Chapter III: Part 3

They took their way down into our great field, and there they each made a great snow ball. Following the directions of Gaffer Downes, these snow balls were rolled along until they collected more and more snow upon their sides all round, and, of course, began to get very large. Each man’s snow ball was soon as large as his head. They went rolling on, and soon each of the snow balls was as large as two heads; then as large as a cow’s head; then as large as a very great cow’s head; and then each man was obliged to stop, as he could roll his snow ball along no more, it was so large and heavy. Mr. Downes then told the coachman and the sexton to leave their snow balls and come and help him to roll his. So all three pushed away, and rolled it nearly all round the great field, by which time it was as large as the head of an elephant.

They stopped to rest and take breath. Mr. Downes now informed them that he wished this large ball to be rolled to the middle of the field, and to remain there while they rolled the others to the same size, and then brought them to the same spot. They were just beginning their work again when they heard a loud, merry laugh at the other side of the hedge, and whom should they see looking over and showing his white teeth and making a funny face at them but George Poole, the black footman at Squire Turner’s.

“Aha!” said George, “Aha, Massa Down, me see you! how you do, Massa Gaffer Down? and how do you do? Is your pretty granddaughter at home? and how you do, you blackbird, Massa Down? aha! very fond of blackybird; he just my colour. How you do, you cold finger, Massa Gaffer Down--and Massa Sexton, and coachy man, too, with cold fingers, all so red, like scraped carrots?”

“George Poole,” said Mr. Downes with a serious look, “George Poole, you interrupt. Come and assist us, or return home to your fire in a quiet and proper manner, I beg of you.”

“Me go home to proper fire,” answered George, “but what you make there with great snow ball, Massa Down?”

“I do not intend to let anyone know at present,” answered Mr. Downes. “Good day, George,” and as he said this he made a sign to the coachman and sexton, and they continued their work of rolling.

“Me come and see him when him finished,” said George. “Good day, Massa Down,” and as he said this the laughing black face of George Poole disappeared from the top of the hedge.

This work of rolling continued all the morning, and, as they found they had nothing else to do, they worked at it all the afternoon, also. By this time they had made seven balls of snow, each as large as the head of an elephant, and had rolled them all into the very middle of the field. But to do this they had been obliged to ask for the help of two men from our house. This my father readily gave; indeed, I believe he himself helped at the last rolling of each ball, as they were so very heavy and moved so slowly. Mr. Downes then took the spade and patted every ball with the flat part of it, in order to make them even and hard, and so left them for the night.

The next morning while we were at breakfast Gaffer Downes passed by the window, with a spade over his shoulder, followed by the sexton and coachman each with a spade over his shoulder, and after them came the beadle, the church bell ringer, and the young man who blew the bellows for the organ.

They all followed Mr. Downes into the large field.

Up we all jumped from the breakfast table and hurried on our things; papa, mamma and I, and Ellen Turner, who had heard of something that was to be done in our field, and had come over to breakfast with us to see. Away we all went, mamma carrying me where the snow was too deep, and papa carrying Ellen.

When we came into the large field, there we saw them all busy indeed, working under the directions of Gaffer Downes, who was not working himself now, but standing still in the attitude of an artist, giving orders to his pupils. They soon made a sort of flat bank of snow, about a foot and a half high, and patted it down very hard with their spades. The pupils, that is to say, the coachman and sexton and bell ringer and beadle, and the young man who blew the bellows for the organ, then rolled three of the great balls of snow up on this bank, close to one another, so as to form a sort of circle, but leaving a hollow place in the middle of the form of a triangle, which the beadle remarked was very much the figure of the coachman’s Sunday hat. Mr. Downes now came with his spade, and made this three-cornered hollow larger, in fact, large enough for a man to stand in very easily. He then desired the coachman and sexton to assist him with their spades in making the tops of these three balls quite flat. When this was done he directed them to make three more of the balls flat at top and bottom; this also being done, he called all his party together and told them to lift these three balls, one at a time, and carefully place them upon the top of those three that were already placed, as I have told you. So the pupils did as they were directed and Mr. Downes made three notches, like steps, in the side of two of the balls, and up them he slowly walked with his spade, and again made the three-cornered hole in the middle of the three top snow balls, as large as he had made it in those at the bottom. We all thought he was going to get into it, but he did not. He only looked in. He now came down with a very important look, and went up to the one large ball of snow, which still lay there in its round shape. This he trimmed and patted all about into the form he wished, and then all the pupils were called to carry it and lift it by degrees and to place at the very top where it was intended to be made the head of the Man of Snow. It was a great job to get the head safely up, for it was very heavy. However, after much time and many narrow escapes of the head, and all the pupils tumbling down together, they did manage to get it to the top, just over the hole which it covered up and its own weight kept it there safely.

It was now time to go to dinner. We all went but we finished as soon as we could and returned to the large field. Gaffer Downes, the coachman, and sexton moved round and round with their spades, cutting and shoving or patting up the snow to make the figure of a man. And as there were several hollow places where you could look into the inside, they filled them up with hard lumps of snow; all except one hole, which Mr. Downes said he wished left open to let the air in, though, on second thought, he said he would cover it over himself, and so he did, but very lightly. They made a few trenches and ridges down the middle and at the sides of the Man, and this they called his legs and arms, at which we all laughed. Lastly, Mr. Downes went climbing up the sides with his spade and went to work at the head. What he tried to do was to make a face to it, but it was very difficult. He cut out the nose and chin, very large and broad; but some unlucky cut just as he was finishing made them fall off. He then asked the beadle to bring him two short sticks from the hedge; this being done, he stuck them into the face and covered them over with handfuls of snow, which he pressed and patted into the shape of a nose and chin. But when he had finished the weight of the snow made the sticks come out and down they fell. He went on trying again and again, and we all looked on and hoped he would succeed, though we laughed very much also for the nose fell off six times and the chin four. At last, however, with a sudden thought, which could only have occurred to one who had quite a genius for making a Man of Snow, Mr. Downes stuck the two short sticks in not pointing downwards or straight out, but pointing rather upwards, so that the weight of the nose and chin were supported upon the face and they held fast. And a very strange face it was!

Two things were still to be done. Mr. Downes drew from his coat pocket a couple of large round stones of a blue-grey color, and these he fixed in the face for eyes; and over the head, at each side, he stuck a number of small hedge twigs and a wreath from a thorny wild rose-tree, for hair. If more snow should fall he assured us the hair would look quite beautiful. Down came Mr. Gaffer Downes, looking so seriously and modestly upon the snow clumps on his shoes, while we all praised his work and told him how much we liked his Man of Snow.

It was now evening. We all went back through the fields and when we arrived at the house my papa sent out a quantity of hot ale, with sugar and toast in it, for the pupils, and we made Mr. Downes come in to tea with us though he wanted to go home. He said his little granddaughter and the blackbird would think he was lost in the snow.

There did happen to be a slight fall of snow again in the night and we all went down to the large field next morning after breakfast to see what change it had made in the appearance of the great Man. And a fine change, indeed, it had made. He looked much larger and rounder and whiter and colder and seemed more “at home” in the great white field. And he had a wonderful head of hair!

The very same evening as we were all sitting round the fire, about an hour before supper time, Mr. Downes came to our house and sent in word that he had something very important to say. Mamma said, “Pray tell Mr. Downes to come directly.” In came Gaffer Downes, looking rather paler than usual, and with his face looking longer than usual, and his white hair looking straighter than usual, and his chin sticking out with some frost upon it. He remained standing in the middle of the room without saying a word.

“What is the matter, Mr. Downes?” asked papa.

“Sir,” said Mr. Downes, without moving from the place where he stood, “something has happened!”

“What has happened?” said papa, rising from his chair.

“An event!” said Mr. Downes.

“What event?” said mamma, rising from her chair, “and where has it happened?”

“In the large field,” answered Mr. Gaffer Downes. “An event has happened to the Snow Man.”

At this we all ran up to Gaffer Downes, exclaiming, “What has happened to him, tell us at once.”

“The Snow Man,” said Mr. Downes in a low voice, “The Snow Man talks.”

“Talks?” cried we all.

“Yes,” said he, “the Man speaks. He was addressing the field in a long speech when I passed on the other side of the hedge. It is a fine moonlight night. You can all come and hear him yourselves.”

“That we will!” exclaimed my papa. “We will all go directly.”

So mamma called for bonnets and shawls and handkerchiefs and cloaks and muffs, and tippets and gloves and fur boots and all sorts of things for there were several young ladies staying on a visit with us. And outside the door we found Squire Turner’s coachman with the sexton and the beadle and bell ringer and the young man who blew the bellows for the organ; in fact, all Gaffer Downes’ pupils, waiting to go with us into the large field.

Off we all set, Mr. Downes leading the way. At the end of the first field he made us all stop to listen. He asked us if any of us could hear the Man of Snow speaking. We all listened and at last said, “No!” He then told us to follow him slowly along the hedge of the second field listening all the way. We heard nothing, and again Mr. Downes stopped us at the stile leading into the great field. Very attentively we listened, but all was as silent as possible.

Mr. Downes now told us we had better wait a little and let him go first, and as soon as the Man of Snow spoke he would return and tell us to come softly. So over the stile got Mr. Downes and we soon lost sight of him as he went creeping round closely by the hedge. Well, we waited and waited but Mr. Downes did not return. We listened but we could hear nothing. Still we waited but at last papa got out of patience and said, “What can have become of Mr. Downes?”

“I hope,” said mamma, “nothing has happened to him.”

“I am determined to go and see after him,” said papa.

“Let us all go together,” said mamma. “Let us all go together, straight up towards the Man of Snow, and ask for Mr. Downes.”

It was agreed upon and we all got over the stile and went crowding together along the field, nobody liking to go first, but all keeping close, like sheep when they do not know what to do for the best.

At last we came near the great Man of Snow. Papa and the young man who blew the bellows for the organ stood in front, and next to them came the sexton, and then mamma, with all us girls climbing close around her, wrapped up in our cloaks, with only our eyes and noses to be seen; and behind us stood the rest of the pupils--and behind all, at some distance, stood the beadle. Well, there we all stood in silence, in the great, silent snow field, looking at the great silent Man of Snow with the moon shining upon his head!

The young man who blew the bellows for the organ was the first who spoke; and he said in a very respectful voice, “I ask your pardon, sir; but could you be so kind as to tell us what has become of Mr. Downes?”

No answer was returned. Everything was as silent as before.

The sexton next spoke; and in a very humble tone he said, “May it please your Majesty! we have lost the clerk of the parish!”

Again we all remained in the same suspense and silence. The moon now went partly behind a cloud so that only a little pale light came across one side of the head and shoulders of the Man of Snow. At last papa was obliged to speak, and he said, “Oh, Man of Snow, we came not to disturb thy tranquillity, but if thy gracious whiteness hath once already spoken to these fields, permit us also to hear thy silent voice!”

There was again a pause and then, would you believe it?--you hardly can--would you believe it, the Man of Snow answered! He did, indeed. In a very slow and solemn voice he said, “Peace be upon ye all--and the silent thoughtfulness of these white fields.”

You may suppose how fearful and astonished and quiet we all stood at hearing these words. Presently, however, my papa took courage, and again addressed the Man of Snow.

“Who art thou--and whence comest thou, oh, most serene Highness of the frost?”

“I am a spirit of Winter!” answered the Man of Snow, in the same solemn tone. “Once in Lapland I was one of the most renowned giants. There my image is built up with white stone, and because this likeness of me has been made, therefore, on the wings of the wind hath my spirit crossed the bleak seas to dwell for a little time in this body of snow. But now depart! I would be alone!--retire! To-morrow, at moon-rise, ye may come again.”

We did not dare to disobey this command to depart, you may be sure; so we all went homewards, too full of thoughts to speak.

Just as we had reached the stile one of the young ladies cried out, “Oh, what’s that under the hedge!” We all looked, and there we saw the head of a man rising out of the dry ditch by the side of the hedge! Who do you think it was? It was the poor beadle. He had been so frightened when the Man of Snow spoke that he had run back, but, being unable to get over the stile, in his confusion, he got into the dry ditch and sat there upon the dead leaves and snow, with his chin just level with the top of the bank. However, the pupils soon lifted him out and comforted him and took him home. They also went to the cottage of Gaffer Downes to know if he had returned safely. But he had not returned.

Before we went to supper, however, we sent to the cottage, as we were getting very anxious; and his granddaughter answered from the window that her dear grandfather had returned and had a basin of warm broth and was now in bed.

We could hardly eat our supper, any of us, for talking of the Man of Snow and what he had said about having been once upon a time a Lapland giant! For my part I could not sleep for thinking of it, and all the young ladies said the same thing the next morning at breakfast.

You may be sure we were all very anxious for the evening to come when we were again to go and hear what the Man of Snow had to say. He told us, you recollect, to come again at moon-rise; and the moon, papa said, would rise about seven o’clock.

We had a dinner party at our house and nearly all the time we talked of little else except the Man of Snow or rather what he had done when he was a giant in Lapland; and we thought that, perhaps, he might tell us the history of his life. We determined every one of us to go all together down to the great field when the moon rose.

As the time approached we became so anxious that we got ready too soon, and then, as we were all ready, we thought we might just as well go and wait there till the white giant chose to speak. So off we all set, and went very merrily, and yet not without some little fears, down toward the large field.

But when we had all got over the stile who should come running after us but Mr. Downes. He was quite out of breath, but as soon as he could speak he said, “Indeed, you are too soon. It’s too soon by half an hour. You had much better get over the stile again and go into the other field a little while.”

Now this made some of us laugh, for, do you know, we now began to suspect that it was Mr. Downes himself who had spoken for the Man of Snow.

We thought perhaps he had got behind somewhere, or perhaps into the side of the great figure and thus spoken for him. But now, as we had come too soon he had no time to get ready. We were sorry for poor Gaffer Downes, yet still we could not help laughing at the scrape he was in. He went on assuring us the Man of Snow would not speak at all as we had come before the time he ordered. But this made us laugh the more, as we were now almost sure how it had been continued. Meantime, we had slowly advanced toward the Man of Snow, poor Mr. Downes telling us all the time that the Man would be sure not to utter a word as we had disobeyed his directions.

“But see,” said papa, “the moon is now rising!”

“Aha! ’tis no matter now,” answered Mr. Downes in a melancholy tone. “The Man of Snow will not speak a single word.” Mr. Downes had scarcely said this when a voice from the Man of Snow called out in a loud tone:

“How you do, Massa Down--how you lilly granddaughter do--and how you do you black bird, Massa Gaffer Downes?”

All burst into laughter except Mr. Downes, who walked backwards and forwards once or twice saying, “Dear me, how very vexatious!”

Papa and mamma now both went up to Mr. Downes and told him they saw how vexed he was at the change that had somehow or other taken place in the voice of the Man of Snow, because the spirit of the Lapland Giant had certainly flown away and quite a different one had gotten into its place. However, they begged him not to take it to heart, but to go and speak to the Man of Snow, and ask him to explain a little.

Mr. Downes thought for a minute, and then seeming to make up his mind to it, walked a few paces nearer to the Man of Snow, and this curious dialogue took place between them.

Mr. Downes: “Who art thou, oh, rude, familiar voice, who has usurped the place of the frosty Spirit of last night?”

Man of Snow: “Me the King of Lapland! speaky more respectful to him Snow-ball Majesty, Massa Down!”

Mr. Downes: “No Majesty of Snow hast thou, nor art thou Lapland’s king, nor ever wert, nor shalt be.”

Man of Snow: “Why you say so you Massa Gaffer man! Me come from own country Lapland late last night after supper.”

Mr. Downes: “What, then, for supper did the king of Lapland eat?”

Man of Snow: “Berry good supper to be sure--great supper in great big palace surrounded with orange trees and plantain and banana tree. Me have curried chicken plenty and hot rice with treacle, and a pineapple, and watermelon from own garden close by; and then me have chocolate, berry sweet. What you t’ink now, Massa Downes?”

Mr. Downes: “I think the King of Lapland dreams.”

Man of Snow: “What he dream of then?”

Mr. Downes: “He dreams that he had supper in some West Indian isle; for in Lapland no oranges, no pinies, no watermelons grow, no plantains, no banana.”

Man of Snow: “Me never say they did grow there.”

When the Man of Snow said this we all of us together cried out, “Oh! Oh!” meaning what a story he was telling.

Man of Snow: “Me never mean to say so. Me have great big hothouse, all glass, where fruit grow; and other t’ing me have brought over in fine large ship. Me very rich king; hab everything me wish.”

Mr. Downes: “Rich, dost thou say, in money or in land?”

Man of Snow: “In money, to be sure. Me have large chest full of gold--Lapland gold and guineas, too--my friend and brother, the King of England, send me; and me have plenty land, too. Large fields of rice--no, not rice; rice not grow in Lapland--me know dat very well. Me mean to say, large plantation of sugar cane.”

Mr. Downes: “Nor doth the sugar cane in Lapland grow.”

Man of Snow: “Me know that very well--me just going to say so. But me try to make him grow; me try to bring new tings into my country; me try to get horses and oxen, and sheep, and deer, and dogs, and many bullfrogs, and rattlesnakes. Me want to change scorpions and mosquitoes into butterflies and lady-birds. Me want to have all manner of fine house for fine birds--parrots and macaws, with green wings and scarlet tails and blue breasts, and topknots; and peacocks and birds of paradise and a great pond of gold and silver fishes. And me mean to build great big bamboo house for all these, twice as high as my head.”

As the Man of Snow said this, we all saw his head shake a little, as if he was in a great fuss with what he was thinking about doing; and we even thought we saw the upper part of the figure shake a little, and some pieces of snow began to crumble and fall. But he went on speaking again.

Man of Snow: “And me mean to have elephants and rhinoceroses and apes with long arms and blue noses. And me mean to build a house for elephants very large and very strong; so that when we catch wild elephant, he no can get out. He try, and try--but he can’t.”

Here we all saw the Man of Snow shake again.

Man of Snow: “Makey house all sides very strong bamboo. See him angry-trunk poke through the bars of cage--but all too fast and strong. He no can get out. Then he make trumpet noise with trunk, and him lilly cunning eye look so very angry; and then he run him head right against the front of cage to try and push him down! but it is all too strong, and he can’t--yet he push! and push!--and trumpet with trunk--and push! and, oh, Massa Down!”

As the Man of Snow uttered these words off rolled his head and broke into twenty pieces!--and the next instant the whole figure cracked, and opened in the middle and fell to pieces--and out rolled George Poole upon the snow, crying out: “Oh, Massa Down, why you no build him stronger?”

You may suppose how we all laughed. One of the young ladies almost went into a fit of laughing and most of us laughed till we had a pain at both sides of the face, and yet we were unable to stop.

Even Mr. Downes laughed; not at first, though; at first he made a very long face, then he began, “te! he! he!”--and “he! he! he!” till at last he went into “ha! ha! ha! Oh, dear me!”--and was obliged to sit down upon the snow and wipe his forehead to recover himself.

We all returned to the house very merrily laughing all the way. We brought the King of Lapland with us, for George had always been a favourite in the village. So we told the cook to give his Majesty a large basin of rice, milk, and sugar, and mamma sent him afterwards a large slice of plum cake, and a tumbler with some sugar and lemons. Papa requested Mr. Downes to come in to supper with us, but he said that he really must go home, as his granddaughter and the blackbird would think something had happened to him. Papa, however, would take no denial, so we made Mr. Downes come in, and then we sent a man for his granddaughter with a message that she was to bring the blackbird with her.

So, in a few minutes afterwards, in came a pretty little girl of ten years of age, with blue eyes and flaxen hair, and a complexion like a rose, bringing in her hand a large milk-white wicker cage with the blackbird sitting in the middle. He was as black as coal with a yellow bill, and oh! such a bright, black eye. He sat on his perch with his head bent on one side a little, then he jumped down to the bottom of the cage, and, poking his head between the bars, gave a look all round. He then hopped back into the middle of the cage, bowed very low and very quickly several times, and then hopped upon his perch with his tail toward us, but instantly whisked round, as if he was afraid somebody was going to touch his tail. Then he began to sing. He sang nearly all supper time, and flapped his black wings while we all stood up and drank the health of Mr. Gaffer Downes, the artist who had made the Man of Snow.

BUTTERWOPS

EDWARD ABBOTT PARRY

[Used by permission of the author.]

Once upon a time there was a black beetle named Butterwops. He was very old, very wise, and had seen a great deal of the world. He had lived in a number of different houses, and was said to know more about the various qualities of sugar than a blue-bottle, and to understand the ways of men better than a cricket. Therefore, it is not to be wondered at that he became the leader of a small army of beetles, who called him “The General.” He had a thick hoarse laugh, and could tell many tales, both fierce and merry, of battles he had fought against earwigs, cockroaches, and caterpillars. But for some time his laugh had not been heard, and he had been sad and melancholy, for his army were dying by the thousands, and if things went on in the way they were going, there would soon be not a single beetle left to listen to the tales of “The General.”

The kitchen he lived in had plenty to eat in it, and was warm and comfortable, with lots of cracks in the walls and ceiling to live in during the day; but lately the master of the house had taken to spreading yellow powder over the floor and the young beetles would eat it, and it disagreed with them and they died. This yellow powder, so Butterwops told me, smelled deliciously of sugar and cheese and all the young beetles, being greedy, ate it up wherever they could find it. What happened to them after they tasted it was this: as soon as they had three mouthfuls, they felt a bad pain underneath their shell, turned over on their backs, kicked a little and died, and in the morning the cook swept them up and threw them into the garden. No wonder that Butterwops felt sad. He himself never tasted anything unless he had seen another beetle try it first and had watched him walk about for quite five minutes. That is how he came to live to be old and became general; but he told nobody about that, keeping it a secret.

Butterwops had a great-grandson called little Jimmy. He was very lively and adventurous, and was always trotting across the floor in the daytime to frighten the cook; so it is a wonder he had lived as long as he had. He did not eat the yellow powder, for he was an obedient little beetle, and always did what Butterwops told him to do. As he ran about so much in the daytime he was generally the first to hear the news, and one day, about this time, he came to Butterwops and told him that the house on the other side of the street was rented, and he had seen some people moving into it while he was sitting on the window-sill in the gloaming on Thursday evening, which was the cook’s night out.

“Fancy that!” said Butterwops. “Why I used to live in that house when I was a tiny little beetle just your size. It’s a grand old house. Not a skirting board within half an inch of the floor, cracks in all the walls and holes in the plaster. I wonder what sort of people are living in it.”

“Newly married people,” said little Jimmy, “whatever that may mean. I heard the cook say so, and the policeman told her about it.”

“Ah!” said Butterwops, rubbing his hind legs together thoughtfully; “newly married people. They will do for us. They will have lots of sugar and leave it about, and then they will get some children to live with them, and the children won’t eat fat and will make crumbs all over the floors; there will be lots to eat. We shall move.”

That night “The General” called all the beetles round him after the cook had rolled the rug up and had gone to bed, and, sitting on the heel of one of the master’s boots which were drying on the fender, explained to all the beetles that they must move across the road. “For,” said he, “there is a newly married couple over the way. Now this kind of human being eats little else than sugar, and knows nothing of the ways of the world or the habits of the beetle. Their hearts are full of kindliness, and believing others to be as good as they are, they leave the best food in the easiest places. So happy are they together, that they would not interfere with the happiness of others, even though they are black and wear shells. With them we may live for many years in health and comfort, whereas, here we die by tens and twenties every night. Arise, therefore, and follow me carefully and quickly. But when you are on the pavements in the road listen carefully for the tread of the policeman. If he comes among us while we are on the pavements he will kill many of us, for policemen have bigger feet than any other kind of men; only, luckily, they wear squeaky boots so that they may be heard coming a long way off. Now follow me and remember what I have said.”

So speaking he crawled off the boot, down across the floor, under the scullery door, along the garden walk, across the pavements, in at the opposite gateway, round to the back door of the other house; and in half an hour Butterwops, little Jimmy, and two hundred and forty-nine of the beetles were safe in their new house, having crossed the road with the loss of only three beetles. Two tumbled down a drain, and a third lost his way in trying to make a short cut across a flower bed.

They all set to work to get comfortable in their new quarters, and Butterwops, who liked to be near the fire, found a crack in the wall on top of the oven where they dried the wood. From this place of safety, he could come out and walk about among the warm wood and enjoy the heat, and yet run away on the first alarm.

“This is capital,” he said, as he sat warming himself and watching twenty-five beetles climbing into the sugar basin at once; “this is peace and quiet, and here we shall be very happy.”

As for the master of the old house they had lived in, he was very happy too, and wrote and told the man from whom he had bought the yellow powder: “Your powder has killed all the beetles in my house.” And the man who sold the powder printed that in all the newspapers, and other people bought it; but it did not kill all their beetles, and that made them angry. Now if they read this story they will know how it really happened.

Although, as I have said, the house itself was very old, and suitable for beetles in every respect, yet all the things in the house were new, and perhaps the newest thing of all was the young servant, who seemed rather jealous of the other new things and often broke them. At present they had no cat, and as there was no one else to blame, the new mistress scolded the new servant, and then they both cried; especially if it happened, as it often did, that what was broken was a wedding present. However, the mistress was far too happy to be angry for long, and too proud of all the beautiful pots and pans in the kitchen, which she loved better than any of the lovely furniture in the drawing-room, to keep away from them for many hours. Besides, the young servant did not know much about anything, and the mistress used to help her to cook, and especially to get the master’s tea ready when he came home. Indeed, in spite of the breakages, they were all very happy. The mistress used to go about the house singing brightly and cheerfully; while the young servant had four lumps of sugar in her tea and a large slice of cake with it every night, so that she was quite happy, although singing was out of the question. As for the master, you had only to see him running up the house steps to see how glad he was to get home again after his day’s work.

And dear old Butterwops! Why, it did his kind heart good to see so much happiness. The food was left about in easy places, and the larder door was always wide open so that you did not have to scrape your shell getting underneath it. It was a grand place for beetles, and Butterwops told them that if they kept quiet during the day and came out only at night, things would go well with them. Indeed, I have no doubt it would have been as he said, if they had only obeyed his instructions; but beetles, like children, sometimes forget to do what they are told.

Little Jimmy, for instance, was never happy unless he was frightening womenkind, and one afternoon three or four days after they had arrived, when the mistress and her servant were getting tea ready, he scuttled across the room, helter-skelter, right under their eyes. The girl saw him first and threw the toasting fork on to the best tea-things, breaking two cups and saucers with it; she bounded on to a chair, pulled her skirts tight round her legs and screamed out, “Beetles! Black ones.”

In a moment the mistress dropped the kettle, which nearly crushed little Jimmy, and jumped on to the table herself, screaming louder than the servant. Little Jimmy could hardly get under the skirting board, he was laughing so, and old Butterwops, looking out cautiously from the wood pile grunted to himself, “Little Jimmy again,” for he knew who must have done it as soon as he heard the women screaming.

How long the two ladies might have stayed there screaming before they would have dared to step down on to the floor again I do not know, but the master of the house came in just then, and hearing the cause of the trouble laughed aloud and said. “If there are beetles, I will get a beetle trap.” And he did so.

That night he brought one into the kitchen, and before they went to bed he and his wife mixed up a dose of treacle and sugar and put it in the trap and left the trap on the floor. Butterwops was looking on all the time from out of the wood pile, and he laughed all down the back of his shell at them. He had seen that kind of beetle trap before. It was a box of wood, with sloping sides to walk up and a sort of inkstand in the middle, leading to the sugar and treacle. When you walk up the sides, you smelled the mixture and if you went to the edge of the glass inkstand, you stepped in and got drowned. There was no getting out of it.

That night Butterwops was very anxious about the other beetles, for he knew what duffers they were, so he got down right away and sat on the edge of the trap and told them all about it. As the master of the house had been foolish enough to leave the sugar and treacle on the table, no one bothered about the trap. They had a merry feast, only spoilt by one giddy young beetle tumbling head first into the treacle pot, and there the master found him when he came down to light the fire. When he found nothing in the trap, and the dead beetle in the treacle pot on the table, he seemed very angry and threw both treacle and trap out of the scullery window, across the garden into the ashpit.

“To-night,” he said, “we will have a hedge-hog!”

Butterwops, who had stuck his head out of his crack to see what was going on, drew it back quickly and shuddered at this, for he knew what hedge-hogs were. His grandfather had been eaten by one in a garden close to the house, and he had heard they were terrible fellows for catching beetles, as indeed they are.

Sure enough, that night the master brought home a hedge-hog, a little prickly round ball in a basket. He unrolled himself by the fire and had a cup of milk.

“Let us call him Curlywig,” said the mistress, as she poured out the milk; “he is such a little darling. See him drink.”

So they called him Curlywig; but he paid no attention to them, and curled up on the rug and went to sleep.

That night Butterwops did not come down from the fireplace, but looked out from the wood pile in great trouble. When all his army of beetles were creeping and crawling over the floor, picking up food and having a rare good time, he kept shouting out from the edge of a log: “Do go home! Do go in! There’s a hedge-hog in the corner.”

But some of the beetles went close to Curlywig to look at him, and came back and said to Butterwops: “Nonsense, it’s only a mop-head. You are growing old and nervous, General. Go to bed and let us eat in peace.”

Almost as soon as they had spoken, Curlywig unrolled himself, and darting here and there and everywhere, went round the room cracking up beetles furiously while poor old Butterwops sat wringing his feelers and crying out from the wood pile: “I told you so! I told you so!”

From that time onwards, there was no peace for beetles. If one put his head up above a crack in the floor, Curlywig was on to him and he was snapped up. In three days, one hundred and four beetles had been eaten, and the rest were all starving. Butterwops himself had not tasted bite or sup all the time, and you could hear little Jimmy crying behind the skirting board that he had nothing to eat and was very hungry.

How long this might have gone on no one can say, but at last Butterwops hit on a bright idea, and the next night as soon as the people of the house were in bed, he came to the edge of the wood pile and said to the hedge-hog: “Mr. Curlywig, sir!”

Curlywig looked up, and seeing a beetle, snapped his jaws at him but said nothing.

“Mr. Curlywig, sir, can you explain to me why you are here?”

“To eat beetles, I suppose. What better job can you have? I’d eat you if you would come down, though you look rather old and tough, and there are lots of young ones left yet.”

“Ah, but I sha’n’t come down, thank you,” said Butterwops, smiling blandly. “I suppose,” he continued, as if he was merely thinking it out, “you don’t know what it is like to be eaten, do you?”

“Not I,” said Curlywig, “How should I?”

“No, of course not,” said Butterwops. “Poor little fellow, how should he! It seems a cruel shame to bring him here for that. Poor little fellow!”

“Who is a poor little fellow?” asked Curlywig, rather angrily.

“That’s what the mistress said, while you were asleep,” said Butterwops, innocently, “as she was making the pie-crust. She said, ‘Poor little fellow, I hope they won’t hurt him skinning him!’”

Curlywig shivered in every prickle. “Who is to be skinned?” he snapped out, looking round nervously.

“The cookery book was open at Hedge-hog Tart,” went on Butterwops, quite coolly, as though he was talking about the weather, “and the servant said at the rate you were eating beetles she thought you would be fat enough by to-morrow.”

“Dear me! dear me!” said Curlywig; “what wicked things these men are. I remember now when the master of the house bought me, he said: ‘Lean little beggar this, but he’ll soon fatten up at our house for we are full of black beetles,’ What wretches they are! What shall I do?”

“As far as I can learn,” continued Butterwops, “it is done like this. You take a young hedge-hog, the fatter the better, first remove the prickles and skin quickly----”

“Do be quiet,” groaned Curlywig, rolling himself up into a ball. “What shall I do? What shall I do?”

“That is to say,” said Butterwops, “that is how it is done if they decide on tart. If it’s to be curry you won’t be skinned, only then you will catch it hotter in the saucepan.”

“Shut up!” shouted Curlywig, running round the kitchen table in despair. “Oh my poor prickles! What shall I do?”

“Well, if I were you,” continued the General, calmly, “I do not think I should stay on, but do not go on my account. You might squeeze under the scullery door if you wanted to, or you may stay and be eaten and I have no doubt you will look as handsome in a tart as you do out of it. But after all, handsome is as handsome does, and the real question is what will you taste like. Now you will never know, but I shall hear all about it. Yes,” chuckled Buttercups, “I shall hear all about it.”

Curlywig was now galloping round the room mad with terror, shouting out: “Oh, my poor prickles! Oh, my poor prickles!”

Butterwops continued slowly as though he was addressing a dear friend. “I am really very sorry for you, but don’t worry so much. They are going to put some steak and kidney in the pie, so you will have company; and I dare say being baked is not bad, though I fear you won’t like the skinning, especially this chilly weather. But it will soon be over, and once inside the oven you will be warm again in a jiffy.”

Curlywig did not hear all this. He had heard enough. The foolish fellow believed every word Butterwops said to him, and when he came to the word skinning, Curlywig uttered a wild shriek and away he fled underneath the scullery door, across the garden, out into the fields beyond the church, where he hid in a dry ditch for three days, and dared not move out for fear the people of the house were hunting him.

Then the beetles had peace and grew up with the children who came to stay at that house, and cleaned up the floors, and kept out of sight as much as might be. Even little Jimmy grew wiser and gave up frightening the mistress. No one ever heard of Curlywig any more. And everyone in that house, from the master of it down to little Jimmy, lived happily ever afterwards.

This much more there is to tell: that if you can make friends with a black beetle you should get him to tell you stories of Butterwops. And this any good beetle will do willingly, for there never has been such a General as he was before or since. But of all the many tales of his valour and wisdom, there is none they love to tell better than the story of how he outwitted Curlywig the Hedge-hog. “That,” as little Jimmy said at a dinner given by all the beetles to their General to celebrate Curlywig’s flight, “is a story fit to be written in letters of Treacle on the Skirting Boards of Time.” (Adapted.)

FINIKIN AND HIS GOLDEN PIPPINS

MADAME DE CHATELAINE

In a quiet little village surrounded by woods, there once lived a poor couple who owned nothing in the world but their cottage which sheltered them and a bit of ground where a few vegetables grew. They were blessed with two pretty little twin boys, much alike in face, though very different in character. One was a tidy, diligent, active little fellow, whom, on account of his delicate beauty, his mother used to call Finikin. The other was an idle, careless child, who always loitered if sent on an errand, and grumbled when asked to do any kind of work. This one the mother called Winikin.

The father earned a little money by going out to work as a day labourer. As long as he remained hale and hearty, he managed to provide for the wants of his family. But one summer he fell ill, and as they were too poor to buy good food and medicine he grew worse and worse, till at length his recovery seemed almost hopeless.

One day the patient wife thought of a good old hermit who lived in the neighboring forest, and who often gave advice to the poor cottagers. He had cured many a one with medicine made from plants and other homely remedies. She, therefore, called her boys and bade them go and ask the hermit what could be done for their sick father.

“The good man may send you to gather healing plants,” she said, “such as he often points out to the villagers. Be sure to follow his directions carefully and above all, do not loiter on the way.” She divided a rye-cake between them, to eat by the way, and off started the two boys for the forest. No sooner had they reached it than they saw from afar an old huntsman smoking his pipe under a tree.

“Oh!” cried Winikin, forgetting his mother’s caution, “there is old Roger! Let’s go to him instead of to the hermit. He always tells us such pleasant stories.”

“But father is very sick and mother told us not to loiter on the way,” said Finikin.

“Surely,” said Winikin, “Roger’s advice will be as good as the hermit’s. I shall not go any farther.”

So Finikin trudged on alone to the good old man’s cell where he found him making medicine from herbs he had gathered in the forest.

“Good hermit,” said Finikin eagerly, “will you not give me some of your medicine for my sick father?”

“I will, indeed,” said the old man. “But my child there is something more than these herbs needed to cure your father; and it must be fetched from a long distance.”

“I will go anywhere for it,” declared Finikin, quickly.

“Then my son,” replied the hermit, “you must go to a garden five or six miles off. None but little children like yourself can enter; therefore, it would be of no use if I or any other grown person attempted to go with you. This garden is situated on top of a cluster of high rocks. Should you have the perseverance to reach it, you will find it full of trees, bearing all kinds of fruit which several little boys always keep gathering. You must ask them to give you some golden pippins for your father. If they consent all will be well; but if they try to keep you to play with them, you must not stay, for the hours would pass so quickly, that your father might die before you returned.”

Finikin listened very carefully. “Please tell me the way to this wonderful garden,” he said.

The hermit opened the door at the back of his cell, which led to a small piece of ground where he grew his vegetables. He showed Finikin a kind of tunnel hollowed out in a grotto through which he could see a distant view of green meadows and blue mountains, and told him that way would lead him in the right direction. He then described carefully all the objects the lad was to pass on the road, and told him above all things neither to idle as he went along nor listen to anyone who should offer to show him a shorter way. Finikin promised he would not, and thanking the hermit, lost no time in starting off to find the wonderful garden where the golden pippins grew.

Winikin, meanwhile, after losing at least half an hour talking to the old huntsman, and playing with his dog, suddenly thought how heartless he had been, and asked Roger to tell what he had better do to help his father to get well.

“Do not stand idling here, youngster, for one thing,” said Roger; “and next go and ask advice of the hermit, who knows better than anyone else what can be done to save your father!”

“Oh! but my brother has gone there, so it is of no use for me to go too,” said Winikin; “and he is too far for me to catch him, so please tell me something else I can do instead!”