The Fairy Caravan

by Beatrix Potter

  ‘My! what a mop of hair.’

  So then began the brushing of the hair of Tuppenny, which became a daily task. At first there were pulls and twitches and squeaks; even some hopeless tangles which had to be snipped out with Xarifa’s small scissors. But after it was combed through it was easily kept in order. The brushing became a pleasure to the two little barbers. Tuppenny combed in front, and Xarifa brushed behind. Whenever the brushing stopped, Tuppenny looked over his shoulder, and discovered that Xarifa had fallen fast asleep.

  She told him stories to keep herself awake; and she answered his many questions. ‘Who plays the fiddle, Xarifa?’ ‘Paddy Pig; Sandy plays the bag-pipes; and each of them does step dancing. Paddy Pig dances jigs, and Sandy dances reels; and all of us do country dances. No, no, I am not too old and fat!’ said Xarifa, laughing. ‘I can dance “Hunsdon House”, and I can dance a minuet with Belinda Woodmouse. Perhaps we may be dancing this evening; but there is not much room in the quarry. We will soon be moving on again.’ ‘Do we always move in the night, Xarifa? Oh! oh! that hurts!’ ‘I shall have to snip it Tuppenny, give me my scissors. When we travel along the high roads we usually move in the dark; because the roads are deserted at night; very few of the Big Folk are stirring.’ ‘Would they chase us Xarifa?’ ‘No, indeed! they cannot see us, while we carry fern seed in our pockets.’ ‘I have not got a pocket.’ ‘It will be easy to plait a little packet of fern seed into your hair, like Pony Billy’s. He carries one in his mane, in a plait that we call a witch’s stirrup. But he once had an adventure when he lost his fern seed.’ ‘I did not lose it. It was stolen for mischief,’ said Pony William with a snort; he was grazing near them. ‘Anyway he was not invisible; he had no fern seed; so the Big Folk could see him. Now Tuppenny sit still, while I finish brushing your hair, and you shall hear the story. Only you must understand that I did not see it happen. I do not travel with the circus in winter weather. I go to live with the Oakmen.’ ‘Who are they, Xarifa?’ ‘One thing at a time. Hold your head still and listen.’

  Chapter 4

  Pony Billy in the Pound

  It happened one winter there was a long spell of snow. The circus company was camping in a lonely barn. During real hard weather they usually preferred accessible places, near farms and villages; but this snowstorm had caught them unexpectedly. Indeed, the little caravan itself was fast in a snow-drift under a hedge. The tilt-cart had been dragged up to the barn, and the baggage had been carried inside. The building was dry, and fairly comfortable; but unfortunately, the great double doors could not be opened; so poor Pony Billy had to remain outside. The others, including Paddy Pig, contrived to squeeze between the upright wooden bars of an unglazed low window. There was dry bracken bedding in the barn; but no hay.

  Pony Billy ate rough grass that grew through the snow upon the banks; he even did some digging with his forefeet, like the sheep. But when the snow continued day after day, it became necessary for him and Sandy to go foraging. They borrowed a sledge belonging to the charcoal burners, and they fetched a load of provisions; but they could only carry a very little hay as well. Pony Billy made no complaint about sleeping out. His shaggy coat was inches long; he was warm, even if he woke up half buried with snow in the morning. But he did feel as if he wanted a good feed. So one afternoon in the early darkening he announced that he intended to sup, and possibly stay a night or two, with the gypsy’s donkey, Cuddy Simpson.

  Sandy was not pleased. He did not mind Pony Billy going; but he – Sandy – would have liked to go, too, and spend a merry evening with Eddy Tin Cur and the gypsy lurchers.

  Pony William considered the donkey a harmless, respectable animal, certainly very hardworking; but the tinker dogs were another matter. They were suspected of all manner of crimes, including sheep stealing and poaching. Therefore, he said, firmly, that it was Sandy’s duty to stop with the caravan.

  Iky Shepster, the starling, joined in the argument. He said people who were not sharp enough to look after their own property deserved to lose it.

  They fetched a load of provisions.

  He ran up and down on Pony Billy’s back, and twitched his mane, and chittered. Pony Billy set off at dusk, walking up the lane that led to the main road. There was deep drifted snow against the walls and hedges. The lane was blocked for carts; only in the middle there was a beaten trod. The Big Folk from a farm further south had been using it; and the postman had followed it as a short cut.

  Pony Billy got out onto the main road with a scramble and a jump over a frozen bank of snow, which the snow plough had cast up across the mouth of the lane. Where the plough had travelled, the road was scraped and smoother and slippery. Pony Billy walked fast without trying to trot. He picked up his neat little feet; the snow was too dry to ball in his hoofs. The night was dark, but there was a ground light from the snow. He walked forwards up the hill.

  Voices came towards him on the road. Pony Billy was not concerned. The Big Folk could not see him. He had complete confidence in the fern seed which he carried. He was accustomed to walk and trot invisible. But he had not reckoned with the mischief-making of Iky Shepster. He thought that his precious packet was safely plaited into his mane; instead of which it had been stolen, and hidden by the starling in a mouse hole in the barn.

  Two tall figures approached out of the darkness to meet him. Pony Billy came on, as bold as bold. He knew that his shoes would not clink in the snow. He believed himself to be invisible; and there was plenty of room to pass. Even when he recognized that the patrollers were two very large policemen – Pony Billy still advanced.

  The large policemen halted. ‘What’s this, Constable Crabtree?’ Then at length Pony Billy stopped, too. He stood motionless; puzzled. ‘It looks to me to be a large hairy black pig, Sergeant.’ Pony Billy was considerably startled; but still he stood his ground. Constable Crabtree flashed a bull’s-eye lantern upon him. ‘It’s a pony. No bigger than a big dog,’ said the Sergeant. Without warning, the constable sprang at the amazed Pony William, and seized him by the forelock. Pony Billy boxed desperately; but he was overpowered by the two large policemen. And alas! the sergeant in his overcoat pocket carried a piece of strong cord, which they twisted into a rough halter.

  Pony Billy threw himself down; he rolled; he kicked; he tried to bite. But all in vain! They forced him along; and the more he jibbed – the more those large policemen laughed. ‘Whoa, pony! Whoa there! He is a spirited little nag! Do you recognize him, Constable Crabtree?’ ‘I do not, Sergeant Nutbush. There is a galloway at Hill Top Farm; but it’s taller. Matter-of-fact, it’s a little mare, that one; they call it Mabel.’ ‘Is he the pony from Swiss Cottage?’ ‘He is not, Sergeant. That one is a fell pony. It has nicked ears, same like a herdwick sheep; under key-bit near and cropped far.’ ‘Well, well, well! Put him in the Pound! Give him a bite of hay. We can advertise him in next week’s Gazette.’

  Pony Billy felt that things were getting extremely serious. It was so unfortunately dark; there were no other animals out upon the roads; nobody to carry news of his predicament to Sandy. It was serious.

  The Pound, or Pinfold, was a round enclosure, with a high circular wall, built of cobblestones. After thoughtfully providing an armful of hay, Constable Crabtree locked up Pony Billy, and left him. The oak door was ancient, but strong. It was padlocked. The key hung upon a nail at the police station. Pony Billy had a satisfying meal at last.

  Next day he tramped many, many miles, round and round inside the pinfold wall. The constable looked in, with another supply of hay, and remarked that it was funny that nobody claimed him. Pony Billy ate as much hay as he could manage to tuck in. Then he resumed his tramping round and round upon the dirty snow in the Pinfold. He neighed loudly and repeatedly. Nobody answered. The walls were very high; not the tallest Clydesdale horse could have looked over the top of those cobblestones. No living thing did he see till the second afternoon, when a small flock of starlings flew over. They wheeled round in the air, after the manner of starlings; an
d one bird flew back and alighted on the wall. It was Iky Shepster. He ran along the top of the wall, and sputtered and chittered with laughter. Pony Billy ate hay and pretended not to see him. Then, just as Iky Shepster spread his wings to rejoin the flight of starlings, Pony William remarked that he wished to see Sandy on particular business. ‘Is that so?’ said Iky Shepster. Pony Billy was left in uncomfortable doubt whether the message would be delivered or not.

  In the meantime, Sandy had no suspicion but that Pony Billy was safe with the gypsy’s donkey, who spent the worst of winter eating mouldy hay and taed-pipes in an open-fronted shed on the marshes. It was a most unpleasant surprise when Iky Shepster flew in with the news that Billy was fast in the Pound. ‘Whose doing is that, I wonder?’ said Jenny Ferret. ‘He must have lost his fern seed. I shall have to get him out somehow,’ said Sandy. ‘Lost, stolen, or strayed,’ said Jenny Ferret. Paddy Pig suggested trying to borrow the key of the padlock from the Sergeant’s black Manx cat: but it was a doubtful expedient; and it would involve calling at the police station. ‘It would be simpler to pick the lock. If Mettle will only come with me we will soon have him out.’

  Sandy waited till moonrise; then he scampered off to the smithy in the village. The Big Folk had all gone to bed, in the clear of the moon; but the forge was still working.

  Mettle, the blacksmith’s yellow terrier, was doing a job on his own; opening the links in a dog chain. Another dog was blowing the bellows. They greeted Sandy, ‘Come along and warm yourself at the hearth, Sandy!’ ‘I’m in a hurry, I cannot wait. And you must come with me, Mettle. Poor old Billy is fast in the Pound.’ ‘Whew-w!’ whistled Mettle. He damped down the fire, gathered up some tools, and they hurried off together.

  Pony Billy was dozing in the Pinfold. He was awakened by the sound of sniffing and scratching under the door; something was being done to the padlock. Within a few minutes he was free; trotting back towards the village with the dogs racing at his heels. When the constable came next morning, the mysterious pony had vanished. The Pinfold was empty.

  ‘So you see, Tuppenny,’ said Xarifa, ‘it is most important to carry fern seed when we go upon the roads, and pass near the Big Folks; and you must always take great care that it is not lost.’

  Chapter 5

  The Misses Pussycats’ Shop

  While the caravaners were encamped in the quarry, Sandy had gone shopping to the market town. It was an old-fashioned town with funny crooked streets and little old squares hidden away round corners; there were archways opening under houses, leading from square to square. Sandy made several small purchases at the grocer’s and at the saddler’s. But his most important piece of shopping was to buy something pretty to make a costume for Tuppenny, who was worthy of considerable outlay by way of dressing up. His remarkable hair, and the rarity of guinea-pigs, combined to make him an acquisition to the circus company. ‘Choose something bright and fanciful; I will shape it and sew it. And pray remember hairpins!’ said the Dormouse Xarifa, who was clever with her needle. So Sandy in the course of his shopping paid a visit to the milliner’s.

  The Misses Matilda and Louisa Pussycat kept shop in a tiny steep three-storied house, with an overhanging upper floor. Each floor came forward over the story below; it made the shop rather dark for matching ribbons.

  In the attic Matilda Pussycat, leaning out of the window, could talk to Tabby Whitefoot across the way, at the staircase window of the post office opposite. The street door opened down a step into the house. On the right-hand side of the passage was a tiny parlour, containing a polished mahogany table and three chairs with horse-hair seats. On a side table were the tea tray and the best tea service, and some shells and coral under a bell glass. By the fireplace were two wicker chairs with pink cushions. Some black silhouette portraits of cat ancestors hung on the wall; and on the mantelpiece stood a pot snuffbox figure, shaped like an owl. Its head took off, and the box body contained pins and buttons; not snuff. The muslin curtains were spotlessly white.

  On the other side of the passage was the milliner’s shop, and a dark little kitchen behind it. The Misses Pussycats lived principally in the kitchen. It was well supplied with the usual assortment of pots and pans, shelves, milk jugs, crooks for hanging things, a deal table, stools, and a corner cupboard. The only unusual feature in the kitchen was a small window under the plate rail. This window did not look out of doors like other windows; it looked into the shop. If a customer came in, Miss Louisa Pussycat applied her eye to the window, to see who it was. Once when she looked through, she saw a duck who had come into the shop without quacking.

  Sandy came in from the street and lifted the latch of the shop door; it had a tinkling bell – ‘Bow, wow! Shop there! Bow wow!’ barked Sandy, rapping on the counter. Miss Louisa Pussycat’s eye appeared at the little window. She put on a clean apron and came in behind the counter. ‘Good morning, Mr. Alexander! I hope I see you well? What can I have the pleasure of showing you?’ ‘First rate, Miss Louisa! And how’s yourself and Miss Matilda this cold weather?’ ‘I am very well, I thank you, Mr. Sandy; but I regret to say that my sister, Miss Matilda Pussycat, has neuralgia. A fishbone, Mr. Sandy, a fishbone embedded between her wisdom teeth; it has caused a gumboil or abscess, accompanied by swelling. She has eaten nothing but slops for a fortnight.’ ‘That would disagree with me,’ said Sandy. ‘Indeed, my poor sister Matilda is becoming as “thin as a cat’s lug”, as the saying is. But the spring fashions are a great divertissement and alleviation, Mr. Sandy. See here what a sweet thing in collars, Mr. Sandy; and these neckties and tabby muslins – quite the latest from Catchester. Is it for yourself or for a lady, Mr. Alexander?’ ‘Well, it’s for a guinea-pig, to tell you the truth, Miss Louisa.’ ‘A guinea-pig! is that a species of wild boar, Mr. Sandy? Does it bite?’ ‘No, no! A most genteel and timid little animal, Miss Louisa. He is going to play in our circus, and we want to dress him up; something bright coloured and tasty –’ ‘I feel confident that we can supply every requisite article of apparel. What is his complexion? And what character will he impersonate?’ inquired Miss Louisa Pussycat; she liked long words. ‘He is lemon and white. We thought of calling him the Sultan of Zanzibar. How about a bandana pocket handkerchief? Can you show me any?’ ‘Excellent. We have a choice selection. Scarlet and gold would become him admirably. And permit me to suggest a yellow sash and a green turban; quite the height of fashion,’ said Miss Louisa Pussycat, opening cardboard boxes and unwrapping packages. ‘I don’t think a turban would stick on, he has such a lot of hair. We were going to roll it up on the top of his head, with a hatpin stuck through it. By the bye, that reminds me, I am forgetting hairpins – hairpins with a bend in them, Miss Louisa; he has difficulty in doing up his hair.’ ‘Dear me, how remarkable! Cannot he have it shingled? But it would be bad for trade. You would be surprised how the sale of hairpins has diminished; we are seldom asked for them.’ Miss Louisa clattered open numbers of little drawers behind the counter in search of hairpins. Finally she called through the window into the kitchen – ‘Sister! Sister Matilda! Where are the hairpins?’ ‘Miaw! miaw! oh, bother!’ moaned Miss Matilda, ‘I put them away in the attic; they are never wanted.’ She was heard climbing the staircase.

  ‘We can supply every requisite article of apparel.’

  Sandy chose a scarlet, gold and chocolate coloured pocket handkerchief, and a green sash ribbon. ‘Allow me to recommend the purchase of this hatpin with a glass knob; it will shimmer in the sunshine like a diamond,’ said Miss Louisa, who was greatly interested in the Sultan’s costume.

  Miss Matilda came downstairs with a packet of hairpins. ‘Here! take them. Mi-i-a-ow! Oh, my poor mouth!’ Her face was swelled like a cabbage, and she had a strip of red flannel pinned round her head. ‘Let me look at it; I have had experience of bones sticking fast,’ said Sandy. ‘If I were sure you would not scratch me, I believe I could get it out.’ ‘Indeed, I should be thankful; she mews all night,’ said Miss Louisa Pussycat. ‘I’ll scratch both of you if y
ou touch me,’ said Matilda. ‘Matilda, this is folly. Open your mouth.’ ‘Louisa, I won’t,’ replied Matilda. ‘Oh, all right; please yourself,’ said Sandy. ‘Will you make out my bill, Miss Louisa.’ ‘Let me see – half a yard of ribbon at 9 peppercorns a yard, 4½. One crystal hatpin, 7 peppercorns; one pocket handkerchief, 11 peppercorns; that makes 22½ peppercorns.’ ‘Miaw! You have forgotten to charge for the hairpins, Louisa.’ ‘Hairpins, 1½ peppercorns. That gets rid of the half. Small change is troublesome, is it not, Mr. Alexander? Twenty-four peppercorns exactly, thank you.’

  ‘By the bye, what is the smallest size you stock in fancy slippers, Miss Louisa?’ ‘Kitten quarter two’s, Mr. Sandy,’ said Miss Louisa, reaching up towards the top shelf. ‘I’m afraid that would be too large; no, don’t trouble please to get them down; I know they would be too large, Miss Louisa.’

  At this point Miss Matilda again mewed dismally, ‘Miaw! mi-a-aw! Oh, my poor face.’ ‘I am out of patience with that wearisome fishbone. Sister, why will you not allow our obliging customer to examine it?’ ‘What do you want me to do?’ asked Matilda crossly. ‘Put on these wash-leather gloves so that you cannot scratch; sit back in this chair – so – now open your mouth.’ Matilda opened it wide with the intention of spitting at them. Instantly Miss Louisa wedged a spoon between her jaws. ‘Quick, Mr. Sandy! Get the sugar tongs off the tea tray in the parlour. That’s it! Quick, before she scratches us! She is kicking her slippers off to scratch!’ After a brief struggle Sandy held up the fishbone in the sugar tongs, while Matilda Pussycat made loud howls. ‘Indeed, Mr. Sandy, the firm is under a great obligation to you; she had not trimmed one hat during the last fortnight; besides disturbing my rest. Pray do us the favour to accept this short length of blue ribbon, which I will enclose in your parcel as a present from us both.’ ‘Speak for yourself, Sister, I hate dogs!’ said Matilda Pussycat, spitting and sputtering. ‘Good morning, Mr. Alexander.’ ‘Good morning, Misses Pussycats.’ And so Sandy was bowed out at the front door with his parcel. It was quite three days before the swelling disappeared; and when the Misses Pussycats had friends to tea next Saturday, the sugar tongs were discovered to be somewhat bent.