The Tale of Little Pig Robinson

by Beatrix Potter

  Beatrix Potter loved the countryside and she spent much of her otherwise conventional Victorian childhood drawing and studying animals. Her passion for the natural world lay behind the creation of her famous series of little books. A particular source of inspiration was the English Lake District where she lived for the last thirty years of her life as a farmer and land conservationist, working with the National Trust.

  The Tale of Little Pig Robinson was the last of her stories to be published in the Peter Rabbit series but it was one of the first she ever wrote. Its setting is a mixture of various English seaside towns where she had stayed on holiday when she was young.

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  margery, jean

  and david

  Chapter One

  When I was a child I used to go to the seaside for the holidays. We stayed in a little town where there was a harbour and fishing boats and fishermen. They sailed away to catch herrings in nets. When the boats came back home again some had only caught a few herrings. Others had caught so many that they could not all be unloaded on to the quay. Then horses and carts were driven into the shallow water at low tide to meet the heavily laden boats. The fish were shovelled over the side of the boat into the carts, and taken to the railway station, where a special train of fish trucks was waiting.

  Great was the excitement when the fishing boats returned with a good catch of herrings. Half the people in the town ran down to the quay, including cats.

  There was a white cat called Susan who never missed meeting the boats. She belonged to the wife of an old fisherman named Sam. The wife’s name was Betsy. She had rheumatics, and she had no family except Susan and five hens. Betsy sat by the fire; her back ached; she said “Ow! Ow!” whenever she had to put coal on, and stir the pot.

  Susan sat opposite to Betsy. She felt sorry for Betsy; she wished she knew how to put the coal on and stir the pot. All day long they sat by the fire, while Sam was away fishing. They had a cup of tea and some milk.

  “Susan,” said Betsy, “I can hardly stand up. Go to the front gate and look out for Master’s boat.”

  Susan went out and came back. Three or four times she went out into the garden. At last, late in the afternoon, she saw the sails of the fishing fleet, coming in over the sea.

  “Go down to the harbour; ask Master for six herrings; I will cook them for supper. Take my basket, Susan.”

  Susan took the basket; also she borrowed Betsy’s bonnet and little plaid shawl. I saw her hurrying down to the harbour.

  Other cats were coming out of the cottages, and running down the steep streets that lead to the sea front. Also ducks. I remember that they were most peculiar ducks with top-knots that looked like tam-o’-shanter caps. Everybody was hurrying to meet the boats — nearly everybody. I only met one person, a dog called Stumpy, who was going the opposite way. He was carrying a paper parcel in his mouth.

  Some dogs do not care for fish. Stumpy had been to the butcher’s to buy mutton chops for himself and Bob and Percy and Miss Rose. Stumpy was a large, serious, well-behaved brown dog with a short tail. He lived with Bob the retriever and Percy the cat and Miss Rose who kept house. Stumpy had belonged to a very rich old gentleman; and when the old gentleman died he left money to Stumpy — ten shillings a week for the rest of Stumpy’s life. So that was why Stumpy and Bob and Percy the cat all lived together in a pretty little house.

  Susan with her basket met Stumpy at the corner of Broad Street. Susan made a curtsy. She would have stopped to inquire after Percy, only she was in a hurry to meet the boat. Percy was lame; he had hurt his foot. It had been trapped under the wheel of a milk cart.

  Stumpy looked at Susan out of the corner of his eye; he wagged his tail, but he did not stop. He could not bow or say “good afternoon” for fear of dropping the parcel of mutton chops. He turned out of Broad Street into Woodbine Lane, where he lived; he pushed open the front door and disappeared into a house. Presently there was a smell of cooking, and I have no doubt that Stumpy and Bob and Miss Rose enjoyed their mutton chops.

  Percy could not be found at dinnertime. He had slipped out of the window, and, like all the other cats in the town, he had gone to meet the fishing boats.

  Susan hurried along Broad Street and took the short cut to the harbour, down a steep flight of steps. The ducks had wisely gone another way, round by the sea front. The steps were too steep and slippery for anyone less sure-footed than a cat. Susan went down quickly and easily. There were forty-three steps, rather dark and slimy, between high backs of houses.

  A smell of ropes and pitch and a good deal of noise came up from below. At the bottom of the steps was the quay, or landing place, beside the inner harbour.

  The tide was out; there was no water; the vessels rested on the dirty mud. Several ships were moored beside the quay; others were anchored inside the breakwater.

  Near the steps, coal was being unloaded from two grimy colliers called the “Margery Dawe” of Sunderland, and the “Jenny Jones” of Cardiff. Men ran along planks with wheelbarrowfuls of coal; coal scoops were swung ashore by cranes, and emptied with loud thumping and rattling.

  Farther along the quay, another ship called the “Pound of Candles” was taking a mixed cargo on board. Bales, casks, packing-cases, barrels — all manner of goods were being stowed into the hold; sailors and stevedores shouted; chains rattled and clanked. Susan waited for an opportunity to slip past the noisy crowd. She watched a cask of cider that bobbed and swung in the air, on its passage from the quay to the deck of the “Pound of Candles”.

  A yellow cat who sat in the rigging was also watching the cask.

  The rope ran through the pulley; the cask went down bobbitty on to the deck, where a sailor man was waiting for it. Said the sailor down below:

  “Look out! Mind your head, young sir! Stand out of the way!”

  “Wee, wee, wee!” grunted a small pink pig, scampering round the deck of the “Pound of Candles”.

  The yellow cat in the rigging watched the small pink pig. The yellow cat in the rigging looked across at Susan on the quay. The yellow cat winked.

  Susan was surprised to see a pig on board a ship. But she was in a hurry. She threaded her way along the quay, amongst coal and cranes, and men wheeling hand-trucks, and noises, and smells. She passed the fish auction, and fish boxes, and fish sorters, and barrels that women were filling with herrings and salt.

  Seagulls swooped and screamed. Hundreds of fish boxes and tons of fresh fish were being loaded into the hold of a small steamer. Susan was glad to get away from the crowd, down a much shorter flight of steps on to the shore of the outer harbour. The ducks arrived soon afterwards, waddling and quacking. And old Sam’s boat, the “Betsy Timmins”, last of the herring fleet and heavy laden, came in round the breakwater; and drove her blunt nose into the shingle.

  Sam was in high spirits; he had had a big catch. He and his mate and two lads commenced to unload their fish into carts, as the tide was too low to float the fishing boat up to the quay. The boat was full of herrings.

  But, good luck or bad luck, Sam never failed to throw a handful of herrings to Susan.

  “Here’s for the two old girls and a hot supper! Catch them, Susan! Honest now! Here’s a broken fish for you! Now take the others to Betsy.”

  The ducks were dabbling and gobbling; the seagulls were screaming and swooping. Susan climbed the steps with her basket of herrings and went home by back streets.

  Old Betsy cooked two herrings for herself and Susan, another two for Sam’s supper when he came in. Then she went to bed with a hot bottle wrapped in a flannel petticoat to help her rheumatics.

  Sam ate his supper and smoked a pipe by the fire; and t
hen he went to bed. But Susan sat a long time by the fire, considering. She considered many things — fish, and ducks, and Percy with a lame foot, and dogs that eat mutton chops, and the yellow cat on the ship, and the pig. Susan thought it strange to see a pig upon a ship called the “Pound of Candles”. The mice peeped out under the cupboard door. The cinders fell together on the hearth. Susan purred gently in her sleep and dreamed of fish and pigs. She could not understand that pig on board a ship. But I know all about him!

  Chapter Two

  You remember the song about the Owl and the Pussy Cat and their beautiful pea-green boat? How they took some honey and plenty of money, wrapped up in a five pound note?

  They sailed away, for a year and a day,

  To the land where the Bong tree grows —

  And, there in a wood, a piggy-wig stood,

  With a ring at the end of his nose — his nose,

  With a ring at the end of his nose.

  Now I am going to tell you the story of that pig, and why he went to live in the land of the Bong tree.

  When that pig was little he lived in Devonshire, with his aunts, Miss Dorcas and Miss Porcas, at a farm called Piggery Porcombe. Their cosy thatched cottage was in an orchard at the top of a steep red Devonshire lane.

  The soil was red, the grass was green; and far away below in the distance they could see red cliffs and a bit of bright blue sea. Ships with white sails sailed over the sea into the harbour of Stymouth.

  I have often remarked that the Devonshire farms have very strange names. If you had ever seen Piggery Porcombe you would think that the people who lived there were very queer too! Aunt Dorcas was a stout speckled pig who kept hens.

  Aunt Porcas was a large smiling black pig who took in washing. We shall not hear very much about them in this story. They led prosperous uneventful lives, and their end was bacon. But their nephew Robinson had the most peculiar adventures that ever happened to a pig.

  Little pig Robinson was a charming little fellow; pinky white with small blue eyes, fat cheeks and a double chin, and a turned-up nose, with a real silver ring in it. Robinson could see that ring if he shut one eye and squinted sideways.

  He was always contented and happy. All day long he ran about the farm, singing little songs to himself, and grunting “Wee, wee, wee!” His aunts missed those little songs sadly after Robinson had left them.

  “Wee? Wee? Wee?” he answered when anybody spoke to him. “Wee? Wee? Wee?” listening with his head on one side and one eye screwed up.

  Robinson’s old aunts fed him and petted him and kept him on the trot.

  “Robinson! Robinson!” called Aunt Dorcas. “Come quick! I hear a hen clucking. Fetch me the egg; don’t break it now!”

  “Wee, wee, wee!” answered Robinson, like a little Frenchman.

  “Robinson! Robinson! I’ve dropped a clothes peg, come and pick it up for me!” called Aunt Porcas from the drying green (she being almost too fat to stoop down and pick up anything).

  “Wee, wee, wee!” answered Robinson.

  Both the aunts were very, very stout. And the stiles in the neighbourhood of Stymouth are narrow. The footpath from Piggery Porcombe crosses many fields; a red trodden track between short green grass and daisies. And wherever the footpath crosses over from one field to another field, there is sure to be a stile in the hedge.

  “It is not me that is too stout; it is the stiles that are too thin,” said Aunt Dorcas to Aunt Porcas. “Could you manage to squeeze through them if I stayed at home?”

  “I could not. Not for two years I could not,” replied Aunt Porcas. “Aggravating, it is aggravating of that carrier man, to go and upset his donkey cart the day before market day. And eggs at two and tuppence a dozen! How far do you call it to walk all the way round by the road instead of crossing the fields?”

  “Four miles if it’s one,” sighed Aunt Porcas, “and me using my last bit of soap. However will we get our shopping done? The donkey says the cart will take a week to mend.”

  “Don’t you think you could squeeze through the stiles if you went before dinner?”

  “No, I don’t, I would stick fast; and so would you,” said Aunt Porcas.

  “Don’t you think we might venture —” commenced Aunt Dorcas.

  “Venture to send Robinson by the footpath to Stymouth?” finished Aunt Porcas.

  “Wee, wee, wee!” answered Robinson.

  “I scarcely like to send him alone, though he is sensible for his size.”

  “Wee, wee, wee!” answered Robinson.

  “But there is nothing else to be done,” said Aunt Dorcas.

  So Robinson was popped into the wash-tub with the last bit of soap. He was scrubbed and dried and polished as bright as a new pin. Then he was dressed in a little blue cotton frock and knickers, and instructed to go shopping to Stymouth with a big market basket.

  In the basket were two dozen eggs, a bunch of daffodils, two spring cauliflowers; also Robinson’s dinner of bread-and-jam sandwiches. The eggs and flowers and vegetables he must sell in the market, and bring back various other purchases from shopping.

  “Now take care of yourself in Stymouth, Nephew Robinson. Beware of gunpowder, and ships’ cooks, and pantechnicons, and sausages, and shoes, and ships, and sealing-wax. Remember the blue bag, the soap, the darning wool — what was the other thing?” said Aunt Dorcas.

  “The darning wool, the soap, the blue bag, the yeast — what was the other thing?” said Aunt Porcas.

  “Wee, wee, wee!” answered Robinson.

  “The blue bag, the soap, the yeast, the darning wool, the cabbage seed — that’s five, and there ought to be six. It was two more than four because it was two too many to tie knots in the corners of his hankie, to remember by. Six to buy, it should be —”

  “I have it!” said Aunt Porcas. “It was tea — tea, blue bag, soap, darning wool, yeast, cabbage seed. You will buy most of them at Mr. Mumby’s. Explain about the carrier, Robinson; tell him we will bring the washing and some more vegetables next week.”

  “Wee, wee, wee” answered Robinson, setting off with the big basket.

  Aunt Dorcas and Aunt Porcas stood in the porch. They watched him safely out of sight, down the field, and through the first of the many stiles. When they went back to their household tasks they were grunty and snappy with each other, because they were uneasy about Robinson.

  “I wish we had not let him go. You and your tiresome blue bag!” said Aunt Dorcas.

  “Blue bag, indeed! It was your darning wool and eggs!” grumbled Aunt Porcas. “Bother that carrier man and his donkey cart! Why could not he keep out of the ditch until after market day?”

  Chapter Three

  The walk to Stymouth was a long one, in spite of going by the fields. But the footpath ran downhill all the way, and Robinson was merry. He sang his little song, for joy of the fine morning, and he chuckled “Wee, wee, wee!” Larks were singing, too, high overhead.

  And higher still — high up against blue sky, the great white gulls sailed in wide circles. Their hoarse cries came softened back to earth from a great way up above.

  Important rooks and lively jackdaws strutted about the meadows amongst the daisies and buttercups. Lambs skipped and baa’ed; the sheep looked round at Robinson.

  “Mind yourself in Stymouth, little pig,” said a motherly ewe.

  Robinson trotted on until he was out of breath and very hot. He had crossed five big fields, and ever so many stiles; stiles with steps; ladder stiles; stiles of wooden posts; some of them were very awkward with a heavy basket. The farm of Piggery Porcombe was no longer in sight when he looked back. In the distance before him, beyond the farmlands and cliffs — never any nearer — the dark blue sea rose like a wall.

  Robinson sat down to rest beside a hedge in a sheltered sunny spot. Yellow pussy willow catkins were in flower above his head; there were primroses in hundreds on the bank, and a warm smell of moss and grass and steaming moist red earth.

  “If I eat my dinner now, I will
not have to carry it. Wee, wee, wee!” said Robinson.

  The walk had made him so hungry he would have liked to eat an egg as well as the jam sandwiches; but he had been too well brought up.

  “It would spoil the two dozen,” said Robinson.

  He picked a bunch of primroses and tied them up with a bit of darning wool that Aunt Dorcas had given him for a pattern.

  “I will sell them in the market for my very own self, and buy sweeties with my pennies. How many pennies have I got?” said Robinson, feeling in his pocket. “One from Aunt Dorcas, and one from Aunt Porcas, and one for my primroses for my very own self — oh, wee, wee, wee! There is somebody trotting along the road! I shall be late for market!”

  Robinson jumped up and pushed his basket through a very narrow stile, where the footpath crossed into the public road. He saw a man on horseback. Old Mr. Pepperil came up, riding a chestnut horse with white legs. His two tall greyhounds ran before him; they looked through the bars of the gates into every field that they passed. They came bounding up to Robinson, very large and friendly; they licked his face and asked what he had got in that basket. Mr. Pepperil called them.

  “Here, Pirate! Here, Postboy! Come here, sir!” He did not wish to be answerable for the eggs.

  The road had been recently covered with sharp new flints. Mr. Pepperil walked the chestnut horse on the grass edge, and talked to Robinson. He was a jolly old gentleman, very affable, with a red face and white whiskers. All the green fields and red ploughland between Stymouth and Piggery Porcombe belonged to him.

  “Hullo, hullo! And where are you off to, little pig Robinson?”

  “Please, Mr. Pepperil, sir, I’m going to market. Wee, wee, wee!” said Robinson.