The Fairy Caravan

by Beatrix Potter

  Then Cobweb sang, ‘Who put her in? Little Tommy Thin!’ and Pippin repeated, ‘Who put her in? Who pulled her out?’ (‘Who put her in?’ chimed in Dusty.) ‘Who pulled her out? Little Tommy Stout!’ sang Smut. (‘Who pulled her out?’) Then all the mice sang together –

  ‘What a naughty boy was that,

  For to drown our pussy cat;

  Who never did him any harm,

  And caught all the mice in Grand-da’s big barn!’

  ‘But Pussy did not catch quite all of us!’ laughed Pippin. He started another glee –

  ‘Dickory, dickory, dock! the mouse ran up the clock!’

  (Each mouse took up the song a bar behind the last singer – Dickory, dickory, dock!) The clock struck one – (The mouse ran up the clock) Down the mouse run – (The clock struck one) Down the mouse run – dickory, dickory, dock!’

  There was singing and laughing and dancing still going on in the caravan when Sandy came back in the morning.

  Chapter 21

  The Veterinary Retriever

  Now while the mice were merry-making in the caravan, all sorts of things were happening in the stable. Paddy Pig continued to be feverish and restless; he kicked off the blanket as fast as the cats replaced it. ‘His strength is well maintained,’ said Cheesebox after a renewed struggle, ‘we must keep him on a low diet.’ ‘What! what! what? I’m hungry,’ squealed the patient; ‘fetch me a bucketful of pig-wash, I say! I’m hungry!’ ‘Possibly he might be granted a teeny weeny bit of fish; the fisher-cart comes round from Flookborough on Wednesdays,’ purred Mary Ellen. ‘I won’t eat it! flukes are full of pricky bones. Fetch me pig-wash and potatoes!’ ‘I could pick it for you if you fancied a little fish –’ ‘I don’t want fish, I tell you. I want potatoes!’ grumbled Paddy Pig. He closed his eyes and pretended to snore. ‘He sleeps,’ purred Mary Ellen. ‘Which of us shall sit up first? We might as well take turns,’ said Cheesebox, who was growing a trifle tired of Mary Ellen’s purring. ‘I will watch first, dear Cheesebox, while you take forty winky peepies.’

  Mary Ellen composed herself beside Paddy Pig with her paws tucked under her. Paddy Pig sulked. Maggret, the mare, dozed in the stall nearest to the window. There was some reflected moonlight through the small dusty panes, but the stable was very dark.

  Cheesebox jumped nimbly onto the manger, and thence into the hay-rack, wherein was some foisty hay, long undisturbed, to judge by three doubtful eggs in a forgotten hen nest. Cheesebox curled herself up in the hay. Overhead cobwebs hung from the broken plaster of the ceiling; there were cracks between the laths, and holes in the floor of the loft above.

  The stable had been well appointed in old days. The tailposts of the stalls were handsomely carved, and on each were nailed the antlers of deer. The points served as pegs for hanging up the harness. But all had become neglected, broken, and dark; the corn-bin was patched with tin, and the third backmost stall was full of lumber. A slight noise amongst the lumber drew the attention of Cheesebox; a climbing, scratching noise, followed by the pattering of rat’s feet over the loft above. Mary Ellen, in the stall below, stopped purring. Cheesebox listened intently. There were many pattering footsteps. More and more rats were assembling. ‘There must be a committee meeting; a congress of rats,’ thought Cheesebox, very wide awake. The noise and squeaking increased, until there was a sound of rapping on a box for silence. ‘I move that the soapbox-chair be taken by Alder-rat Squeaker. Seconded and carried unanimously.’ ‘First business?’ said old Chair Squeaker, in a rich suety voice. ‘First business, please?’ But there seemed to be neither first nor last; all the rats squeaked at once, and the Chair-rat thumped in vain upon the soapbox. ‘One at a time, please! You squeak first! No, not you. Now be quiet, you other rats! I call upon Brother Chigbacon to address the assembly. Now, Brother Chigbacon, squeak up!’ ‘Mr. Chair-rat and Brother Rat-men, I rise from a sense of cheese – I should say duty, so to squeak. I represent the stable rats, so to squeak, what is left of us, so to squeak, being only me and Brother Scatter-meal. Mr. Chair-rat, we are being decimated. A horrid squinting, hideous old cat named Cheesebox –’ (Mary Ellen looked up at the hay-rack and grinned from ear to ear; Cheesebox’s tail twitched) ‘– a mangy, skinny-tailed, scraggy, dirty old grimalkin, is decimating us. What is to be done, Mr. Chair-rat and Brother Rat-men? We refer ourselves to the guidance of your united wisdom and cunning!’

  The loud, noisy squeaking recommenced; all the rats squeaked different advice, and old Chair Squeaker thumped upon the soapbox. At length amongst the jumble of squeaks, a resolution was put before the meeting by Ratson Nailer, a pert young rat from the village shop. He proposed that a bell be stolen and hung by a ribbon round the neck of that wicked green-eyed monster, the ugliest, greediest, slyest cat in the whole village; ‘But with a bell round her neck we would always hear her coming, in spite of her velvet slippers.’

  Every rat voted for this proposal except old Chair Squeaker. He was a rat of many winters, renowned for extracting cheese from every known make of rat-trap without setting off the spring. ‘Why don’t you vote? What’s your objection, old Chair Squeaker?’ inquired Ratson Nailer, pertly. ‘No objection,’ replied old Chair Squeaker, ‘none whatever! But tell me – who is going to bell the cat?’ No one answered.

  Poor Paddy Pig!

  Cheesebox reached up, standing on her hind legs in the hay-rack; she applied her green eyes to a crack between the boards of the loft floor. Instantly there was a rush, a scurry, and the assembly of rats dispersed.

  Cheesebox jumped down into the stall; her tail was thick, her fur stood on end. Mary Ellen very unwisely was still shaking with laughter. Cheesebox walked up to Mary Ellen. She boxed Mary Ellen’s ears with her claws out. Mary Ellen, with a howl, jumped into the hay-rack; Cheesebox followed her. They sat in the hay, making horrible cat noises and cuffing each other, to the intense annoyance of the mare in the stall below.

  As for Paddy Pig – who had really been enjoying a good sleep at last – Paddy Pig screamed with rage and yelled for Sandy.

  While the uproar was at its height, the stable door opened, and Sandy came in carrying a lantern, and followed by the veterinary retriever and Pony Billy. The retriever was a large, important dog with a hurrying, professional manner, copied from his master. He came rapidly into the stall, wearing a long blue overcoat, and examined the patient through a pair of large horn spectacles. The cats glared down at him from the hay-rack.

  ‘Put your tongue out and say R.’ ‘What, what, what? It’s bad manners?’ objected Paddy Pig. ‘Put your tongue out, or I’ll bite you!’ ‘What, what, what?’

  ‘The patient does not appear to be amenable to treatment; but I can perceive no rash; nothing which would justify me in diagnosing measles’ (dognosing, he pronounced it). ‘I am inclined to dog-nose iracundia, arising from tormenta ventris, complicated by feline incompatibility. But, in order to make certain, I will proceed to feel the patient’s pulse. Where is the likeliest spot to find the pulse of a pig, I wonder?’ ‘Try feeling his tail,’ suggested Pony William. ‘I have no watch,’ said the retriever, ‘but the thermometer will do just as well. Hold it to the lantern, Sandy, while I count.’ ‘It does not seem to go up,’ said Sandy, much mystified. ‘That settles it,’ said the retriever, ‘I felt sure I was not justified in dog-nosing measles. We will now proceed to administer an emetic – I mean to say an aperient. Has anybody got a medicine glass?’ ‘There is a drenching horn in that little wall cupboard behind the door,’ said Maggret, who was watching the proceedings with much interest over the side of her stall. ‘Capital!’ said the retriever, ‘hold the bottle please, Sandy, while I dust the horn. It’s chock-full of cobwebs.’ Sandy shook the bottle; ‘I partly seem to know the smell,’ said he. He held it beside the lantern and spelled out the label – ‘Appodyldock. What may that be?’

  The retriever displayed some anxiety to get the bottle away from him. ‘Be careful; the remedy is extremely powerful.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ purred a ca
t’s voice from the hay-rack overhead, ‘excuse me – appodyldock is not for insides. My poor dear Granny-ma, Puss Cat Mew, had appodyldock rubbed on her back where she got burnt by a hot cinder while she was sitting in the fender. Appodyldock is poison.’ ‘In spite of our differing I agree with you,’ said another cat’s voice in the hay-rack, ‘appodyldock is for outward application only.’ ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said the veterinary retriever, drawing the cork out of the bottle with his teeth. ‘Stuff and nonsense! Here goes –’ ‘What! what! what! if you poison me again, I’ll scream!’ remonstrated the patient. ‘I seem to remember the smell,’ said Sandy. ‘Quite likely,’ said the retriever; ‘since there is going to be all this fuss I may as well tell you it’s castor oil that I have in the bottle.’ ‘What, what? Castor – ugh! ugh! ugh!’ choked Paddy Pig, as they poked the drenching horn into the corner of his mouth and dosed him.

  ‘A good, safe, old-fashioned remedy, Paddy Pig,’ said Pony William. ‘Now go to sleep, and you will wake up quite well in the morning. As a matter of fact, I don’t think there is much wrong with you now.’ ‘I think one dose will cure me. But, Pony Billy, come here, I want to whisper. For goodness sake – send away those cats!’ Pony Billy took the hint, and acted with tact; ‘Mary Ellen, we are extremely obliged to you for your invaluable attention to the invalid. I shall be pleased to trot you home to Stott Farm, provided you can go at once, before the moon sets. Cheesebox, we are equally indebted to you for your self-sacrificing devotion. I may tell you there are four rats quarrelling in the granary, and one of them sounds like Ratson Nailer.’ Cheesebox jumped out of the stable window without another word.

  Mary Ellen – after making sure that the veterinary retriever had left – Mary Ellen climbed down into the stall and tucked up the patient for the last time. ‘Was it a poor leetle sick piggy then –’ ‘What, what, what! Here, I say! Sandy, Sandy!’ ‘Lie still then. I’m only seeking my fur-lined boots, they are somewhere in poor piggy’s beddee beddee.’ ‘Come, Mary Ellen; the moon is setting. Good-night, Paddy Pig, and pleasant dreams.’

  ‘Now we shall have some peace! Those two are worse than the rats,’ said Maggret, lying down heavily in her stall. Paddy Pig was already snoring.

  The sun rose next day upon a glorious May morning. Paddy Pig, a little thinner than usual, sat by the camp fire, displaying a hearty appetite for breakfast.

  ‘No more toadstool tartlets for me! Give me another plateful of porridge, Jenny Ferret!’

  Chapter 22

  Cuckoo Brow Lane

  It is never quite dark during spring nights in the north. All through the twilight night Charles kept crowing. He was calling the circus company to breakfast, strike camp, and away, before the sun came up. Jenny Ferret’s fire still smouldered; she heaped on sticks to boil the kettle. There was hustling, and packing up, and clucking of hens, and barking of dogs. ‘Is all taken back that we borrowed?’ asked Sandy, ‘I am answerable to honest old Bobs. What about that meal-bagful of mice, Xarifa?’ ‘Please, Sandy, the Codlin Croft mice are tied up ready.’ ‘Why only the mice of Codlin Croft? where are the other nine?’ ‘Please, please, Sandy, might they ride to the top of Cuckoo Brow? Then they could run home all the way inside the fence. They were afraid of owls. And besides, I did so want them to meet Belinda Woodmouse, we are sure to see her.’ ‘In short, they have remained; and they must be pulled,’ said Pony Billy, good-humouredly. ‘Here’s a worse difficulty! Who is going to pull the tilt-cart? Paddy Pig is not fit for it,’ said Jenny Ferret, hurrying up with an armful of circus trappings. ‘That’s all arranged,’ said Pony Billy, ‘come along, Cuddy Simpson!’

  The gypsies’ donkey walked into the orchard, on Mettle’s four new shoes. ‘Here come I, fit and ready to pull a dozen pigs! Good friends, I’ll go with you to the hills for a summer’s run on the grass. Fetch me a straw rope, Sandy; I’m too big for Paddy Pig’s breast-straps.’

  ‘Sandy! Sandy!’ cried Jenny Ferret, ‘the tent-pole has been forgotten, and our little bucket at the well. Bother that crowing cock! Where is Iky Shepster?’ The starling laughed and whistled; but he refused to leave the chimney stack.

  Paddy Pig was installed in the cart, to ride in state; he was wrapped in a shawl and treated like an invalid; but he was in the highest possible spirits. He played the fiddle, and squealed and joked. Sandy marched in front of the procession with his tail tightly curled. The cavalcade set off up the lane amidst the acclamations of the poultry and dogs.

  Cuckoo Brow Lane is a bonny spot in spring, garlanded with hawthorn and wild cherry blossom. It skirts the lower slopes of the hill that rises behind Codlin Croft. The meadows on their left were bathed in pearly dew; the lane still lay in the shadow of dawn; the sun had not yet topped the Brow. As it rose, its beams touched the golden tops of the oak trees in Pringle Wood; and a faint smell of bluebells floated over the wall. Paddy Pig fiddled furiously, ‘I’ll play them “Scotch Cap”! I’ll pop the weasel at them! Never again will I cross plank bridges into that abominable wood. Gee up, gee up! get along, Cuddy Simpson!’ The gypsies’ donkey trundled the cart through the dead leaves in the lane; steadily pulling in the wake of the caravan.

  Paddy Pig was installed in the cart.

  Tuppenny, Xarifa, and the visitor mice were all peeping through the muslin curtains. ‘Is the wood full of fairies, Xarifa?’ ‘Hush, till we get across the water; then I will tell you!’ ‘Here, you mice, let me brush up the crumbs. I want to open all the windows.’ (Jenny Ferret was so accustomed to travel that no amount of jolts upset her housekeeping.) ‘I might as well take down the curtains, as we are going up to Goosey Foot.’ ‘Where is that, Jenny Ferret?’ ‘Spring cleaning,’ replied Jenny Ferret briefly.

  Xarifa commenced to explain about the washerwomen up at the tarn; but Jenny Ferret bundled everybody out on to the caravan steps.

  Tuppenny rolled off, under the surprised nose of Cuddy Simpson, who was brought to a sudden standstill, whilst Tuppenny was picked up amidst squeaks of laughter. He was put to ride in a basket, one of several that were slung at the back of the caravan. Xarifa sat in the doorway; and the visitor mice hung on anywhere, like Cinderella’s footmen behind the pumpkin coach. They set up an opposition fiddling, and joked with Paddy Pig and the donkey. Indeed, Pippin fiddled so sweetly that presently they all joined in concert together, and the little birds in the trees sang to them also as they passed along. First a robin sang –

  ‘Little lad, little lad, where was’t thou born?

  Far off in Lancashire under a thorn,

  Where they sup sour milk, in a ram’s horn!’

  Pippin did not know that tune, so he began another –

  ‘I ploughed it with a ram’s horn,

  Sing ivy, sing ivy!

  I sowed it all over with one peppercorn,

  Sing holly go whistle and ivy!

  I got the mice to carry it to the mill

  Sing ivy, sing ivy!’

  Then he changed his tune, and the chaffinches sang with him –

  ‘I saw a little bird, coming hop, hop, hop!’

  Then he played another; and Xarifa pelted him with hempseeds –

  ‘Madam will you walk, madam will you talk –

  Madam will you walk and talk with me?’

  And then he heard a cuckoo and he played,

  ‘Summer is icumen in!’

  The music did sound pretty all the way up Cuckoo Brow Lane.

  Where they crossed the beck there was a row of stepping stones, with the water tinkling merrily between them. On a stone, bobbing and curtseying, stood a fat, browny-black little bird with a broad white breast. ‘Bessie Dooker! Bessie Dooker! Tell all the other little birds and beasties that there will be a circus show this evening. Bid them come to the big hawthorn tree, near the whin bushes by High Green Gate.’ Bessie Dooker bobbed her head; she sped swiftly up the beck, whistling as she flew.

  The lane was steep after crossing the stream; as they climbed they met the early sunbeams. The bank on their right was full of wil
d flowers; wood sorrel, spotted orchis, dog violets, germander speedwell, and little blue milkwort. ‘See!’ cried Xarifa, ‘the milkwort! the milk is coming with the grass in spring; the grass is coming with the soft south wind. Listen to the lambs! they are before us in the other lane.’

  Sandy had been in advance of the procession; he turned back. ‘Wait a little while, Pony Billy; wait with a stone behind the wheel. The sheep are going up to the intake pastures in charge of Bobs and Matt. Let them gain a start before us at the meeting of the lanes; it is slow work driving lambs. How they bleat and run back and forward! Their own mothers call, but they run to each other’s mothers, and bawl and push!’

  ‘Here under this sunny hedge I could pleasantly eat a bite and rest,’ said Cuddy Simpson; ‘put stones behind the wheels, and unharness the cart.’

  ‘May we get down and play? we have been shut up so long, me and Tuppenny?’ ‘Yes, yes! go and play; but do not get left behind.’

  Xarifa clapped her little hands, ‘Oh, look at the flowers.’ ‘What is that peeping at us, Xarifa? with bright black eyes?’ said Tuppenny, pointing to something that rustled amongst the hedge. ‘It is my dearest Belinda Woodmouse! Oh, what a happy meeting!’

  Belinda was a sleek brown mouse; she was larger than the house mice; and more active than Xarifa. Tuppenny turned shy, and stared at her very solemnly; but her sprightliness soon reassured him. Xarifa introduced her to Tuppenny, Pippin, Cobweb, Dusty, and Smut – ‘Rufty Tufty I am unable to introduce, because she has stayed at home to rock the cradle. But here are enough of us to dance a set tonight on the short-cropped turf by the hawthorn bush.’ ‘More mice to pull!’ laughed Pony Billy. ‘Oh, oh! Mr. Pony William, you have swallowed three violets!’ ‘Well?’ said Pony Billy, ‘what then? I must eat!’ ‘I do not think they liked it,’ said Xarifa, doubtfully, ‘could you not eat young nettles, like Cuddy Simpson?’