Adventures of the Little Wooden Horse

by Ursula Moray Williams

  There were the heavy hay carts he used to pull, more battered than ever, with their wheels falling off. There was the lane to the fields, with even deeper ruts and puddles in it than he remembered. There was the little shed in which he had been locked many and many a night, and where he had fallen asleep, tired and miserable, dreaming of Uncle Peder.

  “I must go and see if the hole is still there that I made,” said the little wooden horse, creeping inside the shed where he had once slept.

  He had hardly entered the shed before there came a tramping in the yard of heavy feet, and a loud voice that the little wooden horse knew very well and trembled in spite of himself to hear. It was Farmer Max ordering the men out into the fields.

  At the same time the ducks bobbed their heads up out of the water and sang derisively, “Quaack! Quaack! Quaack! What about the little wooden horse?”

  When Farmer Max threw a stone at them they ducked their heads under the water again, waving their feet at him.

  Farmer Max strode round the farm to make sure that all the horses were out and none of the men were missing.

  “Little wooden horse, indeed!” he was muttering. “If I ever catch that little horse again I’ll never let him go.”

  The little wooden horse trembled as he heard the farmer go striding by. He hid under the manger where he used to feed, but nobody came in.

  For all that he did not want to stay another moment in the place, and when Farmer Max had gone he galloped out of the shed as quickly as his wheels would carry him.

  He dared not cross the yard to the gate in the open in case he should be seen, so he began to creep in and out of the sheds, always getting nearer and nearer to the gate, and trying to make himself invisible.

  “That was very unpleasant!” said the little wooden horse, as he trundled round the back of the farthest barn. “I was a very foolish little horse to risk such danger.” And he was turning the corner to bolt through the gate when whom should he meet face to face but – Farmer Max!

  The little wooden horse froze stiff with terror as he found himself once more in front of the tyrant who had treated him so badly.

  “Now I am lost for ever!” said the little wooden horse, and a sob rose in his throat as he thought of his dear Uncle Peder whom he would now never see again.

  What was his astonishment when Farmer Max walked straight past him, almost knocking him over, as if he had not seen him at all!

  For some time after he had passed the little wooden horse stood motionless, trembling with fear, not able to believe in his good fortune.

  Then he made a dash for the gate, and was off down the highway like a flash, not daring to look behind him for fear he should see the angry farmer hot upon his trail.

  But nobody followed him, and after a while the little wooden horse slackened his pace, while his breath became calmer and his heart beat less violently inside his wooden body.

  “I am a very lucky little horse,” he whispered to himself. “I am luckier than I deserve for being so reckless.”

  He trundled along till midday, when he paused to rest by a hayfield where some other horses were working. To his delight he recognized them as his companions at Farmer Max’s haymaking, and they knew him at once, running up to him to ask his news.

  When he had told them his adventures the little wooden horse explained his last visit to Farmer Max, and how he had passed quite close to the farmer without being seen at all.

  “Oh, that is not surprising!” said the horses. “Farmer Max never sees anything nowadays. His meanness has made him so short-sighted that unless he is wearing his spectacles he is nearly blind.”

  The horses wished the little wooden horse much luck and happiness as he set out again, and soon he was alone once more, with afternoon shadows running to meet him out of the forest that now loomed up to welcome him back.

  “Truly I am a very lucky little horse,” said the little wooden horse.

  He walked all day, and slept the night in the forest. The next day found him still trundling along, a little tired, but very happy, till he passed the white house where the little girl lived who had first loved him.

  “I know it is foolish,” said the little wooden horse, hesitating at the gate instead of passing by, “but I should like to take another peep into that playhouse, and see if the little girl is still there, and if it is all as fine and splendid as I remember when I went away.”

  So he pushed open the gate and trotted inside. The big house was quiet, just as before, while down the garden the apple trees had not changed a twig. The playhouse under the trees had had a new coat of green paint, but the door was open, just as it had been the first day the little wooden horse found it.

  This time he did not trundle round and round the house. He went straight up to the playhouse door and peeped through the chink, meaning to run away in a moment should the rocking horse open his mouth.

  But the rocking horse was quite still today, his dignity gone, his paint cracked and scratched. He stood drooping his head, with an old cocked hat over one of his broken ears.

  On the floor, looking as fresh and dainty as ever, the little girl sat rather sadly mending some torn picture books.

  Although the little wooden horse made no sound, something made her look up, and in a moment she had sprung to her feet, and was smothering him with kisses and reproaches.

  “Oh! Oh! My dear, my darling, my naughty little wooden horse! Why have you been away so long? Why haven’t you sent me that new, beautiful wooden horse like yourself that your master was to make for me? Where have you been all this time? I’ve been so lonely, so they sent for my boy cousins to play with me; but they spoiled my rocking horse and scratched my toys and tore my picture books. I didn’t want them. I only want a dear little wooden horse like you to play with.”

  The little wooden horse told of all his adventures as soon as he was allowed to speak a word for himself, and the little girl listened, her eyes growing rounder and rounder with horror and wonder as he told of all the things he had done. Most of all she wanted to hear about the ten little Princes and Princesses who were going to have ten little wooden horses just like the one that Uncle Peder was going to make for herself.

  “And now you mustn’t stop one minute. You must go back to him,” she said, pushing the little wooden horse out of the playhouse door. “But one day you must come back and see me, and tell me your adventures all over again.”

  The little wooden horse promised that he would do so, and then he trundled away through the forest with his heart bounding higher and higher with happiness the nearer he got to Uncle Peder.

  The hours went by, but he was no longer tired. Every path, every tree, looked friendly now, and he did not stop to sleep or feed.

  So the next day, when the sun was high in the sky, the little wooden horse came to the last bit of forest before the little old woman’s shed.

  “By now Uncle Peder will have told her about me,” he said to himself. “She will be kind to me, and perhaps she will be sorry that she threw me into the cabbage bed. I think Uncle Peder himself will be sitting in the sun outside the cottage door, and there will be a little curl of blue smoke coming out of the chimney where the little old woman is cooking the midday dinner. I shall trundle up to the cottage door and say, ‘Hello, Uncle Peder, my dear master!’ Just like that! ‘Here I am! Here is your little wooden horse come back from seeking his fortune, with enough money for us both to live on for ever and ever!’”

  He passed the last trees, the last rocks. In a moment he would be there.

  “Now I shall shut my eyes and go on while I count fifty,” said the little wooden horse. “When I open them again I shall be round the corner, and the little cottage will be there before me, with Uncle Peder sitting outside the door, just as I have seen it so often in my dreams.”

  So the little wooden horse trundled on, counting fifty as he went, till he had turned the corner and was in the well-remembered glade.

  “Now I will open my eyes!�
�� said the little wooden horse.

  He opened them wide and looked about him; but now they grew round with surprise and fear, for there was no cottage in front of him, no blue smoke coming out of the chimney, no cabbage patch, no Uncle Peder sitting before the door, no shed, no garden, and no cow house!

  Everything was in ruins, with the weeds rambling in and out of the bricks as though for a very long time there had been nobody there.

  Uncle Peder was gone, and there was no sign of him to be seen anywhere.

  19

  The Little Wooden Horse Goes to a Wedding

  The little wooden horse spent the night among the ruins of the cottage. His wooden heart was heavy with misery; he was too wretched even to cry. The treasure that rattled inside his wooden body did not comfort him at all, for he had collected it for Uncle Peder, and without Uncle Peder the little wooden horse preferred to die.

  The next day he rose heavily from his uncomfortable bed and wandered into the forest, not because he thought he would have any luck there, but because he had nowhere else to go.

  So the little wooden horse began his travels again, trundling through the forest by day, sleeping under the trees by night, hoping against hope that one day he would see or hear something of the dear master he had lost.

  Now and then he passed through villages where, a long while ago, he had followed Uncle Peder selling his wooden toys.

  At these villages the little wooden horse stopped and asked, “Oh, please, have you seen a poor old man passing by lately – Uncle Peder by name?”

  But the people always shook their heads and said they had never heard of such a fellow.

  “Then perhaps you have seen a little old woman driving a little brown cow?” the little wooden horse persisted; but the people always shook their heads and said they had seen no strangers at all.

  By and by he came to the end of the forest, beyond which stretched a plain wider than any he knew, with villages, towns, churches, and farms belonging to strange people who spoke a new language.

  “Surely Uncle Peder would not leave the forest he knows so well?” thought the little wooden horse, gazing out across the new country, which looked so vast and strange he did not want to set foot in it at all.

  So he turned about and trundled back the way he had come, but choosing new paths, and always hoping to hear news of Uncle Peder on the way.

  At last, when he had worn his paint to a mere scratch of colour, and even the strong iron bands that bound his wheels were wearing thin, the little wooden horse came once more into the glade where the cottage had stood, and now he did not know what to do or where to go, or what had become of his dear master, Uncle Peder.

  So he sat down again on the old pile of stones and began to cry large, fat tears out of his painted eyes.

  “I am so lonely!” sobbed the little wooden horse, who thought that at last his heart was really broken.

  There was plenty of company in the glade that morning, however, although nobody noticed the little wooden horse. People in their best clothes were hurrying past the ruined cottage on their way to the forest church, whose joyful bells could be heard through the trees inviting everybody to come and join in the wedding.

  Children ran by carrying flowers, old men limped along on sticks, young women hurried past fastening their ribbons – everyone was going in the same direction, and for the moment the whole forest was alive with their talk and laughter and bright wedding clothes.

  When they had gone the glade seemed lonelier than ever, while the little wooden horse was tired enough of his own company.

  “I think I shall go after them and see what is happening in the church,” said the little wooden horse, rising from the pile of stones and plodding on his broken wheels in the same direction as everyone else had gone.

  When he arrived at the church all the guests were already inside, for the wedding had begun, but outside an argument was going on between the driver of the wagonette that was to take the bride and bridegroom to their new home and the owner of the horse, who was insisting that he had only been paid to bring them to church.

  In vain the driver insisted that money had been paid for both journeys, that the bride and bridegroom were poor, and that anyway it had all been settled before. The owner of the horse would not listen to him, and when he found out that not another penny was to be had he unharnessed his horse and led him away, while the driver wrung his hands and stamped up and down in despair, calling himself the most unfortunate of drivers, and wondering what on earth the bride and bridegroom were going to do.

  The little wooden horse was very kind-hearted. He did not like to see anyone in distress, besides which he longed for company and liked to help people when he could. So he went gently up to the driver of the wagonette and offered to pull it for him.

  “For I am a strong little horse, and a quiet one,” he said, remembering how he had helped to pull the King’s coach round and round the city.

  The driver was so grateful that he had not yet finished his thanks when the little wooden horse was harnessed to the wagonette, by which time the bells were pealing again and the guests coming out of church.

  The driver hastily backed the wagonette up to the church door as the bride and bridegroom appeared, and although the little wooden horse could see nothing, for he was facing the wrong direction, he felt he was being very useful, and this warmed his lonely little wooden heart.

  All the guests shouted and waved their handkerchiefs as the bride and bridegroom, side by side inside the wagonette, left the church at a spanking trot.

  The driver cracked his whip, and the little wooden horse bowled merrily along, thinking how nice it was to work for somebody again, and to do good turns to people who could not help themselves.

  But although he was a steady little horse, and a quiet one, and had seen a hundred strange things in his travels, so that he never expected to be taken by surprise again, the little wooden horse nearly fell over backwards when there came a long sigh from behind him in the wagonette and a voice that he knew asked, “Why, my dear good soul, what can be the matter with you to sigh like that on your wedding day?”

  For the voice that replied was Uncle Peder’s, and the bride and bridegroom whom he was driving to their new home were none other than Uncle Peder and the little old woman from the cottage in the wood!

  “Well, well, well!” sighed Uncle Peder. “We all have our joys and our sorrows, I suppose!”

  “Ah!” said the little old woman. “I know what you are thinking of. You are sighing for your friend the little wooden horse, whom I chased away so cruelly from my door when you were ill many months ago. You will never be happy till he is found.”

  “I shall never find him now,” said Uncle Peder. “He would have come back long ago if he had been alive.”

  “How differently I would treat him if he were alive now!” wept the little old woman. “Oh! Oh! Oh! I shall never forgive myself for what I did that terrible day.”

  Now Uncle Peder had to comfort her, which he did by putting his arm about her shoulders and calling her his dear little old woman, his little old wife. He talked to her of the new house he had built for her with his own hands in the wood when hers had fallen down, and how they were going to live there, poor but happy, for the rest of their lives.

  “Ah, but I know you will never be perfectly happy without your little wooden horse!” sobbed the little old woman.

  All this while the little wooden horse could hardly contain himself for excitement. He frisked and hopped from one side of the road to the other, till the driver wondered if he had been wise to rely on a perfectly strange little horse, who might, after all, upset them all and leave them in a ditch.

  So he was quite glad when they came in sight of the little wooden house that Uncle Peder had built in the wood for himself and the little old woman to live in.

  The little wooden horse was glad too, for a thousand times on the journey he had nearly cried out, “Here I am, Uncle Peder! Here is your
little wooden horse, alive and well!” But he kept his mouth tightly shut and waited till they had drawn up before the newly painted door.

  There Uncle Peder put his hand in his pocket to give the driver a coin, while the little old woman ran into the house for a lump of sugar to give to the horse that had drawn the wagonette. Suddenly she threw up her hands with a scream that brought Uncle Peder running to her side.

  “Uncle Peder! Uncle Peder! Come quickly and tell me if I have lost my senses – or is that your little wooden horse that I drove from my door so cruelly so many months ago?”

  But now the little wooden horse could not stand still any longer. With a piercing whinny of joy he sprang out of the harness, dropped the shafts to the ground, and ran into Uncle Peder’s arms.

  Never had there been such a wedding feast! There was the little old woman bustling in and out with a dozen new dishes, each better than the last. There was Uncle Peder, almost too happy to eat, jumping up to kiss now his little old wife, now his little wooden horse – and the little wooden horse himself, at the end of all his troubles, gazing and gazing at his dear master with such affection in his painted eyes that the little old woman cried with joy to watch them both.

  And when the good things were eaten and the table cleared the little wooden horse took off his head and poured out of his wooden body the treasure that he had found on Pirate Jacky’s island – the diamonds, the rubies, the emeralds, the pearls, all sparkling and gleaming like a magnificent dream – while Uncle Peder and the little old woman, their eyes round with wonder, listened over and over again to the story of his adventures. There was enough money there to keep them wealthy for ever: to buy corn for the land, a new cow, cabbages for the cabbage patch, a hive of bees, clothes, wool, comforts of every kind, and, best of all, new wood and paint, so that Uncle Peder could begin his new horses – the first for the little girl, the rest to be sent over the sea to the ten little Princes and Princesses, the miner’s boy, the circus master, the shopkeeper, and last of all five particularly strong ones for the five noisy children who had used the little wooden horse so roughly.