The Fairy Caravan

by Beatrix Potter

  Sandy’s purchases were much approved by the rest of the circus company; especially the hatpin.

  Chapter 6

  Little Mouse

  Xarifa the dormouse sat upon a hazel twig that lay upon the moss; she stitched busily. She was making the gold and scarlet pocket handkerchief into a robe for Tuppenny. Tuppenny sat opposite to the dormouse, holding two sides of the handkerchief while she sewed them together. ‘It is a long seam, Xarifa.’ ‘Shall I tell you a story to pass the time?’ ‘That would be lovely, Xarifa.’ ‘Let me see, what shall it be? I will tell you about Little Mouse.’ ‘Who was Little Mouse, Xarifa?’ ‘I don’t know, Tuppenny; she was just a little mouse, and she was asked to a wedding. And she said “What shall I wear? What shall I wear? There is a hole in my old gray gown, and the shops are shut on a Wednesday.” (You see, Tuppenny, it was the day before the wedding and the shops were not open.) So she said – “What shall I wear? What shall I wear?” And while Little Mouse was wondering there came to the door of her little house an old buff green-striped caterpillar man, with a band across his shoulder and a pack upon his back. And he sang, “Any tape, any buttons, any needles, any pins? Any hooks, any eyes, any silver safety-pins? Any ribbons, any braid, any thread of any shade, any fine spotty muslin today, M’mm?” He turned the band over his head and stood the pack open on the doorstep, and showed Little Mouse his wares. And she bought fine spotty muslin from the caterpillar man. Little Mouse spread the muslin on her table, and she cut out a mob-cap and tippet. Then she said “I have scissors and thimble and needles and pins; but no thread. How shall I sew it? How shall I sew it?”

  ‘There came to the door of her little house an old buff-green striped caterpillar man.’

  ‘Then by good luck there came to the door of her house a hairy brown spider with eight little eyes. He, too, had a pack, a tin box on his back; and his name was Webb Spinner. He sang “Spinneret, spinneret! the best you can get! Reels and bobbins, bobbins and reels! White thread and black, the best in my pack! Come buy from Webb Spinner!” So Little Mouse bought white thread, and she sewed her cap and tippet. (Hold it straight please, Tuppenny.)

  ‘And while Little Mouse was sewing, a large moth came to the door, selling – “Silk, spun silk! Silk spun fine! Woven by the silk moth, who’ll buy silk of mine?” Her silk was apple-green, shot with thread of gold and silver; and she had gold cord, and silken tassels, too. Little Mouse bought silk enough to make herself a gown, and she trimmed it with gold cord and tassels.

  ‘And when she was dressed, attired all in her best, she said – “How can I dance? how can I dance with the Fair Maids of France, with my little bare feet?”

  ‘Then the wind blew the grass and whispered in the leaves; and the fairies brought Little Mouse a pair of lady’s slippers. And Little Mouse danced at the wedding.’

  ‘That is lovely, Xarifa,’ said Tuppenny, ‘I would have liked to see the dancing. Who were the Fair Maids of France, Xarifa?’ ‘Little prim white flowers with white double ruffs and green stockings.’ ‘And the lady’s slippers, were they flowers, too?’ ‘Yes, Tuppenny; and so are the Lambs’ toes, and Lady’s smocks, and Fox gloves.’ ‘Do foxes wear gloves, Xarifa?’ ‘Perhaps. But their real name is folk’s gloves; fairy gloves. The good folk, the fairies, wear them.’ ‘Tell me about the fairies, Xarifa.’ ‘Another time I will, Tuppenny; my seam is finished, and Jenny Ferret is boiling the kettle for tea.’

  Chapter 7

  Springtime in Birds’ Place

  Spring advanced. The caravan wandered along green ways. Primroses were peeping out at the edge of the coppice; the oaks showed a tinge of gold; the wild cherry trees were snow-white with blossom. Beech trees and sycamores were bursting into leaf; only the ash trees remained bare as in midwinter. The ash is the last to don her green gown, and the first to lose her yellow leaves; a short-lived summer lady. On the topmost bare branch of an ash sat a throstle, singing loud and clear – so clear that he seemed to sing words. ‘Fly here! fly here! fly here! Will-he-do-it? Will he do it?’ shouted the throstle: ‘Come bob-a-link, come bob-a-link! Sky high! Sky high! so – so – so.’ ‘Oh greenwood tree sweet pretty lea!’ warbled a blackbird softly. ‘Spring is here! is here!’ shouted the throstle, on his tree top.

  Xarifa and Tuppenny sat listening on a sunny bank below: ‘Birds; sweet singers all! The coppice is full of birds. Hark to the blackbird in the hawthorn; see his yellow bill. Now he pauses, waiting for an answering blackbird, far away in the wood. It reminds me of Birds’ Place in spring.’ ‘Where is Birds’ Place, Xarifa?’ ‘Listen while he sings his song again.’ The blackbird sang. A soft cloud dimmed the sunshine; a few large raindrops fell. The birds interrupted their singing and flew down onto the grass; all except little Dykey Sparrow, singing to his wife, while she sat on her blue speckled eggs.

  ‘Where is Birds’ Place, Xarifa?’ ‘Birds’ Place that I remember was in Hertfordshire, long ago when I was young. Perhaps the elms and chestnuts have been felled; the passing swallows say the cedar is blown down. Birds’ Place had been the garden of an old, old manor house. No brick, no stone was standing; but still the straggling damask roses bloomed, and garden flowers grew amongst the tall untidy grass. Currant and gooseberry bushes had run wild in the thicket; they bore the sweetest little berries that the blackbirds loved. No one pruned the bushes, or netted them against the birds; no one except birds gathered the strawberries that were scarcely larger than wild white strawberries of the woods. It was a paradise of birds.

  ‘The outer side of the grove was bounded by a high close-latticed wooden fence, gray green and lichen grown; with rusty nails along the top, that kept out village boys and cats. Birds and butterflies and flowers lived undisturbed in that pleasant green wilderness that had once been a garden. And in the middle of the mossy grass plot stood the glory of the garden – the great cedar. Its head towered high above the self-sown saplings of the grove; its wide spreading lower branches lay along the mossy grass, where orange-tip butterflies flitted, and red-tailed velvety bees gathered honey from the cowslip flowers.

  ‘Spring following spring a pair of missel thrushes built their nest upon a branch low down, and the ring doves nested and cooed higher up. Starlings and nuthatches reared their broods in holes about the trunk; the great cedar was large enough for all. The grove was carpeted with flowers, ground ivy, forget-me-nots, blue periwinkle. Amongst the bushes grew peonies and sweet-smelling day-lilies of the old garden, along with wild flowers; cow parsley, and white stitchwort that we called “milk maids”, and pink ragged-robin, and cuckoo pint that is called “lords and ladies”; and everywhere primroses amongst the moss.

  ‘There, in a nest thatched with brown chestnut leaves, I was born; I and my little dormouse sister and brother.’ ‘What were their names, Xarifa?’ But Xarifa continued – ‘Never, never anywhere have I seen so many flowers or listened to so many birds. Even at night when it was dark, and our mother had closed up the opening of our nest with plaited leaves and grass – even in the deep black velvety darkness came the low slow note of a bird. I do not think that the nightingale’s is actually sweeter than a blackbird’s song; but it is weird and wonderful to hear it in the black silence of the night. There are no nightingales up here in the north, Tuppenny; but there are bonny songsters never-the-less. Father Blackbird in the hawthorn bush made me think about Birds’ Place.’

  ‘In a nest thatched with brown chestnut leaves I was born.’

  ‘Tell me about the nest and your little dormouse brother and sister?’ But Xarifa did not answer; she had fallen fast asleep, dreaming peacefully of springtime in Birds’ Place.

  ‘Tuppenny! Tuppenny!’ called Jenny Ferret, ‘come and help me to spread the tea things underneath the caravan; spring showers can be uncommonly wetting’ ‘Tuppenny,’ said Pony William, munching mouthfuls of grass between his words, ‘Tuppenny do not – ask Xarifa questions about her dormouse sister and brother – she suffered from a distressing want of appetite – when she first travelled with
us. It is unwise – to remind her of Adolphus.’ ‘I am sorry, no, yes, certainly,’ twittered Tuppenny, ‘I am not to, who was Adolphus, not to talk about; how many teaspoons will I fetch for you, Mrs. Jenny Ferret?’ ‘Only three teaspoons this time, Tuppenny; for you and me and Xarifa. Pony Billy does not use a spoon; and Paddy Pig drinks his tea without stirring; and Iky Shepster is not here, thank goodness.’ ‘Where has he flown to, Jenny Ferret?’ ‘Up and down, and round about; scattering handbill leaves to tell the Little Folk all about our circus show tomorrow in the morning early.’

  The leaves were green leaves, veined and pencilled, like as if marked by leaf-tunnelling insects; but the birds and beasts of the woods and fields know how to read them. Mice, squirrels, rabbits, and birds, as well as the larger farm animals picked up the leaves; and they knew where to look for the Circus.

  Chapter 8

  The Pigmy Elephant

  Paddy Pig was an important member of the circus company. He played several parts – the Learned Pig that could read, in spectacles; the Irish Pig that could dance a jig; and the Clown in spotty calico. And he played the Pigmy Elephant. It was done in this way. He was the right elephant colour – shiny black, and he had the proper flap ears, and small eyes. Of course, his nose was not nearly long enough and he had no tusks. So tusks were shaped from white peeled sticks out of the hedge, and a black stocking was stuffed with moss for a trunk. The tusks and trunk were fastened to a bridle, which Paddy Pig wore on his head. His own nose was inside the stocking, so he could move the sham trunk a little bit. One time when there was too much moss stuffing in the stocking, Paddy Pig started sneezing, and he sneezed so violently that he sneezed the stocking off altogether. Fortunately, this happened at Fold Farm where the audience was only calves and poultry; they knew so little about elephants that they thought it was part of the performance. Paddy’s thin legs were clothed with black calico trousers, long enough to hide his small feet, and he learned to walk with a slow swinging gait. His worst fault was forgetting to let his tail hang down.

  Upon his back he carried a howdah made of a brightly coloured tin tea caddy. The lid was open; and inside upon a cushion sat the dormouse, as ‘Princess Xarifa’. She had a doll’s parasol, a blue dress and a crimson shawl; and a lace handkerchief across her nose, with her black beady eyes peeping over it (provided she was not asleep).

  After Tuppenny joined Alexander and William’s Circus, he rode on the elephant’s neck in front of the howdah, holding on by the bridle, as Paddy Pig was slippery. Tuppenny’s get-up was gorgeous as the Sultan of Zanzibar; he wore the scarlet bandana handkerchief robe, a brass curtain-ring round his neck, a green sash with a wooden sword stuck in it, and the crystal-headed pin stuck in his turban of rolled up hair; and at gala performances his whiskers were dyed pink! No one would have recognized him for the miserable, ill-used little guinea-pig who ran away from his home in the City of Marmalade.

  The Circus Show!

  And most audiences were completely deceived by the Pigmy Elephant. It is true there was once some dissatisfaction. It was on an occasion when other pigs were present. During the first part of the programme they behaved well. They squealed with delight when Sandy stood on his head on the back of Billy the pony; and when the pony jumped through a hoop, rolled a barrel about, and went down on one knee – the four little pigs applauded vociferously.

  Pony William and Sandy went out of the ring at a canter, and disappeared under the canvas flap door of the tent. There was rather a long interval. (The fact was a brace button had come off the elephant’s trousers; and Xarifa, the dormouse, who did all the mending, was sewing it on again.)

  The four little pigs began to fidget and play jinks; they tickled one another and disturbed several hens and two rabbits who were sitting in the front row. Then one of them jumped up and ran to the tent, and peeped under the flap. Sandy bit his nose.

  Whether because he had seen something, or because his nose smarted, it is certain the four little pigs commenced to behave badly. The entrance of the Pigmy Elephant drew exclamations of awe from the rest of the audience; but the four little pigs sniffed, and whispered together. ‘I say, Mister!’ said a pig to Sandy, as he stalked past, leading the elephant by a string, ‘I say, Mister! What’s the matter with your elephant’s tail?’ Sandy ignored the question; but as soon as they were out of hearing at the opposite side of the ring, he whispered to the elephant – ‘Uncurl it, Paddy, you stupid! hang your tail down!’ The elephant obediently allowed his tail to droop. ‘I say, Mr. Elephant!’ said another little pig as the procession marched round a second time – ‘I say, Mr. Elephant! have a potato?’ Now Paddy Pig would have liked to accept the potato which they offered to the toe of his stocking trunk, but he was quite unable to grasp it. ‘There is something funny about that elephant!’ exclaimed all four little pigs; and they started shouting, ‘Give us back our peppercorns!’ (that was their entrance money) – ‘Give us back our peppercorns! We don’t believe it is an elephant!’ ‘Do be quiet behind there!’ expostulated the rabbits and poultry; ‘Oh, how sweetly pretty! Look at the Princess’s parasol!’ The Princess Xarifa in the howdah beamed down on the admiring hens.

  “That is not a proper elephant at all. Give us back our peppercorns!’ shouted all four little pigs, scrambling over the turf seats into the ring, and sniffing at Paddy’s calico trousers. Then Sandy lost his temper; he barked and he bit the four little pigs, and chased them out. The elephant and his riders galloped away under the tent flap in such a hurry that Tuppenny and Xarifa were nearly pulled off by the canvas.

  Then Jane Ferret was led round in a heavy chain and a large wire muzzle, to impersonate the ‘Live Polecats and Weasels’, mentioned on the posters. Jenny Ferret lived on bread and milk and she had not a tooth in her head, being, in fact, cook-housekeeper to the circus company, but the rabbits scrambled hastily into back seats. Of course that was part of the performance that they had paid for and expected; if they had not had a fright for their peppercorns, they would have been dissatisfied too. In the meantime the elephant had changed his clothes; he came back as Paddy Pig himself, and he danced a jig to perfection, while Sandy fiddled. The four little pigs, quite restored to good humour and polite behaviour, applauded loudly and threw potatoes at him; and the audience went home at 4.30 a.m. well satisfied. And two hours later the farmer, who owned the four little pigs, when he fed them, remarked – that ‘For sure they were doing a deal of grunting and talking together that morning’; and there were a lot of little pig-foot-marks in the lane. But they were shut up all right in the sty when he brought them their breakfast, so he never guessed that they had been to Sandy and William’s Circus to see the Pigmy Elephant.

  Chapter 9

  By Wilfin Beck

  All upon a day in the month of April, the circus company crept slowly through soft green meadows. It was early morning. Long shadows from the woods lay across the grass. Birds sang to greet the rising sun. Iky Shepster, the starling, whistled and fluttered his wings on the roof of the caravan.

  Pony Billy bent to the collar. The dew splashed from his shaggy fetlocks as he lifted his feet amongst the wet grass. Paddy Pig toiled between the shafts of the tilt-cart, assisted by the panting Sandy, harnessed tandem. ‘We shall stick fast, Sandy! Let us go back to Pool Bridge.’ ‘Yap! yap! we will try the next ford higher up.’ ‘Get out of my way,’ said Pony Billy, coming up behind them, steadily pulling the caravan.

  They were trying to cross a stream that ran through the middle of the valley. In summer it was a little brook, but spring rains had filled it to the brim. The forget-me-nots waved to and fro, up to the waist in water; the primroses on the banks drew up their toes; the violets took a bath. Wilfin Beck was in high flood.

  Paddy Pig disliked water. The ford which they should have crossed, had proved to be a swirling stream, instead of a broad rippling shallow. He wished to turn back and go round by the bridge.

  The proprietors of the circus refused. ‘If we cross the stream as far down as Po
ol Bridge, there will be two days’ toilsome march through the woods. We broke a spring of the caravan last time we went by the drift road; and the wagoners have been snigging timber since then,’ objected Sandy. ‘Go on to the Ellers ford,’ said Pony Billy. So Paddy Pig pulled, grunting, through the fast-asleep buttercups and daisies.

  Xarifa and Tuppenny, in the cart, were fast asleep too. Jenny Ferret was awake inside the caravan. A pot had hit her on the head, when the wheel sank into a drain and caused the caravan to lurch.

  When Tuppenny woke up and peeped out, the procession had halted, and unharnessed, beside the beck. Sandy was rolling on the grass. Paddy Pig was smoking a pipe and looking pigheaded, which means obstinate. ‘You will be drowned,’ said he to Pony Billy. The pony was pawing the water with his forefeet, enjoying the splashes, and wading cautiously step by step further across. ‘Drowned? Poof!’ yapped Sandy, taking a flying leap splash into the middle; he was carried down several yards by the current before he scrambled out on the further bank. Then he swam back. ‘It’s going down,’ said Sandy, sniffing at a line of dead leaves and sticks which had been left stranded by the receding flood. Pony Billy nodded. ‘Let us pull round under the alder bushes and wait.’ ‘Then you will not go back by Pool Bridge?’ ‘What! all across those soft meadows again? No. We will lie in the sun behind this wall, and talk to the sheep while we rest.’