, very merry, very
ragged little boy.
"Where are that cuckoo? Does _you_ know?" were the first words he
uttered, as soon as he had fairly shaken himself, though not by any
means all his clothes, free of the bushes (for ever so many pieces of
jacket and knickerbockers, not to speak of one boot and half his hat,
had been left behind on the way), and found breath to say something.
[Illustration: "WHERE ARE THAT CUCKOO?"]
Griselda stared at him for a moment without speaking. She was so
astonished. It was months since she had spoken to a child, almost since
she had seen one, and about children younger than herself she knew very
little at any time, being the baby of the family at home, you see,
and having only big brothers older than herself for play-fellows.
"Who are you?" she said at last. "What's your name, and what do you
want?"
"My name's Master Phil, and I want that cuckoo," answered the little
boy. "He camed up this way. I'm sure he did, for he called me all the
way."
"He's not here," said Griselda, shaking her head; "and this is my aunts'
garden. No one is allowed to come here but friends of theirs. You had
better go home; and you have torn your clothes so."
"This aren't a garden," replied the little fellow undauntedly, looking
round him; "this are a wood. There are blue-bells and primroses here,
and that shows it aren't a garden--not anybody's garden, I mean, with
walls round, for nobody to come in."
"But it _is_," said Griselda, getting rather vexed.
"If it isn't a garden it's _grounds_, private grounds, and nobody
should come without leave. This path leads down to the wood, and there's
a door in the wall at the bottom to get into the lane. You may go down
that way, little boy. No one comes scrambling up the way you did."
"But I want to find the cuckoo," said the little boy. "I do so want to
find the cuckoo."
His voice sounded almost as if he were going to cry, and his pretty,
hot, flushed face puckered up. Griselda's heart smote her; she looked at
him more carefully. He was such a very little boy, after all; she did
not like to be cross to him.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"Five and a bit. I had a birthday after the summer, and if I'm good,
nurse says perhaps I'll have one after next summer too. Do you ever have
birthdays?" he went on, peering up at Griselda. "Nurse says she used to
when she was young, but she never has any now."
"_Have_ you a nurse?" asked Griselda, rather surprised; for, to tell the
truth, from "Master Phil's" appearance, she had not felt at all sure
what _sort_ of little boy he was, or rather what sort of people he
belonged to.
"Of course I have a nurse, and a mother too," said the little boy,
opening wide his eyes in surprise at the question. "Haven't you? Perhaps
you're too big, though. People leave off having nurses and mothers when
they're big, don't they? Just like birthdays. But _I_ won't. I won't
never leave off having a mother, any way. I don't care so much about
nurse and birthdays, not _kite_ so much. Did you care when you had to
leave off, when you got too big?"
"I hadn't to leave off because I got big," said Griselda sadly. "I left
off when I was much littler than you," she went on, unconsciously
speaking as Phil would best understand her. "My mother died."
"I'm werry sorry," said Phil; and the way in which he said it quite
overcame Griselda's unfriendliness. "But perhaps you've a nice nurse. My
nurse is rather nice; but she _will_ 'cold me to-day, won't she?" he
added, laughing, pointing to the terrible rents in his garments. "These
are my very oldestest things; that's a good thing, isn't it? Nurse says
I don't look like Master Phil in these, but when I have on my blue
welpet, then I look like Master Phil. I shall have my blue welpet when
mother comes."
"Is your mother away?" said Griselda.
"Oh yes, she's been away a long time; so nurse came here to take care of
me at the farmhouse, you know. Mother was ill, but she's better now, and
some day she'll come too."
"Do you like being at the farmhouse? Have you anybody to play with?"
said Griselda.
Phil shook his curly head. "I never have anybody to play with," he said.
"I'd like to play with you if you're not too big. And do you think you
could help me to find the cuckoo?" he added insinuatingly.
"What do you know about the cuckoo?" said Griselda.
"He called me," said Phil, "he called me lots of times; and to-day nurse
was busy, so I thought I'd come. And do you know," he added
mysteriously, "I do believe the cuckoo's a fairy, and when I find him
I'm going to ask him to show me the way to fairyland."
"He says we must all find the way ourselves," said Griselda, quite
forgetting to whom she was speaking.
"_Does_ he?" cried Phil, in great excitement. "Do you know him, then?
and have you asked him? Oh, do tell me."
Griselda recollected herself. "You couldn't understand," she said. "Some
day perhaps I'll tell you--I mean if ever I see you again."
"But I may see you again," said Phil, settling himself down comfortably
beside Griselda on her mossy stone. "You'll let me come, won't you? I
like to talk about fairies, and nurse doesn't understand. And if the
cuckoo knows you, perhaps that's why he called me to come to play with
you."
"How did he call you?" asked Griselda.
"First," said Phil gravely, "it was in the night. I was asleep, and I
had been wishing I had somebody to play with, and then I d'eamed of the
cuckoo--such a nice d'eam. And when I woke up I heard him calling me,
and I wasn't d'eaming then. And then when I was in the field he called
me, but I _couldn't_ find him, and nurse said 'Nonsense.' And to-day he
called me again, so I camed up through the bushes. And mayn't I come
again? Perhaps if we both tried together we could find the way to
fairyland. Do you think we could?"
"I don't know," said Griselda, dreamily.
"There's a great deal to learn first, the cuckoo says."
"Have you learnt a great deal?" (he called it "a gate deal") asked Phil,
looking up at Griselda with increased respect. "_I_ don't know scarcely
nothing. Mother was ill such a long time before she went away, but I
know she wanted me to learn to read books. But nurse is too old to teach
me."
"Shall I teach you?" said Griselda. "I can bring some of my old books
and teach you here after I have done my own lessons."
"And then mother _would_ be surprised when she comes back," said Master
Phil, clapping his hands. "Oh, _do_. And when I've learnt to read a
great deal, do you think the cuckoo would show us the way to fairyland?"
"I don't think it was that sort of learning he meant," said Griselda.
"But I dare say that would help. I _think_," she went on, lowering her
voice a little, and looking down gravely into Phil's earnest eyes, "I
_think_ he means mostly learning to be very good--very, _very_ good, you
know."
"Gooder than you?" said Phil.
"Oh dear, yes; lots and lots gooder than me," replied Griselda.
"_I_ think you're very good," observed Phil, in a parenthesis. Then he
went on with his cross-questioning.
"Gooder than mother?"
"I don't know your mother, so how can I tell how good she is?" said
Griselda.
"_I_ can tell you," said Phil, importantly. "She is just as good as--as
good as--as good as _good_. That's what she is."
"You mean she couldn't be better," said Griselda, smiling.
"Yes, that'll do, if you like. Would that be good enough for us to be,
do you think?"
"We must ask the cuckoo," said Griselda. "But I'm sure it would be a
good thing for you to learn to read. You must ask your nurse to let you
come here every afternoon that it's fine, and I'll ask my aunt."
"I needn't ask nurse," said Phil composedly; "she'll never know where I
am, and I needn't tell her. She doesn't care what I do, except tearing
my clothes; and when she scolds me, _I_ don't care."
"_That_ isn't good, Phil," said Griselda gravely. "You'll never be as
good as good if you speak like that."
"What should I say, then? Tell me," said the little boy submissively.
"You should ask nurse to let you come to play with me, and tell her I'm
much bigger than you, and I won't let you tear your clothes. And you
should tell her you're very sorry you've torn them to-day."
"Very well," said Phil, "I'll say that. But, oh see!" he exclaimed,
darting off, "there's a field mouse! If only I could catch him!"
Of course he couldn't catch him, nor could Griselda either; very ready,
though, she was to do her best. But it was great fun all the same, and
the children laughed heartily and enjoyed themselves tremendously. And
when they were tired they sat down again and gathered flowers for
nosegays, and Griselda was surprised to find how clever Phil was about
it. He was much quicker than she at spying out the prettiest blossoms,
however hidden behind tree, or stone, or shrub. And he told her of all
the best places for flowers near by, and where grew the largest
primroses and the sweetest violets, in a way that astonished her.
"You're such a little boy," she said; "how do you know so much about
flowers?"
"I've had no one else to play with," he said innocently. "And then, you
know, the fairies are so fond of them."
When Griselda thought it was time to go home, she led little Phil down
the wood-path, and through the door in the wall opening on to the lane.
"Now you can find your way home without scrambling through any more
bushes, can't you, Master Phil?" she said.
"Yes, thank you, and I'll come again to that place to-morrow afternoon,
shall I?" asked Phil. "I'll know when--after I've had my dinner and
raced three times round the big field, then it'll be time. That's how it
was to-day."
"I should think it would do if you _walked_ three times--or twice if you
like--round the field. It isn't a good thing to race just when you've
had your dinner," observed Griselda sagely. "And you mustn't try to come
if it isn't fine, for my aunts won't let me go out if it rains even the
tiniest bit And of course you must ask your nurse's leave."
"Very well," said little Phil as he trotted off. "I'll try to remember
all those things. I'm so glad you'll play with me again; and if you see
the cuckoo, please thank him."