Chapter V: Part 5

In the first place, Miss Rawlings did at last (in 1888, to be exact, one year after Queen Victoria’s first Jubilee), did, I say, at last go to live at the Home of all the little Barbara Allans and such like with Brown Eyes, Beaver Hats, and Pigtails, Ltd. She was called The Matron’s Friend, so as not to undermine the discipline. When her Parish wanted her, which was pretty often, the Parish (thirty or forty strong) came to see her in her little parlour overlooking the pond with the punts and the water-lilies.

Next, though how, who can say, the little Pigtails somehow did not grow up, even though they must have grown older. Something queer happened to their Time. It cannot have been what just the clocks said. If there wasn’t more of it, there was infinitely more _in_ it. It was like air and dew and sunbeams and the South Wind to them all. You simply could not tell what next. And, apart from all that wonderful learning, apart even from the jam and jelly and the Roast Beef of Old England, they went on being just the right height and the right heart for ten. Their brown eyes never lost their light and sparkle. No wrinkles ever came in their three-cornered faces with the high cheek-bones; and not a single grey or silver hair into their neat little pigtails that could at any rate be seen.

Next, therefore, Miss Rawlings never had to part with any of them or to search or advertise for any more.

Yet another peculiar thing was that Miss Rawlings grew more and more like a Pigtail herself. She grew younger. She laughed like a school-girl. Her face became a little narrower, even the cheek-bones seemed not to be so wide. As for her bonnets, as time “went on,” they grew up instead of broadwise. And when she sat in Church with the Thirty, in the third pew down from Mrs. Tomlington’s, you might almost have supposed she herself was a widish pigtail, just a little bit dressed up.

It is true that in the very secretest corner of her heart of hearts she was still looking for the one and only absolute little Barbara Allan of her life-long day-dream; but that is how things go. And the thought of it brought only a scarcely perceptible grave glance of hope and enquiry into her round brown eyes. But underneath—oh dear me, yes—she was almost too happy and ordinary and good-natured and homely a Miss Rawlings to be telling this story about at all.

We all die at last—just journey on—and so did Miss Rawlings. And so did the whole of the Thirty, and the matron, and the chief nurse, and Mr. Moffat, and Dr. Sheppard, and the Man with whiskers at the park gates, _and_ the Boy who cleaned the button-boots; parlour-maids, tweeny-maids, Mrs. Tomlington and all.

And if you would like to see the Old House and the little graves, you take the first turning on the right as you leave the Parish Church on your left, and walk on until you come to a gate-post beyond the mile-stone. A path crossing the fields—sometimes of wheat, sometimes of turnips, sometimes of barley or oats or swedes—brings you to a farm in the hollow with a duck-pond, guinea-fowl roosting in the pines at evening, and a lovely old thatched barn where the fantailed doves croon in the sunshine. You then cross the yard and come to a lane beside a wood of thorn and hazel. This bears a little East, and presently after ascending the hill beyond the haystack you will see—if it is still there—The Home of all the little Barbara Allans and such like with Brown Eyes, Beaver Hats and Pigtails, Ltd.

And not very far away is a little smooth-mown patch of turf with a beautiful thatched wall round it, which Mr. Moffat consecrated himself. And there, side by side, sleep the Little Thirty, with their pigtails beside their narrow bones. And there lie the tweeny-maids, the parlour-maids, the Man with whiskers at the park gate, and the Boy who cleaned the button-boots. And there Miss Rawlings, too. And when the last trump sounds, up they will get as happy as wood-larks, and as sweet and fresh as morning mushrooms. But if you want to hear any more about _that_, please turn to the Poems of Mr. William Blake.

THE
PERFECT HOST

(_From Lady Trenchard’s Visitor’s Book_)

SIR WALTER RALEIGH

What is it makes the Perfect Host?
Not wine and coffee, eggs and toast,
For these you can get just as well
In any dreary good hotel;
Not resolute attempts to please,
For money will procure you these.
The Perfect Host thinks vastly less
Of comfort than of happiness.
He’s happy; and the overflow
Belongs to those who come and go.
Within his house you’ll hear no quarrels
And very little talk of morals,
He does not lead a perfect life,
He sometimes has a perfect wife.
But this of all his points is best—
He does not want a perfect guest;
And even when you go too far
He’s friendly with you as you are.

The Spark

A. PEMBURY

The daylight was fading, and shadowy gloom
Was creeping and crawling all over the room,
When out of the fire, like a star in the dark,
There leapt to the fender a bright little spark.

“Ha, ha, little children!” it chuckled with glee,
“I’ve something to tell you, so listen to me!
This morning, Tom Dull, whom I never admire,
Was sitting in front of this very same fire;
And, as it burned dimly, was heard to remark:
‘Oh, Mary! There’s nothing in here but a spark!’

“The spark was myself, and I thought, Well-a-day!
It’s hard to be judged in that impudent way.
But stuck to my labours, and shortly, you know,
Had warmed up the coals to a beautiful glow.

“I called from their slumbers, the fairies of flame,
And out on the carpet they merrily came,
And up all the curtains, a marvel to view,
They climbed as no others are able to do.

“They peeped in the corners where shadows lay hid,
And chuckled: ‘We’ve found you! Come out!’ and they did.
Thus, darting about in the liveliest play,
They caught all the shadows and drove them away.

“I’m certain they laughed, though you think it absurd;
For never a sound of that laughter was heard.
Yet where is the wonder, for who will dispute
That hearts often laugh when the lips are quite mute?

“That’s all. But in parting, oh, take it from me
That sparks of endeavour, though tiny to see,
May quickly grow stronger and end, as you guess,
In lighting the beautiful fire of success.
My task is accomplished. Good-bye!” said the spark—
And, giving one flash, he went out in the dark.

Theophania

ADELAIDE PHILLPOTTS

Peter-Wise was a clever young peasant who lived in a little village that looked like a dimple in the hillside. He owned fifty mooing cows, one hundred baaing sheep, forty grunting pigs, two hundred clacking fowls—and a bellowing bull. And he prophesied that in ten years’ time he would have doubled these numbers. But with all this wealth, Peter-Wise lacked the most important creature of all—a wife. Without a wife, what is the use of fifty cows, one hundred sheep, forty pigs, two hundred fowls—and a bull?

Now Peter-Wise declared that he would not marry a maiden who was less than seventeen or more than twenty-two years old, and in the village there were only six girls between these ages who were not already betrothed or wed. Of these six, therefore—all of whom, being brought up on cream and honey and wheaten bread and saffron cake and wild strawberries, were bonny and plump and fair to see—Peter-Wise decided to choose the cleverest, who, nevertheless, must be just the least bit less clever than he was. So, to discover which was the cleverest, for, busy man that he was with his cows and his sheep and his pigs and his fowls—and his bull, he had not the time to woo each separately, he resolved to set them three tasks: one to try their fingers; one to try their brains; one to try their imaginations; and to marry her who succeeded best in the three.

So Peter-Wise summoned Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy, and Theophania, called Tiffany for short—these were the names of the girls—and said to them:

“Children, I will marry whichever of you can perform to the best advantage these three tasks: first, to darn a hole in the heel of a sock; secondly, to open, without touching the keyhole, the big barn door which is always locked; thirdly, to catch the moon and put it into a wash-tub.”

Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy said:

“Oh, the sock is easy enough, but the door and the moon——”

Theophania, called Tiffany for short, said: “The door and the moon should be easy enough, but the sock——”

The three trials were to take place in the morning, afternoon and evening respectively. So in the morning the six maidens assembled in Peter-Wise’s parlour—Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy in their best flowered-prints—Tiffany in a green smock; Tiffany had brown eyes, but the eyes of the others were five different shades of blue: speedwell, cornflower, lupin, forget-me-not, and chicory.

Peter-Wise gave them each a sock, out of which he had cut the heel, and left them for an hour to darn the hole. When he came back the six socks were lying on the table in a heap, finished. He examined them carefully. Then he said:

“Five of these socks are so perfectly darned that not one exceeds another in excellence. The sixth, however, is very badly done—a mere cobble. Come forward in turn, and let her who darned _this_ sock claim it.”

Mary tripped forward, looked at the sock, turned up her nose a little and shook her pretty head. “Not mine,” said she. Then came Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy, also turning up their noses a little and shaking their pretty heads and saying: “Not mine,” “Not mine,” “Not mine,” “Not mine.” Lastly, with a twinkle in her eye, came Theophania, called Tiffany for short.

“Mine,” she said. “I never, never shall be able to darn.”

“The first task is over,” announced Peter-Wise. “This afternoon meet me outside the big barn door which is always locked, at three o’clock.”

And away trotted Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy and Tiffany.

At three o’clock they met outside the big barn door, wearing pink and yellow and blue and white and green sunbonnets, and fluttering together like butterflies, except Tiffany, who did not wear a bonnet at all, and she stood by herself, thinking.

Peter-Wise said:

“This door, as you know, is always kept locked. Here is the key. Now, let me see which of you can open it without touching the keyhole, for I assure you it can quite easily be done.”

“How can we open a locked door without a key?” said Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy in dismay, and each thought—“It is useless trying the handle—besides, I should look so foolish, and the others would jeer.”

But Tiffany—who always thought her own thoughts, not other people’s—thought something quite different.

“We give it up,” sorrowfully said Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy.

“And you?” asked Peter-Wise of Tiffany.

Tiffany thought: “Because the door has always been locked before, that doesn’t prove it is locked to-day. Anyhow, here goes!” And she marched up to the big barn door, turned the handle, and—opened it wide!

“Oh!” cried Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy. “But it is always locked!”

“It wasn’t to-day,” said Theophania, called Tiffany for short; and she could not help laughing, kindly, at the five expressions of surprise on the five fair faces.

“The second task is over,” said Peter-Wise. “Now go and borrow your mothers’ wash-tubs, wait till the moon rises, catch it, and put it in the tub. Then come and fetch me.”

“But,” said Tiffany, “there is only one moon.”

“Exactly,” he replied, “therefore only one of you can succeed.”

Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy whispered together.

“He is making sport of us,” they agreed. “Not even Tiffany can catch the moon. We must give it up.” And each of them said in her heart: “After all, so-and-so would make a much better husband.”

So they gave it up.

But in the evening Tiffany came to Peter-Wise and said:

“I have caught the moon and put it into mother’s wash-tub. Come and see.”

“Caught the moon!” exclaimed Peter. “But there it is up in the sky!”

“Not at all,” replied she. “That is not the moon.”

The night was still and warm. Peter-Wise followed Tiffany to a water-meadow, in the middle of which was her mother’s wash-tub.

“There!” she cried, pointing. “Go and see if the moon isn’t in that tub.”

So he went up to it, looked over the edge, and there, sure enough, was the round, silver moon shining up at him.

“Well, but there are not two moons,” he said, looking at the other moon in the sky.

“How foolish you are!” said Tiffany. “That moon in the sky is just the reflection of the real moon in this tub.”

Peter-Wise was determined to make sure, so he took a penny out of his pocket and dropped it into the tub. It fell through the moon with a splash.

“Oh ho!” he exclaimed. “Whoever heard of a penny falling through the moon? This moon is made of water.”

“Nobody ever tried to throw a penny through before,” said Tiffany.

Then Peter-Wise kicked the tub, and the moon began to wobble. A piece of it splashed over the edge on to his boots.

“Whoever heard of the moon being spilt?” he asked.

“Nobody ever tried to spill it before,” said Tiffany.

Peter-Wise stroked his chin.

“I have it!” he cried, and grasping the tub, heaved it sideways and upset the mock moon on to the grass, where with little watery sighs it slowly disappeared.

“So much for your moon,” said he. “And behold its reflection is still in the sky!” But Tiffany only laughed and laughed and laughed.

“Yes,” said Peter to himself, “she is certainly the cleverest girl in the village, but just the least bit less clever than I am. I will marry her.” And aloud he said:

“Theophania, you shall, in spite of the sock and the moon that was not a moon, be my wife.”

“Peter-Wise,” she answered, “you shall not win me so easily. There is a task that _you_ shall perform for _me_ before I will marry you.”

“Well, that is only fair after all,” said he, rather taken aback.

“It is quite out of the question for me to marry you before I can darn a sock,” she continued, “but in six years I shall have perfected myself in that difficult art. Will you wait for me six years?”

This she said to try his love.

“I will wait,” said he, who really loved her, and knew something about women.

Now, at the end of three months Peter-Wise was still waiting for Theophania, and she realised that he would keep his word for the rest of the six years. But meanwhile she had learnt to darn as beautifully as Mary and Sally and Polly and Minnie and Lucy, who by this time were betrothed respectively to John and James and William and Tom and Adam. So she came to him one day with an example of her darning, and said:

“Peter, it has not taken me so long to learn to darn as I thought it would. How would it be if we were married _before_ the six years are up?”

“We will get married whenever you please, dear heart,” he said, not surprised.

“Well then,” she replied, “—to-morrow.”

And they were married at eleven o’clock the next morning.

The Weasel in the Storeroom

(_La Fontaine, Fables, III._, 17)

EDWARD MARSH

Into a storeroom once Miss Weasel came,
Through a small hole squeezing her lank lean frame:
From illness she had grown so slender.
Once in, she made complete surrender
To her capacious appetite,
Nibbling and guzzling day and night.
The life she led, Lord only knew,
Or the amount of bacon she got through—
Small wonder she grew chubby, plump, and sleek!
After this diet for a week,
She heard some noise which made her wish to egress.
Where was the hole? She scuttled to and fro.
Surely ’twas this one? No—then this? Still less.
“Well, bless my soul!” she said, “’twas here, I know,
I wriggled through, hardly a week ago.”
A rat perceived how she was troubled.
“Since you’ve been here,” said he, “your paunch has doubled.
Thin you came in, and thin you must go out.”

This has been said to others, I’ve no doubt;
But Reader, be it far from you or me
To press the delicate analogy.[2]

Footnote 2:

The allusion is to the tribunal set up by Colbert to enquire into the
peculations of the Financiers.

Love the Jealous

W. H. DAVIES

I praised the daisies on my lawn,
And then my lady mowed them down.
My garden stones, improved by moss,
She moved—and that was Beauty’s loss.
When I adored the sunlight, she
Kept a bright fire indoors for me.
She saw I loved the birds, and that
Made her one day bring home a cat.
She plucks my flowers to deck each room,
And make me follow where they bloom.
Because my friends were kind and many,
She said—“What need has Love of any?”
What is my gain, and what my loss?
Fire without sun, stones bare of moss,
Daisies beheaded, one by one;
The birds cat-hunted, friends all gone—
These are my losses: yet, I swear,
A love less jealous in its care
Would not be worth the changing skin
That she and I are living in.

The
Magic Medicine

BY
DENIS MACKAIL

Once upon a time there was a very naughty little girl called Freda. She was what is known as an only child, and so you might have thought that her father and mother and her grandparents and her uncles and aunts and her nurse would have had all the more time for teaching her to be good. But though this was perfectly true, and they all worked very hard at saying “Don’t do that, Freda,” or “Put that down at once!” she continued to be extremely naughty.

She never tried to be polite to anybody, she used to tear her clothes on purpose, she used to break her toys, and walk in puddles, and snatch things from other children, and say things that weren’t true, and eat gravel and blow bubbles in her milk. If there are any other naughty things that I have forgotten to mention, then she did them too. And when she was scolded, instead of saying she was sorry, she used to lie down on the ground and bellow at the top of her voice.

For this reason the people who knew her best grew to be rather careful about scolding her—especially in the Park, where her behaviour had often attracted quite a crowd; but, of course, the only result of this was that she became far naughtier than ever.

Is that perfectly clear? Well, now we come to the story.

One afternoon she was taken to a children’s party, where there was not only a bran-pie but also a conjuror. Freda was fairly good while she was being dressed, and still fairly good while she was driving there in the taxi with her nurse, but as soon as she got to the party itself she just let herself go. She made a face at a little boy who was smaller than she was until he cried and had to be taken to sit upstairs. She snatched a balloon from another child and burst it, so that the child also cried and had to be taken to sit upstairs. And when the bran-pie came in, she felt about in it for nearly two minutes until she had found the largest parcel—which, of course, is cheating—and afterwards, because she didn’t like what was inside, she forced another little girl to change presents with her, and the other little girl cried and had to be taken to sit upstairs.

And when the conjuror was in the middle of his most difficult trick and had just got to the part where he was going to cut open an orange and take out of it a watch which he had borrowed from the father of the little girl who was giving the party, I am sorry to say that Freda shouted out: “It isn’t the same orange!”

This was exceedingly naughty of her, and distressed the conjuror more than I can say, as well as spoiling all the pleasure of the good children who thought it _was_ the same orange. And several of them were so much upset that they cried, and had to be taken to sit upstairs.

Freda’s nurse had seen her doing all these naughty things, but she had said to herself: “It’s no use my saying anything to Miss Freda now, because if I do she will only lie down on the floor and bellow at the top of her voice. It will be better to speak to her about it when we get home.” So she contented herself by making a stern face when she thought that Freda and no one else could see her. Only, as a matter of fact, she did this just at the wrong moment and missed Freda altogether, and only succeeded in frightening a little boy in a kilt. And he cried, and had to be taken to sit upstairs.

So Freda went on being naughtier and naughtier, and the room upstairs became fuller and fuller of other children, but the lady whose little girl was giving the party didn’t like to say anything because she thought, “Freda is an only child, and, anyhow, I needn’t ask her another time.” And Freda’s nurse didn’t like to say anything because (as I have already told you) she was afraid that Freda might disgrace her by lying down on the floor and bellowing at the top of her voice.

Is that all perfectly clear? Well, now we get on to what happened next.

All the children went into the dining-room, where there were so many buns and chocolates and crackers and pink cakes and sandwiches and other things of this nature that their eyes nearly popped out of their heads. And in the middle of the biggest table there was an enormous cake, and on the top of the enormous cake there was a rather smaller cake, and on the top of the rather smaller cake there was a golden star.

And as soon as Freda saw this golden star, she pointed at it (which, of course, she shouldn’t have done) and said in a very loud, clear voice: “I WANT THAT STAR.”

If only her nurse had heard these words, she would most certainly have said something which would have made Freda lie down on the floor and bellow at the top of her voice. For there is no need to explain how naughty it is to point at things in other people’s houses and say that you want them. No grown-up person would ever dream of doing a thing like that.

But, as a matter of fact, the nurse had just met another nurse who was a great friend of hers, and although they had had a long talk in the Park only that very morning, they still found they had so much to tell each other that neither of them heard what Freda was saying.

Is that all perfectly clear? Well, now Freda really _is_ going to be naughty.

For I am grieved to say that, having pushed a number of other children out of the way (several of whom cried and had to be taken to sit upstairs) she went on pushing until she had got right up to the middle table. And then, when no one was looking, she stood up very quickly on a chair and snatched at the golden star.

I really don’t know what, exactly, she meant to do with it, because she had no pocket in her party frock; and very likely if she had been left to herself she would have got tired of the golden star and dropped it under the table.

But just at this moment a little boy in a white silk blouse looked up and saw what she had done.

“Oh!” he said, in a very loud, clear voice. “Freda has taken the golden star.”

And all the other children began to shout and tell each other that Freda had taken the golden star. And Freda’s nurse heard the noise, and came quickly to see what had happened.

“What’s the matter, Miss Freda?” she said. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” said Freda.

“She did,” said a little girl who had just lost all her front teeth. “She took the golden star off the top of the cake.”

“Put it back at once,” said Freda’s nurse.

“Shan’t!” said Freda.

And then the nurse saw it in her hand and tried to take it from her. And Freda never stopped to think what the star might be made of, but put it very quickly into her mouth, and crunched it into three bits, and swallowed them all with one swallow.

“I’ve swallowed it,” she said.

Her nurse turned first pink, then white, and then green in the face.

“Put it out at once,” she said.

“I can’t,” said Freda. “It’s gone.”

“Oh dear,” said the nurse. “Does anyone know what that star was made of?”

But nobody knew what the star was made of. Even the mother of the little girl whose party it was didn’t know.

“What did it taste like?” they asked Freda.

But she had swallowed it so quickly that she didn’t know.

“You’re a very naughty little girl,” said the nurse. And of course you can all guess what happened then. Freda got off her chair and lay down on the floor, and began to bellow at the top of her voice.

But it was far too serious a case to be treated merely by sending her to sit upstairs. For all that anyone knew the star might have been made of the most deadly kind of poison. So Freda’s nurse ran off and found her shawl, and she picked her up off the floor (where she was still bellowing at the top of her voice) and wrapped the shawl round her and carried her away and put her into a taxi, and they drove back to Freda’s home, and she missed the dancing altogether—which served her perfectly right.

And when they got home, the nurse went to the cupboard in the corner of the room and took out a very large bottle and a very small glass, and filled the very small glass from the very large bottle, and then she said to Freda:

“Now you must drink this.”

At these words Freda lay down on the floor and bellowed at the top of her voice.

“If you don’t drink it,” said the nurse, “you will have a terrible pain.”

“Whoo-hoo-hoo,” said Freda (for this was the way that she bellowed), and she crawled right under the table—in her best frock—and stayed there.

“Now, Miss Freda,” said the nurse presently, when everything else had failed, “I shall put this glass on the table here, and I shall go upstairs and turn on your bath, and if you haven’t drunk it by the time I come back again, I shall be very angry indeed.”

Then she left the room, and after a second Freda came out from under the table and picked up the glass and sloshed all the slimy stuff in it into the fireplace, and it spluttered and fizzed and disappeared from sight.

And when she had done this, she was terribly frightened.

She was so frightened that when the nurse came back and said, “Ah, that’s a good little girl. I see you’ve drunk it all up nicely,” she never said anything at all. She didn’t even bellow at the top of her voice.

All the time she was having her bath she was trying to say what she had done, but she never could quite bring herself to do it. And after she was in bed she called out suddenly to her nurse, meaning to say what she had done with the slimy stuff in the little glass; but when the nurse came in, she just couldn’t get it out. She pretended that she had wanted a drink of water, and the nurse gave it her and went away again, and Freda was left alone—still feeling terribly frightened.

“Supposing,” she thought, “that star really _was_ made of poison. Supposing that stuff I threw in the fire might have saved me. Oh dear, if the poison kills me now, it will be all my own fault.”

It was a long time before she could go to sleep, and in the morning she hadn’t been awake for more than five minutes when it all came back to her. But she had left it so long now, that it was quite impossible to tell anyone.

Is that all perfectly clear? Well, now I’ll tell you something that Freda doesn’t know to this day.

The mother of the little girl who had given the party had been so anxious about Freda that the very first thing in the morning she had telephoned to the shop where the cake had come from, and had asked the lady there what the star was made of. And the lady had said: “Sugar.” And the mother of the little girl who had given the party had telephoned to Freda’s house and had asked to speak to Freda’s nurse and had told her that the star was made of sugar. And when Freda’s nurse heard this she was very much relieved, but at the same time she wasn’t going to tell Freda that she had made her drink that slimy stuff (as she thought) for nothing at all. “If I do that,” she said to herself, “I shall never get Miss Freda to drink any medicine again.”

So she said nothing; and Freda—who of course hadn’t drunk even a drop of the slimy stuff—went about wondering when the poison was going to begin working, and whether it would hurt horribly when it did.

She was so frightened now that if only she could have got at the large bottle, she would have drunk it all up without saying anything—and that really _would_ have made her ill. But she couldn’t get at the large bottle, because the cupboard was out of her reach.

And so what do you think she did?

She went to the china pig in which she kept all her money, and she shook it and rattled it and waved it and waggled it until at last a very bright sixpence (which her grandfather had once given her) rolled out on to the floor. And she picked up this sixpence, and waited carefully until her nurse went up to the bathroom to wash out the party frock which had got all dirty from being under the table last night, and then she ran downstairs very quickly and let herself out by the front door and ran off to the chemist’s shop, which was just round the corner.

The chemist was a very old man with spectacles, and in the ordinary way Freda was rather frightened of him, but she was still more frightened of being poisoned, so she pushed open his door—which, always made a little bell ring—and went straight up to his counter and knocked on it with her sixpence.

Presently the old chemist came out and looked at her through his spectacles.

“And what can I do for you, miss?” he said.

“I want to buy some medicine,” said Freda, “that would save someone from being poisoned by a golden star on the top of a cake at a party. And it mustn’t cost more than sixpence, because that’s all I’ve got.”

“Dear, dear,” said the chemist. “And are you the little girl who ate the golden star?”

Freda would have liked to say “No,” but she didn’t dare.

“Yes,” she said, in a very small voice.

“Dear, dear,” said the chemist again. “That wasn’t very good of you, was it?”

“No,” said Freda, in a still smaller voice.

“And when did you eat it?” asked the old chemist.

“Yesterday,” said Freda.

“And do you still feel quite well?” asked the old chemist.

“Yes,” said Freda. “But I only pretended to drink the slimy stuff they gave me last night, and I’m afraid the poison may still be waiting inside me.”

“It seems to me,” said the chemist, “that what you really need is some medicine to make you good. Eh?”

He looked at her very hard through his spectacles as he said this, and Freda agreed at once.

“Very well,” said the chemist. “You’ve come to me just in time. When I close this shop to-night I’m never coming back, and next week they’re going to start pulling it down. But I’ve got just one dose of medicine for naughty children left, and you shall have it now.”

Then he took Freda round behind the counter, and she watched him while he poured a little from one bottle, and a few drops from another, and a teaspoonful from a third, and just a dash from a fourth. And he mixed them all together until the stuff fizzed and turned pink, and then he poured most of it away and gave the rest to Freda.

“If you drink this,” he said, “it will make you good for twenty-four hours.”

She drank it down, and it tasted delicious.

“Thank you very much,” she said. “And here’s the sixpence.”

“Thank _you_, miss,” said the old chemist. “And here’s your change.”

And he gave Freda half-a-crown from his pocket, and she ran back home as fast as she could and found the front door still open. So she ran right up to the nursery, and she dropped the half-crown into the china pig, and just at that moment the nurse came down from the bathroom.

“Why, Miss Freda,” she said; “how quiet you’ve been.”

“I cannot see,” said Freda, “why any child should ever be anything but quiet. Can you, my dear nurse?”

She was good now, you see, because the pink medicine was beginning to work. And this is the way that good children talk. But the nurse couldn’t make it out.

“Well,” she said, with a laugh, “I’m sure it’s strange to hear you say that, Miss Freda.”

“I fear,” said Freda, “that I have often been extremely thoughtless in the past, and that I have often allowed my temper to get the better of me, with the result that I have lain down on the floor and bellowed at the top of my voice. I can only express my regret that this should have been so, and my hope that you will overlook the trouble which I must have given you.”

The nurse opened her mouth very wide and stared.

“Good gracious, Miss Freda!” she said. “What _has_ come over you?”

“Nothing, that I am aware of,” said Freda. “And now, if you will be good enough to dress me, I think it is time for us to go up to the Park.”

The nurse was more puzzled than ever, for Freda used almost always to make a fuss about going out. But she was still more puzzled by the time they came in again. For Freda hadn’t walked in a single puddle, she had insisted on keeping her gloves on, she hadn’t run, she hadn’t shouted, and she had refused to play with her usual friends because she said their games were so noisy and rough.

At lunch time she asked for a second helping of plain rice-pudding, and ate every scrap of it.

“This can’t last,” said the nurse to herself. But it did. And after tea, when Freda went down to the drawing-room, she quite terrified her mother by asking to be taught a hymn—although her father had just offered to play at tigers with her.

At half-past six she kissed her father and mother and went up to bed without being fetched. While she was having her bath, instead of splashing—and screaming when it was time to come out—she told her nurse how she had decided to give all her toys to the poor children who hadn’t got any. As soon as she was put to bed, she lay quietly down and went fast to sleep.

The nurse and Freda’s mother had a long talk together that evening.

“I don’t see how she can be ill, mum,” said the nurse, “because she’s eaten everything, and made no fuss about it at all. I just can’t make it out.”

“I don’t like it,” said Freda’s mother. “There’s nothing we can do now, and she’s certainly sleeping very peacefully—though I’ve never seen that look on her face before. But if she’s no different in the morning, I shall send for the doctor.”

In the morning Freda was just the same, and her mother sent for the doctor.

“It is very kind of you, dear mother,” said Freda, when she was told, “but I am feeling perfectly well. Would it not be better if the doctor were to visit some of the poor children in the hospital?”

And this alarmed Freda’s mother so much that she went quickly to the telephone, and asked Dr. Tomlinson to put off all his other patients and come at once. When he arrived, he found Freda sitting bolt upright in her little chair and reading a lesson-book.

“Well, my little dear,” he said, “and how do you feel this morning?”

“It is very good of you to ask,” said Freda. “I am happy to say that I am in the best of health. However, if you have a few minutes to spare, perhaps you would be kind enough to hold my book, and see whether I have yet learnt this beautiful poem about the poor little chimney-sweep.”

The doctor did nothing of the sort.

“I’m very glad you sent for me,” he told Freda’s mother, and he picked Freda up and felt her pulse and looked at her tongue and put his head first against her chest and then against her back.

“Well,” he said at length; “this beats me. The child seems to be perfectly well, and yet....” And he scowled and puffed out his cheeks and walked up and down, while all the time Freda’s mother and the nurse waited in the utmost anxiety.

And then all of a sudden the clock struck, and as it was twenty-four hours since Freda had swallowed the magic dose, the effect vanished in a single instant.

The grown-up people who were watching her saw her jump out of the chair, and fling the lesson-book on the ground.

“Now, now,” said Dr. Tomlinson, “oughtn’t you to be more careful with that pretty book?”

Freda gave one look at him, and then she lay down on the floor and bellowed at the top of her voice.

“Thank heaven!” said her mother.

“Our dear little Miss Freda has come back to us,” said the nurse.

“Hum-ha,” said Dr. Tomlinson. “Yes, I think we have cured her.”

He had to say this, you see, because he was a doctor. But Freda’s mother was so glad that her little girl was herself once more, that she thanked him over and over again. And all the time Freda lay on the floor and bellowed at the top of her voice, and from that moment she was just as naughty as ever she had been before.

I hope that’s all perfectly clear. Some people say that this story will encourage little girls to be naughty, by making them think that their parents and nurses prefer them like that. I should be very sorry if this were so, but of course it’s no use pretending that anything happened otherwise than I have said.

Freda never had another dose of the magic medicine, because the old chemist never came back to his shop, and—as he had said—the next week the men came and began to pull it down. But of course she didn’t go on being naughty for ever, because after a bit she grew up, and now she actually has a little girl of her own. And if there’s one thing that’s absolutely certain, it is that all grown-up people are always good.

The Rhyme of Captain Gale

A. PEMBURY

Oh, Captain Gale who sails the sea,
When waves are high and winds are free,
Will kiss his hand, to make it plain
How much he scorns the hurricane;
A most imprudent thing to do
While sailing on the ocean blue.

He walks his deck, I’ve heard it said,
When wiser sailors lie in bed,
And far upon the lonely foam,
He takes his food as if at home
(Including plates of greasy stew);
A thing that I could never do.

His ship may toss, his ship may pitch,
He doesn’t mind a morsel which;
And never seems to care a bit
How deep the sea is under it—
Though this, to me, beyond a doubt,
Is something he should care about.
But sailors always were, to me,
A singular community.

Sermon Time

HENRY NEWBOLT

The roof is high above my head,
With arches cool and white;
The man is short, and hot, and red;
It is a curious sight.

OLAF THE FAIR AND OLAF THE DARK

CYNTHIA ASQUITH

Once upon a time there lived two boys who were each called Olaf. One had golden curls clustered all over his head—curls so glittering that every woman’s hand must touch their brightness: and to look into his eyes was to see the gleam of blue sky through two rounded windows. In short, he was the most beautiful child that his mother had ever seen.

The other Olaf was crowned with dark curls—blue-black as the plumage of a crow. And to look into his eyes was to see twin stars shine up through the brown depths of a mountain stream. In short, he was the most beautiful child that his mother had ever seen.

Now, these two Olafs had both been born on exactly the same day, but Olaf the Fair was the son of a mighty King, and lived in a dreadfully big palace, and Olaf the Dark was the son of a poor shepherd, and lived in a dreadfully small cottage.

When Olaf the Fair learned to walk, he staggered across a vast floor, and if he tumbled, it was only to sink into the soft depths of thick carpets. In his nursery there was nothing dangerous—not even the corners were allowed to be sharp—so he never knew the fun of watching bruises turn from plain brown to yellow and purple and green.

But Olaf the Dark learned to walk in quite a different way; he staggered across an uneven floor of cold stone, in a small room, crowded with things from whose sharp corners Pain constantly darted out at him. The hard floor seemed to rise up and smite him, first in one place and then in another. His mother was always kissing these places to make them well. He liked these kisses and was proud of his scarred body, especially of the red knees across which his seven skins were never seen all at once. His knees generally looked as though raspberry jam had been spread over them.

Just as you do, both Olafs hated to go to bed, but, just as you do, to bed they both had to go. Olaf the Fair plunged his bright head into a large pillow—so soft that it almost met across his nose, whilst the small pillow on which Olaf the Dark laid his dark head was so bumpy and so hard that in the morning his bruised ear would often ache, he knew not why.

Both boys loved to eat and drink. Olaf the Fair was fed on every sort of delicious food. You should have seen his nursery table piled high with glowing fruits, coloured cakes and trembling jellies. Chicken came every day, and there was always jam for tea. Olaf the Dark seldom swallowed anything more dainty than lumpy porridge, black bread and just a very little bacon. Yet he often knew a treat, that was far greater than any of the dainties in the palace, and this was the taste of his plain food when he was very hungry—so hungry that his empty place was just beginning to hurt.

His father lay all crumpled up with rheumatism, so that, almost as soon as Olaf the Dark could walk, he had to shoulder the shepherd’s heavy staff, whistle to the sheep-dog, and stride forth to guard his father’s flocks.

Watching the baaing sheep as they nibbled the short grass, their bells tinkling as they moved, the lonely little shepherd-boy shivered in the cold, wet winds of winter and gasped in the scorching heats of summer. He would have liked to stay at home, learning to read by the leaping fire whilst his mother stirred the porridge, but day after day, he had to put on his little sheepskin suit, and go out to be hurt by hailstones, terrified by thunder or soaked in the snow.

The year Olaf the Fair was born his father died, so he became king, the smallest king that ever was seen. His crown was heavy and made his head ache. His sad, smiling mother said he must learn how to be a wise king. This meant doing hundreds and hundreds of lessons. Whilst ten tutors tried to stuff figures and facts into his head, he would stare out through the windows wistfully watching all the different sorts of weather. Oh, how he longed to be out in the hail, the thunder, or the snow!

One day as Olaf the Dark sat by his sheep on the high hillside and played on his flute to keep himself company, a huge brown mastiff came into sight. Olaf’s faithful sheep-dog pricked his ears and low thunder rumbled in his shaggy throat. The fierce mastiff sped along the ground, and in the blinking of an eye the two dogs had flown at one another’s throats. Terrified, Olaf the Dark strove with his staff to beat them apart, but all in vain. Fortunately four horsemen, who were the little king’s escort, now galloped up and, leaping from their saddles, contrived to separate the foam-flecked, blood-spattered dogs.

“Well for thee, lad, we were at hand,” said the tallest of the men. “’Twould have gone ill with thy mongrel had he harmed the king’s pet.”

“It was your dog’s fault! He attacked mine!” indignantly answered Olaf the Dark.

“Hush!” said the man roughly. “Here is the king. Bow down to him, you saucy lad!”

For Olaf the Fair had just ridden up. The man held the reins of the snow-white palfrey and the little king dismounted to assure himself of his mastiff’s safety.

Now, Olaf the Dark had never even seen a picture-book, and at the dazzling sight of Olaf the Fair he gasped in amazement. The little king was clad in velvet of shimmering blue, edged with shining silver and on his head was a crown of gold.

He approached the shepherd-boy, and the two Olafs, who were of exactly the same size, stared long at one another.

“I’m glad your dog is not harmed. How long have you had him?” said the king. “Wolf was only given to me yesterday.”

“Sentry is my father’s,” answered the shepherd. “He had him before I was born.”

“How old are you?” asked the king.

“I was seven years yesterday,” answered the shepherd.

“Were you? That’s funny!” exclaimed the king. “Why I had my seventh birthday yesterday, too. But, who is with you? Surely you aren’t allowed to stay out by yourself, are you?”

“I _have_ to stay out,” replied the shepherd. “I should like to go home.”

“You’d like to go home? Funny! Why, I’d give anything to be allowed to sit on that silvery frost! Have you been playing with those nice woolly sheep for long? What pretty bells they’ve got! And wherever did you get that splendid crook’d staff? I’d like to have one just like that,” chattered the little king.

“Sire,” broke in the tall man with a low bow. “We must return home. His Excellency your Tutor-in-Chief said that only one hour could be spared from your Majesty’s studies to-day.”

Olaf the Fair stamped his foot.

“Oh, bother!” he cried. “I can’t bear to go in to yawny lessons! I want to stay out in the shininess. I say, Boy, when have you got to go home and do lessons?”

“Don’t do any lessons,” grunted Olaf the Dark.

“You don’t do any lessons?” exclaimed Olaf the Fair. “Oh, you _are_ a lucky one! How long will you stay out?”

“Till it gets dark. The sheep must graze till then.”

“Till it gets dark? Oo-oo-oo-ee! Lovely! I’ve never been out in the night. I would like to see how the stars get there. Have you ever seen one just pricking through the blackness? But, where’s your coat? ’Twill surely be cold before ’tis dark.”

“Don’t have a coat.”

“Don’t you wear anything but just that one dead sheep? It must be beautifully comfortable. My clothes are so hot and heavy,” said the king, tugging at his rich robes.

“Sire?” pleaded the attendant.

“All right, I’m coming,” said Olaf the Fair, and reluctantly mounting his palfrey, he turned its arched neck towards the distant palace. “Good-bye, Boy. Wish I could stay and play with you and your sheep.”

Wistfully Olaf the Dark gazed after the gay figure of the king disappearing into the rising mists, and as he rode away, Olaf the Fair turned his head, weary with the weight of his crown, and stared long at the solitary figure of the sturdy little shepherd. Disconsolately, he listened to the tinkling bells till they died away in the distance.

Deep in thought, his forgotten flute on the grass, the shepherd-boy sat on. Hours passed. The sun sank in flaming glories of orange and gold. Dusk thickened into darkness and heavy drops of rain fell coldly on his bare head. Still pondering, Olaf the Dark at last rose and wearily drove his drowsy sheep towards home.

He sat down to his supper. Silently he spooned his burnt porridge and gnawed at his crust of black bread.

“What’s come to thee, son?” asked his mother. “I miss the gabble of thy tongue.”

“I’ve seen the king, mother,” said Olaf, and he told her the story of the dog fight.

“Seen his small majesty, have you? To think of it! Born the very same day as you, he was. Be you two boys much of a size?”

“Yes, he’s no taller nor I and I guess I’m the stronger. But oh, mother, the lovely horse he was riding, and the clothes he had on him, and the glittering crown on his head! ’Twas as though he had caught rays from the sun itself! Oh, mother, I’d like to be a king the same as him, and ride around in coloured clothes, nor need to mind no silly sheep.”

“Is it wanting to be a king you are, Olaf?” laughed his mother. “Sure, there’s no contentment under the sun. But I’m thinking a good shepherd’s better nor a bad king, and they’re saying to be a good king’s no easy calling—subjects being more unaccountable troublesome than sheep themselves. Anyways, you two lads have the same God to serve, and sure you can serve Him from a cottage just as easy as from a palace. To be a good shepherd’s a proud thing, I’m thinking, and as for the rheumatics, they enters the joints be you high or be you low.”

But Olaf the Dark was not to be consoled. For the first time he noticed the shabbiness of his sheepskin suit, and the smallness of the cottage. Discontentedly he looked around.

“What would the king’s palace be like?” he asked.

“Oh!” said his mother. “They do say it be all marble and gold with thousands of lights a-twinkling from the ceiling, and I’ve heard as the wee king sleeps in a bed that’s bigger nor this room and the roof of it’s of gold and there be curtains to it.”

Olaf the Dark blinked.

“Oo-oo-oo-ee!” he sighed, as though sucking the sweetest of sweets.

* * * * *