Sam was in high spirits; he had had a big catch. He and his mate and two lads commenced to unload their fish into carts, as the tide was too low to float the fishing boat up to the quay. The boat was full of herrings.
But, good luck or bad luck, Sam never failed to throw a handful of herrings to Susan.
“Here’s for the two old girls and a hot supper! Catch them, Susan! Honest now! Here’s a broken fish for you! Now take the others to Betsy.”
The ducks were dabbling and gobbling; the seagulls were screaming and swooping. Susan climbed the steps with her basket of herrings and went home by back streets.
Old Betsy cooked two herrings for herself and Susan, another two for Sam’s supper when he came in. Then she went to bed with a hot bottle wrapped in a flannel petticoat to help her rheumatics.
Sam ate his supper and smoked a pipe by the fire; and then he went to bed. But Susan sat a long time by the fire, considering. She considered many things – fish, and ducks, and Percy with a lame foot, and dogs that eat mutton chops, and the yellow cat on the ship, and the pig. Susan thought it strange to see a pig upon a ship called the “Pound of Candles”. The mice peeped out under the cupboard door. The cinders fell together on the hearth. Susan purred gently in her sleep and dreamed of fish and pigs. She could not understand that pig on board a ship. But I know all about him!
Chapter Two
You remember the song about the Owl and the Pussy Cat and their beautiful pea-green boat? How they took some honey and plenty of money, wrapped up in a five pound note?
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong tree grows
And, there in a wood, a piggy-wig stood,
With a ring at the end of his nose –his nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.
Now I am going to tell you the story of that pig, and why he went to live in the land of the Bong tree.
When that pig was little he lived in Devonshire, with his aunts, Miss Dorcas and Miss Porcas, at a farm called Piggery Porcombe. Their cosy thatched cottage was in an orchard at the top of a steep red Devonshire lane.
The soil was red, the grass was green; and far away below in the distance they could see red cliffs and a bit of bright blue sea. Ships with white sails sailed over the sea into the harbour of Stymouth.
I have often remarked that the Devonshire farms have very strange names. If you had ever seen Piggery Porcombe you would think that the people who lived there were very queer too! Aunt Dorcas was a stout speckled pig who kept hens.
Aunt Porcas was a large smiling black pig who took in washing. We shall not hear very much about them in this story. They led prosperous uneventful lives, and their end was bacon. But their nephew Robinson had the most peculiar adventures that ever happened to a pig.
Little pig Robinson was a charming little fellow; pinky white with small blue eyes, fat cheeks and a double chin, and a turned-up nose, with a real silver ring in it. Robinson could see that ring if he shut one eye and squinted sideways.
He was always contented and happy. All day long he ran about the farm, singing little songs to himself, and grunting “Wee, wee, wee!” His aunts missed those little songs sadly after Robinson had left them.
“Wee? Wee? Wee?” he answered when anybody spoke to him. “Wee? Wee? Wee?” listening with his head on one side and one eye screwed up.
Robinson’s old aunts fed him and petted him and kept him on the trot.
“Robinson! Robinson!” called Aunt Dorcas. “Come quick! I hear a hen clucking. Fetch me the egg; don’t break it now!”
“Wee, wee, wee!” answered Robinson, like a little Frenchman.
“Robinson! Robinson! I’ve dropped a clothes peg, come and pick it up for me!” called Aunt Porcas from the drying green (she being almost too fat to stoop down and pick up anything).
“Wee, wee, wee!” answered Robinson.
Both the aunts were very, very stout. And the stiles in the neighbourhood of Stymouth are narrow. The footpath from Piggery Porcombe crosses many fields; a red trodden track between short green grass and daisies. And wherever the footpath crosses over from one field to another field, there is sure to be a stile in the hedge.
“It is not me that is too stout; it is the stiles that are too thin,” said Aunt Dorcas to Aunt Porcas. “Could you manage to squeeze through them if I stayed at home?”
“I could not. Not for two years I could not,” replied Aunt Porcas. “Aggravating, it is aggravating of that carrier man, to go and upset his donkey cart the day before market day. And eggs at two and tuppence a dozen! How far do you call it to walk all the way round by the road instead of crossing the fields?”
“Four miles if it’s one,” sighed Aunt Porcas, “and me using my last bit of soap. However will we get our shopping done? The donkey says the cart will take a week to mend.”
“Don’t you think you could squeeze through the stiles if you went before dinner?”
“No, I don’t, I would stick fast; and so would you,” said Aunt Porcas.
“Don’t you think we might venture—” commenced Aunt Dorcas.
“Venture to send Robinson by the footpath to Stymouth?” finished Aunt Porcas.
“Wee, wee, wee!” answered Robinson.
“I scarcely like to send him alone, though he is sensible for his size.”
“Wee, wee, wee!” answered Robinson.
“But there is nothing else to be done,” said Aunt Dorcas.
So Robinson was popped into the wash-tub with the last bit of soap. He was scrubbed and dried and polished as bright as a new pin. Then he was dressed in a little blue cotton frock and knickers, and instructed to go shopping to Stymouth with a big market basket.
In the basket were two dozen eggs, a bunch of daffodils, two spring cauliflowers; also Robinson’s dinner of bread-and-jam sandwiches. The eggs and flowers and vegetables he must sell in the market, and bring back various other purchases from shopping.
“Now take care of yourself in Stymouth, Nephew Robinson. Beware of gunpowder, and ships’ cooks, and pantechnicons, and sausages, and shoes, and ships, and sealing-wax. Remember the blue bag, the soap, the darning wool – what was the other thing?” said Aunt Dorcas.
“The darning wool, the soap, the blue bag, the yeast – what was the other thing?” said Aunt Porcas.
“Wee, wee, wee!” answered Robinson.
“The blue bag, the soap, the yeast, the darning wool, the cabbage seed – that’s five, and there ought to be six. It was two more than four because it was two too many to tie knots in the corners of his hankie, to remember by. Six to buy, it should be—”
“I have it!” said Aunt Porcas. “It was tea – tea, blue bag, soap, darning wool, yeast, cabbage seed. You will buy most of them at Mr. Mumby’s. Explain about the carrier, Robinson; tell him we will bring the washing and some more vegetables next week.”
“Wee, wee, wee” answered Robinson, setting off with the big basket.
Aunt Dorcas and Aunt Porcas stood in the porch. They watched him safely out of sight, down the field, and through the first of the many stiles. When they went back to their household tasks they were grunty and snappy with each other, because they were uneasy about Robinson.
“I wish we had not let him go. You and your tiresome blue bag!” said Aunt Dorcas.
“Blue bag, indeed! It was your darning wool and eggs!” grumbled Aunt Porcas. “Bother that carrier man and his donkey cart! Why could not he keep out of the ditch until after market day?”
Chapter Three
The walk to Stymouth was a long one, in spite of going by the fields. But the footpath ran downhill all the way, and Robinson was merry. He sang his little song, for joy of the fine morning, and he chuckled “Wee, wee, wee!” Larks were singing, too, high overhead.
And higher still – high up against blue sky, the great white gulls sailed in wide circles. Their hoarse cries came softened back to earth from a great way up above.
Important rooks and lively jackdaws strutted about the meadows amongst the daisies and buttercups. Lambs skipped and baa’ed; the sheep looked round at Robinson.
“Mind yourself in Stymouth, little pig,” said a motherly ewe.
Robinson trotted on until he was out of breath and very hot. He had crossed five big fields, and ever so many stiles; stiles with steps; ladder stiles; stiles of wooden posts; some of them were very awkward with a heavy basket. The farm of Piggery Porcombe was no longer in sight when he looked back. In the distance before him, beyond the farmlands and cliffs – never any nearer – the dark blue sea rose like a wall.
Robinson sat down to rest beside a hedge in a sheltered sunny spot. Yellow pussy willow catkins were in flower above his head; there were primroses in hundreds on the bank, and a warm smell of moss and grass and steaming moist red earth.
“If I eat my dinner now, I will not have to carry it. Wee, wee, wee!” said Robinson.
The walk had made him so hungry he would have liked to eat an egg as well as the jam sandwiches; but he had been too well brought up.
“It would spoil the two dozen,” said Robinson.
He picked a bunch of primroses and tied them up with a bit of darning wool that Aunt Dorcas had given him for a pattern.
“I will sell them in the market for my very own self, and buy sweeties with my pennies. How many pennies have I got?” said Robinson, feeling in his pocket. “One from Aunt Dorcas, and one from Aunt Porcas, and one for my primroses for my very own self – oh, wee, wee, wee! There is somebody trotting along the road! I shall be late for market!”
Robinson jumped up and pushed his basket through a very narrow stile, where the footpath crossed into the public road. He saw a man on horseback. Old Mr. Pepperil came up, riding a chestnut horse with white legs. His two tall greyhounds ran before him; they looked through the bars of the gates into every field that they passed. They came bounding up to Robinson, very large and friendly; they licked his face and asked what he had got in that basket. Mr. Pepperil called them.
“Here, Pirate! Here, Postboy! Come here, sir!” He did not wish to be answerable for the eggs.
The road had been recently covered with sharp new flints. Mr. Pepperil walked the chestnut horse on the grass edge, and talked to Robinson. He was a jolly old gentleman, very affable, with a red face and white whiskers. All the green fields and red ploughland between Stymouth and Piggery Porcombe belonged to him.
“Hullo, hullo! And where are you off to, little pig Robinson?”
“Please, Mr. Pepperil, sir, I’m going to market. Wee, wee, wee!” said Robinson.
“What, all by yourself? Where are Miss Dorcas and Miss Porcas? Not ill, I trust?”
Robinson explained about the narrow stiles.
“Dear, dear! Too fat, too fat? So you are going all alone? Why don’t your aunts keep a dog to run errands?”
Robinson answered all Mr. Pepperil’s questions very sensibly and prettily. He showed much intelligence, and quite a good knowledge of vegetables, for one so young. He trotted along almost under the horse, looking up at its shiny chestnut coat, and the broad white girth, and Mr Pepperil’s gaiters and brown leather boots. Mr. Pepperil was pleased with Robinson; he gave him another penny. At the end of the flints, he gathered up the reins and touched the horse with his heel.
“Well, good day, little pig. Kind regards to the aunts. Mind yourself in Stymouth.” He whistled for his dogs, and trotted away.
Robinson continued to walk along the road. He passed by an orchard where seven thin dirty pigs were grubbing. They had no silver rings in their noses! He crossed Styford bridge without stopping to look over the parapet at the little fishes, swimming head up stream, balanced in the sluggish current; or the white ducks that dabbled amongst floating masses of water-crowsfoot. At Styford Mill he called to leave a message from Aunt Dorcas to the Miller about meal; the Miller’s wife gave him an apple.
At the house beyond the mill, there is a big dog that barks; but the big dog Gypsy only smiled and wagged his tail at Robinson. Several carts and gigs overtook him. First, two old farmers who screwed themselves round to stare at Robinson. They had two geese, a sack of potatoes, and some cabbages, sitting on the back seat of their gig. Then an old woman passed in a donkey cart with seven hens, and long pink bundles of rhubarb that had been grown in straw under apple barrels. Then with a rattle and a jingle of cans came Robinson’s cousin, little Tom Pigg, driving a strawberry roan pony, in a milk float.
He might have offered Robinson a lift, only he happened to be going in the opposite direction; in fact, the strawberry roan pony was running away home.
“This little pig went to market!” shouted little Tom Pigg gaily, as he rattled out of sight in a cloud of dust, leaving Robinson standing in the road.
Robinson walked on along the road, and presently he came to another stile in the opposite hedge, where the footpath followed the fields again. Robinson got his basket through the stile. For the first time he felt some apprehension. In this field there were cows; big sleek Devon cattle, dark red like their native soil. The leader of the herd was a vicious old cow, with brass balls screwed on to the tips of her horns. She stared disagreeably at Robinson. He sidled across the meadow and got out through the farther stile as quickly as he could. Here the new trodden footpath followed round the edge of a crop of young green wheat. Someone let off a gun with a bang that made Robinson jump and cracked one of Aunt Dorcas’s eggs in the basket.
A cloud of rooks and jackdaws rose cawing and scolding from the wheat. Other sounds mingled with their cries; noises of the town of Stymouth that began to come in sight through the elm trees that bordered the fields; distant noises from the station; whistling of an engine; the bump of trucks shunting; noise of workshops; the hum of a distant town; the hooter of a steamer entering the harbour. High overhead came the hoarse cry of the gulls, and the squabbling cawing of rooks, old and young, in their rookery up in the elm trees.
Robinson left the fields for the last time and joined a stream of country people on foot and in carts, all going to Stymouth Market.
Chapter Four
Stymouth is a pretty little town, situated at the mouth of the river Pigsty, whose sluggish waters slide gently into a bay sheltered by high red headlands. The town itself seems to be sliding downhill in a basin of hills, all slipping seaward into Stymouth harbour, which is dammed back by quays and the outer breakwater.