BRUNO’S PICNIC.
“As bald as bald,” was the bewildering reply. “Now, Bruno, I’ll tell you
a story.”
“And I’ll tell _oo_ a story,” said Bruno, beginning in a great hurry for
fear of Sylvie getting the start of him: “once there were a Mouse—a
little tiny Mouse—such a tiny little Mouse! Oo never saw such a tiny
Mouse——”
“Did nothing ever happen to it, Bruno?” I asked. “Haven’t you anything
more to tell us, besides its being so tiny?”
“Nothing never happened to it,” Bruno solemnly replied.
“Why did nothing never happen to it?” said Sylvie, who was sitting, with
her head on Bruno’s shoulder, patiently waiting for a chance of
beginning _her_ story.
“It were too tiny,” Bruno explained.
“_That’s_ no reason!” I said. “However tiny it was, things might happen
to it.”
Bruno looked pityingly at me, as if he thought me very stupid. “It were
too tiny,” he repeated. “If anything happened to it, it would die—it
were so _very_ tiny!”
“Really that’s enough about its being tiny!” Sylvie put in. “Haven’t you
invented any more about it?”
“Haven’t invented no more yet.”
“Well then, you shouldn’t begin a story till you’ve invented more! Now
be quiet, there’s a good boy, and listen to _my_ story.”
And Bruno, having quite exhausted all his inventive faculty, by
beginning in too great a hurry, quietly resigned himself to listening.
“Tell about the other Bruno, please,” he said coaxingly.
Sylvie put her arms round his neck, and began:——
“The wind was whispering among the trees,” (“That wasn’t good manners!”
Bruno interrupted. “Never mind about manners,” said Sylvie) “and it was
evening—a nice moony evening, and the Owls were hooting——”
“Pretend they weren’t Owls!” Bruno pleaded, stroking her cheek with his
fat little hand. “I don’t like Owls. Owls have such great big eyes.
Pretend they were Chickens!”
“Are you afraid of their great big eyes, Bruno?” I said.
“Aren’t _’fraid_ of nothing,” Bruno answered in as careless a tone as he
could manage: “they’re ugly with their great big eyes. I think if they
cried, the tears would be as big—oh, as big as the moon!” And he laughed
merrily. “Doos Owls cry ever, Mister Sir?”
“Owls cry never,” I said gravely, trying to copy Bruno’s way of
speaking: “they’ve got nothing to be sorry for, you know.”
“Oh, but they have!” Bruno exclaimed. “They’re ever so sorry, ’cause
they killed the poor little Mouses!”
“But they’re not sorry when they’re _hungry_, I suppose?”
“Oo don’t know nothing about Owls!” Bruno scornfully remarked. “When
they’re hungry, they’re very, _very_ sorry they killed the little
Mouses, ’cause if they _hadn’t_ killed them there’d be sumfin for
supper, oo know!”
Bruno was evidently getting into a dangerously inventive state of mind,
so Sylvie broke in with “Now I’m going on with the story. So the
Owls—the Chickens, I mean—were looking to see if they could find a nice
fat Mouse for their supper——”
“Pretend it was a nice ’abbit!” said Bruno.
“But it _wasn’t_ a nice habit, to kill Mouses,” Sylvie argued. “I can’t
pretend _that_!”
“I didn’t say ‘_habit_,’ oo silly fellow!” Bruno replied with a merry
twinkle in his eye. “’_abbits_—that runs about in the fields!”
“Rabbit? Well it can be a Rabbit, if you like. But you mustn’t alter my
story so much, Bruno. A Chicken _couldn’t_ eat a Rabbit!”
“But it might have wished to see if it could try to eat it.”
“Well, it wished to see if it could try—oh, really, Bruno, that’s
nonsense! I shall go back to the Owls.”
“Well then, pretend they hadn’t great eyes!”
“And they saw a little Boy,” Sylvie went on, disdaining to make any
further corrections. “And he asked them to tell him a story. And the
Owls hooted and flew away——” (“Oo shouldn’t say ‘_flewed_;’ oo should
say ‘_flied_,’” Bruno whispered. But Sylvie wouldn’t hear.) “And he met
a Lion. And he asked the Lion to tell him a story. And the Lion said
‘yes,’ it would. And, while the Lion was telling him the story, it
nibbled some of his head off——”
“Don’t say ‘nibbled’!” Bruno entreated. “Only little things
nibble—little thin sharp things, with edges——”
“Well then, it ‘_nubbled_,’” said Sylvie. “And when it had nubbled _all_
his head off, he went away, and he never said ‘thank you’!”
“That were very rude,” said Bruno. “If he couldn’t speak, he might have
nodded—no, he couldn’t nod. Well, he might have shaked _hands_ with the
Lion!”
“Oh, I’d forgotten that part!” said Sylvie. “He _did_ shake hands with
it. He came back again, you know, and he thanked the Lion very much, for
telling him the story.”
“Then his head had growed up again?” said Bruno.
“Oh yes, it grew up in a minute. And the Lion begged pardon, and said it
wouldn’t nubble off little boys’ heads—not never no more!”
Bruno looked much pleased at this change of events. “Now that are a
_really_ nice story!” he said. “_Aren’t_ it a nice story, Mister Sir?”
“Very,” I said. “I would like to hear another story about that Boy.”
“So would _I_,” said Bruno, stroking Sylvie’s cheek again. “_Please_
tell about Bruno’s Picnic; and don’t talk about _nubbly_ Lions!”
“I won’t, if it frightens you,” said Sylvie.
“_Flightens_ me!” Bruno exclaimed indignantly. “It isn’t _that_! It’s
’cause ‘nubbly’ ’s such a grumbly word to say—when one person’s got her
head on another person’s shoulder. When she talks like that,” he
explained to me, “the talking goes down bofe sides of my face—all the
way to my chin—and it _doos_ tickle so! It’s enough to make a beard
grow, that it is!”
He said this with great severity, but it was evidently meant for a joke:
so Sylvie laughed—a delicious musical little laugh, and laid her soft
cheek on the top of her brother’s curly head, as if it were a pillow,
while she went on with the story. “So this Boy——”
“But it wasn’t _me_, oo know!” Bruno interrupted. “And oo needn’t try to
look as if it was, Mister Sir!”
I represented, respectfully, that I was trying to look as if it wasn’t.
“—he was a middling good Boy——”
“He were a _welly_ good Boy!” Bruno corrected her. “And he never did
nothing he wasn’t told to do——”
“_That_ doesn’t make a good Boy!” Sylvie said contemptuously.
“That _do_ make a good Boy!” Bruno insisted.
Sylvie gave up the point. “Well, he was a _very_ good Boy, and he always
kept his promises, and he had a big cupboard——”
“—for to keep all his promises in!” cried Bruno.
“If he kept _all_ his promises,” Sylvie said, with a mischievous look in
her eyes, “he wasn’t like _some_ Boys I know of!”
“He had to put _salt_ with them, a-course,” Bruno said gravely: “oo
ca’n’t keep promises when there isn’t any salt. And he kept his birthday
on the second shelf.”
“How long did he keep his birthday?” I asked. “I never can keep _mine_
more than twenty-four hours.”
“Why, a birthday _stays_ that long by itself!” cried Bruno. “Oo doosn’t
know how to keep birthdays! This Boy kept _his_ a whole year!”
“And then the next birthday would begin,” said Sylvie. “So it would be
his birthday _always_.”
“So it were,” said Bruno. “Doos _oo_ have treats on _oor_ birthday,
Mister Sir?”
“Sometimes,” I said.
“When oo’re _good_, I suppose?”
“Why, it _is_ a sort of treat, being good, isn’t it?” I said.
“A sort of _treat_!” Bruno repeated. “It’s a sort of _punishment_, _I_
think!”
“Oh, Bruno!” Sylvie interrupted, almost sadly. “How _can_ you?”
“Well, but it _is_,” Bruno persisted. “Why, look here, Mister Sir!
_This_ is being good!” And he sat bolt upright, and put on an absurdly
solemn face. “First oo must sit up as straight as pokers——”
“—as _a_ poker,” Sylvie corrected him.
“—as straight as _pokers_,” Bruno firmly repeated. “Then oo must clasp
oor hands—_so_. Then—‘Why hasn’t oo brushed oor hair? Go and brush it
_toreckly_!’ Then—‘Oh, Bruno, oo mustn’t dog’s-ear the daisies!’ Did oo
learn _oor_ spelling wiz daisies, Mister Sir?”
“I want to hear about that Boy’s _Birthday_,” I said.
Bruno returned to the story instantly. “Well, so this Boy said ‘Now it’s
my Birthday!’ And so—I’m tired!” he suddenly broke off, laying his head
in Sylvie’s lap. “Sylvie knows it best. Sylvie’s grown-upper than me. Go
on, Sylvie!”
Sylvie patiently took up the thread of the story again. “So he said ‘Now
it’s my Birthday. Whatever shall I do to keep my Birthday? All _good_
little Boys——” (Sylvie turned away from Bruno, and made a great pretence
of whispering to _me_) “—all _good_ little Boys—Boys that learn their
lessons quite perfect—they always keep their birthdays, you know. So of
course _this_ little Boy kept _his_ Birthday.”
“Oo may call him Bruno, if oo like,” the little fellow carelessly
remarked. “It weren’t _me_, but it makes it more interesting.”
“So Bruno said to himself ‘The properest thing to do is to have a
Picnic, all by myself, on the top of the hill. And I’ll take some Milk,
and some Bread, and some Apples: and first and foremost, I want some
_Milk_!’ So, first and foremost, Bruno took a milk-pail——”
“And he went and milkted the Cow!” Bruno put in.
“Yes,” said Sylvie, meekly accepting the new verb. “And the Cow said
‘Moo! What are you going to do with all that Milk?’ And Bruno said
‘Please’m, I want it for my Picnic.’ And the Cow said ‘Moo! But I hope
you wo’n’t _boil_ any of it?’ And Bruno said ‘No, _indeed_ I won’t! New
Milk’s so nice and so warm, it wants no boiling!’”
“It doesn’t want no boiling,” Bruno offered as an amended version.
“So Bruno put the Milk in a bottle. And then Bruno said ‘Now I want some
Bread!’ So he went to the Oven, and he took out a delicious new Loaf.
And the Oven——”
“—ever so light and so puffy!” Bruno impatiently corrected her. “Oo
shouldn’t leave out so many words!”
Sylvie humbly apologised. “—a delicious new Loaf, ever so light and so
puffy. And the Oven said——” Here Sylvie made a long pause. “Really I
don’t know _what_ an Oven begins with, when it wants to speak!”
Both children looked appealingly at me; but I could only say,
helplessly, “I haven’t the least idea! _I_ never heard an Oven speak!”
For a minute or two we all sat silent; and then Bruno said, very softly,
“Oven begins wiz ‘O’.”
“_Good_ little boy!” Sylvie exclaimed. “He does his spelling _very_
nicely. _He’s cleverer than he knows!_” she added, aside, to _me_. “So
the Oven said ‘O! What are you going to do with all that Bread?’ And
Bruno said ‘Please——’ Is an Oven ‘Sir’ or ‘’m,’ would you say?” She
looked to me for a reply.
“_Both_, I think,” seemed to me the safest thing to say.
Sylvie adopted the suggestion instantly. “So Bruno said ‘Please, Sirm, I
want it for my Picnic.’ And the Oven said ‘O! But I hope you wo’n’t
_toast_ any of it?’ And Bruno said ‘No, _indeed_ I wo’n’t! New Bread’s
so light and so puffy, it wants no toasting!’”
“It never doesn’t want no toasting,” said Bruno. “I _wiss_ oo wouldn’t
say it so short!”
“So Bruno put the Bread in the hamper. Then Bruno said ‘Now I want some
Apples!’ So he took the hamper, and he went to the Apple-Tree, and he
picked some lovely ripe Apples. And the Apple-Tree said——” Here followed
another long pause.
Bruno adopted his favourite expedient of tapping his forehead; while
Sylvie gazed earnestly upwards, as if she hoped for some suggestion from
the birds, who were singing merrily among the branches overhead. But no
result followed.
“What _does_ an Apple-tree begin with, when it wants to speak?” Sylvie
murmured despairingly, to the irresponsive birds.
At last, taking a leaf out of Bruno’s book, I ventured on a remark.
“Doesn’t ‘Apple-tree’ always begin with ‘Eh!’?”
“Why, of _course_ it does! How _clever_ of you!” Sylvie cried
delightedly.
Bruno jumped up, and patted me on the head. I tried not to feel
conceited.
“So the Apple Tree said ‘Eh! What are you going to do with all those
Apples?’ And Bruno said ‘Please, Sir, I want them for my Picnic,’ And
the Apple-Tree said ‘Eh! But I hope you wo’n’t _bake_ any of them?’ And
Bruno said ‘No, _indeed_ I wo’n’t! Ripe Apples are so nice and so sweet,
they want no baking!’”
“They never doesn’t——” Bruno was beginning, but Sylvie corrected herself
before he could get the words out.
“‘They never doesn’t nonow want no baking.’ So Bruno put the Apples in
the hamper, along with the Bread, and the bottle of Milk. And he set off
to have a Picnic, on the top of the hill, all by himself——”
“He wasn’t greedy, oo know, to have it all by himself,” Bruno said,
patting me on the cheek to call my attention; “’cause he hadn’t got no
brothers and sisters.”
“It was very sad to have no _sisters_, wasn’t it?” I said.
“Well, I don’t know,” Bruno said thoughtfully; “’cause he hadn’t no
lessons to do. So he didn’t mind.”
Sylvie went on. “So, as he was walking along the road, he heard behind
him such a curious sort of noise—a sort of a Thump! Thump! Thump!
‘Whatever _is_ that?’ said Bruno. ‘Oh, I know!’ said Bruno. ‘Why, it’s
only my Watch a-ticking!’”
“_Were_ it his Watch a-ticking?” Bruno asked me, with eyes that fairly
sparkled with mischievous delight.
“No doubt of it!” I replied. And Bruno laughed exultingly.
“Then Bruno thought a little harder. And he said ‘No! It _ca’n’t_ be my
Watch a-ticking; because I haven’t _got_ a Watch!’”
Bruno peered up anxiously into my face, to see how I took it. I hung my
head, and put a thumb into my mouth, to the evident delight of the
little fellow.
“So Bruno went a little further along the road. And then he heard it
again, that queer noise—Thump! Thump! Thump! ‘What ever _is_ that?’ said
Bruno. ‘Oh, I know!’ said Bruno. ‘Why, it’s only the Carpenter a-mending
my Wheelbarrow!’”
“_Were_ it the Carterpenter a-mending his Wheelbarrow?” Bruno asked me.
I brightened up, and said “It _must_ have been!” in a tone of absolute
conviction.
Bruno threw his arms round Sylvie’s neck. “Sylvie!” he said, in a
perfectly audible whisper. “He says it _must_ have been!”
“Then Bruno thought a little harder. And he said ‘No! It _ca’n’t_ be the
Carpenter amending my Wheelbarrow, because I haven’t _got_ a
Wheelbarrow!’”
This time I hid my face in my hands, quite unable to meet Bruno’s look
of triumph.
“So Bruno went a little further along the road. And then he heard that
queer noise again—Thump! Thump! Thump! So he thought he’d look round,
_this_ time, just to _see_ what it was. And what should it be but a
great Lion!”
“A great big Lion,” Bruno corrected her.
“A great big Lion. And Bruno was ever so frightened, and he ran——”
“No, he wasn’t _flightened_ a bit!” Bruno interrupted. (He was evidently
anxious for the reputation of his namesake.) “He runned away to get a
good look at the Lion; ’cause he wanted to see if it were the same Lion
what used to nubble little Boys’ heads off; and he wanted to know how
big it was!”
“Well, he ran away, to get a good look at the Lion. And the Lion trotted
slowly after him. And the Lion called after him, in a very gentle voice,
‘Little Boy, little Boy! You needn’t be afraid of _me_! I’m a very
_gentle_ old Lion now. I _never_ nubble little Boys’ heads off, as I
used to do.’ And so Bruno said ‘Don’t you _really_, Sir? Then what do
you live on?’ And the Lion——”
“Oo _see_ he weren’t a bit flightened!” Bruno said to me, patting my
cheek again. “’cause he remembered to call it ‘Sir,’ oo know.”
I said that no doubt that was the _real_ test whether a person was
frightened or not.
“And the Lion said ‘Oh, I live on bread-and-butter, and cherries, and
marmalade, and plum-cake———’”
“—and _apples_!” Bruno put in.
“Yes, ‘and apples.’ And Bruno said ‘Won’t you come with me to my
Picnic?’ And the Lion said ‘Oh, I should like it _very much indeed_!’
And Bruno and the Lion went away together.” Sylvie stopped suddenly.
“Is that _all_?” I asked, despondingly.
“Not _quite_ all,” Sylvie slily replied. “There’s a sentence or two
more. Isn’t there, Bruno?”
“Yes,” with a carelessness that was evidently put on: “just a sentence
or two more.”
“And, as they were walking along, they looked over a hedge, and who
should they see but a little black Lamb! And the Lamb was ever so
frightened. And it ran——”
“It were _really_ flightened!” Bruno put in.
“It ran away. And Bruno ran after it. And he called ‘Little Lamb! You
needn’t be afraid of _this_ Lion! It _never_ kills things! It lives on
cherries, and marmalade——’”
“—and _apples_!” said Bruno. “Oo _always_ forgets the apples!”
“And Bruno said ‘Wo’n’t you come with us to my Picnic?’ And the Lamb
said ‘Oh, I should like it _very much indeed_, if my Ma will let me!’
And Bruno said ‘Let’s go and ask your Ma!’ And they went to the old
Sheep. And Bruno said ‘Please, may your little Lamb come to my Picnic?’
And the Sheep said ‘Yes, if it’s learnt all its lessons.’ And the Lamb
said ‘Oh yes, Ma! I’ve learnt _all_ my lessons!’”
“Pretend it hadn’t any lessons!” Bruno earnestly pleaded.
“Oh, that would never do!” said Sylvie. “I ca’n’t leave out all about
the lessons! And the old Sheep said ‘Do you know your A B C yet? Have
you learnt A?’ And the Lamb said ‘Oh yes, Ma! I went to the A-field, and
I helped them to make A!’ ‘Very good, my child! And have you learnt B?’
‘Oh yes, Ma! I went to the B-hive, and the B gave me some honey!’ ‘Very
good, my child! And have you learnt C?’ ‘Oh yes, Ma! I went to the
C-side, and I saw the ships sailing on the C!’ ‘Very good, my child! You
may go to Bruno’s Picnic.’
[Illustration: STARTING FOR BRUNO’S PICNIC]
“So they set off. And Bruno walked in the middle, so that the Lamb
mightn’t see the Lion——”
“It were _flightened_,” Bruno explained.
“Yes, and it trembled so; and it got paler and paler; and, before they’d
got to the top of the hill, it was a _white_ little Lamb—as white as
snow!”
“But _Bruno_ weren’t flightened!” said the owner of that name. “So _he_
staid black!”
“No, he _didn’t_ stay black! He staid _pink_!” laughed Sylvie. “I
shouldn’t kiss you like this, you know, if you were _black_!”
“Oo’d _have_ to!” Bruno said with great decision. “Besides, Bruno wasn’t
_Bruno_, oo know—I mean, Bruno wasn’t _me_—I mean—don’t talk nonsense,
Sylvie!”
“I won’t do it again!” Sylvie said very humbly. “And so, as they went
along, the Lion said ‘Oh, I’ll tell you what I used to do when I was a
young Lion. I used to hide behind trees, to watch for little Boys.’”
(Bruno cuddled a little closer to her.) “‘And, if a little thin scraggy
Boy came by, why, I used to let him go. But, if a little fat juicy——’”
Bruno could bear no more. “Pretend he wasn’t juicy!” he pleaded,
half-sobbing.
“Nonsense, Bruno!” Sylvie briskly replied. “It’ll be done in a moment!
‘—if a little fat juicy Boy came by, why, I used to spring out and
gobble him up! Oh, you’ve no _idea_ what a delicious thing it is—a
little juicy Boy!’ And Bruno said ‘Oh, if you please, Sir, _don’t_ talk
about eating little boys! It makes me so _shivery_!’”
The real Bruno shivered, in sympathy with the hero.
“And the Lion said ‘Oh, well, we won’t talk about it, then! I’ll tell
you what happened on my wedding-day——’”
“I like _this_ part better,” said Bruno, patting my cheek to keep me
awake.
“‘There was, oh, such a lovely wedding-breakfast! At _one_ end of the
table there was a large plum-pudding. And at the other end there was a
nice roasted _Lamb_! Oh, you’ve no _idea_ what a delicious thing it is—a
nice roasted Lamb!’ And the Lamb said ‘Oh, if you please, Sir, _don’t_
talk about eating Lambs! It makes me so _shivery_!’ And the Lion said
‘Oh, well, we won’t talk about it, then!’”