“Have you ever been in a trial, Mum?”
“Yes. Here. When I was younger.”
“Did you make any mistakes?”
“Of course,” said Fly. “Everyone does. It’s very difficult, working a small number of strange sheep, in strange country. You’ll see.”
By the end of the day Babe had seen a great deal. The course was not an easy one, and the sheep were very different from those at home. They were fast and wild, and, good though the dogs were, there were many mistakes made, at the gates, in the shedding ring, at the final penning.
Babe watched every run intently, and Hogget watched Babe, and Fly watched them both.
What’s the boss up to, she thought, as they drove home. He’s surely never thinking that one day Babe might…no, he couldn’t be that daft! Sheep-pig indeed! All right for the little chap to run round our place for a bit of fun, but to think of him competing in trials, even a little local one like today’s, well, really! She remembered something Babe had said in his early duck-herding days.
“I suppose you’d say,” she remarked now, “that those dogs just weren’t polite enough?”
“That’s right,” said Babe.
CHAPTER 8
“Oh Ma!”
Fly’s suspicions about what the farmer was up to grew rapidly over the next weeks. It soon became obvious to her that he was constructing, on his own land, a practice course. From the top of the field where the rustlers had come, the circuit which he laid out ran all around the farm, studded with hazards to be negotiated. Some were existing gateways or gaps. Some he made, with hurdles, or lines of posts between which the sheep had to be driven. Some were extremely difficult. One, for example, a plank bridge over a stream, was so narrow that it could only be crossed in single file, and the most honeyed words were needed from Babe to persuade the animals to cross.
Then, in the home paddock, Hogget made a rough shedding ring with a circle of large stones, and beyond it, a final pen, a small hurdle enclosure no bigger than a tiny room, with a gate which was to close when he pulled on a rope.
Every day the farmer would send Fly to cut out five sheep from the flock, and take them to the top of the hill, and hold them there. Then, starting Babe from the gate at the lower end of the farmyard, Hogget would send him away to run them through the course.
“Away to me, Pig!” he would say, or “Come by, Pig!” and off Babe would scamper as fast as his trotters could carry him, as the farmer pulled out his big old pocket watch and noted the time. There was only one problem. His trotters wouldn’t carry him all that fast.
Here at home, Fly realized, his lack of speed didn’t matter much. Whichever five sheep were selected were only too anxious to oblige Babe, and would hurry eagerly to do whatever he wanted. But with strange sheep it will be different, thought Fly. If the boss really does intend to run him in a trial. Which it looks as if he does! She watched Babe’s tubby pinky-white shape as he crested the hill.
That evening at suppertime she watched again as he tucked into his food. Up till now it had never worried her how much he ate. He’s a growing boy, she had thought fondly. Now she thought, he’s a greedy boy too.
“Babe,” she said, as with a grunt of content he licked the last morsels off the end of his snout. His little tin trough was as shiningly clean as though Mrs. Hogget had washed it in her sink, and his tummy was as tight as a drum.
“Yes, Mum?”
“You like being a…sheep-pig, don’t you?”
“Oh yes, Mum!”
“And you’d like to be really good at it, wouldn’t you? The greatest? Better than any other sheep-pig?”
“D’you think there are any others?”
“Well, no. Better than any sheepdog, then?”
“Oh yes, I’d love to be! But I don’t really think that’s possible. You see, although sheep do seem to behave well for me, and do what I ask…I mean, do what I tell them, I’m nowhere near as fast as a dog and never will be.”
“No. But you could be a jolly sight faster than you are.”
“How?”
“Well, there are two things you’d have to do, dear. First, you’d have to go into proper training. One little run around a day’s not enough. You’d have to practice hard—jogging, cross-crountry running, sprinting, distance work. I’d help you of course.”
It all sounded like fun to Babe.
“Great!” he said. “But you said ‘two things.’ What’s the second?”
“Eat less,” said Fly. “You’d have to go on a diet.”
Any ordinary pig would have rebelled at this point. Pigs enjoy eating, and they also enjoy lying around most of the day thinking about eating again. But Babe was no ordinary pig, and he set out enthusiastically to do what Fly suggested.
Under her watchful eye he ate wisely but not too well, and every afternoon he trained, to a program which she had worked out, trotting right around the boundaries of the farm perhaps, or running up to the top of the hill and back again, or racing up and down the home paddock. Hogget thought that Pig was just playing, but he couldn’t help noticing how he had grown; not fatter, as a sty-kept pig would have done, but stronger and more wiry. There was nothing of the piglet about him anymore; he looked lean and racy and hard-muscled, and he was now almost as big as the sheep he herded. And the day came when that strength and hardness were to stand him in good stead.
—
One beautiful morning, when the sky was clear and cloudless, and the air so crisp and fresh that you could almost taste it, Babe woke feeling on top of the world. Like a trained athlete, he felt so charged with energy that he simply couldn’t keep still. He bounced about the stable floor on all four feet, shaking his head about and uttering a series of short sharp squeaks.
“You’re full of it this morning,” said Fly with a yawn. “You’d better run to the top of the hill and back to work it off.”
“O.K. Mum!” said Babe, and off he shot while Fly settled comfortably back in the straw.
—
Dashing across the home paddock, Babe bounded up the hill and looked about for the sheep. Though he knew he would see them later on, he felt so pleased with life that he thought he would like to share that feeling with Ma and all the others, before he ran home again; just to say “Hello! Good morning, everybody! Isn’t it a lovely day!” They were, he knew, in the most distant of all the fields on the farm, up at the top of the lane.
He looked across, expecting that they would be grazing quietly or lying comfortably and cudding in the morning sun, only to see them galloping madly in every direction. On the breeze came cries of “Wolf!” but not in the usual bored, almost automatic tones of complaint that they used when Fly worked them. These were yells of real terror, desperate calls for help. As he watched, two other animals came in sight, one large, one small, and he heard the sound of barking and yapping as they dashed about after the fleeing sheep. “You get some wolves as’ll chase sheep and kill ’em”—Ma’s exact words came back to Babe, and without a second thought he set off as fast as he could go in the direction of the noise.
—
What a sight greeted him when he arrived in the far field! The flock, usually so tightly bunched, was scattered everywhere, eyes bulging, mouths open, heads hanging in their evident distress, and it was clear that the dogs had been at their worrying for some time. A few sheep had tried in their terror to jump the wire fencing and had become caught up in it, some had fallen into the ditches and got stuck. Some were limping as they ran about, and on the grass were lumps of wool torn from others.
Most dreadful of all, in the middle of the field, the worriers had brought down a ewe, which lay on its side, feebly kicking at them as they growled and tugged at it.
On the day when the rustlers had come, Babe had felt a mixture of fear and anger. Now he knew nothing but a blind rage, and he charged flat out at the two dogs, grunting and snorting with fury. Nearest to him was the smaller dog, a kind of mongrel terrier, which was snapping at one of the ewe’s
hind legs, deaf to everything in the excitement of the worry.
Before it could move, Babe took it across the back and flung it to one side, and the force of his rush carried him on into the bigger dog and knocked it flying.
This one, a large black crossbreed, part-collie, part-retriever, was made of sterner stuff than the terrier, which was already running dazedly away; and it picked itself up and came snarling back at the pig. Perhaps, in the confusion of the moment, it thought that this was just another sheep that had somehow found courage to attack it; but if so, it soon knew better, for as it came on, Babe chopped at it with his terrible pig’s bite, the bite that grips and tears, and now it was not sheep’s blood that was spilled.
Howling in pain, the black dog turned and ran, his tail between his legs. He ran, in fact, for his life, an openmouthed bristling pig hard on his heels.
The field was clear, and Babe suddenly came back to his senses. He turned and hurried to the fallen ewe, round whom, now that the dogs had gone, the horrified flock was beginning to gather in a rough circle. She lay still now, as Babe stood panting by her side, a draggled side where the worriers had pulled at it, and suddenly he realized. It was Ma!
“Ma!” he cried. “Ma! Are you all right?”
She did not seem too badly hurt. He could not see any gaping wounds, though blood was coming from one ear where the dogs had bitten it.
The old ewe opened an eye. Her voice, when she spoke, was as hoarse as ever, but now not much more than a whisper.
“Hullo, young un,” she said.
Babe dropped his head and gently licked the ear to try to stop the bleeding, and some blood stuck to his snout.
“Can you get up?” he asked.
For some time Ma did not answer, and he looked anxiously at her, but the eye that he could see was still open.
“I don’t reckon,” she said.
“It’s all right, Ma,” Babe said. “The wolves have gone, far away.”
“Far, far, fa-a-a-a-a-ar!” chorused the flock.
“And Fly and the boss will soon be here to look after you.”
Ma made no answer or movement. Only her ribs jumped to the thump of her tired old heart.
“You’ll be all right, honestly you will,” said Babe.
“Oh ar,” said Ma, and then the eye closed and the ribs jumped no more.
“Oh Ma!” said Babe, and “Ma! Ma! Ma-a-a-a-a-a!” mourned the flock, as the Land Rover came up the lane.
—
Farmer Hogget had heard nothing of the worrying—the field was too far away, the wind in the wrong direction—but he had been anxious, and so by now was Fly, because Pig was nowhere to be found.
The moment they entered the field both man and dog could see that something was terribly wrong. Why else was the flock so obviously distressed, panting and gasping and disheveled? Why had they formed that ragged circle, and what was in the middle of it? Farmer Hogget strode forward, Fly before him parting the ring to make way, only to see a sight that struck horror into the hearts of both.
There before them lay a dead ewe, and bending over it was the pig, his snout almost touching the outstretched neck, a snout, they saw, that was stained with blood.
CHAPTER 9
“Was it Babe?”
“Go home, Pig!” said Farmer Hogget in a voice that was so quiet and cold that Babe hardly recognized it. Bewildered, he trotted off obediently, while behind him the farmer picked up the dead ewe and carried it to the Land Rover. Then with Fly’s help he began the task of rescuing those sheep that were caught or stuck, and of making sure that no others were badly hurt. This done, he left Fly to guard the flock, and drove home.
—
Back at the farm, Babe felt simply very very sad. The sky was still cloudless, the air still crisp, but this was a very different pig from the one that had cantered carefree up the hill not half an hour ago. In those thirty minutes he had seen naked fear and cruelty and death, and now to cap it all, the boss was angry with him, had sent him home in some sort of disgrace. What had he done wrong? He had only done his duty, as a good sheep-pig should. He sat in the doorway of the stables and watched as the Land Rover drove into the yard, poor Ma’s head lolling loosely over the back. He saw the boss get out and go into the house, and then, a few minutes later, come out again, carrying something in the crook of one arm, a long thing, a kind of black shiny tube, and walk toward him.
“Come, Pig,” said Farmer Hogget in that same cold voice, and strode past him into the stables, while at the same moment, inside the farmhouse, the telephone began to ring, and then stopped as Mrs. Hogget picked it up.
Obediently Babe followed the farmer into the dark interior. It was not so dark however that he could not see clearly that the boss was pointing the black shiny tube at him, and he sat down again and waited, supposing that perhaps it was some machine for giving out food and that some quite unexpected surprise would come out of its two small round mouths, held now quite close to his face.
At that instant Mrs. Hogget’s voice sounded across the yard, calling her husband’s name from the open kitchen window. He frowned, lowered the shiny tube, and poked his head around the stable door.
“Oh there you are!” called Mrs. Hogget. “What do you think, that was the police that was, they’m ringing every farmer in the district to warn ’em, there’s sheep-worrying dogs about, they killed six sheep t’other side of the valley only last night, they bin seen they have, two of ’em ’tis, a big black un and a little brown un, they say to shoot ’em on sight if you do see ’em, you better get back up the hill and make sure ours is all right, d’you want me to fetch your gun?”
“No,” said Farmer Hogget. “It’s all right,” he said.
He waited till his wife had shut the window and disappeared, and then he walked out into the sunlight with Babe following.
“Sit, Pig,” he said, but now his voice was warm and friendly again.
He looked closely at the trusting face turned up to his, and saw, sticking to the side of Babe’s mouth, some hairs, some black hairs, and a few brown ones too.
He shook his head in wonder, and that slow grin spread over his face.
“I reckon you gave them summat to worry about,” he said, and he opened the gun and took out the cartridges.
—
Meanwhile Fly, standing guard up in the far field, was terribly agitated. She knew of course that some dogs will attack sheep, sometimes even the very dogs trained to look after them, but surely not her sheep-pig? Surely Babe could not have done such a thing? Yet there he had been at the center of that scene of chaos, bloodstained and standing over a dead ewe! What would the boss do to him, what perhaps had he already done? Yet she could not leave these fools to find out.
At least though, she suddenly realized, they could tell her what had happened, if the shock hadn’t driven what little sense they had out of their stupid heads. Never before in her long life had Fly sunk to engaging a sheep in conversation. They were there to be ordered about, like soldiers, and, like soldiers, never to answer back. She approached the nearest one, with distaste, and it promptly backed away from her.
“Stand still, fool!” she barked. “And tell me who chased you. Who killed that old one?”
“Wolf,” said the sheep automatically.
Fly growled with annoyance. Was that the only word the halfwits knew? She put the question differently.
“Was it the pig that chased you? Was it Babe?” she said.
“Ba-a-a-a-abe!” bleated the sheep eagerly.
“What does that mean, bonehead?” barked Fly. “Was it or wasn’t it?”
“Wolf,” said the sheep.
Somehow Fly controlled her anger at the creature’s stupidity. I must know what happened, she thought. Babe’s always talking about being polite to these woolly idiots. I’ll have to try it. I must know. She took a deep breath.
“Please…” she said. The sheep, which had begun to graze, raised its head sharply and stared at her with an expression of
total amazement.
“Say that agai-ai-ai-ain,” it said, and a number of others, overhearing, moved toward the collie.
“Please,” said Fly, swallowing hard, “could you be kind enough to tell me…”
“Hark!” interrupted the first sheep. “Hark! Ha-a-a-a-ark!” whereupon the whole flock ran and gathered round. They stood in silence, every eye fixed wonderingly on her, every mouth hanging open. Nincompoops! thought Fly. Just when I wanted to ask one quietly the whole fatheaded lot come round. But I must know. I must know the truth about my Babe, however terrible it is.
“Please,” she said once more in a voice choked with the effort of being humble, “could you be kind enough to tell me what happened this morning? Did Babe…?” but she got no further, for at the mention of the pig’s name the whole flock burst out into a great cry of “Ba-a-a-a-abe!”
Listening, for the first time ever, to what the sheep were actually saying, Fly could hear individual voices competing to make themselves heard, in what was nothing less than a hymn of praise. “Babe ca-a-a-a-ame!” “He sa-a-a-a-aved us!” “He drove the wolves awa-a-a-a-ay!” “He made them pa-a-a-a-ay!” “Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hoora-a-a-ay!”
What a sense of relief flooded over her as she heard and understood the words of the sheep! It had been sheep-worriers, after all! And her boy had come to the rescue! He was not the villain, he was the hero!
—
Hogget and Babe heard the racket as they climbed the hill, and the farmer sent the pig ahead, fearing that perhaps the worriers had returned.
Under cover of the noise Babe arrived on the scene unnoticed by Fly, just in time to hear her reply.
“Oh thank you!” she cried to the flock. “Thank you all so much for telling me! How kind of you!”
“Gosh, Mum,” said a voice behind her. “What’s come over you?”
CHAPTER 10
Babe: The Gallant Pig Page 4