Tilly remembered what Mrs Hardcastle had told her about the wonderful worms:
“How they wibble, and they wobble,
And they wubble all around,
How they dibble, and they dabble,
And they double up and down.
How they’re pink, and how they’re pokey,
How they pull across the ground,
How they wind, and how they wander,
How they wiggle round and round!”
The brown bird saw that Tilly had her beak open, and he hopped over to her and started to lower the worm into her beak!
“Oh no!” said Tilly. “I’m not that hungry! I’m not having worms for my tea!”
She took the poor old worm very gently into her beak, and climbed up onto the side of the nest. She looked down from the top of the highest tree in the world.
“Bird in a nest on a branch in a tree,
Sail in the wind like a ship on the sea.
Worm in the beak of the bird in the skies,
Point to the ground, and close your eyes!”
Tilly Mint spread out her fluffy, feathery arms, and she closed her eyes that were as bright as buttons, and she jumped. She floated down, and down, and down.
And when she opened her eyes again, she was standing on the soft, brown earth with the little, pink worm in her hand. She knelt down and put him on the earth.
“In you go, little worm,” she whispered. “You pop down there, and don’t come out again till night-time.”
The worm tucked his head into the soil and slithered out of sight.
Tilly remembered Mrs Hardcastle, fast asleep and snoring in the sunshine. She shook her arms to make quite sure there were no feathers left on, and then she woke her up.
“Wake up, Mrs Hardcastle!” she said. “I’m ever so hungry.”
Mrs Hardcastle opened her eyes. She looked at the blue sky, which was full of birdsong. She looked up at the branches of the tallest tree in the world, and saw, at the very top, a little nest, swaying in the wind like a boat on the sea. She looked at the brown birds, busy with their fetching and carrying.
“Hello, Tilly Mint!” she said. And then she said: “Let’s go home, shall we, and have spaghetti for our tea.”
And they did.
Lions Are Lovely
LAST NIGHT, MRS Hardcastle came round to keep an eye on Tilly while her mum was at the supermarket. They talked about goblins and then about ghosts and then Mrs Hardcastle said:
“Tilly Mint, are you scared of anything?”
Tilly thought very hard. “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “Only lions. I think I’m a little bit scared of lions.”
Mrs Hardcastle looked surprised. “Lions! Fancy being scared of them! Have you ever seen a lion, Tilly.”
“No,” said Tilly. “I don’t think so. Not a real one. But I think I’d be scared of one if I did.”
“That’s crackers, Tilly Mint,” said Mrs Hardcastle. “Crackers. Lions are lovely. I saw a real lion once, years and years ago. I wasn’t a bit scared of it. In fact, do you know what I did?”
“No,” said Tilly. “What did you do, Mrs Hardcastle?”
“I . . .” Mrs Hardcastle began, and then she stopped. “No, I’ll tell you later what I did. Put the telly on, Tilly. There’s a jungle film on. There might just be a lion in that.”
Tilly switched on the television. The jungle film was just beginning. She settled herself on her favourite rug, with its lovely, soft, silky strands, as gold-and-red as any lion’s head. Mrs Hardcastle stretched herself comfortably on the settee behind her.
“By the way, Tilly,” she murmured sleepily. “This programme finishes at six o’clock. You won’t forget that, will you?”
It was a wonderful programme. Tilly saw snakes, and monkeys and giraffes. She saw elephants crashing through the trees. She saw tiny little birds as bright as jewels. And, suddenly, she saw the lion. Its huge head seemed to fill the whole screen. It seemed to be looking straight at Tilly. It roared.
“Lions are lovely,” muttered Mrs Hardcastle, half-asleep. “As gentle as milk.”
The lion roared again, and Tilly said nervously:
“Lions are lovely,
As gentle as milk.
Brighter than flames,
And smoother than silk.”
As soon as Tilly said that, the lion stepped right out of the television screen, onto Tilly’s carpet. It was bigger than the armchair. It was brighter than the fire. It was the most beautiful creature that Tilly had ever seen. She looked round to tell Mrs Hardcastle, but she was fast asleep on the settee, and snoring, very gently.
Lion roared softly.
Tilly tiptoed over to him and stroked his back. It felt as soft and silky as her favourite, rug. His eyes were as golden as sunshine.
“Lions are lovely,” whispered Tilly.
“As gentle as milk.
Brighter than flames,
And smoother than silk.
Lions are lovely,
Wild things and free,
As fast as the wind is,
As strong as the sea.”
Lion crouched down. Tilly climbed onto his back. And instantly, they were away! Lion leapt through the open window, with Tilly clinging onto his mane. They were in the street, with cars rushing past and people shouting.
“It’s a lion! Look at that lion!” shouted Tilly’s neighbours. “Look at Tilly Mint on his back!”
Tilly knew where her lion would like to be. She tugged on his long bright mane. “Go down the hill, Lion!” she shouted. “Down to the park.”
Lion bounded down the hill. Tilly gripped him tightly.
“Look, look, look at the lion!” the birds cried, dancing over their heads. “Look at the lovely lion!”
As soon as Lion reached the park, he streaked like fire across the grass. His long legs hardly seemed to touch the ground. His mane streamed like strands of gold. He roared with joy.
“Lions are lovely,” laughed Tilly Mint.
“As gentle as milk.
Brighter than flames,
And smoother than silk.
Lions are lovely,
Wild things and free,
As fast as the wind is,
As strong as the sea.
Lions are lovely!
They roar like a storm.
They run like a river.
They’re soft and they’re warm.”
Tilly wanted to ride on her lion’s back for ever and ever.
Suddenly, Lion stopped and put his head to one side, listening. He seemed to be able to hear something that Tilly couldn’t hear. He pushed his head right into a low, dark bush, and then stepped back again.
Tilly slid off his back, and ran to see what he was doing. Hanging from Lion’s mouth was a tiny kitten, as skinny as a bird.
“Oh, Lion, don’t swallow it!” gasped Tilly.
Lion crouched down and gently dropped the kitten between his paws. The kitten lay there, quite still. Then Lion began to lick it, all over, under its stomach and round its ears and over its face, over and over, till at last the little kitten opened its eyes and tried to catch Lion’s tongue in its paws. It wobbled onto its feet and then with its tiny tongue tried to lick Lion’s enormous paws.
“Poor little thing,” said Tilly. “What’s it doing here, all on its own? Let’s take it to Mrs Patel, Lion. She’ll know what to do.”
Mrs Patel’s shop was at the corner of the park. She sold everything, including wonderful home-made jam and marmalade and cakes. Everybody came to Mrs Patel’s shop.
Tilly climbed onto Lion’s back, and Lion picked the kitten up in his huge mouth, and they sped across the park to the shop.
It was nearly closing time. Mrs Patel was outside her shop, painting the window ledge. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see Lion when he pounded up to her, or to see Tilly on his back, or to see the kitten which Lion gently placed at her feet.
“What a lovely ginger kitten,” she said. “He’s the same colour as my marmalade.”<
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“We found him in the park,” said Tilly.
“He looks like a stray to me.” Mrs Patel put down her brush and picked up the kitten. He was crying pitifully. “I wonder how he got here?”
“We brought him here!” said Tilly. The strange thing was that Mrs Patel didn’t even look at her, or at Lion. She didn’t really seem to see them.
“I’ll give him some milk, and put him nice and warm in a box in the window, and see if anyone comes for him,” said Mrs Patel, more to herself than to Tilly and Lion. She turned to go back into the shop.
“What if no one comes for him?” asked Tilly.
No. Mrs Patel hadn’t seen her, or heard her. As she opened the shop door to go in, Tilly could just hear her whispering to the kitten: “If nobody owns you, ginger kitten, I’ll give you away.” And she closed the door.
“Oh, Lion!” said Tilly.
Suddenly . . . Ding-dong-ding-dong . . . she heard the bells of the village church chime . . . ding-dong-ding-dong . . .
“Lion!” said Tilly. “It’s six o’clock! Your programme will be finishing! What if it finishes without you? You might never get back to your jungle again! Oh, Lion, what will you do then? What will you do then?”
DONG! Lion stopped. He listened.
DONG! He tossed back his beautiful, bright head.
DONG! He turned; and faster than fishes, faster than lightning, faster than trains, he thundered back through the park to Tilly Mint’s house.
DONG! Lion bounded up the street.
DONG! He leapt through Tilly’s open window.
DONG! And on the sixth stroke of the church clock, he dived back through the television screen.
Tilly had slipped off his back, and onto her favourite soft-and-silky rug, which was as gold-and-red as any lion’s head.
Lion’s tail disappeared through the television screen just as the music came on for the end of the jungle film. Tilly heard him roar.
“Goodbye, lovely Lion!” Tilly called.
Mrs Hardcastle woke up with a jump. “Have I missed that programme?” she asked crossly. “That’s the trouble with being as old as I am, Tilly Mint. I always fall asleep and miss things.”
“You missed the lion, Mrs Hardcastle,” Tilly said.
And then she said: “Mrs Hardcastle, when you were a little girl, years and years and years ago, and you saw a lion, did you ride on his back?”
“Yes,” said Mrs Hardcastle, in a far-away remembery sort of voice. “I believe I did. It was lovely, Tilly Mint.”
“Yes,” said Tilly. “I know, Mrs Hardcastle. Lions are lovely. They’re as gentle as milk.”
And then she said, in her best voice, “By the way, Mrs Hardcastle, do you think Mum would let me have a kitten?”
“Ah,” said Mrs Hardcastle. “Is it a ginger one?”
“Yes,” said Tilly. “Like a jar of marmalade.”
“Is it in Mrs Patel’s shop?”
“Yes,” said Tilly. “How do you know that?” But Mrs Hardcastle only smiled her smile that knew everything.
“I’m sure your mum will let you have him,” she said. “You could call him Lion.”
And Tilly did.
Tilly Mint Sends the Bird of Night Packing
ON SATURDAY NIGHT, when the moon was as bright as raindrops, and the stars were so white that you’d think they were made of ice, and the black between them was thick enough to touch, Tilly Mint had the most wonderful adventure of her life.
“That sky is just about prickling with stars, Tilly Mint,” Mrs Hardcastle said. “You don’t often see it like that. It’s just the sort of night you can hear the stars sing, if you listen very carefully.”
Tilly Mint listened very carefully, but all she could hear was the old owl, hooting away comfortably in his tree in the dark wood.
“Old owl, cold owl, bird of light,
Tell your tale of stars tonight.
Old owl, cold owl, snowy-wing,
Take me to the stars that sing,”
said Mrs Hardcastle softly.
Tilly Mint shivered. How could the owl do that? How could she hear the stars sing?
“You’re as cold as a goldfish, Tilly Mint!” said Mrs Hardcastle. “Pop into bed this minute, and I’ll tell you about the time I heard the stars sing . . . many years ago.”
But just as Tilly turned to hop into bed and just as Mrs Hardcastle started to draw the curtains, they heard a croaky cackle that made their bones creep.
“Caw!” it went. “Caw, caw, caw!”
“I don’t like the sound of that!” said Mrs Hardcastle. Tilly had pulled her pillow over her head to keep the sound out.
“What is it, Mrs Hardcastle?”
“It sounded to me like the bird of night! I hope it wasn’t . . .”
“Caw, caw,” came the cackle again. “Caw . . .”
A black shadow filled the room.
“What was that?” asked Tilly.
“I don’t like the look of that!” said Mrs Hardcastle. “It looked to me like the bird of night. I can’t be sure. I’ve only see him once before, Tilly. He comes from long ago. But when he came, he put out all the stars. I’ve never seen blackness like it.
“Once, in the night, a black shadow flew.
In the deep darkness the shadow grew.
There was never a whisper; never a sigh,
From blackness to blackness it seemed to fly.
It wrapped the sky in its wings spread wide,
On the wind of a nightmare it seemed to ride;
And the moon and the stars all lost their light,
And the world was as black as the bird of night.”
“Can’t we stop it?” cried Tilly Mint. “Can’t anybody stop it?”
“The bird of light could help,” Mrs Hardcastle said, “but he’s very, very old. As old as me perhaps. The oldest woman in the world . . .” Mrs Hardcastle sat down beside Tilly’s bed, closed her eyes, and began to snore, very gently. Mrs Hardcastle had gone to sleep.
Tilly saw the shadow again, and she heard that gritty grating noise that made her goose-pimples grow . . .
“Caw! Caw! Caw!”
She ran to the window, and she saw the huge bird of night, flapping up from the trees to the sky, spreading its massive wings till they covered the light of the moon and all the stars. Never had Tilly seen such blackness.
“Now I’ll never hear the stars sing!” Tilly shouted. “It’s not fair!
And then, Tilly heard the owl.
“Hoo! Hoo-hoo! Hoooo!” Whiter than the moon, and quieter than the night, the old owl from the wood floated like a boat towards her on the black sea of the sky.
“Owl!” said Tilly. “You’ve grown as big as a swan! You’re sailing in the sky like a swan on a lake! Like a white ship! Where do you think you’re off to, as big as that?”
For an answer, the owl hooted again. “Youoooooo! Come tooo! You. You. Come toooooo!”
Tilly Mint remembered Mrs Hardcastle’s poem.
Old owl, cold owl, bird of light,
Tell your tale of stars tonight.
Old owl, cold owl, snowy-wing,
Take me to the stars that sing.
“Will you, oh, will you, Snowy-wing? Can we chase away the bird of night?” Tilly asked.
The white owl drifted down till he was just below Tilly’s window. She put on her fluffy slippers and her warm red dressing gown, and she opened her window and stepped out onto his back, onto the soft white feathers that snuggled round her like the soft, white cover of her bed. She put her arms round his neck, and she tucked her legs down beneath his wings.
“FLY! FLY!” said Tilly.
“Old owl, cold owl, bird of light,
Tell your tale of stars tonight.
Old owl, cold owl, snowy-wing,
Take me to the stars that sing,
Old owl, cold owl, white as light,
Chase away the bird of night!”
Up they flew, into the sky that was as black as the sea. Up they swam, in th
e thick waves of night. Up they sailed, in the dark, dark ocean of the sky. And, far away in the distance, they heard the angry, jangly call of the bird of night.
“Caw! Caw! Caw!”
Snowy-wing drove down his wings like oars, and skimmed higher and higher. The black bird of night flew away from him in rage.
“Go away, bird of night. Go home!”
shouted Tilly. “Clear off, you floppy old blanket!”
“Shooooooo! Shoooo! We don’t want you!” called the owl.
And the black bird of night flew away, down, down, down, till his cross, crackling, croaky cry faded away and away and away. And was heard no more.
Then the moon came out again, and shone and sparkled as bright as raindrops. And the stars came, one by one, so white that you’d think they were made of ice. Tilly was right up with them; she heard them sing.
They sang from one end of the world to the other, and they sang like voices deep below the sea.
Much later, the white owl flew back down from the sky, with Tilly on his back.
She crept back in through the window, and snuggled into her bed, which was as white and soft as the feathers on the white owl’s back.
Mrs Hardcastle woke up, and stretched. “I must have dropped off to sleep!” she said. “Good gracious, Tilly Mint, what are you doing, in bed with your dressing gown on?”
Tilly wriggled her feet. She still had her slippers on, but she didn’t say anything about that.
“Listen!” she said. “Listen, Mrs Hardcastle. You might just be able to hear the stars sing!”
Mrs Hardcastle listened very hard, but she was too old now, and much too far away, to hear the stars. All she could hear was the old white owl, hooting away comfortably in his tree in the dark, dark wood.
Tilly Mint Makes a Frog-faced Friend
MRS HARDCASTLE HAS a pond in her back garden. It’s not very wide, and it’s not very deep, but it has a sitting-stone at the side of it, like a little stool, and she sits there sometimes on nice days, nodding in the sunshine, and watching the fish. Sometimes, on very nice days, she takes her shoes off and sticks her feet in the water.
On the seventh of March she told Tilly that it was time to fetch some frog-spawn for the pond.
Tilly Mint Tales Page 3