by Joan Aiken
The Mayor said, “Suppose he goes on growing and breaks our Town Hall? Suppose he turns fierce? It would not be safe to have him in the town, he is too big.”
Mrs. Jones said, “Mog is a gentle cat. He would not hurt anybody.”
“We will wait and see about that,” said the Mayor. “Suppose he sat down on someone? Suppose he was hungry? What will he eat? He had better live outside the town, up on the mountain.”
So everybody shouted, “Shoo! Scram! Pssst! Shoo!” and poor Mog was driven outside the town gates. It was still raining hard. Water was rushing down the mountains. Not that Mog cared.
But poor Mrs. Jones was very sad. She began making a new lot of loaves and buns in the Town Hall, crying into them so much that the dough was too wet, and very salty.
Mog walked up the valley between the two mountains. By now he was bigger than an elephant—almost as big as a whale! When the sheep on the mountain saw him coming they were scared to death and galloped away. But he took no notice of them. He was looking for fish in the river. He caught lots of fish! He was having a fine time.
By now it had been raining for so long that Mog heard a loud, watery roar at the top of the valley. He saw a huge wall of water coming toward him. The river was beginning to flood as more and more rainwater poured down into it, off the mountains.
Mog thought, “If I don’t stop that water, all these fine fish will be washed away.”
So he sat down, plump in the middle of the valley, and he spread himself out like a big, fat cottage loaf.
The water could not get by.
The people in the town had heard the roar of the floodwater. They were very frightened. The Mayor shouted, “Run up the mountains before the water gets to the town, or we shall all be drowned!”
So they all rushed up the mountains, some on one side of the town, some on the other.
What did they see then?
Why, Mog, sitting in the middle of the valley. Beyond him was a great lake.
“Mrs. Jones,” said the Mayor, “can you make your cat stay there till we have built a dam across the valley to keep all that water back?”
“I will try,” said Mrs. Jones. “He mostly sits still if he is tickled under his chin.”
So for three days everybody in the town took turns tickling Mog under his chin with hay rakes. He purred and purred and purred. His purring made big waves roll right across the lake of floodwater.
All this time the best builders were making a great dam across the valley.
People brought Mog all sorts of nice things to eat too— bowls of cream and condensed milk, liver and bacon, sardines, even chocolate! But he was not very hungry. He had eaten so much fish.
On the third day they finished the dam. The town was safe.
The Mayor said, “I see now that Mog is a gentle cat. He can live in the Town Hall with you, Mrs. Jones. Here is a badge for him to wear.”
The badge was on a silver chain to go round his neck. It said MOG SAVED OUR TOWN.
So Mrs. Jones and Mog lived happily ever after in the Town Hall. If you go to the little town of Carnmog you will see the policeman holding up the traffic while Mog walks through the streets on his way to catch fish in the lake for breakfast. His tail waves above the houses and his whiskers rattle against the upstairs windows. But people know he will not hurt them, because he is a gentle cat.
He loves to play in the lake and sometimes he gets so wet that he sneezes. But Mrs. Jones is not going to give him any more yeast.
He is quite big enough already!
A BED FOR THE NIGHT
There were once four friends who traveled about the world singing songs and playing tunes. They called themselves the Weevils. The eldest was Zeno Weevil. He was Greek, and he played a zither. Then came Ian O’Weevil; he was Irish and played a harp. Then there was Spiqueneau Weevil, who was French and played the triangle. Last and youngest was Dunnoo Weevil, who was Indian and played a large drum.
They had an old car, and in this they drove through the jungles and over the deserts and up the mountains and along the valleys. Wherever they went, they sang and played, and people gave them food or money. And although their car was so old that it often broke down, Dunnoo was so clever that he was always able to make it go again.
But one winter day when they were crossing a frozen river in very wild country, the ice broke under them, and their car slowly sank down through the cold water until it was gone. The four friends only just managed to escape with the zither, the harp, the triangle, and the drum.
What could they do now?
The wind was blowing and the snow was snowing, and the nearest town was miles and miles away. Night was coming too—the sky was growing darker and darker.
By the side of the river was a crane’s nest, piled high with dry reeds and rushes and lined with soft, downy feathers. It looked very snug and comfortable. But when they walked up to it the crane lifted her head with its long, sharp beak and hissed at them:
“Kaaaa! Be off with you!”
“Please, kind crane, may we spend the night in your warm nest? We are so cold and wet and hungry!”
“What can you do in return?”
“We can sing and play for you.”
“That’s no use to me. I’ve no room for you,” said the crane. “Be off before I peck you.”
So they went on up the hill, through deep snow.
Next they came to a bear’s cave. The bear, brown and furry and big as a horse, was curled up inside, very snug on a bed of dried leaves. When he heard the four friends coming he growled fiercely at them.
“Please, kind bear, may we spend the night in your warm cave? We are so cold and wet and hungry and tired!”
“What can you do in return?”
“We can sing and play for you.”
“Grrr! Certainly not!” said the bear. “Besides, you might steal my nuts. Be off before I bite you.”
So the four friends went on up the hill. It was growing darker and darker.
Next they came to a little wooden house.
“Thank goodness!” said Zeno. “Whoever lives here will give us a bed for the night.” So they knocked at the door.
A dog began to bark angrily and a little old man opened the door. He was not at all pleased to see them.
“Please, kind sir, may we spend the night in your warm house? We are so cold and wet and hungry and tired and thirsty.”
“What can you do in return?”
“We can sing and play for you.”
“What do I care for that?” said the old man. “I have only one bed, and one chair, and one egg, which I am going to boil for my supper. There is no room for you.”
And he slammed the door.
The four friends turned sadly away.
Outside the little house was a well with a bucket hanging in it. They were so thirsty that Ian said, “At least the old man won’t grudge us a drink of his water.” And he began pulling up the bucket. “My word, it’s heavy!” he said.
Just as he pulled the bucket up to the top, the old man’s dog ran at them, barking, and knocked over the bucket. Out of it rolled something round and white and bigger than a soccer ball. Before they had time to see what it was, it rolled off down the hill.
The old man put his head out of the door.
“Be off!” he shouted. “Clear out of my garden before I come out with my gun.” So the four friends hurried away.
When they came to the very top of the hill they saw a strange sight.
There was a little house on one leg. The leg was yellow and scaly, like a chicken’s claw, and the house was all covered with feathers. When they knocked at the door a little old woman opened it and looked down at them.
“Well,” she said, “what do you want?”
“Please, kind lady, may we spend the night in your warm house? We are so cold and wet and hungry and thirsty and miserable!”
“What can you do in return?”
“We can sing and play for you.”
&
nbsp; “That’s not enough,” she said. “If you can find the egg that my house laid today, which somebody stole while I was asleep, then you may have a bed for the night.”
“What does the egg look like?”
“It is round and white and as large as the harvest moon and I was going to boil it for my supper.”
“I know where it is!” said Dunnoo. “The old man must have stolen it and hidden it in his bucket. It went rolling down the hill. We will find it for you.”
So they went quickly down the hill again. When they passed the old man’s house he shook his fist at them but he did not come out. The moon had risen, and they could see the track in the snow where the egg had rolled downhill.
As it rolled, the snow stuck to the egg, and it became bigger and bigger, bigger and bigger, bigger and BIGGER, till it was like a huge snowball. It rolled right into the bear’s cave, waking him and breaking all his nuts. Just as he threw it out in a rage, the four friends came by.
“It was you, was it,” growled the bear, “who rolled a snowball into my cave, and broke my nuts, and scattered my leaves, and woke me? Just wait till I get my paws on you!”
He would have rushed at them, but Ian quickly stuck his harp into the doorway of the cave, where it just fitted. All the bear could do was to scrape his long claws across the strings, and this made such a sweet sound that soon his head began to nod and his eyes closed.
“Hush!” whispered Ian. “He’ll soon fall asleep again. You go on and I will stay here to soothe him.” And he began to sing very softly to the bear.
So the other three ran on down the hill.
The big snow-wrapped egg had rolled on, crashing right into the crane’s nest and knocking it into the river.
The crane was furious.
“It was you, was it, you wretches,” she croaked, “who rolled that ball into my nest? Just wait till I get at you!”
And she spread her wide wings and came at them with her long, sharp beak. But Spiqueneau jumped to one side and held out his triangle so that she flew right into it and stuck fast.
“Quick!” he said to the others. “Go along beside the river and see if you can find the egg.”
And he began tickling the crane under her chin, singing a little song to soothe her.
The other two ran along the riverbank, and thank goodness, there was the crane’s nest floating with the old woman’s egg in the middle of it. Zeno reached out with his zither and Dunnoo reached out with his drumsticks, and they just managed to catch the nest and bring it to the bank.
They put the nest back on a dry spot. Then Spiqueneau let the crane out of the triangle. She climbed crossly back onto her nest and began putting it to rights. She was so busy that she took no more notice of the three friends, who hurried back up the hill. When they reached the cave the bear was fast asleep, so Ian took his harp out of the doorway and helped to carry the egg. It seemed to grow heavier and heavier as they toiled up the hill.
When they passed the old man’s house he had gone to bed without any supper.
At last they came to the old woman’s house on its yellow leg and they knocked at the door.
The old woman looked out.
“Well?” she said. “Have you found my egg?”
“Yes, here it is!”
“Ah, but is it cracked?” she said. “Wipe off the snow so that I can see.”
When they wiped the snow off there was a big crack. As they looked, it grew longer and longer until the egg fell in half. And out stepped another house on one leg, just like the old woman’s.
“I can’t eat that for my supper,” said the old woman, and she went inside her own house.
“But you promised us a bed for the night!”
“Well?” said the old woman. “What are you grumbling about? Now you have a whole house of your own!”
And she slammed her front door.
The Weevils were so happy that they began to play and sing. And their little house danced gaily about on its one leg. Then they climbed inside and went to bed.
And next day their house went hopping along with them, over the mountains and the valleys and the plains, wherever they wanted to go.
THE PATCHWORK QUILT
Far in the north, where the snow falls for three hundred days each year and all the trees are Christmas trees, there was an old lady making patchwork. Her name was Mrs. Noot. She had many, many little three-cornered pieces of cloth— boxes full and baskets full, bags full and bundles full—all the colors of the rainbow. There were red pieces and blue pieces, pink pieces and golden pieces. Some had flowers on, some were plain.
Mrs. Noot sewed twelve pieces into a star. Then she sewed the stars together to make bigger stars. And then she sewed those together. She sewed them with gold thread and silver thread and white thread and black thread.
What do you suppose she was making?
She was making a quilt for the bed of her little grandson Nils. She had nearly finished. When she had put in the last star, little Nils would have the biggest and brightest and warmest and most beautiful quilt in the whole of the north country—perhaps in the whole world.
While his granny sewed, little Nils sat beside her and watched the way her needle flashed in and out of the colored pieces, making little tiny stitches.
Sometimes he said,
“Is it nearly done, Granny?”
He had asked this question every day for a year. Each time he asked it, Mrs. Noot would sing:
“Moon and candle,
Give me your light,
Fire in the hearth,
Burn clear, burn bright.
Needle fly swiftly,
Thread run fast,
Until the quilt
Is done at last.
The finest quilt
That ever was,
Made from more than
A thousand stars!”
This was a magic song to help her sew quickly. While she sang it little Nils would sit silent on his stool, stroking the bright colors of the quilt. And the fire would stop crackling to listen, and the wind would hush its blowing.
Now the quilt was nearly done.
It would be ready in time for Nils’s birthday.
Far, far to the south of Mrs. Noot’s cottage, in the hot, dry country where there is no grass and it rains only once every three years, a wizard lived in the desert. His name was Ali Beg.
Ali Beg was very lazy. All day he slept in the sun, lying on a magic carpet while twelve camels stood round it, shading him. At night he went flying on his carpet. But even then the unhappy camels were not allowed to sit down. They had to stand in a square, each with a green lamp hanging on a chain around its neck, so that when Ali Beg came home he could see where to land in the dark.
The poor camels were tired out, and very hungry too, because they never had enough to eat.
As well as being unkind to his camels, Ali Beg was a thief. Everything he had was stolen—his clothes, his magic carpet, his camels, even the green lights on their necks. (They were really traffic lights; Ali Beg had stolen them from the city of Beirut one day as he flew over, so all the traffic had come to a stop.)
In a box Ali Beg kept a magic eye that could see all the beautiful things everywhere in the world. Every night he looked into the eye and chose something new to steal.
One day when Ali Beg was lying fast asleep the eldest of the camels said, “Friends, I am faint with hunger. I must have something to eat.”
The youngest camel said, “As there is no grass, let us eat the carpet.”
So they began to nibble the edge of the carpet. It was thick and soft and silky. They nibbled and nibbled, they munched and munched, until there was nothing left but the bit under Ali Beg.
When he woke up he was very angry.
“Wicked camels! You have ruined my carpet! I am going to beat you with my umbrella and you shall have no food for a year. Now I have all the trouble of finding another carpet.”
When he had beaten the camels Ali Beg took his
magic eye out of its box.
He said to it:
“Find me a carpet,
Magic Eye,
To carry me far
And carry me high.”
Then he looked into the magic eye to see what he could see. The eye went dark, and then it went bright.
What Ali Beg could see then was the kitchen of Mrs. Noot’s cottage. There she sat by her big fireplace, sewing away at the wonderful patchwork quilt.
“Aha!” said Ali Beg. “I can see that is a magic quilt—just the thing for me.”
He jumped on what was left of the magic carpet. He had to sit astride, the way you do on a horse, because there was so little left.
“Carry me, Carpet,
Carry me fast,
Through burning sun,
Through wintry blast.
With never a slip
And never a tilt,
Carry me straight
To the magic quilt.”
The piece of carpet carried him up into the air. But it was so small that it could not go very fast. In fact it went so slowly that as it crept along, Ali Beg was burned black by the hot sun. Then, when he came to the cold north country where Mrs. Noot lived, he was frozen by the cold.
By now night had fallen. The carpet was going slower and slower and slower—lower and lower and lower. At last it sank down on a mountaintop. It was quite worn out. Ali Beg angrily stepped off and walked down the mountain to Mrs. Noot’s house.
He looked through the window.
Little Nils was in bed fast asleep. Tomorrow would be his birthday.
Mrs. Noot had sat up late to finish the quilt. There was only one star left to put in. But she had fallen asleep in her chair, with the needle halfway through a patch.