Текст книги "The Classic Tales. Volume VI"

Автор книги: Beatrix Potter

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

CHAPTER XIX

Mary Ellen

Mary Ellen was a fat tabby cat with sore eyes, and white paws, and an unnecessarily purry manner. If people only looked at her she purred, and scrubbed her head against them. She meant well; but she drove Paddy Pig wild. “Was it a leetle sick piggy-wiggy? was it cold then?” purred Mary Ellen, working her claws into the horseblanket and squirming it upwards. The result was that the top of the blanket got into Paddy Pig’s mouth, whilst his hind feet were left bare and cold.

“Bless its little pettitoes! No, it must not kick its blanket off its beddee beddee!”  “What, what, what? I’m snuffocated! Sandy! Sandy! Take away this cat! I’m skumfished!”  “Was it a leetle fidgetty pidgetty—”  “Sandy, I say! Take away this awful cat!” screamed Paddy Pig.

At that moment Cheesebox entered the stable carrying a jug of rue tea,“He sounds very fractious. Keep him flat, Mary Ellen.” Paddy Pig sat up violently under the blanket, “Bring me a bucketful of pig-wash! None of your cat lap!”  “Rue tea,” purred Mary Ellen; “my Mrs. Scales always prescribes nice rue tea in a little china cuppy cuppy, for poor sick piggy-wiggies with tummyakies.”

Paddy Pig swallowed the rue tea, under protest. He was sick immediately in spite of the expostulations of the two cats. Maggret, the mare in the next stall, blew her nose and stamped. After he had exhausted himself with kicking and squealing, Paddy Pig sank into uneasy slumber. But every time he turned over he kicked off the blanket, and there was another cat fight.

Towards midnight he grew quieter. The cats sat up all night; wide awake and watchful. There were noises of rats in the old walls of the stable; and noises of night birds without. Twice during the small hours of the morning Sandy’s black nose appeared under the stable door. He listened to the patient’s uneasy breathing, and then returned to his straw bed underneath the caravan.

At 2 A. M. the cats made themselves a dish of tea (proper tea, made of tea leaves). It enlivened them to endless purring conversations. They gossiped about other cats of their acquaintance. About our cat Tamsine, and her fifteenth family of kittens. And how Tamsine once was lost for a whole week, and came home very thin. And after all, she had been no further off than the next-door house, which was shut up empty, while the tenants had gone away for a week’s holiday. But what had Tamsine been doing to get herself locked up in the next-door pantry, I wonder?“Perhaps she was catching dear little mousy mousies,” purred Mary Ellen. “She did not look as though she had eaten many. And to think that her people had heard her mewing, and had searched for her high and low, never guessing that the next-door house was locked up unoccupied!”

“And there was Maidie, too! oh, what a sad, sad accident! Caught in a rabbit trap, poor love! She has limped about on only three footsies ever since.”  “That comes of rabbitting,” said Cheesebox, who was a stay-at-home cat; “I used to know a black cat called Smutty, who caught moles alive, and brought them into the kitchen.”  “What, what, what! Will you be quiet, you horrid old cats? I want to go to sleep!”

“A sweet pussy pussy is Tamsine. Whose kitten was she?” resumed Mary Ellen, after renewed struggles with the patient and the blanket. “Whose kitten? She was Judy’s kitten, only, of course, she was not Judy’s. Judy had a fat big kitten of her own in the hayloft; and one day she brought in a much younger young kitten, the smallest that ever was seen. It was so very tiny it could sit inside a glass tumbler. Goodness knows where Judy had picked it up! She carried it into the house and put it down before the fire on the hearth rug. Judy nursed it, and it grew up into Tamsine; but it was not Judy’s kitten.”  “She was a fine cat, old Judy; such a splendid ratter.”  “Tamsine is a rubbish; she will not look at a rat; and she plays with mice, which is as silly as trying to educate them. Did you ever hear of Louisa Pussycat’s mouse seminary?”  “No? Never! does she bury the dear little things? I always eat them.”  “I did not say ‘cemetery,’ I said ‘seminary.’  ‘Seminary’ is the genteel word for school; Miss Louisa Pussycat is very genteel.

“One night I went to town to buy soap and candles, and I thought I might as well call at the Misses Pussycats’ shop, as I was passing. On my way through the square I saw Louisa coming down the steps from the loft over the stores. She had purchases in a basket, and she was on her way homewards. We passed the time of night, and inquired after each other’s kittens. Then, as I had hoped, she invited me to step in and drink a cup of tea, and inspect the latest spring fashions from Catchester. As we went along the cat-walk, she told me how she had commenced to keep a mouse seminary in addition to conducting the millinery business. She said, ‘It is remarkable how character can be moulded in early youth; you would scarcely credit the transformation which I achieve with my mice, Cheesebox.’ I inquired, ‘Do you use porcelain moulds or tin, Louisa?’  ‘Character, Cheesebox; I refer to the amelioration of disposition and character; not to compote of mouse. I mould and educate their minds. I counteract bad habits by admonition, by rewards, and – a’hem – by judicious weeding out. Recalcitrant pupils whose example might prove deleterious are fried for supper by Matilda. I never have any trouble with dunces or drones. My pupils excel especially in application, and in exemplary perseverance. This very night I have left the whole seminary industriously occupied with the task of sorting two pounds of rice, which I have inadvertently poured into the moist sugar canister. Think of the time which it would have cost me to retrieve those grains of rice myself! But – thanks to my indefatigable mice – I am free to go out shopping; and my sister Matilda is drinking tea with friends, whilst my mouse seminary is sorting rice and sugar under the superintendence of my favourite pupil, Tilly-dumpling. I have also taught my mice to count beans into dozens, and to sift oatmeal into a chestnut.’  ‘Dear me, Louisa,’ said I, getting a word in edgeways, ‘are their fingers clean enough to handle groceries? I always think one can smell mice in a store cupboard?’  ‘My mice, Cheesebox, always lick their fingers before touching food.’  ‘Really? and can you trust them with cheese?’  ‘We have – a’hem – a china cheese cover, which the mice are unable to raise. But for ordinary household duties – such as tidying and dusting – their assistance is invaluable. And they call me punctually at 8.30 – I should say 7.30 – I sit up late, you know, trimming bonnets.’

“A LITTLE STEEP THREE STOREY HOUSE”

“At this point of the conversation, we turned a corner, and came in sight of the milliner’s shop; a little steep, three-storied house with diamond panes in the windows. (They call it Thimble Hall.) The house was lighted up; not only the shop, but also the parlour, which the Misses Pussycats only used on Sundays. ‘Dear me, Louisa, do you allow your mice to burn candles?’  ‘A’hem – no. It is an indiscretion,’ said Louisa, feeling in her pocket for her latchkey. Even before the key was in the lock, we could hear patterings, squeakings, and shrill laughter. ‘Your pupils seem to be merry, Louisa?’  ‘It must be that little wretch Tilly Didlem, who eats comfits in school. I will have mouse sausage for supper,’ said Louisa, opening the house door hurriedly. As we entered the passage, we encountered a smell of toffee; and something boiled over on the parlour fire with a flare-up. There was pitter pattering and scurrying into mouse-holes; followed by silence. We looked into the parlour; the fire had been lighted upon a weekday; and upon the fire was a frying-pan. ‘Toffee! Mouse toffee! Toffee with lemon in it. I’ll toffee you! I will bake the whole seminary in a pasty!’  ‘When you catch them, Louisa. After all – when the cat’s away the mice will play!’

“I fancy that was the end of the Misses Pussycats’ mouse seminary. Since then they have been content to manage the bonnet shop.”

CHAPTER XX

Iky Shepster’s Play

Paddy Pig continued to be poorly all next day; poorly and very feverish. The circus company were concerned and worried. It added to their anxiety that they should be detained so long at Codlin Croft Farm. The farm animals and poultry were becoming troublesome; Sandy was almost as tired of Charles the cock, as Paddy Pig was of Mary Ellen the cat.

“A change of air might do Paddy Pig good. It strikes me his illness is largely imagination and temper; listen how he is squealing!” said Sandy to Pony Billy. “I do not like to take the responsibility of removing him without advice,” said the cautious pony, “suppose it should prove to be measles?” Sandy had an inspiration, “Could we not consult the veterinary retriever?”  “Would he come, think you? You and your friend, Eddy Tinker, bit him rather shabbily, two of you at once.”  “Perhaps he would come if you asked him, Pony William. If you would ask him nicely; and take my apologies with this large bone.”  “Where did you find that large bone, Alexander?”  “In the ashpit, I assure you, William, it smells.”  “It does,” said Pony Billy; “I’m tired of trotting on the roads; but I suppose it must be done. The sooner we get away to the moors the better for all of us.”

“Jenny Ferret says Xarifa has rubbed her nose with gnawing the wires of her cage; and Tuppenny’s hair is all tangled again for want of being brushed. But it is not safe to let them out, with all these strange dogs and cats; and Charles is not to be trusted for pecking. Look at the poultry crowding round the caravan! Mrs. Hodgson has been calling ‘chuck! chuck!’ all the afternoon, but the hens won’t go home to lay.And the worst of it is they are all clamouring to see the Pigmy Elephant.”  “Tell them he has caught a cold in his trunk.”  “That would be too near the truth; they must not guess that Paddy Pig is the elephant.”

Pony Billy thought for a moment. “Say the elephant has gone to Blackpool.”  “Now that’s a good idea! And if Charles asks me any more impertinent questions, I’ll pull his tail feathers out.”

Pony Billy looked serious; “Such a proceeding would be a poor return for the hospitality of Codlin Croft. Give them some sort of a show, Sandy, while I am away. Consult Jenny Ferret.”

So Pony Billy trotted away once more; and Sandy and Jenny Ferret determined to give the best performance that could be arranged under the circumstances. Iky Shepster flew round with invitations gratis; and there was quite a “full house” in the orchard. There were ducks, pigs, poultry, turkeys, two farm dogs, and the cat, (which was a great disappointment for the mice who had counted upon coming). And there were also four calves, a cow, a pet lamb, and a number of sparrows.

“It would have meant a good bit of corn for us if they had all paid for tickets,” said Sandy, regretfully, “but then the sparrows would not have come; and I have doubts about Charles. He would never have taken tickets for all those hens.”

Sandy was inspecting the audience through a hole in an old curtain which was hung on the line between two clothes-props. Behind the curtain was a small platform (in fact, a box wrong-side up); and behind the platform were the steps of the caravan. So the stage was conveniently situated in front of the caravan door. Iky Shepster directed the performance from the roof above.

“Are you all seated? (Pull the curtain, Sandy.) Cow! pigs, poultry! and gentlemen—” (murmurs and churtlings from Charles) “dogs, cat, poultry, and gentlemen, I beg to explain that a concatenation of unforeseen circumstances has caused this performance to be curtailed gratis” (hear, hear, chirped the sparrows) “because Mr. Pony William isn’t here, and Mr. Patrick Pig is unwell, and the Pigmy Elephant has gone to Blackpool, wherefore—”  “Cluck, cur, cluck, cuck-cluck! when do you expect him back?” interrupted Charles, “—has gone to Blackpool for a month, wherefore the rest of us will present a dramatic sketch in six scenes accompanied by recitation. I should also say the Live Polecats and Weasels are poorly but the Fat Dormouse of Salisbury will be exhibited in a cage on account of that cat; likewise the Sultan—”  “Cluck, cur, cluck, cluck, cluck! my hens would prefer not to see the polecats.”  “You ain’t going to see them. Act I, Scene I,” said Iky Shepster.

The door of the caravan opened and Jenny Ferret came down the steps on to the stage. She did always dress like an old woman, but this time she was dressed more so; she wore a white-frilled mutch cap and spectacles. She carried a plate and was followed by Sandy. Iky Shepster up above recited—

“Old Mother Hubbard she went to the cupboard,

To get her poor doggie a bone,

When she got there – the cupboard was bare,

And so the poor doggie had none!”

Jenny Ferret looked inside an up-ended, perfectly empty biscuit canister (which was the only piece of furniture on the stage); in dumb show she condoled with Sandy, who was begging pathetically. Then they both bundled up the steps out of sight into the caravan. “Cluck, cur, cluck, cluck, cluck! I’ve heard that before,” said Charles. “Did not he act it natural?” said one farm-dog to the other. “Not a single crumb! Fye! what bad housekeeping!” cackled the hens. “Scene II,” said Iky Shepster.

“She went to the barber’s to buy him a wig,

When she came back he was dancing a jig!”

For this scene Sandy came on first by himself; he danced a lively “pas seul,” spinning round and pirouetting. Jenny Ferret came out on the steps with a wisp of gray horse-hair in her hand to represent the wig; she stood in an attitude of admiration watching Sandy. Then she retired into the caravan; and after a few more twirls, Sandy fell flop upon the stage with all his legs in the air. “What’s the matter with him? is he ill?” asked the ducks. “Cuck, cur, cluck—” began Charles. “Scene III,”said Iky Shepster, hastily,

“She went to the baker’s to buy him some bread,

When she came back the poor dog was dead!”

Jenny Ferret wrung her hands over the prostrate Sandy. The cow appeared deeply shocked. “Scene IV,” said Iky Shepster, after Jenny Ferret had gone back into the caravan, carrying the unwanted loaf wrapped in newspaper.

“She went to the joiner’s to buy him a coffin,

When she came back the poor dog was laughing!”

“Cuck, cur, cluck! I’ve heard the whole of this before,” said Charles.

“She went to the butcher’s to buy him some tripe,

When she came back, he was smoking a pipe!”

“Cuck, cur, cluck! that, I have certainly heard,” said Charles. Sandy was becoming so angry that he could scarcely hold the pipe in his mouth, or restrain himself from jumping off the stage at Charles. “Scene VI,”said Iky Shepster severely, to the audience, who, however; were all listening with respectful attention, excepting Charles. “Scene VI, whichnone of you can have heard before, because I only invented it this minute (play up, Sandy!).

“She went to the grocer’s to buy him some cheese,

When she came back the poor dog did sneeze!”

Sandy relieved his indignation by letting off a terrific “K’tishoo!”  “Scene VII and last,” said Iky Shepster.

“The dame made a curtsey, the dog made a bow,

The dame said, ‘Your servant’; the dog said ‘Bow-wow!’”

“Cluck, cluck, cluck! very good, very good!” said Charles the cock; while the birds clapped their wings, and the dogs barked applause. “Now, Charles, get on the platform yourself and give us something.”  “Certainly, with pleasure,” said Charles. Up he flew and commenced—

“This is the cock that crowed in the morn,

That waked the priest all shaven and shorn,

That married the man all tattered and torn.

That kissed the maiden all forlorn,

That milked the cow with the crumpled horn,

That tossed the dog that worried the cat,

That killed the rat that ate the malt,

That lay in the house that Jack built.”

“Well done, Charles! A tale that was told in the city of Ur, of the Chaldees; and none the less interesting, although we have heard it before!”

The entertainment concluded with a few conjuring tricks performed by Iky Shepster, who was an adept at causing things to disappear. Xarifa’s scissors were still missing, and the teaspoons were a short count.

Jenny Ferret was indignant; she reproached the bird continually. “If you scold me any more I shall fly away without giving notice,” said Iky Shepster, sulkily. “That is a loss we could put up with!” grumbled Jenny Ferret; “it is my belief you are feathering your nest with teaspoons. And what for are you picking off red currant blossoms? You and that hen starling? Is it a wedding?”

Iky Shepster laughed and chittered and flew to the top of the chimney stack. He fluttered his wings and whistled to the setting sun, and to a very pretty speckled starling, perched on the next chimney pot. The ducks waddled home from the orchard. The hens became tired of waiting for the Pigmy Elephant and came home to roost. The camp was left in peace. There were white violets under the orchard hedge, they smelled very sweet in the evening.

“Jenny Ferret – please – please let me out! I want to brush Tuppenny’s hair; I want to come out, Jenny Ferret!” said Xarifa, scrubbing her nose between the wires of her cage, and tugging at the bars with little pink hands.

“I cannot let you come out, Xarifa. The farm cat is sitting on the pig-stye roof; it sits there all day long, watching us.”  “Is that why the mice could not come?”  “Yes, it is. The sparrows said so. Four mice had come from Hill Top Farm on purpose to see the circus; and five others came from Buckle Yeat and the Currier. They are in the granary now, hiding behind a corn-bin.” Xarifa gnawed the bars with vexation. “I did want to see those Hill Top mice again, Jenny Ferret; Cobweb and Dusty and Pippin and Smut. Is there no way of asking them to tea?”  “You would not like the cat to catch them, Xarifa.” A tear trickled down Xarifa’s nose.

Jenny Ferret was a good-natured old thing. She said Xarifa and Tuppenny deserved a treat – that they did! and Sandy agreed with her. So he consulted Tappie-tourie, the speckled hen. Tappie-tourie talked to the sparrows who roost in the ivy on the walls of the big barn. And the sparrows twittered through the granary window, and talked to the mice, behind the corn-bin. They told the mice that it would be quite – quite – safe, on Sandy’s word of honour, to tie themselves up in a meal bag, which Sandy would carry to the caravan.

In the meantime Jenny Ferret had made preparations for a mouse party; cake, tea, bread and butter, and jam and raisins for a tea party; and comfits, and currants, lemonade, biscuits, and toasted cheese for a dance supper party to follow. She brewed the tea beforehand, because the teapot would be too heavy for the dormouse; so she covered it up with a tea-cosey. Then she unfastened Xarifa’s cage and Tuppenny’s hamper, and the string of the meal-bag; bolted the windows of the caravan, and came out; she locked the door on the outside, and gave the key to Sandy. Sandy had business elsewhere; and Jenny Ferret was quite content to spend the night curled up in a rug on top of the caravan steps, listening to the merriment within.

And a merry night it was! One of the mice had brought a little fiddle with him, and another had a penny whistle, and all of them were singers and dancers. They came tumbling out of the bag in a crowd, all dusty-white with meal. No wonder Sandy had found the sack rather heavy! There were four visitor mice from Hill Top Farm, and five from Buckle Yeat and the Currier; and there were no less than nine from Codlin Croft.

While they tidied and dusted themselves, Xarifa brushed Tuppenny’s hair. When they were all snod [47] and sleek, she peeped under the tea-cosey, “The tea is brewed, we will lift the lid and ladle it out! I will use my best doll’s tea service. Please, Pippin and Dusty, sing us a catch, while Tuppenny and I set the table. First we will have songs and tea, and then a dance and a supper, and then more singing and dancing, and you won’t go home till morning!”

Pippin clapped his little paws, “Oh, what fun! how good of old Jenny Ferret, to cheat the pig-stye cat!” And he and Dusty sang with shrill treble voices—

“Dingle, dingle, dowsie! Ding, dong, dell!

Doggie’s gone to Hawkshead, gone to buy a bell!

Tingle, ringle, ringle! Ding, dong, bell!

Laugh, little mousie! Pussy’s in the well!”

Then Cobweb sang, “Who put her? Little Tommy Thin!” and Pippin repeated,“Who put her in? Who pulled her out?” (“Who put her in?” chimed in Dusty.) “Who pulled her out? Little Tommy Stout!” sang Smut. (“Who pulled her out?”) Then all the mice sang together—

“What a naughty boy was that,

For to drown our pussy cat;

Who never did him any harm,

And caught all the mice in Grand-da’s big barn!”

“But Pussy did not catch quite all of us!” laughed Pippin. He started another glee—

“Dickory, dickory, dock! the mouse ran up the clock!”

(Each mouse took up the song a bar behind the last singer – Dickory, dickory, dock!) The clock struck one – (The mouse ran up the clock) Down the mouse run – (The clock struck one) Down the mouse run – dickory, dickory, dock!

There was singing and laughing and dancing still going on in the caravan when Sandy came back in the morning.