HOODIE'S FOUNDLING.
"I almost think a robin
To a fairy I prefer."
Hoodie gazed round her condescendingly.
"I've such lots of stories in my head," she said. "They knock against
each other. Well--I think I'll tell you a story of two little goblins.
They lived in a star, and they were just e'zackly like each other. As
like as two pins, or as like as a pin is to itself if you look at it in
the looking-glass. They lived all alone in the star, and all day they
stayed asleep like we do all night, but all night they were awake like
we are all day, 'cos you see all day the star was shut up--like a shop,
you know, only with curtains all round--all the stars are shut up like
that all day, you know, and at night the moon wakes up and sends round
to draw the curtains, and all the stars come out, rubbing their eyes."
"They hasn't any hands--how can they rub their eyes?" objected Duke.
"You silly boy," said Hoodie, very sharply. "How do _you_ know? You've
never been in the stars."
"But you hasn't neither," he persisted.
"Never mind. I know, and if I didn't I couldn't tell you. That's how
people can tell stories. Well, the stars come out, lots and lots of
them, and go running about all night, and then in the morning the moon
sends round to draw all the curtains again and they're all to go to
sleep."
"But some nights the moon isn't there and the stars are there without
her. How is that, Hoodie?" said Cousin Magdalen, rather mischievously.
"You think so 'cos you don't know; but I do," said Hoodie, nodding her
head sagaciously. "The moon's _alvays_ there, only sometimes she has a
cold, and then she wraps up her white face in a shawl and you can't see
her."
There was a twinkle of fun in Hoodie's green eyes as she said this that
showed her cousin that her little teasing was understood.
"Oh, indeed," she said, gravely, "I did _not_ know. Thank you, Hoodie,
for explaining to me."
"And so," continued Hoodie, "the goblins never saw anything of day
things, but they saw very funny things at night when they went sailing
about on the star."
"Stars don't go sailing about," objected Maudie. "They're always quite
still."
"They're _not_ then," said Hoodie: "that shows you don't listen, Maudie.
I heard Papa say one day that the stars are going as fast as fast, only
they go _so_ fast that we can't see them."
"What nonsense! Isn't it nonsense, Cousin Magdalen?" pleaded Maudie.
"No," said Miss King. "It is true they are moving faster than we can
even fancy, but the reason we can't see them moving isn't _exactly_ what
Hoodie says."
"What is it then?"
"I can't explain it to you just now--it would not be very easy for you
to understand, and if I explained it, it would take too much time and we
shouldn't hear the rest of Hoodie's story. I think we should let poor
Hoodie go on with her story now without interrupting her any more."
Hoodie required no further bidding.
"Well," she said, "all night long the goblins went sailing about in the
star, and sometimes they saw very funny things. They were up so high
that they could look down and see everything, you know. They could see
the big ponds up in the sky where the rain is made, and the _awful_ big
windmills up there where the wind blows from, and the cannons that bum
the thunder down."
"Could they----?" began Duke, timidly, and then he stopped.
"Could they what?" said Hoodie, rather snappishly. "If peoples
interrumpt, I wish they'd finish their interrumpting, and not stop in
the middle."
[Illustration: "If peoples interrumpt, I wish they'd finish their
interrumpting, and not stop in the middle."]
"I didn't like to say it," said Duke. "I only wanted to know if they
could see right into the middle of the sky where the angels are."
"No," said Hoodie, decidedly, "they couldn't. They was goblins; they
wasn't angels at all, so they didn't want to see angels. It isn't that
kind of story, Duke--I'll tell you one like that another day--Sunday
perhaps. Now I want to go on about the goblins. What they liked best was
to peep into the windows and look at people, and play them tricks
sometimes. They was awful fond of playing tricks; goblins always is. But
sometimes they gets tricks played them, and that's what my story's
about. There was a window up in a house that they wanted to look in at,
but they couldn't ever get quite high enough up, 'cos the window was at
the top of the house, you see. It was the window of a witch, but the
goblins didn't know that. She was a witch that lived all alone, and
there wasn't anything she cared for except playing tricks, she was
always playing tricks. She knowed the goblins wanted to peep in at her
window, she knowed everything, 'cos that's what it means to be a witch,
that and playing tricks. And she set herself to play a trick on the
goblins--a reg'lar good trick, 'cos she didn't see what they was always
wanting to peep in at her window for."
Hoodie paused for a moment to take breath.
"I _wonder_ what the trick was," whispered Duke and Hec under their
breath, evidently very much impressed.
"Yes, you may wonder," said Hoodie, majestically. "You'd never guess.
Not in a milliond guesses. Well then, one night when the goblins was
twisting and turning theirselves about on the very edge of the star,
trying to peep in at the window, all of a suddent the witch's house
turned right round, so that the window came to the side instead of up at
the top, and one of the goblins gave a great jump and screamed out to
the other--
"'I say, brother, we can see into the witch's house now.'"
"But you said the goblins didn't know it was a witch that lived there,"
said Maudie.
"Well, they didn't know _at first_, but when they saw the house turned
round, of course they knowed it must be a witch that lived there. Nobody
else could turn their house round," said Hoodie, composedly. "And so
they both _screamed_, they were so pleased, and all the time the witch
was settling about the trick she'd play them. Now I must tell you what
the trick was. The witch wasn't all a bad witch--she was a little good
too, and there was a little girl lived in the room next to her that
liked her very much, 'cos the witch was very good to her and used to
tell her funny stories. And that was why the witch didn't want the
goblins to peep into her room, 'cos she thought perhaps they'd steal
away the little girl for a trick, for she was very often in the witch's
room, and goblins is _awful_ fond of stealing children and taking them
up into the stars to live with them, so she--the witch, I mean--was sure
that they'd try to steal her little girl once they saw her. So when the
little girl came to see her that night, she made her go to bed in a nice
little bed she'd made for her, and told her she was to be quite still,
for perhaps a' ogre was coming to see her. The little girl was a little
frightened but not very, for she knowed the witch would take care of her
even though she knowed the witch had got very funny friends, ogres you
know, and black cats that was really fairies, and all creatures like
that--it's rather a dedful story, isn't it?--but you needn't be
frightened, Duke and Hec, it'll come unfrightening soon. And so the
little girl got into the little bed and cuddled herself up just like the
witch had told her. And the goblins came sailing and sailing up on the
star; they was working it like, to make it go quick you know, like a
boat with men oaring it you know, and they was oaring and oaring so
hard, they was as hot as hot. And at last they got the star right up to
the edge of the window, but they made a little noise and the little girl
was startled and jumped up in bed, just what the witch had not wanted
her to do, and the goblins when they saw her forgot all about the witch
and called out, 'Oh what a nice little girl to steal,' and they were
_just_ going to jump in and catch her up and steal her, when--what _do_
you think?--the witch jumped out of the corner where she had been
watching them and caught hold of them fast, one in each hand, and put
them--where _do_ you think?--one into each of the little girl's eyes!
And they couldn't ever get out again, for there's a fine little glass
lid in people's eyes that nobody could open but a witch, and she shut it
down on them tight, and there they were; they couldn't do anything but
peep out, and there they were for always, peeping out."
"But didn't it hurt the little girl?" asked Maudie. "It would hurt
dreadfully to have the least thing put in your eye."
"Oh no," said Hoodie, "it didn't hurt her--not a bit--she just thought a
fly had tickled her eyes, and she winkled them, and the witch said to
her, 'You may come out of bed now, my dear. The ogre won't be coming
to-night.' And so the little girl got out of bed, and when she came up
to the witch, the witch looked at her and laughed, and the little girl
couldn't think what she was laughing at, and she never knowed about the
goblins being in her eyes till one day when her little brother was
playing with her, he peeped in her face and said, 'I see two goblins in
your eyes.'"
"That was me," exclaimed Duke. "It was one day I looked in Hoodie's eyes
and I saw two goblings in 'zem, I did. Hoodie's made the story about
me."
"I hasn't," said Hoodie, indignantly. "I've got stories enough without
making them about silly little boys like you. Of course you saw the
goblins in mine eyes--there's goblins in every little girl's eyes ever
since the witch put them into her little girl's. It's comed to be the
fashion, and now you know how it was, and that's the end of the story."
"Thank you for telling it, Hoodie," said Magdalen. "We're all very much
obliged to you, and another day I hope you'll tell us some more. Now
Duke and Hec, are your stories ready?"
Hec looked exceedingly solemn.
"I only know one," he said; "Duke knows lots."
"Well, which of you is going to begin?"
"Hec," said Duke.
"Duke," said Hec.
"Mine isn't ready," said Duke. "Hec, you begin. If you only know one it
must be always ready."
"Mine's only about a little dog," began Hec, modestly. "It was a little
dog that had only three legs."
"Only three legs!" exclaimed Magdalen. "My dear Hec, are you sure you
haven't made a mistake?"
"Sure," said Hec, "the housemaid had broke its leg off a long time ago,
when she was dusting the mantelpiece, so the Mamma gave it to the little
boy because it was spoilt for the drawing-room. And the little boy was
very fond of it--it was made of hard stuff, you know, all white and
shiny, and it had blue eyes. It was _very_ pretty. Martin told me the
story. She knowed the little boy. And one day the little boy lostened
the little dog. He always had it on the nursery table at breakfast and
dinner and tea; and he used to 'atend to feed it. Sometimes he put it on
the edge of his plate, and sometimes if he 'atended it was 'firsty he
put it on the edge of the milk-jug. And one day he lostened it. It was
there at the beginning of tea he was sure, but at the end it wasn't
there. And he looked and looked and looked but he couldn't find it; and
the nurse looked and looked, but she couldn't find it. So the little boy
cried. He cried dedfully, but he couldn't find it. And the nurse was
vexed 'cos he wouldn't stop crying. She wasn't as kind as Martin. So he
had to go to bed crying, and the next morning when he got up he cried
again for his little doggie. And his Mamma said she would buy him
another, but he didn't care for that. He said he wouldn't like any but
his own dear doggie with only three legs. Well, that day they had
rice-pudding for dinner. The little boy kept crying even when he was
eating his dinner, and they zeally didn't know what to do with him. But
what do you think came? He put some pudding in his mouf, and there was
some'sing hard. He thought it was a stone, and he feeled to see what it
was, and it was his little dog that had been cooked in the
pudding--aczhally cooked in the pudding."
"Like Tom Thumb," said Magdalen. "Yes, it was very funny. But it must
have been a very little dog, Hec, to go in the little boy's mouth?"
"Oh yes, littler than Martin's fimble. She showed me," said Hec. "It was
quite a little wee doggie. And Martin said it had got into the pudding,
'cos it had been on the edge of the milk-jug and had felled in, and so
it went down to the kitchen in the milk-jug, and the cook had put the
milk that was over, to make a pudding. The little boy was so dedfully
glad, you can't fancy. He never lostened the little dog again, Martin
said, and he said he would keep it till he was a big man. That's all my
story."
"Thank you, dear. You've told it very nicely. Hasn't he?" said Miss
King.
"_Very_ nicely," said Maudie.
But Hoodie tossed her head rather contemptuously.
"_I_ like stories that peoples make out of their own heads," she said.
"So do I," said Duke. "I've been making mine while Hec was telling his;
I didn't need to listen, for I've heard the story of the little dog
before. Now, I'll tell you mine. Onst there was a ogre that lived in a
castle, and the castle was on the top of a big, big hill--such a awfully
big hill that nobody could ever get up it--not the biggest person that
ever was made couldn't get up it."
"How did the ogre get up it then?" said Hoodie.
"He didn't. He'd always been there and he had a' ogre's wife to cook his
dinner, and he had a--a--oh yes, I know, he had a awful big
billiard-table, and he used to use little boys' heads for the balls,"
continued Duke, his eyes wandering round the room for inspiration as he
proceeded. "And," he went on, as he caught sight of a large mirror at
the end of the room, "he was so big he couldn't get any plates big
enough for him to eat off, so he used to have big looking-glasses for
plates, and--and--he had a coal-box for a salt-cellar, and when he had
a' egg for breakfast he had the shovel for a' egg spoon, and--and--the
white muslin curtains was his pocket-hankerwitches, and----" here Duke
came to a dead stop, but another gaze round the room provided fresh
material, "and," he proceeded energetically, "the Venetian blind sticks
was his matches, and his ogre's wife used to wash his hankerwitches in a
lake, and that was his basin; and for soup she used a--oh I don't know
what she had for soup--never mind that. But she had beautiful big
earrings," his eyes at this moment happening to catch sight of
Magdalen's side-face, "beautiful big earrings made of two shiny glass
and goldy things for candles, like that one hanging up there, and----"
"You're just making a rubbish story, Duke," said Maudie. "You just put
in whatever you see. I don't call that a proper story at all. Is it,
Cousin Magdalen?"
"You're very unkind, Maudie," said Duke, dolefully, before Magdalen had
time to reply. "It isn't a rubbish story. I was just going to tell you
about one day when the ogre was very hungry----"
"Well, what did he do?"
"Well," repeated Duke, somewhat mollified, "one day when the ogre was
very hungry, he couldn't find nothing to eat, and he said to his wife,
'Ogre's wife, I'll eat _you_, if you don't get me somefin to eat
too-dreckly.' And his ogre's wife cried, and she said she'd go to the
green-baker's and see if she couldn't get somefin for he to eat."
"Go to the _where_, Duke?" said Magdalen, looking up from her work.
"To the green-baker's, that's where they sell apples and pears and
p'ums," said Duke.
Maudie burst out laughing.
"He means the green-_grocer's_," she said. "Oh, Duke, how funny you
are!"
"And how could the ogre's wife go and buy him things at shops if they
were up on the top of a hill so big that nobody could get down?"
"Oh," replied Duke, "'cos there was andnother hill just a very little
way off that they could get on quite easily, like steps, and there was
lots of shops on the nother hill--all kinds."
"All shops for ogreses?" inquired Hec timidly.
"No, in course not. Shops for proper people. But when the ogre's wife
went to buy somefin for him to eat she had to buy a whole shop-ful--lots
and lots--but I zink I've toldened you enough for to-day. I must make
some more up first."
"Very well, dear, perhaps it will be better, and thank you for what
you've told us to-day," said Cousin Magdalen, beginning to fold up her
work. "I must try now to get my letter written before luncheon. I hope
it's not going to rain all the afternoon."
One or two of the children ran to the window, as she spoke, to examine
the state of the clouds. Suddenly, as they stood there, something, a
small dark thing, was seen to fall or flutter to the ground, a short way
off.
"What was that?" said Hoodie, whose quick eyes always saw things before
any one else.
"What?" said Duke deliberately.
"Didn't you see something fall, stupid boy?" said Hoodie politely.
"Yes, I saw somefin, but perhaps it was only a leaf."
"But perhaps it wasn't only a leaf," said Hoodie impatiently. "There
now, look there, don't you see it's moving? Over there by the little fat
tree with the spiky leaves--oh, oh, oh! It's a bird--a poor little
innicent bird--that's felled out of a netst," screamed Hoodie, in
tremendous excitement, which always upset her English. "Oh, Cousin
Magdalen, quick, quick! open the door, do, do, and let Hoodie go and
fetcht the poor little bird."
She danced about with impatience, her eyes streaming--for in curious
contrast with Hoodie's scant affection for her fellow human beings was
her immense tenderness and devotion towards dumb animals of every kind.
She "would not hurt a fly" would have very poorly described her
feelings. She had been known to nurse a maimed bluebottle for a week,
getting up in the night to give it fresh crumbs of sugar--she had cried
for two days and a half after accidentally seeing the last struggles of
a chicken which the cook had killed for dinner, and had she clearly
understood that the mutton-chops she was so fond of were really the ribs
of "a poor sweet little sheep," I am quite sure mutton-chops would in
future have been cooked in vain for Hoodie.
Cousin Magdalen had not hitherto seen much of this side of the little
girl's character, and she looked at her with some surprise, not sure if
there was a mixture of temper in all these dancings-about and
callings-out. But she came quickly across the room all the same, to the
window, or glass door rather, where all the children were now
assembled--
"What is it?" she said. "Hoodie, dear, why do you get into such a fuss?"
"'Cos I want to go out and pick up the little bird, poor little innicent
thing, that's felled out of the tree. Oh, Maudie's godmother, do open
the door--quick, quick, and let me out," said Hoodie, still dancing
about. "The bird will be lying there thinking that nobody cares."
Magdalen quietly unfastened the door, which was bolted high up, out of
the children's reach, and led the way out into the shrubbery. The rain
had left off, but it had warmed rather than chilled the spring morning
air, and a delicious scent of freshened earth met the little party as
they came out of the billiard-room. Magdalen would have liked to stand
still for a moment and look about her, and enjoy the sweet air, and
listen to the pretty soft garden sounds--the crisp crunch of the heavy
roller which the men were drawing over the damp gravel of the drive, the
voices, further off, of the school children running home, for it was
twelve o'clock,--prettier still, the faint cackles from the
poultry-yard, and the twitterings, gradually waking up, of the birds,
whose spirits had been depressed by the heavy rain--but where _Hoodie_
was, such lingerings by the way must never be thought of! The child
darted out the moment the door was opened, and rushed across the
grass-plot just in front--heedless of the soaking to which this exposed
her feet and legs up to her knees, for the grass hereabouts was allowed
to grow wild, and in the corners near the wall was mixed with coarse
ferns and bracken, through all of which Hoodie determinedly ploughed her
way.
"Oh dear," exclaimed poor Magdalen, "how _silly_ I was to open the door!
Just look at Hoodie, Maudie. She will be perfectly drenched. Martin
really will have reason to think I am not fit to take care of you."
"And she has her _best_ house shoes on," said Maudie, lugubriously.
"Martin put them on when she made us neat to come down to you, Cousin
Magdalen, because one of her common ones wanted stitching up at the
side, and Martin always says mirocco shoes never _are_ the same again
after they get soaked."
"I must go after her, at all costs," said Magdalen, lifting up her long
skirts as well as she could to prevent their getting any _more_ than
their share of drenching. "Now, Duke and Hec, stay where you are,
whatever you do, or better still, go back into the billiard-room. I
trust you, Maudie, to take care of them. I am afraid their feet are wet
already."
"Yes, and Hec gets croup when his feet are wet," replied Maudie,
consolingly. "Never mind though, Cousin Magdalen. I'll take him in, and
take off his shoes and stockings by the fire and dry them."
"Thank you, dear," said Magdalen, at the bottom of her heart, though she
would not have said so to the children, considerably relieved that
Martin need not be summoned to the rescue. "She would really feel that I
could not be trusted with them, and it would be such a pity, just when I
wanted so much to be of use and to help Beatrice." (Beatrice was the
name of the children's mother.)
It was no very pleasant business following Hoodie across the long, soppy
grass; even if one were quite careless of the effect on one's clothes,
the soaking of one's feet and ankles was disagreeable, to say the least.
But Magdalen faced it bravely, and found herself at last beside her
troublesome charge. Hoodie, not content with having thoroughly drenched
her fat little legs and feet in their pretty clothing of open-work socks
and "mirocco" slippers, was actually down on her knees in the wet grass,
tenderly stroking the ruffled feathers of the little bird whose
misfortunes had aroused her sympathy, while tears poured down her face,
and her voice was broken with sobs as, looking up, she saw her cousin,
and cried out--
"Oh, Maudie's godmother, him's dead. The innicent little sweet. I do
believe him's dead, or just going to deaden. I daren't lift him up. Oh
dear, oh dear!"
It was impossible to scold her--her grief was so real; so with one
rueful glance at the destruction already wrought on the nice blue merino
frock and frilled muslin pinafore, Magdalen set to work to soothe and
comfort the excited little girl.
"Hush, Hoodie dear," she said. "You really mustn't cry so, even if the
poor little bird is dead."
"But Hoodie can't help it, for you know, Maudie's godmother, little
birds doesn't go to heaven when they's dead--not like good people, you
know, so I can't help crying."
To this reason for Hoodie's tears Magdalen thought it best to make no
reply, but she stooped down and carefully lifted up the little bird. It
was a pretty little creature--its wings and breast marked with
delicately shaded colour, though just now the feathers were ruffled and
disordered--a very young bird; and Magdalen's country-bred eyes
recognized it at once as a greenfinch.
"Poor little birdie," she said gently, as she held it up to examine it
more closely. "I wonder if its troubles are really over," she added to
herself softly, not wishing to rouse Hoodie's hopes before she was sure
of grounds for them. "No--it is not dead. It certainly is not--only
stunned and terrified. Hoodie, the little bird is not dead. Leave off
crying dear, and look at it. See, its little heart is beating quite
plainly--there now, it is moving its wings. I don't think it is even
much, or at all hurt."
Hoodie drew near, her tear-stained cheeks all glowing with eagerness,
holding her breath just as she did when her father for a great treat let
her peep into the works of his watch.
"Him's not dead," she exclaimed. "_Oh_, Cousin Magdalen, are you _sure_
him's not dead? Oh, what _can_ we do to make him quite well again?"
She clasped her hands together with intense eagerness, and looked up in
Magdalen's face as if her very life hung upon her words.
"It must have fallen out of the nest," said Magdalen, looking up as she
spoke at some of the trees near where they stood. "Still it seemed fully
fledged, and it should be quite able to fly--most likely its parents
suppose it is out in the world on its own account by now, and even if
we could find the nest, it is pretty sure to be deserted."
"You won't put it back in the netst, Cousin Magdalen--you don't mean
that? It wouldn't have nothing to eat, and it would die," said Hoodie,
the tears welling up again, for she hardly understood what her cousin
was saying.
"No, dear. I don't think it would be any good putting it back in the
nest, and it would be very difficult to know which was its nest, there
must be so many up in those trees," said Magdalen. "Besides, as you say,
it wouldn't get anything to eat, for if all its brothers and sisters
have flown away, the parent birds will not return to the nest. No, I
think we had better take it into the house and take care of it till it
gets quite strong. See, Hoodie, it is beginning to get out of its fright
and to look about it."
"The darling," said Hoodie, ecstatically. "It's cocking up its _sweet_
little head as if it wanted me to kiss it. Oh, _dear_ Cousin Magdalen,
isn't it sweet? Do let me carry it into the house."
[Illustration: "The darling," said Hoodie ecstatically]
But Magdalen told her it was better to leave the bird for the present in
her handkerchief, which she had made into a comfortable little nest for
it, "till we can find a cage for it; there is sure to be an empty cage
of some kind about the house. And then we must see if your mother will
give you leave to keep it for a while."
"For alvays!" said Hoodie. "I must keep it for alvays, Maudie's
godmother. Maudie has two calanies in a cage, so I might have one
bird--mightn't I, Cousin Magdalen?"
"We'll ask your mother," repeated Magdalen, afraid of committing herself
to a child like Hoodie, who never, under any circumstances, forgot
anything in the shape of a promise that was made to her, or had the
least mercy on any unfortunate "big person" that showed any signs of
"crying off" from such.