Poor Cecco

by Margery Williams Bianco

  “That’s the sort of dog I wouldn’t mind keeping myself,” said the countryman. “I suppose you wouldn’t be wanting to sell him?”

  “No, I wouldn’t sell him,” said the blind man. “We’ve been friends too long, and you don’t find a dog like him every day.”

  Poor Cecco thought the little black dog might well be pleased to hear that, for of course the blind man couldn’t know that they had changed places. Other passers-by stopped, seeing the countryman standing there, and they too had pennies to drop in the cup. Soon there was quite a crowd. No one before had ever seen a wooden dog that wagged its tail; it was as good as going to the circus, and the pennies rattled down. One man put as many as three. And when they grew tired of staring and passed on others came forward to take their places. Poor Cecco’s tail went thump—thump—on the pavement; he could scarcely keep count any more and soon the cup was overflowing. Those who had no more pennies put in dimes and nickels. Business was certainly flourishing.

  The old blind man had never known such a good morning before.

  “It must be because the sun is shining,” he said to himself as he heard the coins clinking in the cup. “Every one is in a good humour. Yes, it must certainly be a very sunny day!”

  In the middle of it all the little black dog came strolling back. There was such a crowd that he had to push his way between the people’s legs.

  “You’ve surely done well!” he said. “I give credit where credit’s due, and I’m sorry I called you a hayseed. I can see now you’ve got a head for affairs, and if you like to stay here and go into partnership with me and my old man we’ll give you a share in the business and a corner to sleep in at night.”

  But that didn’t suit Poor Cecco at all. He was tired of sitting still by now, and his tail was quite stiff and painful from so much thumping. He was glad enough to slip his head out of the collar and let the little dog take his place again.

  “Business is all very well,” he said, “but my friend and I came out to see the world, and I’ve only seen part of it as yet. Still I’ve learned now how money can be made, and that’s always useful if you happen to want it.” And he thanked him kindly and went on his way, though not before the little dog had insisted on Poor Cecco accepting four pennies, three for himself and one over for his friend.

  “Bulka will be pleased with this!” thought Poor Cecco.

  But when he turned round to look for Bulka, Bulka wasn’t there!

  Chapter V

  BULKA GETS INTO TROUBLE

  WHERE was Bulka?

  When Poor Cecco changed places with the little black dog, and sat down on the pavement to wait for pennies, Bulka soon got very bored with sitting there beside him, and nothing at all to do. So bye-and-bye he got up, quietly, without saying a word, and strolled off along the sidewalk to see what there was to be seen.

  The bridge, like a great many other bridges, had water flowing beneath it. And a few steps further on, not far from where the old man sat, a little path ran down a steep bank from the sidewalk to the water’s edge.

  Now Bulka loved water. He had often thought that he would like to be a sailor, in spite of the fact that the least rocking made him seasick. And he had never seen so much water as this before. In fact, all the water he had seen, up to now, had been in tubs and pails, or else in puddles on the garden path after a shower, and these were shallow and muddy, and always dried up just when the sun shone out and you didn’t want them to. But here was water, plenty of it, flowing along as freely as if there were no end to it all, as indeed there wasn’t, and as soon as Bulka caught sight of it he became very excited.

  “Some one,” he thought, “has left the spigot running!” And he began at once to slide down the little path as fast as he could go, on his behind legs.

  In the pool under the bridge a number of ducks were swimming about; big ducks and middle-size ducks, and some little furry baby ducks, with flat yellow feet and eyes like drops of ink. They swam about in circles, dabbling under the water with their bills, while a little way off, all by himself, an old drake with green feathers was asleep on the water, with his head tucked under his wing.

  At first the ducks took no notice of Bulka, and for a long time he amused himself by poking about on the shore by the water’s edge, getting his feet very muddy, and looking under all the stones. For if treasure really grew under stones, as Poor Cecco had said, here might be a very good place to find it. But nothing grew under these stones except fat pink worms, and one horrid black thing with pincers, which behaved very rudely and which Bulka did not like the look of at all.

  So after a time he gave up the hunt, as the things he found under the stones seemed to be getting worse and worse, and instead he sat down on a tuft of grass to watch the ducks.

  They were having a wonderful time, dabbling here and poking there, and every little while one of them would stand right on his head in the water, with only his tail sticking out and his yellow feet paddling away at a great rate; it was amazing how they did it, and it looked so easy! Even the baby ducks could do it, as cleverly as their elders.

  It would be a fine thing to be a duck, Bulka thought, and stand on one’s head in the water, and almost before he knew it he was trying to do the same thing on shore. But it wasn’t so simple as it looked, perhaps because there was no water to keep him up, and the best he could do was to turn a sort of somersault and fall back each time on the mud.

  “Here, what are you trying to do?” called the ducks. “You won’t catch any worms that way!”

  “I’m not looking for worms,” said Bulka, feeling suddenly shy when he found they were all watching him, but keeping up his somersaults none the less, just to show them that he didn’t care. “I don’t like worms!”

  “Don’t like worms?” cried the biggest duck, and all the little ones came crowding up at once to see this strange person who didn’t like worms.

  “Your head is too big,” said one of the younger ducks, after watching him for a moment attentively.

  “Come out here,” called another, “and we’ll show you how to do it properly!”

  “I don’t need showing,” said Bulka.

  “Well, I call that a silly performance!” remarked the big duck after a while, and shaking her feathers she swam off to look for frogs across the stream. But the younger ones all stayed round, watching.

  “Come out into the water!” they cried. And the smallest and most impudent duckling of all called out suddenly: “I believe he’s afraid!”

  “I’m not afraid!” returned Bulka, very red in the face, but still going on with his somersaults.

  “If you aren’t afraid why don’t you come out?” asked the ducks. “Coward!”

  This was more than Bulka could stand. He couldn’t endure being called a coward, so he took a flying jump then and there and landed right in the water where the ducks were paddling about. The water wasn’t deep, but it was quite cold, and tasted very slimy and muddy; a great deal of it went up Bulka’s nose and down his throat, for he had forgotten to keep his mouth shut when he jumped, and as soon as he poked his head above water to breathe one of the ducklings would catch him by his long ears and pull him under again. “Down you go!” they shouted. “Now stick your feet in the air!”

  It was a fine game for them, but poor Bulka, tangled up in the pondweed with his head under water, was very close to being drowned, and drowned he would surely have been had not Poor Cecco, who at that very moment was looking about for him on the bridge, heard one smothered squeal and poked his head hastily through the parapet.

  “There’s Bulka in trouble again!” he exclaimed, and came galloping—clop—clop—down the little path to the stream. In a moment he was out among the ducks and had dragged Bulka away from them, not an instant too soon, and even then it was a hard tussle, for one of the ducklings had hold of Bulka firmly by the ear and wouldn’t let go. But Poor Cecco was a good swimmer, being made of wood; he dealt blows about him right and left with his feet, and moreover it was n
o good trying to bite him, he was far too hard, and one of the ducks who did try it had toothache for a week after. So they let Bulka go, and Poor Cecco towed him back to shore and set him up in the sunshine to dry. He was covered with slime and pondweed, one ear had come unsewn in the tussle, and altogether he looked a miserable object, but he was glad enough to be back on dry land. And I’m ashamed to say that the first thing he did, when he had his breath back and had got rid of the water he swallowed, was to turn round and make a very rude and ugly face at the ducklings, who only laughed at him for his pains.

  While Bulka sat there drying off, and picking the pond-weed out of his ears, Poor Cecco set about looking for a boat. He wandered up and down the shore, and at last discovered a piece of plank big enough to hold the two of them safely, and with a hole at one end in which he stuck a branch of willow, with the green leaves still on it, for a mast. It looked quite elegant, and when he had dragged it down to the water and launched it there was a fine raft in which they could set out to explore the stream.

  The mast stood up bravely, the green leaves shaking in the breeze just like a real sail; Poor Cecco and Bulka took their places in the stern, and off they went, gliding easily through the water. To be sure there was no rudder, but Poor Cecco had already thought of that. He had a piece of shingle in his paws for an oar, and this he dipped first on one side and then on the other, and so managed to keep their vessel on its course.

  They could not make up their minds whether to go upstream or down, but this was soon decided for them; there was no choice but to follow the current, and this took them first of all under the bridge. They drifted past the ducks, who stopped scratching their heads with their toes to stare at them, very politely now they saw that Bulka was owner of a real ship and not to be taken liberties with any more. To be sure the most impudent duckling did swim after them, opening his bill, but Poor Cecco gave him a rap with the oar and very soon sent him about his business.

  It was quite dark under the bridge; green moss hung from the stones and water dripped down on them from the arched roof. It was like entering a long dark tunnel; all sorts of horrible things might be lurking there. No sooner had they left daylight than a terrible noise began. It was only a wagon rumbling over the bridge above them, but Bulka thought it was a real storm and began to get frightened. It shook and thundered as if the whole bridge were going to tumble on their heads and little stones and lumps of earth splashed in the water about them.

  “We must turn back!” cried Bulka. But this they could not do; all Poor Cecco could manage was to keep as straight a course as possible in spite of the tumult, and very soon they shot out once more into the sunlight and open sky.

  Everything looked very dazzling after the twilight under the bridge; it was like coming out into a new world. Great dragonflies swooped to and fro, and there were red and white and yellow flowers blooming along the green meadow-banks. On one of the flat bronze leaves with turned-up edges like a tea-tray, that floated on the stream, a frog sat. He was banded green and yellow, with gold eyes, and as the boat drew near he gave a loud mournful cry and dived into the water. A spotted mud turtle lay sunning himself on a log; he did not move, but watched them with black unwinking eyes as they drifted past, his wrinkled neck half drawn within his shell and his horny toes outstretched. Cows were grazing in the meadows on either side, and a little white dog who was out chasing water-rats, ran beside the boat for a long time on the river-bank, barking.

  “Ah, if we only had some chocolate cake and peanut candy!” thought Bulka.

  But neither of them had thought to bring food, which is a great mistake on a voyage, for there were no shops along the river-bank, only grass and green rushes.

  Still it was very pleasant drifting along, following the twists and turns of the stream. In some places the current ran very strongly, and Poor Cecco had to bend hard on the oar to keep the vessel from running ashore. Once they were caught in an eddy and very nearly upset. Certainly one needed to be a good navigator.

  “We shall soon be on the other side of the world, at this rate,” thought Bulka, and he asked Poor Cecco: “Do all the rivers go to the same place?”

  “They all flow into the sea,” replied Poor Cecco, who had learned that much from an old geography-book.

  “Where does all the water come from?” asked Bulka.

  But that Poor Cecco did not know, so he changed the subject. “Let’s talk about roads instead,” he said.

  “Do rivers go faster or do roads go faster?” Bulka wanted to know.

  Poor Cecco needed to think. “The roads go faster,” he said at last. “There is only one road and it goes all over the world and when it reaches the sea it has to turn round and come back again, and that makes it twice as long and so it has to go faster than the rivers to catch up.”

  “What happens,” said Bulka, “if they both get there the same time?”

  “Then they have to change places and start all over again.”

  “I’d rather be the river,” said Bulka. He lay on his back, staring up at the sky with his round eyes. The sky was very blue, with little white clouds racing across it like flocks of sheep. The water made a pleasant drowsy ripple against the boat, and Bulka began to get sleepy. His bath too had tired him out, and before he knew it he was snoring aloud.

  “That’s not such a bad idea either!” thought Poor Cecco. And he steered the boat into a little bay, right under the shade of some huge burdock leaves, and folded his legs under him and went to sleep beside Bulka on the deck.

  Chapter VI

  THE STORM

  THEY must have slept quite a long time, for when they woke up it was nearly dusk. There was a storm coming on; big drops were already pattering on the burdock leaves, and it was one of these, tumbling straight on his nose, that roused Poor Cecco from slumber. He sat up, looked about him, and was just in time to push the boat further under shelter when the storm broke.

  It was raining now in good earnest. The wind blew strongly and black jagged clouds were racing across the sky. And at once the little rainpeople appeared everywhere on the surface of the water, bobbing up and down and shouting. Bulka began to whimper and crept as close to Poor Cecco as he could. Soon the boat was rocking to and fro. The burdock leaves bent beneath the weight of moisture; little rivulets trickled down their broad stems. Before long the two friends were drenched through and through.

  They were so wet that the water ran out through their heels, and to make matters worse the stream itself, swollen with the rain, began to rise; great waves swept down it with a rushing sound, awful things were happening out there in the darkness and at any moment they felt the vessel might be torn from its moorings and carried away on the flood.

  “We must jump!” cried Poor Cecco, and seizing Bulka by the paw he leapt ashore. Only just in time, for at that very moment the raft began to sink beneath their feet and was lost.

  Bulka, who had never before been out in a storm at night, was afraid of the noise and darkness, and sobbed bitterly. To him it seemed that the whole world was sliding into the river, and they were about to perish miserably, in the wet and the cold. He lifted up his voice and wept, while Poor Cecco, still clutching his paw, dragged him up the bank to a place of safety.

  Here, pressed close against a decaying tree-stump, they waited shivering until the worst of the storm had abated. Somewhere they must seek warmth and shelter, but where?

  “You stay here,” said Poor Cecco, “while I go out and see what can be done.”

  But Bulka would not hear of this; he was far too frightened and miserable. So paw in paw the two ventured out together into the unknown darkness.

  The earth was sticky and muddy; it clung in lumps to their feet, and there were deep sloshy puddles everywhere. The weeds grew high above their heads, a dense forest. It was impossible to see one’s way. The rain was still falling steadily.

  Poor Cecco saw something shining in the darkness and ran towards it. “There’s a light!” he cried.

 
But it was only a tin can, battered, and shining in the wet. Near it lay an old boot. That was no help either, for it was soaked through and gaping at the toe. In any case there was not room for them both to creep inside.

  “If only there were a box,” thought Poor Cecco, “we could crawl into that and be sheltered till the morning.” But it is always the way with boxes, that however many there may be in the world one is never to be found when you most need it.

  There was nothing to do but keep on, but presently they found a path at least. It was not much of a path, but fairly plain to trace between the tall weeds, and it must surely lead somewhere, for that is what paths are for. And it did lead them presently, and after a very long time, to a tumbledown wooden fence.

  Poor Cecco stood and sniffed.

  “It smells like a house,” he said at last. “Yes, it certainly smells like a house!” And he squeezed himself through the wooden palings and dragged Bulka after him.

  Here perhaps was the end of their troubles. A house it might be, but the question was, what sort of people lived in it, and that wasn’t easy to tell from the outside, especially after dark. But while they stood there shivering, and wondering whether they should go to the door and knock, there was a rustling among the bushes, and some one poked his nose out.

  Sure enough, of all unexpected things, it was the little black dog who took care of the blind man on the bridge!

  “Well, here’s a fine finish to your sight-seeing!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t I tell you you’d do better to stay with me? It’s a good thing I was listening at the door, or you might have stayed here till morning. But my cottage is not far off, and there’s still a bit of fire to warm yourselves by!”

  “Do you live here?” cried Poor Cecco and Bulka both at once.

  “Indeed I don’t,” returned the little dog. “There’s a nasty old woman lives here, and she’d soon send you chasing with a broom if you go near her door after dusk! But follow me, and I’ll take you where you’ll be warm and dry.”