Читать книгу: «Hoodie», страница 8
CHAPTER VIII.
HOODIE'S FOUNDLING
"I almost think a robin
To a fairy I prefer."
Hoodie gazed round her condescendingly.
"I've such lots of stories in my head," she said. "They knock against each other. Well – I think I'll tell you a story of two little goblins. They lived in a star, and they were just e'zackly like each other. As like as two pins, or as like as a pin is to itself if you look at it in the looking-glass. They lived all alone in the star, and all day they stayed asleep like we do all night, but all night they were awake like we are all day, 'cos you see all day the star was shut up – like a shop, you know, only with curtains all round – all the stars are shut up like that all day, you know, and at night the moon wakes up and sends round to draw the curtains, and all the stars come out, rubbing their eyes."
"They hasn't any hands – how can they rub their eyes?" objected Duke.
"You silly boy," said Hoodie, very sharply. "How do you know? You've never been in the stars."
"But you hasn't neither," he persisted.
"Never mind. I know, and if I didn't I couldn't tell you. That's how people can tell stories. Well, the stars come out, lots and lots of them, and go running about all night, and then in the morning the moon sends round to draw all the curtains again and they're all to go to sleep."
"But some nights the moon isn't there and the stars are there without her. How is that, Hoodie?" said Cousin Magdalen, rather mischievously.
"You think so 'cos you don't know; but I do," said Hoodie, nodding her head sagaciously. "The moon's alvays there, only sometimes she has a cold, and then she wraps up her white face in a shawl and you can't see her."
There was a twinkle of fun in Hoodie's green eyes as she said this that showed her cousin that her little teasing was understood.
"Oh, indeed," she said, gravely, "I did not know. Thank you, Hoodie, for explaining to me."
"And so," continued Hoodie, "the goblins never saw anything of day things, but they saw very funny things at night when they went sailing about on the star."
"Stars don't go sailing about," objected Maudie. "They're always quite still."
"They're not then," said Hoodie: "that shows you don't listen, Maudie. I heard Papa say one day that the stars are going as fast as fast, only they go so fast that we can't see them."
"What nonsense! Isn't it nonsense, Cousin Magdalen?" pleaded Maudie.
"No," said Miss King. "It is true they are moving faster than we can even fancy, but the reason we can't see them moving isn't exactly what Hoodie says."
"What is it then?"
"I can't explain it to you just now – it would not be very easy for you to understand, and if I explained it, it would take too much time and we shouldn't hear the rest of Hoodie's story. I think we should let poor Hoodie go on with her story now without interrupting her any more."
Hoodie required no further bidding.
"Well," she said, "all night long the goblins went sailing about in the star, and sometimes they saw very funny things. They were up so high that they could look down and see everything, you know. They could see the big ponds up in the sky where the rain is made, and the awful big windmills up there where the wind blows from, and the cannons that bum the thunder down."
"Could they – ?" began Duke, timidly, and then he stopped.
"Could they what?" said Hoodie, rather snappishly. "If peoples interrumpt, I wish they'd finish their interrumpting, and not stop in the middle."
"I didn't like to say it," said Duke. "I only wanted to know if they could see right into the middle of the sky where the angels are."
"No," said Hoodie, decidedly, "they couldn't. They was goblins; they wasn't angels at all, so they didn't want to see angels. It isn't that kind of story, Duke – I'll tell you one like that another day – Sunday perhaps. Now I want to go on about the goblins. What they liked best was to peep into the windows and look at people, and play them tricks sometimes. They was awful fond of playing tricks; goblins always is. But sometimes they gets tricks played them, and that's what my story's about. There was a window up in a house that they wanted to look in at, but they couldn't ever get quite high enough up, 'cos the window was at the top of the house, you see. It was the window of a witch, but the goblins didn't know that. She was a witch that lived all alone, and there wasn't anything she cared for except playing tricks, she was always playing tricks. She knowed the goblins wanted to peep in at her window, she knowed everything, 'cos that's what it means to be a witch, that and playing tricks. And she set herself to play a trick on the goblins – a reg'lar good trick, 'cos she didn't see what they was always wanting to peep in at her window for."
Hoodie paused for a moment to take breath.
"I wonder what the trick was," whispered Duke and Hec under their breath, evidently very much impressed.
"Yes, you may wonder," said Hoodie, majestically. "You'd never guess. Not in a milliond guesses. Well then, one night when the goblins was twisting and turning theirselves about on the very edge of the star, trying to peep in at the window, all of a suddent the witch's house turned right round, so that the window came to the side instead of up at the top, and one of the goblins gave a great jump and screamed out to the other – "'I say, brother, we can see into the witch's house now.'"
"But you said the goblins didn't know it was a witch that lived there," said Maudie.
"Well, they didn't know at first, but when they saw the house turned round, of course they knowed it must be a witch that lived there. Nobody else could turn their house round," said Hoodie, composedly. "And so they both screamed, they were so pleased, and all the time the witch was settling about the trick she'd play them. Now I must tell you what the trick was. The witch wasn't all a bad witch – she was a little good too, and there was a little girl lived in the room next to her that liked her very much, 'cos the witch was very good to her and used to tell her funny stories. And that was why the witch didn't want the goblins to peep into her room, 'cos she thought perhaps they'd steal away the little girl for a trick, for she was very often in the witch's room, and goblins is awful fond of stealing children and taking them up into the stars to live with them, so she – the witch, I mean – was sure that they'd try to steal her little girl once they saw her. So when the little girl came to see her that night, she made her go to bed in a nice little bed she'd made for her, and told her she was to be quite still, for perhaps a' ogre was coming to see her. The little girl was a little frightened but not very, for she knowed the witch would take care of her even though she knowed the witch had got very funny friends, ogres you know, and black cats that was really fairies, and all creatures like that – it's rather a dedful story, isn't it? – but you needn't be frightened, Duke and Hec, it'll come unfrightening soon. And so the little girl got into the little bed and cuddled herself up just like the witch had told her. And the goblins came sailing and sailing up on the star; they was working it like, to make it go quick you know, like a boat with men oaring it you know, and they was oaring and oaring so hard, they was as hot as hot. And at last they got the star right up to the edge of the window, but they made a little noise and the little girl was startled and jumped up in bed, just what the witch had not wanted her to do, and the goblins when they saw her forgot all about the witch and called out, 'Oh what a nice little girl to steal,' and they were just going to jump in and catch her up and steal her, when – what do you think? – the witch jumped out of the corner where she had been watching them and caught hold of them fast, one in each hand, and put them – where do you think? – one into each of the little girl's eyes! And they couldn't ever get out again, for there's a fine little glass lid in people's eyes that nobody could open but a witch, and she shut it down on them tight, and there they were; they couldn't do anything but peep out, and there they were for always, peeping out."
"But didn't it hurt the little girl?" asked Maudie. "It would hurt dreadfully to have the least thing put in your eye."
"Oh no," said Hoodie, "it didn't hurt her – not a bit – she just thought a fly had tickled her eyes, and she winkled them, and the witch said to her, 'You may come out of bed now, my dear. The ogre won't be coming to-night.' And so the little girl got out of bed, and when she came up to the witch, the witch looked at her and laughed, and the little girl couldn't think what she was laughing at, and she never knowed about the goblins being in her eyes till one day when her little brother was playing with her, he peeped in her face and said, 'I see two goblins in your eyes.'"
"That was me," exclaimed Duke. "It was one day I looked in Hoodie's eyes and I saw two goblings in 'zem, I did. Hoodie's made the story about me."
"I hasn't," said Hoodie, indignantly. "I've got stories enough without making them about silly little boys like you. Of course you saw the goblins in mine eyes – there's goblins in every little girl's eyes ever since the witch put them into her little girl's. It's comed to be the fashion, and now you know how it was, and that's the end of the story."
"Thank you for telling it, Hoodie," said Magdalen. "We're all very much obliged to you, and another day I hope you'll tell us some more. Now Duke and Hec, are your stories ready?"
Hec looked exceedingly solemn.
"I only know one," he said; "Duke knows lots."
"Well, which of you is going to begin?"
"Hec," said Duke.
"Duke," said Hec.
"Mine isn't ready," said Duke. "Hec, you begin. If you only know one it must be always ready."
"Mine's only about a little dog," began Hec, modestly. "It was a little dog that had only three legs."
"Only three legs!" exclaimed Magdalen. "My dear Hec, are you sure you haven't made a mistake?"
"Sure," said Hec, "the housemaid had broke its leg off a long time ago, when she was dusting the mantelpiece, so the Mamma gave it to the little boy because it was spoilt for the drawing-room. And the little boy was very fond of it – it was made of hard stuff, you know, all white and shiny, and it had blue eyes. It was very pretty. Martin told me the story. She knowed the little boy. And one day the little boy lostened the little dog. He always had it on the nursery table at breakfast and dinner and tea; and he used to 'atend to feed it. Sometimes he put it on the edge of his plate, and sometimes if he 'atended it was 'firsty he put it on the edge of the milk-jug. And one day he lostened it. It was there at the beginning of tea he was sure, but at the end it wasn't there. And he looked and looked and looked but he couldn't find it; and the nurse looked and looked, but she couldn't find it. So the little boy cried. He cried dedfully, but he couldn't find it. And the nurse was vexed 'cos he wouldn't stop crying. She wasn't as kind as Martin. So he had to go to bed crying, and the next morning when he got up he cried again for his little doggie. And his Mamma said she would buy him another, but he didn't care for that. He said he wouldn't like any but his own dear doggie with only three legs. Well, that day they had rice-pudding for dinner. The little boy kept crying even when he was eating his dinner, and they zeally didn't know what to do with him. But what do you think came? He put some pudding in his mouf, and there was some'sing hard. He thought it was a stone, and he feeled to see what it was, and it was his little dog that had been cooked in the pudding – aczhally cooked in the pudding."
"Like Tom Thumb," said Magdalen. "Yes, it was very funny. But it must have been a very little dog, Hec, to go in the little boy's mouth?"
"Oh yes, littler than Martin's fimble. She showed me," said Hec. "It was quite a little wee doggie. And Martin said it had got into the pudding, 'cos it had been on the edge of the milk-jug and had felled in, and so it went down to the kitchen in the milk-jug, and the cook had put the milk that was over, to make a pudding. The little boy was so dedfully glad, you can't fancy. He never lostened the little dog again, Martin said, and he said he would keep it till he was a big man. That's all my story."
"Thank you, dear. You've told it very nicely. Hasn't he?" said Miss King.
"Very nicely," said Maudie.
But Hoodie tossed her head rather contemptuously.
"I like stories that peoples make out of their own heads," she said.
"So do I," said Duke. "I've been making mine while Hec was telling his; I didn't need to listen, for I've heard the story of the little dog before. Now, I'll tell you mine. Onst there was a ogre that lived in a castle, and the castle was on the top of a big, big hill – such a awfully big hill that nobody could ever get up it – not the biggest person that ever was made couldn't get up it."
"How did the ogre get up it then?" said Hoodie.
"He didn't. He'd always been there and he had a' ogre's wife to cook his dinner, and he had a – a – oh yes, I know, he had a awful big billiard-table, and he used to use little boys' heads for the balls," continued Duke, his eyes wandering round the room for inspiration as he proceeded. "And," he went on, as he caught sight of a large mirror at the end of the room, "he was so big he couldn't get any plates big enough for him to eat off, so he used to have big looking-glasses for plates, and – and – he had a coal-box for a salt-cellar, and when he had a' egg for breakfast he had the shovel for a' egg spoon, and – and – the white muslin curtains was his pocket-hankerwitches, and – " here Duke came to a dead stop, but another gaze round the room provided fresh material, "and," he proceeded energetically, "the Venetian blind sticks was his matches, and his ogre's wife used to wash his hankerwitches in a lake, and that was his basin; and for soup she used a – oh I don't know what she had for soup – never mind that. But she had beautiful big earrings," his eyes at this moment happening to catch sight of Magdalen's side-face, "beautiful big earrings made of two shiny glass and goldy things for candles, like that one hanging up there, and – "
"You're just making a rubbish story, Duke," said Maudie. "You just put in whatever you see. I don't call that a proper story at all. Is it, Cousin Magdalen?"
"You're very unkind, Maudie," said Duke, dolefully, before Magdalen had time to reply. "It isn't a rubbish story. I was just going to tell you about one day when the ogre was very hungry – "
"Well, what did he do?"
"Well," repeated Duke, somewhat mollified, "one day when the ogre was very hungry, he couldn't find nothing to eat, and he said to his wife, 'Ogre's wife, I'll eat you, if you don't get me somefin to eat too-dreckly.' And his ogre's wife cried, and she said she'd go to the green-baker's and see if she couldn't get somefin for he to eat."
"Go to the where, Duke?" said Magdalen, looking up from her work.
"To the green-baker's, that's where they sell apples and pears and p'ums," said Duke.
Maudie burst out laughing.
"He means the green-grocer's," she said. "Oh, Duke, how funny you are!"
"And how could the ogre's wife go and buy him things at shops if they were up on the top of a hill so big that nobody could get down?"
"Oh," replied Duke, "'cos there was andnother hill just a very little way off that they could get on quite easily, like steps, and there was lots of shops on the nother hill – all kinds."
"All shops for ogreses?" inquired Hec timidly.
"No, in course not. Shops for proper people. But when the ogre's wife went to buy somefin for him to eat she had to buy a whole shop-ful – lots and lots – but I zink I've toldened you enough for to-day. I must make some more up first."
"Very well, dear, perhaps it will be better, and thank you for what you've told us to-day," said Cousin Magdalen, beginning to fold up her work. "I must try now to get my letter written before luncheon. I hope it's not going to rain all the afternoon."
One or two of the children ran to the window, as she spoke, to examine the state of the clouds. Suddenly, as they stood there, something, a small dark thing, was seen to fall or flutter to the ground, a short way off.
"What was that?" said Hoodie, whose quick eyes always saw things before any one else.
"What?" said Duke deliberately.
"Didn't you see something fall, stupid boy?" said Hoodie politely.
"Yes, I saw somefin, but perhaps it was only a leaf."
"But perhaps it wasn't only a leaf," said Hoodie impatiently. "There now, look there, don't you see it's moving? Over there by the little fat tree with the spiky leaves – oh, oh, oh! It's a bird – a poor little innicent bird – that's felled out of a netst," screamed Hoodie, in tremendous excitement, which always upset her English. "Oh, Cousin Magdalen, quick, quick! open the door, do, do, and let Hoodie go and fetcht the poor little bird."
She danced about with impatience, her eyes streaming – for in curious contrast with Hoodie's scant affection for her fellow human beings was her immense tenderness and devotion towards dumb animals of every kind. She "would not hurt a fly" would have very poorly described her feelings. She had been known to nurse a maimed bluebottle for a week, getting up in the night to give it fresh crumbs of sugar – she had cried for two days and a half after accidentally seeing the last struggles of a chicken which the cook had killed for dinner, and had she clearly understood that the mutton-chops she was so fond of were really the ribs of "a poor sweet little sheep," I am quite sure mutton-chops would in future have been cooked in vain for Hoodie.
Cousin Magdalen had not hitherto seen much of this side of the little girl's character, and she looked at her with some surprise, not sure if there was a mixture of temper in all these dancings-about and callings-out. But she came quickly across the room all the same, to the window, or glass door rather, where all the children were now assembled —
"What is it?" she said. "Hoodie, dear, why do you get into such a fuss?"
"'Cos I want to go out and pick up the little bird, poor little innicent thing, that's felled out of the tree. Oh, Maudie's godmother, do open the door – quick, quick, and let me out," said Hoodie, still dancing about. "The bird will be lying there thinking that nobody cares."
Magdalen quietly unfastened the door, which was bolted high up, out of the children's reach, and led the way out into the shrubbery. The rain had left off, but it had warmed rather than chilled the spring morning air, and a delicious scent of freshened earth met the little party as they came out of the billiard-room. Magdalen would have liked to stand still for a moment and look about her, and enjoy the sweet air, and listen to the pretty soft garden sounds – the crisp crunch of the heavy roller which the men were drawing over the damp gravel of the drive, the voices, further off, of the school children running home, for it was twelve o'clock, – prettier still, the faint cackles from the poultry-yard, and the twitterings, gradually waking up, of the birds, whose spirits had been depressed by the heavy rain – but where Hoodie was, such lingerings by the way must never be thought of! The child darted out the moment the door was opened, and rushed across the grass-plot just in front – heedless of the soaking to which this exposed her feet and legs up to her knees, for the grass hereabouts was allowed to grow wild, and in the corners near the wall was mixed with coarse ferns and bracken, through all of which Hoodie determinedly ploughed her way.
"Oh dear," exclaimed poor Magdalen, "how silly I was to open the door! Just look at Hoodie, Maudie. She will be perfectly drenched. Martin really will have reason to think I am not fit to take care of you."
"And she has her best house shoes on," said Maudie, lugubriously. "Martin put them on when she made us neat to come down to you, Cousin Magdalen, because one of her common ones wanted stitching up at the side, and Martin always says mirocco shoes never are the same again after they get soaked."
"I must go after her, at all costs," said Magdalen, lifting up her long skirts as well as she could to prevent their getting any more than their share of drenching. "Now, Duke and Hec, stay where you are, whatever you do, or better still, go back into the billiard-room. I trust you, Maudie, to take care of them. I am afraid their feet are wet already."
"Yes, and Hec gets croup when his feet are wet," replied Maudie, consolingly. "Never mind though, Cousin Magdalen. I'll take him in, and take off his shoes and stockings by the fire and dry them."
"Thank you, dear," said Magdalen, at the bottom of her heart, though she would not have said so to the children, considerably relieved that Martin need not be summoned to the rescue. "She would really feel that I could not be trusted with them, and it would be such a pity, just when I wanted so much to be of use and to help Beatrice." (Beatrice was the name of the children's mother.)
It was no very pleasant business following Hoodie across the long, soppy grass; even if one were quite careless of the effect on one's clothes, the soaking of one's feet and ankles was disagreeable, to say the least. But Magdalen faced it bravely, and found herself at last beside her troublesome charge. Hoodie, not content with having thoroughly drenched her fat little legs and feet in their pretty clothing of open-work socks and "mirocco" slippers, was actually down on her knees in the wet grass, tenderly stroking the ruffled feathers of the little bird whose misfortunes had aroused her sympathy, while tears poured down her face, and her voice was broken with sobs as, looking up, she saw her cousin, and cried out – "Oh, Maudie's godmother, him's dead. The innicent little sweet. I do believe him's dead, or just going to deaden. I daren't lift him up. Oh dear, oh dear!"
It was impossible to scold her – her grief was so real; so with one rueful glance at the destruction already wrought on the nice blue merino frock and frilled muslin pinafore, Magdalen set to work to soothe and comfort the excited little girl.
"Hush, Hoodie dear," she said. "You really mustn't cry so, even if the poor little bird is dead."
"But Hoodie can't help it, for you know, Maudie's godmother, little birds doesn't go to heaven when they's dead – not like good people, you know, so I can't help crying."
To this reason for Hoodie's tears Magdalen thought it best to make no reply, but she stooped down and carefully lifted up the little bird. It was a pretty little creature – its wings and breast marked with delicately shaded colour, though just now the feathers were ruffled and disordered – a very young bird; and Magdalen's country-bred eyes recognized it at once as a greenfinch.
"Poor little birdie," she said gently, as she held it up to examine it more closely. "I wonder if its troubles are really over," she added to herself softly, not wishing to rouse Hoodie's hopes before she was sure of grounds for them. "No – it is not dead. It certainly is not – only stunned and terrified. Hoodie, the little bird is not dead. Leave off crying dear, and look at it. See, its little heart is beating quite plainly – there now, it is moving its wings. I don't think it is even much, or at all hurt."
Hoodie drew near, her tear-stained cheeks all glowing with eagerness, holding her breath just as she did when her father for a great treat let her peep into the works of his watch.
"Him's not dead," she exclaimed. "Oh, Cousin Magdalen, are you sure him's not dead? Oh, what can we do to make him quite well again?"
She clasped her hands together with intense eagerness, and looked up in Magdalen's face as if her very life hung upon her words.
"It must have fallen out of the nest," said Magdalen, looking up as she spoke at some of the trees near where they stood. "Still it seemed fully fledged, and it should be quite able to fly – most likely its parents suppose it is out in the world on its own account by now, and even if we could find the nest, it is pretty sure to be deserted."
"You won't put it back in the netst, Cousin Magdalen – you don't mean that? It wouldn't have nothing to eat, and it would die," said Hoodie, the tears welling up again, for she hardly understood what her cousin was saying.
"No, dear. I don't think it would be any good putting it back in the nest, and it would be very difficult to know which was its nest, there must be so many up in those trees," said Magdalen. "Besides, as you say, it wouldn't get anything to eat, for if all its brothers and sisters have flown away, the parent birds will not return to the nest. No, I think we had better take it into the house and take care of it till it gets quite strong. See, Hoodie, it is beginning to get out of its fright and to look about it."
"The darling," said Hoodie, ecstatically. "It's cocking up its sweet little head as if it wanted me to kiss it. Oh, dear Cousin Magdalen, isn't it sweet? Do let me carry it into the house."
But Magdalen told her it was better to leave the bird for the present in her handkerchief, which she had made into a comfortable little nest for it, "till we can find a cage for it; there is sure to be an empty cage of some kind about the house. And then we must see if your mother will give you leave to keep it for a while."
"For alvays!" said Hoodie. "I must keep it for alvays, Maudie's godmother. Maudie has two calanies in a cage, so I might have one bird – mightn't I, Cousin Magdalen?"
"We'll ask your mother," repeated Magdalen, afraid of committing herself to a child like Hoodie, who never, under any circumstances, forgot anything in the shape of a promise that was made to her, or had the least mercy on any unfortunate "big person" that showed any signs of "crying off" from such.
