Pigling Bland slept like a top. In the morning Mr. Piperson made more porridge; the weather was warmer. He looked to see how much meal was left in the chest, and seemed dissatisfied – “You’ll likely be moving on again?” said he to Pigling Bland.
Before Pigling could reply, a neighbour, who was giving Mr. Piperson and the hens a lift, whistled from the gate. Mr. Piperson hurried out with the hamper, enjoining Pigling to shut the door behind him and not meddle with nought; or “I’ll come back and skin ye!” said Mr. Piperson.
It crossed Pigling’s mind that if he had asked for a lift, too, he might still have been in time for market.
But he distrusted Peter Thomas.
After finishing breakfast at his leisure, Pigling had a look round the cottage; everything was locked up. He found some potato peelings in a bucket in the back kitchen. Pigling ate the peel, and washed up the porridge plates in the bucket. He sang while he worked —
“Tom with his pipe made such a noise,
He called up all the girls and boys—
And they all ran to hear him play,
‘Over the hills and far away!’ ”
Suddenly a little smothered voice chimed in —
“Over the hills and a great way off,
The wind shall blow my top knot off!”
Pigling Bland put down a plate which he was wiping, and listened.
After a long pause, Pigling went on tip-toe and peeped round the door into the front kitchen. There was nobody there.
After another pause, Pigling approached the door of the locked cupboard, and snuffed at the keyhole. It was quite quiet.
After another long pause, Pigling pushed a peppermint under the door. It was sucked in immediately.
In the course of the day Pigling pushed in all his remaining six peppermints.
When Mr. Piperson returned, he found Pigling sitting before the fire; he had brushed up the hearth and put on the pot to boil; the meal was not get-at-able.
Mr. Piperson was very affable; he slapped Pigling on the back, made lots of porridge and forgot to lock the meal chest. He did lock the cupboard door; but without properly shutting it. He went to bed early, and told Pigling upon no account to disturb him next day before twelve o’clock.
Pigling Bland sat by the fire, eating his supper.
All at once at his elbow, a little voice spoke – “My name is Pig-wig. Make me more porridge, please!” Pigling Bland jumped, and looked round.
A perfectly lovely little black Berkshire pig stood smiling beside him. She had twinkly little screwed up eyes, a double chin, and a short turned up nose.
She pointed at Pigling’s plate; he hastily gave it to her, and fled to the meal chest – “How did you come here?” asked Pigling Bland.
“Stolen,” replied Pig-wig, with her mouth full. Pigling helped himself to meal without scruple. “What for?” “Bacon, hams,” replied Pig-wig cheerfully. “Why on earth don’t you run away?” exclaimed the horrified Pigling.
“I shall after supper,” said Pig-wig decidedly.
Pigling Bland made more porridge and watched her shyly.
She finished a second plate, got up, and looked about her, as though she were going to start.
“You can’t go in the dark,” said Pigling Bland.
Pig-wig looked anxious.
“Do you know your way by daylight?”
“I know we can see this little white house from the hills across the river. Which way are you going, Mr. Pig?”
“To market – I have two pig papers. I might take you to the bridge; if you have no objection,” said Pigling, much confused and sitting on the edge of his coppy stool. Pig-wig’s gratitude was such and she asked so many questions that it became embarrassing to Pigling Bland.
He was obliged to shut his eyes and pretend to sleep. She became quiet, and there was a smell of peppermint.
“I thought you had eaten them,” said Pigling, waking suddenly.
“Only the corners,” replied Pig-wig, studying the sentiments with much interest by the firelight.
“I wish you wouldn’t; he might smell them through the ceiling,” said the alarmed Pigling.
Pig-wig put back the sticky peppermints into her pocket. “Sing something,” she demanded.
“I am sorry… I have toothache,” said Pigling, much dismayed.
“Then I will sing,” replied Pig-wig. “You will not mind if I say iddy tidditty? I have forgotten some of the words.”
Pigling Bland made no objection; he sat with his eyes half shut, and watched her.
She wagged her head and rocked about, clapping time and singing in a sweet little grunty voice —
“A funny old mother pig lived in a stye,
and three little piggies had she;
(Ti idditty idditty) umph, umph, umph!
and the little pigs said, wee, wee!”
She sang successfully through three or four verses, only at every verse her head nodded a little lower, and her little twinkly eyes closed up —
“Those three little piggies grew peaky and lean,
and lean they might very well be;
For somehow they couldn’t say umph, umph, umph!
and they wouldn’t say wee, wee, wee!
For somehow they couldn’t say —”
Pig-wig’s head bobbed lower and lower, until she rolled over, a little round ball, fast asleep on the hearth-rug.
Pigling Bland, on tip-toe, covered her up with an antimacassar.
He was afraid to go to sleep himself; for the rest of the night he sat listening to the chirping of the crickets and to the snores of Mr. Piperson overhead.
Early in the morning, between dark and daylight, Pigling tied up his little bundle and woke up Pig-wig. She was excited and half-frightened. “But it’s dark! How can we find our way?”
“The cock has crowed; we must start before the hens come out; they might shout to Mr. Piperson.”
Pig-wig sat down again, and commenced to cry.
“Come away, Pig-wig; we can see when we get used to it. Come! I can hear them clucking!”
Pigling had never said shuh! to a hen in his life, being peaceable; also he remembered the hamper.
He opened the house door quietly and shut it after them. There was no garden; the neighbourhood of Mr. Piperson’s was all scratched up by fowls. They slipped away hand in hand across an untidy field to the road.
The sun rose while they were crossing the moor, a dazzle of light over the tops of the hills. The sunshine crept down the slopes into the peaceful green valleys, where little white cottages nestled in gardens and orchards.
“That’s Westmorland,” said Pig-wig. She dropped Pigling’s hand and commenced to dance, singing —
“Tom, Tom, the piper’s son,
stole a pig and away he ran!
But all the tune that he could play,
was ‘Over the hills and far away!’”
“Come, Pig-wig, we must get to the bridge before folks are stirring.” “Why do you want to go to market, Pigling?” inquired Pig-wig presently. “I don’t want; I want to grow potatoes.” “Have a peppermint?” said Pig-wig. Pigling Bland refused quite crossly. “Does your poor toothy hurt?” inquired Pig-wig. Pigling Bland grunted.
Pig-wig ate the peppermint herself, and followed the opposite side of the road. “Pig-wig! keep under the wall, there’s a man ploughing.” Pig-wig crossed over, they hurried down hill towards the county boundary.
Suddenly Pigling stopped; he heard wheels.
Slowly jogging up the road below them came a tradesman’s cart. The reins flapped on the horse’s back, the grocer was reading a newspaper.
“Take that peppermint out of your mouth, Pig-wig, we may have to run. Don’t say one word. Leave it to me. And in sight of the bridge!” said poor Pigling, nearly crying. He began to walk frightfully lame, holding Pig-wig’s arm.
The grocer, intent upon his newspaper, might have passed them, if his horse had not shied and snorted. He pulled the cart crossways, and held down his whip. “Hallo! Where are you going to?” – Pigling Bland stared at him vacantly.
“Are you deaf? Are you going to market?” Pigling nodded slowly.
“I thought as much. It was yesterday. Show me your licence?”
Pigling stared at the off hind shoe of the grocer’s horse which had picked up a stone.
The grocer flicked his whip – “Papers? Pig licence?” Pigling fumbled in all his pockets, and handed up the papers. The grocer read them, but still seemed dissatisfied. “This here pig, is a young lady; is her name Alexander?” Pig-wig opened her mouth and shut it again; Pigling coughed asthmatically.
The grocer ran his finger down the advertisement column of his newspaper – “Lost, stolen or strayed, 10s. reward”; he looked suspiciously at Pig-wig. Then he stood up in the trap, and whistled for the ploughman.
“You wait here while I drive on and speak to him,” said the grocer, gathering up the reins. He knew that pigs are slippery; but surely, such a very lame pig could never run!
“Not yet, Pig-wig, he will look back.” The grocer did so; he saw the two pigs stock-still in the middle of the road. Then he looked over at his horse’s heels; it was lame also; the stone took some time to knock out, after he got to the ploughman.
“Now, Pig-wig, NOW!” said Pigling Bland.
Never did any pigs run as these pigs ran! They raced and squealed and pelted down the long white hill towards the bridge. Little fat Pig-wig’s petticoats fluttered, and her feet went pitter, patter, pitter, as she bounded and jumped.
They ran, and they ran, and they ran down the hill, and across a short cut on level green turf at the bottom, between pebble beds and rushes.
They came to the river, they came to the bridge – they crossed it hand in hand —
then over the hills and far away she danced with Pigling Bland!
The End
TO AESOP IN THE SHADOWS
The Tale of
Johnny Town-Mouse
( 1918 )
Johnny Town-mouse was born in a cupboard. Timmy Willie was born in a garden. Timmy Willie was a little country mouse who went to town by mistake in a hamper. The gardener sent vegetables to town once a week by carrier; he packed them in a big hamper.
The gardener left the hamper by the garden gate, so that the carrier could pick it up when he passed. Timmy Willie crept in through a hole in the wickerwork, and after eating some peas – Timmy Willie fell fast asleep.
He awoke in a fright, while the hamper was being lifted into the carrier’s cart. Then there was a jolting, and a clattering of horse’s feet; other packages were thrown in; for miles and miles – jolt – jolt – jolt! and Timmy Willie trembled amongst the jumbled up vegetables.
At last the cart stopped at a house, where the hamper was taken out, carried in, and set down. The cook gave the carrier sixpence; the back door banged, and the cart rumbled away. But there was no quiet; there seemed to be hundreds of carts passing. Dogs barked; boys whistled in the street; the cook laughed, the parlour maid ran up and down stairs; and a canary sang like a steam engine.
Timmy Willie, who had lived all his life in a garden, was almost frightened to death. Presently the cook opened the hamper and began to unpack the vegetables. Out sprang the terrified Timmy Willie.
Up jumped the cook on a chair, exclaiming “A mouse! a mouse! Call the cat! Fetch me the poker, Sarah!” Timmy Willie did not wait for Sarah with the poker; he rushed along the skirting-board till he came to a little hole, and in he popped.
He dropped half a foot, and crashed into the middle of a mouse dinner party, breaking three glasses. – “Who in the world is this?” inquired Johnny Town-mouse. But after the first exclamation of surprise he instantly recovered his manners.