Patricia St John Series

by Patricia St John

  We both had a miserable morning. I sighed and yawned and scuffled. I kicked the furniture and scowled at my aunt's back, but she was working hard at the washtub and pretended not to notice. She often pretended not to notice my tempers, and nothing annoyed me more. What was the good of being sulky when she would not even look at me? I grew crosser and crosser.

  She noticed me all right in the end, however, because she told me to carry out a basket of clean handkerchiefs and hang them on the line. I did not really mean to drop them, but I was so busy slamming the back door and rattling the clothes pegs that the basket slipped from my hands and all the handkerchiefs were scattered in the yard. It had rained in the night and the yard was muddy.

  My aunt was very angry indeed. I think she would have liked to slap me, for I saw her clasp her hands very tightly together.

  She told me the truth about myself in a furious voice. She said I could go now, as I was more trouble than I was worth on a busy morning. But for a whole week I was to stay in every morning and work in the house, and by the end of that time she hoped I would have learned how to be a little less clumsy. She spoke about my selfishness and what a disappointment I should be to my mother. Then she took the basket of muddy handkerchiefs out of my hands and went into the house.

  I stamped my foot, gulped back my tears, and marched out of the gate with my head in the air. I had lost my mornings for a week, but there was an hour left before dinner. I would go to meet Philip and walk home with him.

  It was a very quiet morning, cloudy and hazy and warm after rain. All the world smelled sweet and fresh. Flowers lifted their heads again, birds sang happily, and I felt strangely out of place with my ugly, angry thoughts and my tear-stained face—so much so, that I even stopped to think about it, and looked about me. There were the trees, peacefully doing their work, each leaf unfolding perfectly. I couldn't have put it into words at the time, but that peace seemed to come inside me for a few minutes, and I stood thinking how perfect life would be if only I could be good.

  I did not often want to be good, but I wanted it then—wanted with all my heart to be good and happy and useful. I even clasped my hands together and spoke aloud, because I wanted it so badly.

  “I want to be good,” I whispered. “I don't want to lose my temper and be selfish. Why can't I be good?”

  But my words seemed to float away into the empty air, for I knew nothing of Jesus, the one who longed to help and change me. To me He was nothing more than a person who had lived long ago. I shrugged my shoulders and went on.

  “I never shall be,” I muttered. “I shall always be horrid and cross, and nobody will ever like me.”

  I met Philip, jumping about with joy. He did not seem to have missed me at all!

  “I watched the egg hatch,” he announced. “I went up and she flew off. When I looked, the shell was cracked and I could see the skin inside heaving up and down. I daren't stay in case it got cold and the owlet died. She's back now, brooding on it, but I shouldn't go up if I were you because she might peck you.”

  There wasn't time to go up in any case, as it was time to go home to dinner. On the way I told Philip of my terrible morning. He was comforting and said how sorry he was, and I felt better, even though I knew perfectly well that I deserved no sympathy. Then, in his own thoughtful way, he stopped talking about the mornings and we spent the rest of our walk home planning the afternoons.

  Terry

  It was only three days later that we had our first adventure and made a new friend. This is how it happened.

  The wigwam was well and truly finished and as cozy a little house as anyone could wish for, with its secret hiding place where we hid our tea and other belongings when we were exploring. The owlet was growing. He now looked like a ball of soft, grey cotton wool, with a hooked beak and round yellow eyes, and he didn't seem to mind us holding him in our hands.

  The afternoon about which I am going to write was bright and windy. The wind was behind us, blowing strongly from the hills. We had been caught up in it and had run all the way. Being carried along like that had made us laugh, and we reached the wigwam quite breathless with running and laughter, ready to fling ourselves down on the mossy floor and get our breath back in the cool, dark shade of its walls. So it was quite a shock to me when Philip, who had dived halfway through the entrance, suddenly backed out, his eyes wide with astonishment, and whispered dramatically, “The wigwam is occupied!”

  “Who by?” I inquired crossly, backing up a step or two.

  “I couldn't exactly see,” replied Philip, “but I think it's a boy.”

  “Well,” I said loudly, “it's our wigwam, and he'd better come out, because we want to go in.”

  There was a dead silence.

  “You'd better come out,” said Philip very loudly and clearly.

  Still no answer.

  “Perhaps it's a dead body,” I suggested.

  “No, it isn't,” answered Philip. “I saw it scratch itself.”

  There was a long, uncertain silence. Philip began to giggle.

  “I think I'd better go in and look again,” he said. “Perhaps he's deaf.”

  He went down on all fours and approached the entrance slowly and carefully. His front half disappeared into the doorway and another long silence followed.

  “Hurry up,” I exclaimed impatiently, taking hold of his back legs in my excitement. “Who is he? And what is he doing?”

  “We're just staring,” said Philip with another giggle. “It's a boy, as I said. I say, boy, this is our wigwam, and we're coming in, so you'd better get out.”

  “Shan't,” said a voice from within.

  “Then I shall pull you out,” said Philip.

  “Then I shall catch hold of the wall and pull it down with me,” answered the voice coolly.

  Another silence, while the rivals stared at each other and I danced up and down with excitement.

  Philip broke the silence. “I know,” he said, “let's have a tournament, like in the history books!”

  “A what?” inquired the voice. Its owner didn't seem to know anything about history books.

  “A tournament,” repeated Philip. “It's like a fight between two people who are having a quarrel. Whoever wins the fight wins the quarrel. You come out and fight, and if I win, you go away, but if you win you can share the hut. Because, after all, we did build it.”

  Our uninvited visitor seemed to like this idea, for I saw Philip wriggle out of the entrance backward and roll over onto the ground, thus making room for him to come out. Angry as I was, the minute I saw his face in the gap, I liked him and wanted to get to know him.

  “I hope Philip wins,” I thought to myself. “But all the same, I hope he'll stay and play. I like him.”

  He was a little boy, about as big as me, but the same age as Philip. His clothes were ragged and rather too small for him, but his eyes were as bright as a blackbird's and his thin face was very brown and covered with freckles. His thick hair fell down over his forehead and reminded me of an untidy thatch. In his arms he held an enormous bunch of kingcups and cowslips. He laid them carefully on the moss and told me to leave them alone while he “knocked out that toff.”

  The tournament began before anyone was ready for it, for the boy suddenly ran at Philip and punched him in the jaw. Philip, taken by surprise, didn't have time to hit back before he was punched again on the ear, and even then he stood and blinked several times before making up his mind what to do about it.

  “Hit him, Phil,” I yelled, nearly joining in myself, and beating the nearest tree to relieve my feelings.

  It was a good fight to watch, once Philip got started. Philip was as strong and determined as an ox, but the boy reminded me of a little ferret. He twisted and turned and leaped and wriggled, his thin brown arms bulging with muscle and his lips pressed tightly together. Back and back he came, while Philip stood his ground and measured out slow, steady blows. It was a very exciting tournament indeed, and I behaved like a whole crowd of spe
ctators rolled into one.

  The boy won. He pretended to spring at Philip's neck, and then suddenly changed tactics and dived between his feet, bringing him to the ground with an alarming crash. By the time Philip realized what was happening, the boy was sitting on his chest, thumping him with all his might.

  “Stop it,” said Philip coolly. “You've won.”

  “Beat yer ‘ollow,” said the boy, getting up. “But I don't want yer silly ol’ hut. I could build a better one meself.”

  He was gathering up his flowers and making off when Philip ran over to him and held him.

  “Don't go,” he said. “We'd quite like you to share the hut, and then perhaps one day we'll have another fight. I love fighting, don't you?”

  “Not bad,” said the boy.

  “We're going to have tea now,” urged Philip. “Come and have it with us. There's room for all three inside.”

  It was not nearly teatime, really, but we both felt we must do something to hang onto the boy, and at the word tea, a remarkable change came over him. He stopped looking sullen and bored, and suddenly became interested. Without even troubling to say yes, he squatted down on the moss with an expectant smile on his face and held out his grubby hand. When he smiled, the light came into his eyes, and I thought he looked quite beautiful.

  He must have been terribly hungry, for I have never seen anyone eat at such a speed either before or since! We opened our packet of sandwiches, and without so much as a please or thank you, he fell upon them and finished three while Philip and I were still eating our first, although our appetites were fairly healthy, too. When the last crumb had disappeared and he had licked the jam off the paper, we all settled down to get to know each other. We lay on our tummies feeling sheltered and warm and peaceful.

  “What's your name?” asked Philip.

  “Terry,” he replied, and went on chewing a piece of grass.

  “How old are you?”

  “Eleven in August.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “At the cottage by the stream, down Tanglewoods way.”

  “Have you any brothers or sisters?”

  “No. There's only me and Mum.”

  “Where's your father?”

  “'Aven't got none.”

  “What are all those flowers for?”

  “Me Mum sells 'em in the town. She's a flower-seller.”

  “Do you pick them all for her?”

  “Yes, when I can skive off school.”

  Nobody spoke for a time, then I suddenly had an idea. I put my hand on his arm.

  “Would you like to see an owl's nest?” I asked.

  He pointed upward to the tree. “That one?” he asked. “I've seen him once today. Got a little tame one from that nest last year. It stayed with me for about two months.”

  I felt a little bit annoyed. It was our owl's nest, and he had no business getting there first. But Philip was before me. He leaned eagerly toward the boy.

  “Do you know lots of nests?” he asked. “Could you show us any more?”

  He looked at us rather scornfully. “I could show ya just about every nest in this 'ere wood,” he replied.

  Philip jumped to his feet. “Come on,” he cried.

  “Let's go and see! Show us them all, Terry!”

  Terry got up slowly and looked us up and down, as though making up his mind whether we were the sort of children to be trusted with nests. Then he nodded.

  “Right!” he answered briefly, and dived into the bushes.

  A breathless hour followed, at the end of which I was quite exhausted and nearly torn to pieces, for Terry never stopped at an obstacle. We waded knee deep in a pond to inspect a tree warbler's woven home, and we climbed impossible trees in search of crows' nests. We inspected holes in trunks and watched a starling fly in and out. We found out more about the wood in that hour than ever before. The sun was setting when we turned toward home.

  “Good-bye,” we said, and then we hesitated. Must this be the end? Would such a wonderful boy want to see us again?

  “Coming again?” asked Terry casually, and we heaved a great sigh of relief. From that moment Terry was our friend. Better still, we knew that he looked on us as his friends.

  The Lost Lamb

  We saw Terry nearly every day after that, and the time passed much too quickly. He led us all over the countryside and showed us his secret nests and lairs and burrows. We learned how to recognize and track the footprints of little animals and the different cries of birds and what they meant. He dragged us through swamps and marshes and brambles in search of the earliest flowers, and showed us where to pick orchids. It was as though he had opened up to us a whole new world of wonder, and we both loved and admired him because of everything he knew about life in the woods. Before, I had always disliked Philip's friends because I thought they took him away from me. But Terry seemed to think we were both equally his friends, and never looked down on me for being a girl and younger than Philip and him.

  So it was a disappointment to us all when Philip twisted his ankle while swinging from a tree and, after hobbling home, had to lie on a sofa for three days.

  I stayed at home at first to help amuse Philip. I believe my efforts were quite successful, but they nearly drove Aunt Margaret mad. I started by catching a duck and bringing him indoors, dressed up in a doll's hat, to visit Philip, and then letting him loose on the dining room carpet.

  After that, we decided to play soldiers and settled ourselves one at each end of the dining room with an army of model soldiers and a dozen marbles each. We bombed each other quite happily for a time, then we suddenly thought that the four kittens in the woodshed would make excellent army horses. I trotted off, returning with an armful of soft, purring, black-and-tabby fur, which I dropped on the carpet.

  I chose a tabby and a black-and-white, and Philip had two black ones for his army. We had a marvellous game, and the kittens loved it. They chased after the marbles in all directions, scattering soldiers right and left. Philip and I shrieked with laughter and scuttled around on our knees, collecting our ammunition and recapturing the “horses.” Faster and faster ran the kittens, fiercer and fiercer grew the battle, when suddenly there was a crash and a splash. The tabby kitten had jumped onto a dangling tablecloth and pulled it, with a vase of flowers on top, all over himself. Philip and I laughed until the tears rolled down our faces. Of course, at that moment the door opened and Aunt Margaret came in.

  She was not amused. Four very excited little kittens were banished to the coal shed, and one very cross little girl was turned out of the house. Philip was given a book and put back on the sofa.

  I decided to go to the woods and see if I could find Terry anywhere, so I squeezed through the gap in the hedge and strolled down the road.

  I didn't go far into the wood, for the sun was pleasant on the outskirts and I wanted to pick flowers. I wandered around, dreaming of all sorts of things, until I had almost forgotten where I was, and it gave me quite a surprise to hear a man's voice quite close to me. I looked up quickly, but he was not calling me. He was standing with his back to me, peering into the bushes. He had not seen me at all. But I recognized him at once. It was Mr. Tandy, the Cradley shepherd who had picked up the orphan lamb and carried it under his coat.

  Being rather a nosy child, I wanted to know what he was doing, so I went and stood where he could see me. As soon as he saw me, he smiled broadly.

  “Why,” he exclaimed, “you're the little girl who played with the lamb the other day. And here you are, turning up again just at the right moment. One of the little rascals has strayed, and I think he's got caught somewhere here in these bushes, but I just can't see where. Maybe you'll stop and help me find him.”

  I was delighted. Here was something nice to do, and a nice person to do it with, so I set to work happily. I liked this old man with his white hair and rosy face, and I felt he liked me. We were soon talking away as though we had known each other all our lives.

  “Why did
he stray?” I asked as we parted the bushes and searched the ditches.

  “Well,” answered the old man with a smile, “I reckon he's just like the rest of us. He likes his own way, and his own way has led him into trouble, poor little chap!”

  “Well,” I remarked, “I expect he's sorry for it now—all tied up in the bushes and wishing he'd stayed in his own field.”

  “Yes,” agreed the old man thoughtfully. “It takes a lot of thorns and briers to teach those lambs that their own way isn't the best one. He'll be crying his heart out for me now, maybe, if only I could find the place.”

  “Won't he be glad to see us,” I said. “Oh, I'm longing to find him! I expect he'll be very tired and hungry. Have you anything for him to eat?”

  He put his hand into his pocket and drew out a bottle.

  “You'll see,” he said. “The minute I pick him up in my arms he'll have his nose in my pocket. He knows I wouldn't forget him, the little rascal!”

  He chuckled softly, and we moved farther into the wood.

  “He's strayed a long way, hasn't he?” I remarked.

  “True,” answered the old man, “but I'll find him. I've found every lamb I've ever lost and brought it home. I always hear them crying out somewhere or other, although at times it's a very long search.”

  “What's the longest you've ever searched for?” I asked.

  “Almost a whole night,” he replied, “but that was in a storm, and I could hardly hear her crying for the wind and the thunder. She was caught fast in a bramble bush, and I found her at dawn by lantern light almost dead with cold and hunger and crying.”

  “And what did you do?” I asked again.

  “Do?” repeated the old man. “Why, I set her free and quieted her, and wrapped her in my coat, and carried her home. She was like a mad thing when we found her, but once she felt my arms around her she lay as quiet as a baby. She knew there was nothing to be afraid of then!”