Told Again

by Pullman, Philip, De La Mare, Walter, Watson, A. H.

  Next day they decided to be getting off into country where they were less well-known. After a pleasant afternoon’s journey, they found themselves on the edge of a little green coppice, and the wolf fell asleep in the sun. He woke up as surly as a bear with a sore head.

  “Come, rouse, friend Fox! Supper!” he bawled.

  “What’s for supper? No more lamb to-night. I’d sooner eat you!”

  The fox trembled with rage, but he answered him civilly and said: “I seem to smell pancakes—rich pancakes. Squat here awhile, friend Wolf, and I’ll see what can be done.”

  He slipped off and away to the other side of the wood, and came to a house from whose brick chimneys a faint smoke was going up laden with so sweet and savoury an odour of pancakes, that the fox lifted his nose into the air and snuffed and snuffed again. Then first he crept this way; and then he crept that way; and at last he stole in through an open window, and so into the pantry, and leaping up on to a shelf, carried off at least six of the pancakes.

  The wolf swallowed them down without so much as a thank’ee, and champed for more. The glutton then asked the fox which way he had gone. The fox told him. “You’ll know the house by the smoke,” he said, “and the window is by the water-butt. But step quiet, my friend, if go you must, for I heard voices.” The greedy wolf, thinking that if the fox came with him to the house he would expect a share of the pancakes that were left, at once scuffled off alone into the night to finish the dish.

  But he made such a hullabaloo in the pantry as he went sprawling along the shelf, upsetting a great cooking crock as he did so, that the farmer and his wife, and the friends who had been supping with them, heard his noise and came rushing in, and gave him such a basting that he hardly escaped with his life.

  When he had licked his bruises and got some breath into his body again, he came snarling back to the fox, and blamed him for his beating. The fox coughed and turned his head aside; he could hardly speak for rage and contempt. However, the duck he himself had supped off was still sweet in memory; so he answered the wolf smoothly, reminding him that he had been given a fair warning. “Besides,” said he, “as I’ve said before, enough is as good as a feast, friend Wolf; and with some sauces, much better.”

  Yet, even now, the wolf had not learnt his lesson. For, a very few evenings afterwards, though he could only limp along on three legs, and every bone in his body ached, he turned morosely on his friend the fox, and said: “Friend Fox, I’m sick and tired of you. You’ve no more wits than a rabbit. ‘Sly,’ indeed! Now, see here; if before that moon up there has climbed an inch in the sky you don’t get me a meat meal, a tasty meal, and plenty of it—a supper worth a gentleman’s eating, I’m saying—then it will surely be the last of you, for I’m done with your shilly-shallying.”

  The fox trembled and said, “Softly, softly, friend Wolf; why lose your temper? I do my best. This very morning I heard that the human that lives by the stream on the other side of the hill yonder has been killing a pig. A fat pig—a very fat pig; a pig stuffed with fatness. And the salt pork of that pig is packed in a barrel in the human’s cellar. Ah, I see your mouth watering. Come, we will go together.”

  “Why, yes,” said the wolf, “and you shall keep watch while I eat.”

  So the fox led him off by a green ride through the woods and over the crest of the hill, and by a cart-track, till they at last came down to a mill. It was a clear moonshine night, with a touch of frost in the air. And as it chanced, there was a small, round-topped little door under the wall of the house that led into the cellar. The fox lifted its latch; paused; sniffed; listened; sniffed again.

  His green eyes glistened like fireballs, as he turned his sharp muzzle and looked back at the wolf. “Come,” he said, “and do not so much as grin or gruff, for the human of this house has a gun.”

  The wolf, being overfed and overfat, only just managed to scramble through the hole. But at last he followed the fox into the cellar, and was soon guzzling away at the barrel of salted pork.

  “Tell me, friend Fox,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, his jaws dripping, “why do you keep running to and fro? Restrain yourself. It pesters me. How can I feed in comfort with you fidgeting about? Keep still; and you shall, perhaps, have a gobbet or two yourself. All depends on what I leave.”

  “Gobble on, gobble on,” said the fox craftily. “There’s plenty of time for me. But I warn you: don’t make a noise, and don’t eat too hearty!”

  “Ah,” said the wolf, “you thought this fine fat feast of pork was for you, did you? And after all my pains in finding it! Have no fear, my friend, there won’t be much pork when I’ve finished.”

  At this, with a stroke of his paw and a shove of his shoulder, he turned the great salty tub clean over on the stones of the cellar; and a fine clatter it made.

  The fox led him . . . through the woods and over the crest of the hill . . . till they at last came down to a mill.

  Danced a little dance all to himself in the moonlight.

  Indeed, the miller, who was at that moment shaving himself in a looking-glass, hearing this noise in his cellar, supposed for a moment there was an earthquake. Then he snatched up his blunderbuss, and with the soapsuds still foaming on his cheek, came clumping down the stone steps.

  At first sound and sniff of him, the fox was out of the hole at a bound, and in a moment or two his friend the wolf was struggling hard to follow him. But the greedy guzzler had puffed and swilled himself out so fat with his feast of pork that, wriggle and wrench as he might, he could not squeeze through the hole. So there he stuck. And the miller, though he had lost a good half of his pork, at least gained a thick wolf’s skin in exchange.

  Meanwhile, the fox on the crest of the hill, hearing the roar of the blunderbuss, shivered a little, then danced a little dance all to himself in the moonlight. There and then he made up his mind that his next friend should not be one of the selfish and mighty ones, but of his own size and liking; and one with a brush.

  The Three Sillies

  There was once a farmer and his wife who had a daughter, and this daughter had a sweetheart, and a gentleman he was. Three days a week this gentleman used to come and see the daughter and stay to supper, and a little before supper time, the daughter used to go down into the cellar to draw the beer.

  Now one evening, as the beer was running softly out of the barrel into the jug, she gave a great yawn, and in so doing looked up at the beams of the cellar over her head, and—stuck up there in one of them—she saw an old chopper. It was a broken old rusty chopper, and must have been sticking in the beam there for ages. But as she looked at the chopper—and the beer trickling softly on—she began to think, and this is what she thought:

  “Now supposing me and my gentleman up there get married soon, and we have a son we do, same as my mother and father had a daughter, and that son we have grows up and grows up, and keeps a-growing up, and when at last he’s quite grown up he comes down here some evening, same as me here now as you might say, to draw the beer for supper, and that there old chopper comes whopp down on his head and chops off his head—my! what a dreadful, dreadful, dreadful thing it would be!” At this, she flopped down on the settle beside the cask, and burst out crying.

  “What a dreadful, dreadful, dreadful thing it would be!”

  Now the farmer and his wife and the gentleman began to want their beer. So the mother went down after her daughter into the cellar, and found her sitting there on the settle beside the barrel, crying and crying, and the beer running out of the jug all over the cellar floor. So she asked her what was the matter.

  And the daughter, sobbing and sobbing, said: “Oh, Mother, look at that old rusty chopper stuck up in the beam!” Her mother looked at the chopper.

  “Now just you think, Mother,” says she, “supposing now me and my gentleman up there was to get married soon, and we was to have a son, same as you and father had a daughter, which was me in a manner of speaking, and that son was to grow up, and up, and up, and on
e day he came stepping down into the cellar to draw beer, same as we are now, and that old chopper there stuck in the beam was to come whopp down and chop his head off, what a dreadful, dreadful, dreadful thing it would be!”

  At this the farmer’s wife, looking at the chopper, could contain herself no longer, but flopped down on the settle beside her daughter and burst out crying. So there sat the two of them. By-and-by the gentleman says to the farmer, “What about that beer?” So down came the farmer after his wife and his daughter and the beer; and there was the beer running all over the cellar floor.

  “Why, whatever is the matter?” said the farmer.

  The old wife told him just what the daughter had said. And when the farmer looked at the rusty chopper stuck in the beam, he could contain himself no more, and, “Oh,” said he, “what a dreadful, dreadful, dreadful thing it would be!” And down he squatted beside the other two on the settle, and burst out a-crying.

  So at last the gentleman upstairs, being as dry as an oven, came down into the cellar to look for the farmer and the farmer’s wife and their daughter and the beer; and there were these boobies, all three of them, sitting side by side on the settle, and crying and crying; and there was the beer trickling down all over the floor, and more of it out of the cask, by a long chalk, than in it. So the gentleman first turned off the tap, then asked them what they were all sitting there crying for.

  And “Oh,” said they together, “look at that horrid old rusty chopper stuck in the beam. Supposing you were to have a son, and he grew up, and up, and up, and one evening, same as might be now, he came down here to draw beer and it fell down whopp on his head and chopped his head off, what a dreadful, dreadful, dreadful thing it would be!”

  At this the gentleman burst out laughing. “Well,” says he, “of all the sillies I ever set eyes on, you three are the silliest. That’s just done for me! Off I go tomorrow morning, but I promise you this—if ever I find three sillies sillier than you three sillies, I’ll come back there and then, and we’ll have the wedding.” So off he went.

  Day after day the gentleman ambled along on his fat, red-roan mare, enjoying his travels, and at last he came to a cottage. It was an old cottage, and wallflowers were blowing in the garden, and very sweet too; and up there on the roof under its chimney were not only snapdragons and cat’s valerian, but tufts of grass sprouting out of the thatch; and leaning against the thatch was a ladder. It was at this the gentleman stared, for the old woman of the cottage was doing her utmost to push her old cow up this ladder, but the cow wouldn’t.

  “Kem over!” she says. “Upadaisy!” she says; and there was the cow shooing and mooing and not daring to go.

  The gentleman looking down from his horse said, “What’s going on, dame?” The old woman told the gentleman that she was trying to get her cow up on to the roof so that she could eat the juicy tufts of fresh, green, beautiful grass up there under the chimney.

  “Then when I have got her on to the roof,” she said, “I shall tie the end of this here rope round her neck, and drop the other end down the chimney, and tie that end round my arm. So that way,” she says, “I shall know if my old cow’s safe on the roof or not.”

  “Well, well, well!” said the gentleman, and went on watching her. After a long time the old woman managed to do what she wanted, and there sat her cow on the thatch—all legs, horns, and tail—and a strange sight she was. But the moment the old woman had gone into the house, the poor old cow slipped on the thatch, and down she came, dangling by the rope round her neck, and was strangled. As for the old woman tied up to the rope by her arm inside the house, when the cow came down, up went she, and was jammed up inside the chimney and smothered in the soot.

  Then of course the neighbours came running out; and the gentleman rode off on his horse; and as he went he thought to himself: “Well, of all the silly sillies that was one!”

  He travelled on and on, and came one night to an inn. This inn happening to be full of company, there was only one way, the landlord told the gentleman, for him to sleep, and that was with a stranger in a great, double bed. So, as there was nothing better, he hung up his hat, went downstairs for some supper, came back, and after a bit of talking together he and the stranger were soon fast asleep in the great four-post bed.

  When, about seven, the gentleman awoke in the morning, what should he see but that this stranger had hung up his breeches on to the two top knobs of the chest-of-drawers; and there he was, running to and fro, up the room and down again, trying might and main to jump into his breeches. First he got one leg in—that was no good. The next time he got the other leg in—that was no better. Sometimes neither leg went in, and that was worse. And he never got both. At last he stopped to take breath, and, mopping his head, said to the gentleman in the bed:

  “My! You wouldn’t believe it, but it takes me the best part of a solid hour every morning to get into those breeches of mine. How do you manage with yours?”

  “Well, well, well!” said the gentleman, bursting out laughing. And he showed him.

  As after breakfast he was mounting his horse—which the ostler had brought out of the stable—the gentleman suddenly thought of his bed-fellow and the breeches again, and burst out laughing. “Well, of silly sillies,” he said to himself, “hang me if that wasn’t a sillier silly still.”

  Off he went on his travels again, and at last came to a pretty village down Somerset way, with fine green trees in it and a pond. But quiet village it certainly was not, for all about this pond seemed to be collected the people for miles around, some with hayrakes, and some with brooms and besoms, and some with pitchforks; and there they were, all of them, raking and scrabbling, and scrabbling and raking in the water.

  “Why,” said the gentleman, “what’s the matter?”

  “Matter!” said they, “well you may ask it. Last night the old green moon tumbled into the pond, for old Gaffer Giles, coming home, looked in and saw her there, and we can’t fetch her out nohow.”

  “Moon!” said the gentleman, bursting out laughing. “Wait till evening, my friends, and if she don’t come swimming up into the East there, as right as ninepence, I’ll eat my hat!”

  But this only made them angry, and with their brooms and pitchforks and hayrakes they chased the gentleman and his horse out of the village.

  He was the silliest silly of all silly sillies.

  “Well,” said the gentleman to himself, as he rode off down the hill, “well, taking thirty or forty heads for one; they were the very worst silly I’ve ever seen.”

  So, true to his word, he turned back again, and a week or two after reached the farm and married the farmer’s daughter. And that being so, maybe he was the silliest silly of all silly sillies. But who’s to say?

  Bluebeard

  There was once a proud and foolish widow who had two daughters, Anne and Fatima. Anne was short and dark and plain; but she had a brave heart and sharp wits. Fatima was fair and slim, with long pale-gold hair; and all she thought of was fine clothes and dainty things to eat. And her mother’s one hope and desire was that Fatima should get a rich husband.

  “When Fatima is married,” she would say to Anne, “we will look for a husband for you too. But that will be a far harder thing to manage. And I am sure you will not envy your sister even if you never get married at all.”

  Anne smiled to herself at this, for she thought, “If ever I marry, it’s my husband will have to do the ‘looking.’ ” But she held her tongue.

  Now one day there came to this rich widow’s house a stranger in a fine glass coach with four milk-white horses. The night was growing dark when he reached its gates, but he could see its high gateposts and the lights in its windows, and he sat looking at it a moment and stroking his beard. Then he sent a footman to the lady of the house, bidding him ask the way. At sight of the footman and the fine silver-lamped coach, the widow at once invited the stranger in.

  He bowed low over her hand, thanked her a thousand times, and explained that hi
s coachman had lost his way and now night was down.

  “He shall be punished, madam, all in good time,” he said, looking at her as an old fat barn-door cock looks at a grain of barley. “But meanwhile would you be so kind as to tell me what road to take now, to the nearest inn?”

  This silly widow, seeing his handsome clothes, and thinking what pleasant manners he had, for he bowed and smirked at every word he uttered, thought to herself, “Ah, here at last is the very husband I have been hoping for, for my dear dear Fatima.”

  There was but one thing about him that made her doubt a little. He had a long hooked nose between his little bright black eyes, and a blue beard. It was a blue beard so dark as to be almost black, and of the shape of a shovel, and he stroked it as he spoke to her—a strange beard! When he saw Fatima, he cast up his little eyes as if in astonishment at her beauty, and smiled and bowed again and kissed her hand. And the lady smiled, too. “Ah,” she thought, “he has already fallen in love. And no wonder!”

  The fair Fatima listened to his pretty speeches and drank in his flatteries as she sat beside him at supper, crumbling her bread and sipping her wine. And Bluebeard—for that was the name by which he was known to his neighbours—vowed to her mother that in his long life he had never set eyes on so fair and modest a damsel as her daughter, and the very next evening he asked for Fatima’s hand in marriage. Her mother could scarcely contain herself for joy.

  A few days afterwards—for Bluebeard said he must make no great stay from his own estate—there was a splendid wedding, with guests from far and near, and Anne was Fatima’s bridesmaid. And after the wedding there was a Feast. There were fiddlers and trumpeters, and silver gilt dishes loaded with rich dainties and sweetmeats, and Bluebeard smirked and twiddled the great ring on his thumb, and the eating and drinking lasted till morning. The widow’s only regret was that her two sons were not sharing in these joys, for they were away in foreign parts.