brownie in the farmyard
which was a place where he did not often go, for he preferred being warm and snug in the house. but when he felt himself ill-used, he would wander anywhere, in order to play tricks upon those whom he thought had done him harm; for, being only a brownie, and not a man, he did not understand that the best way to revenge yourself upon your enemies is either to let them alone or to pay them back good for evil—it disappoints them so much, and makes them so exceedingly ashamed of themselves.
one day brownie overheard the gardener advising the cook to put sour milk into his bowl at night, instead of sweet.
"he'd never find out the difference, no more than the pigs do. indeed, it's my belief that a pig, or dog, or something, empties the bowl, and not a brownie, at all. it's just clean waste—that's what i say."
"then you'd better hold your tongue, and mind your own business," returned the cook, who was of a sharp temper, and would not stand being meddled with. she began to abuse the gardener soundly; but his wife, who was standing by, took his part, as she always did when any third party scolded him. so they all squabbled together, till brownie, hid under his coal, put his little hands over his little ears.
"dear me, what a noise these mortals do make when they quarrel! they quite deafen me. i must teach them better manners."
but when the cook slammed the door to, and left gardener and his wife alone, they too began to dispute between themselves.
"you make such a fuss over your nasty pigs, and get all the scraps for them," said the wife. "it's of much more importance that i should have everything cook can spare for my chickens. never were such fine chickens as my last brood!"
"i thought they were ducklings."
"how you catch me up, you rude old man! they are ducklings, and beauties, too—even though they have never seen water. where's the pond you promised to make for me, i wonder?"
"rubbish, woman! if my cows do without a pond, your ducklings may. and why will you be so silly as to rear ducklings at all? fine fat chickens are a deal better. you'll find out your mistake some day."
"and so will you when that old alderney runs dry. you'll wish you had taken my advice, and fattened and sold her."
"alderney cows won't sell for fattening, and women's advice is never worth twopence. yours isn't worth even a half-penny. what are you laughing at?"
"i wasn't laughing," said the wife, angrily; and, in truth, it was not she, but little brownie, running under the barrow which the gardener was wheeling along, and very much amused that people should be so silly as to squabble about nothing.
it was still early morning; for, whatever this old couple's faults might be, laziness was not one of them. the wife rose with the dawn to feed her poultry and collect her eggs; the husband also got through as much work by breakfast-time as many an idle man does by noon. but brownie had been beforehand with them this day.
when all the fowls came running to be fed, the big brahma hen who had watched the ducklings was seen wandering forlornly about, and clucking mournfully for her young brood—she could not find them anywhere. had she been able to speak, she might have told how a large white aylesbury duck had waddled into the farmyard, and waddled out again, coaxing them after her, no doubt in search of a pond. but missing they were, most certainly.
"cluck, cluck, cluck!" mourned the miserable hen-mother—and, "oh, my ducklings, my ducklings!" cried the gardener's wife—"who can have carried off my beautiful ducklings?"
"rats, maybe," said the gardener, cruelly, as he walked away. and as he went he heard the squeak of a rat below his wheelbarrow. but he could not catch it, any more than his wife could catch the aylesbury duck. of course not. both were—the brownie!
just at this moment the six little people came running into the farmyard. when they had been particularly good, they were sometimes allowed to go with gardener a-milking, each carrying his or her own mug for a drink of milk, warm from the cow. they scampered after him—a noisy tribe, begging to be taken down to the field, and holding out their six mugs entreatingly.
"what! six cupfuls of milk, when i haven't a drop to spare, and cook is always wanting more? ridiculous nonsense! get along with you; you may come to the field—i can't hinder that—but you'll get no milk to-day. take your mugs back again to the kitchen."
a noisy tribe, holding out their six mugs entreatingly. a noisy tribe, holding out their six mugs entreatingly.
the poor little folks made the best of a bad business, and obeyed; then followed gardener down to the field, rather dolefully. but it was such a beautiful morning that they soon recovered their spirits. the grass shone with dew, like a sheet of diamonds, the clover smelled so sweet, and two skylarks were singing at one another high up in the sky. several rabbits darted past, to their great amusement, especially one very large rabbit—brown, not gray—which dodged them in and out, and once nearly threw gardener down, pail and all, by running across his feet; which set them all laughing, till they came where dolly, the cow, lay chewing the cud under a large oak-tree.
it was great fun to stir her up, as usual, and lie down, one after the other, in the place where she had lain all night long, making the grass flat, and warm, and perfumy with her sweet breath. she let them do it, and then stood meekly by; for dolly was the gentlest cow in the world.
but this morning something strange seemed to possess her. she altogether refused to be milked—kicked, plunged, tossed over the pail, which was luckily empty.
"bless the cow! what's wrong with her? it's surely you children's fault. stand off, the whole lot of you. soh, dolly! good dolly!"
but dolly was any thing but good. she stood switching her tail, and looking as savage as so mild an animal possibly could look.
"it's all your doing, you naughty children! you have been playing her some trick, i know," cried the gardener, in great wrath.
they assured him they had done nothing, and indeed, they looked as quiet as mice and as innocent as lambs. at length the biggest boy pointed out a large wasp which had settled in dolly's ear.
"that accounts for everything," said the gardener.
but it did not mend everything; for when he tried to drive it away it kept coming back and back again, and buzzing round his own head and the cow's with a voice that the children thought was less like a buzz of a wasp than the sound of a person laughing. at length it frightened dolly to such an extent that, with one wild bound she darted right away, and galloped off to the farther end of the field.
"i'll get a rope and tie her legs together," cried the gardener, fiercely. "she shall repent giving me all this trouble—that she shall!"
"ha, ha, ha!" laughed somebody. the gardener thought it was the children, and gave one of them an angry cuff as he walked away. but they knew it was somebody else, and were not at all surprised when, the minute his back was turned, dolly came walking quietly back, led by a little wee brown man who scarcely reached up to her knees. yet she let him guide her, which he did as gently as possible, though the string he held her by was no thicker than a spider web, floating from one of her horns.
"soh, dolly! good dolly!" cried brownie, mimicking the gardener's voice. "now we'll see what we can do. i want my breakfast badly—don't you, little folks?"
of course they did, for the morning air made them very hungry.
"very well—wait a bit, though. old people should be served first, you know. besides, i want to go to bed."
"go to bed in the daylight!" the children all laughed, and then looked quite shy and sorry, lest they might have seemed rude to the little brownie. but he—he liked fun; and never took offence when none was meant.
he placed himself on the milking-stool, which was so high that his little legs were dangling half-way down, and milked and milked—dolly standing as still as possible—till he had filled the whole pail. most astonishing cow! she gave as much as two cows; and such delicious milk as it was—all frothing and yellow—richer than even dolly's milk had ever been before. the children's mouths watered for it, but not a word said they—even when, instead of giving it to them, brownie put his own mouth to the pail, and drank and drank, till it seemed as if he were never going to stop. but it was decidedly a relief to them when he popped his head up again, and lo! the pail was as full as ever!
"now, little ones, now's your turn. where are your mugs?"
all answered mournfully, "we've got none. gardener made us take them back again."
"never mind—all right. gather me half a dozen of the biggest buttercups you can find."
"what nonsense!" thought the children; but they did it. brownie laid the flowers in a row upon the eldest girl's lap—blew upon them one by one, and each turned into the most beautiful golden cup that ever was seen!
"now, then, every one take his own mug, and i'll fill it."
he milked away—each child got a drink, and then the cups were filled again. and all the while dolly stood as quiet as possible—looking benignly round, as if she would be happy to supply milk to the whole parish, if the brownie desired it.
"soh, dolly! thank you, dolly!" said he, again, mimicking the gardener's voice, half growling, half coaxing. and while he spoke, the real voice was heard behind the hedge. there was a sound as of a great wasp flying away, which made dolly prick up her ears, and look as if the old savageness was coming back upon her. the children snatched up their mugs, but there was no need, they had all turned into buttercups again.
gardener jumped over the stile, as cross as two sticks, with an old rope in his hand.
"oh, what a bother i've had! breakfast ready, and no milk yet—and such a row as they are making over those lost ducklings. stand back, you children, and don't hinder me a minute. no use begging—not a drop of milk shall you get. hillo, dolly? quiet old girl!"
quiet enough she was this time—but you might as well have milked a plaster cow in a london milking-shop. not one ringing drop resounded against the empty pail; for, when they peeped in, the children saw, to their amazement, that it was empty.
each child got a drink, and then the cups were filled again.—page 32 each child got a drink, and then the cups were filled again.—page 32
"the creature's bewitched!" cried the gardener, in a great fury. "or else somebody has milked her dry already. have you done it? or you?" he asked each of the children.
they might have said no—which was the literal truth—but then it would not have been the whole truth, for they knew quite well that dolly had been milked, and also who had done it. and their mother had always taught them that to make a person believe a lie is nearly as bad as telling him one. yet still they did not like to betray the kind little brownie. greatly puzzled, they hung their heads and said nothing.
"look in your pail again," cried a voice from the other side of dolly. and there at the bottom was just the usual quantity of milk—no more and no less.
the gardener was very much astonished. "it must be the brownie!" muttered he, in a frightened tone; and, taking off his hat, "thank you, sir," said he to mr. nobody—at which the children all burst out laughing. but they kept their own counsel, and he was afraid to ask them any more questions.
by-and-by his fright wore off a little. "i only hope the milk is good milk, and will poison nobody," said he, sulkily. "however, that's not my affair. you children had better tell your mother all about it. i left her in the farmyard in a pretty state of mind about her ducklings."
perhaps brownie heard this, and was sorry, for he liked the children's mother, who had always been kind to him. besides, he never did any body harm who did not deserve it; and though, being a brownie, he could hardly be said to have a conscience, he had something which stood in the place of one—a liking to see people happy rather than miserable.
so, instead of going to bed under his big coal for the day, when, after breakfast, the children and their mother came out to look at a new brood of chickens, he crept after them and hid behind the hencoop where the old mother-hen was put, with her young ones round her.
there had been great difficulty in getting her in there, for she was a hen who hatched her brood on independent principles. instead of sitting upon the nice nest that the gardener made for her, she had twice gone into a little wood close by and made a nest for herself, which nobody could ever find; and where she hatched in secret, coming every second day to be fed, and then vanishing again, till at last she re-appeared in triumph, with her chickens running after her. the first brood there had been twelve, but of this there were fourteen—all from her own eggs, of course, and she was uncommonly proud of them. so was the gardener, so was the mistress—who liked all young things. such a picture as they were! fourteen soft, yellow, fluffy things, running about after their mother. it had been a most troublesome business to catch—first her, and then them, to put them under the coop. the old hen resisted, and pecked furiously at gardener's legs, and the chickens ran about in frantic terror, chirping wildly in answer to her clucking.
at last, however, the little family was safe in shelter, and the chickens counted over, to see that none had been lost in the scuffle. how funny they were! looking so innocent and yet so wise, as chickens do—peering out at the world from under their mother's wing, or hopping over her back, or snuggled all together under her breast, so that nothing was seen of them but a mass of yellow legs, like a great centiped.
"how happy the old hen is," said the children's mother, looking on, and then looking compassionately at that other forlorn old hen, who had hatched the ducklings, and kept wandering about the farmyard, clucking miserably, "those poor ducklings, what can have become of them? if rats had killed them, we should have found feathers or something; and weasels would have sucked their brains and left them. they must have been stolen, or wandered away, and died of cold and hunger—my poor ducklings!"
the mistress sighed, for she could not bear any living thing to suffer. and the children nearly cried at the thought of what might be happening to their pretty ducklings. that very minute a little wee brown face peered through a hole in the hencoop, making the old mother-hen fly furiously at it—as she did at the slightest shadow of an enemy to her little ones. however, no harm happened—only a guinea-fowl suddenly ran across the farmyard, screaming in its usual harsh voice. but it was not the usual sort of guinea-fowl, being larger and handsomer than any of theirs.
"oh, what a beauty of a creature! how did it ever come into our farmyard," cried the delighted children; and started off after it, to catch it if possible.
but they ran, and they ran—through the gate and out into the lane; and the guinea-fowl still ran on before them, until, turning round a corner, they lost sight of it, and immediately saw something else, equally curious. sitting on the top of a big thistle—so big that he must have had to climb it just like a tree—was the brownie. his legs were crossed, and his arms too, his little brown cap was stuck knowingly on one side, and he was laughing heartily.
"how do you do? here i am again. i thought i wouldn't go to bed after all. shall i help you to find the ducklings? very well! come along."
they crossed the field, brownie running beside them, and as fast as they could, though he looked such an old man; and sometimes turning over on legs and arms like a catherine wheel—which they tried to imitate, but generally failed, and only bruised their fingers and noses.
he lured them on and on till they came to the wood, and to a green path in it, which well as they knew the neighborhood, none of the children had ever seen before. it led to a most beautiful pond, as clear as crystal and as blue as the sky. large trees grew round it, dipping their branches in the water, as if they were looking at themselves in a glass. and all about their roots were quantities of primroses—the biggest primroses the little girls had ever seen. down they dropped on their fat knees, squashing more primroses than they gathered, though they tried to gather them all; and the smallest child even began to cry because her hands were so full that the flowers dropped through her fingers. but the boys, older and more practical, rather despised primroses.
"i thought we had come to look for ducklings," said the eldest. "mother is fretting dreadfully about her ducklings. where can they be?"
"shut your eyes, and you'll see," said the brownie, at which they all laughed, but did it; and when they opened their eyes again, what should they behold but a whole fleet of ducklings sailing out from the roots of an old willow-tree, one after the other, looking as fat and content as possible, and swimming as naturally as if they had lived on a pond—and this particularly pond, all their days.
"count them," said the brownie, "the whole eight—quite correct. and then try and catch them—if you can."
easier said than done. the boys set to work with great satisfaction—boys do so enjoy hunting something. they coaxed them—they shouted at them—they threw little sticks at them; but as soon as they wanted them to go one way the fleet of ducklings immediately turned round and sailed another way, doing it so deliberately and majestically, that the children could not help laughing. as for little brownie, he sat on a branch of the willow-tree, with his legs dangling down to the surface of the pond, kicking at the water-spiders, and grinning with all his might. at length, quite tired out, in spite of their fun, the children begged for his help, and he took compassion on them.
"turn round three times and see what you can find," shouted he.
immediately each little boy found in his arms, and each little girl in her pinafore, a fine fat duckling. and there being eight of them, the two elder children had each a couple. they were rather cold and damp, and slightly uncomfortable to cuddle, ducks not being used to cuddling. poor things! they struggled hard to get away. but the children hugged them tight, and ran as fast as their legs could carry them through the wood, forgetting, in their joy, even to say "thank you" to the little brownie.
when they reached their mother she was as glad as they, for she never thought to see her ducklings again; and to have them back alive and uninjured, and watch them running to the old hen, who received them with an ecstasy of delight, was so exciting, that nobody thought of asking a single question as to where they had been found.
when the mother did ask, the children told her about brownie's taking them to the beautiful pond—and what a wonderful pond it was; how green the trees were round it; and how large the primroses grew. they never tired of talking about it and seeking for it. but the odd thing was that, seek as they might, they never could find it again. many a day did the little people roam about one by one, or all together, round the wood, often getting themselves sadly draggled with mud and torn with brambles—but the beautiful pond they never found again.
nor did the ducklings, i suppose; for they wandered no more from the farmyard, to the old mother-hen's great content. they grew up into fat and respectable ducks—five white ones and three gray ones—waddling about, very content, though they never saw water, except the tank which was placed for them to paddle in. they lived a lazy, peaceful, pleasant life for a long time, and were at last killed and eaten with green peas, one after the other, to the family's great satisfaction, if not to their own.
