`Why, it's to measure with!' cried Bruno. `How ever would you do a garden without one? We make each bed th'ee mouses and a half long, and two mouses wide.'
I stopped him, as he was dragging it off by the tail to show me how it was used, for I was half afraid the `eerie' feeling might go off before we had finished the garden, and in that case I should see no more of him or Sylvie. `I think the best way will be for you to weed the beds, while I sort out these pebbles, ready to mark the walks with.'
`That's it!' cried Bruno. `And I'll tell you about the caterpillars while we work.'
`Ah, let's hear about the caterpillars,' I said, as I drew the pebbles together into a heap, and began dividing them into colours.
And Bruno went on in a low, rapid tone, more as if he were talking to himself. `Yesterday I saw two little caterpillars, when I was sitting by the b'ook, just where you go into the wood. They were quite g'een, and they had yellow eyes, and they didn't see me. And one of them had got a moth's wing to carry—a g'eat b'own moth's wing, you know, all d'y, with feathers. So he couldn't want it to eat, I should think—perhaps he meant to make a cloak for the winter?'
`Perhaps,' I said, for Bruno had twisted up the last word into a sort of question, and was looking at me for an answer.
One word was quite enough for the little fellow, and he went on merrily: `Well, and so he didn't want the other caterpillar to see the moth's wing, you know—so what must he do but t'y to carry it with all his left legs, and he t'ied to walk on the other set. Of course he toppled over after that.'
`After what?' I said, catching the last word, for, to tell the truth, I hadn't been attending much.
`He toppled over,' Bruno repeated, very gravely, `and if you ever saw a caterpillar topple over, you'd know it's a serious thing, and not sit g'inning like that—and I shan't tell you any more.'
`Indeed and indeed, Bruno, I didn't mean to grin. See, I'm quite grave again now.'
But Bruno only folded his arms, and said: `Don't tell me. I see a little twinkle in one of your eyes—just like the moon.'
`Am I like the moon, Bruno?' I asked.
`Your face is large and round like the moon,' Bruno answered, looking at me thoughtfully. `It doesn't shine quite so b'ight—but it's cleaner.'
I couldn't help smiling at this. `You know I wash my face, Bruno. The moon never does that.'
`Oh, doesn't she though!' cried Bruno; and he leant forwards and added in a solemn whisper: `The moon's face gets dirtier and dirtier every night, till it's black all ac'oss. And then, when it's dirty all over—so'—he passed his hand across his own rosy cheeks as he spoke—`then she washes it.'
`And then it's all clean again, isn't it?'
`Not all in a moment,' said Bruno. `What a deal of teaching you want! She washes it little by little—only she begins at the other edge.'
By this time he was sitting quietly on the dead mouse with his arms folded, and the weeding wasn't getting on a bit; so I was obliged to say: `Work first and pleasure afterwards—no more talking till that bed's finished.'
After that we had a few minutes of silence, while I sorted out the pebbles, and amused myself with watching Bruno's plan of gardening. It was quite a new plan to me: he always measured each bed before he weeded it, as if he was afraid the weeding would make it shrink; and once, when it came out longer than he wished, he set to work to thump the mouse with his tiny fist, crying out: `There now! It's all 'ong again! Why don't you keep your tail st'aight when I tell you!'
`I'll tell you what I'll do,' said Bruno in a half whisper, as we worked: `I'll get you an invitation to the king's dinner-party. I know one of the head-waiters.'
I couldn't help laughing at this idea. `Do the waiters invite the guests?' I asked.
`Oh, not to sit down!' Bruno hastily replied. `But to help, you know. You'd like that, wouldn't you? To hand about plates, and so on.'
`Well, but that's not so nice as sitting at the table, is it?'
`Of course it isn't,' Bruno said, in a tone as if he rather pitied my ignorance; `but if you're not even Sir Anything, you can't expect to be allowed to sit at the table, you know.'
I said, as meekly as I could that I didn't expect it, but it was the only way of going to a dinner-party that I really enjoyed. And Bruno tossed his head, and said, in a rather offended tone, that I might do as I pleased—there were many he knew that would give their ears to go.
`Have you ever been yourself, Bruno?'
`They invited me once last year,' Bruno said, very gravely. `It was to wash up the soup-plates—no, the cheese-plates, I mean—that was g'and enough. But the g'andest thing of all was, I fetched the Duke of Dandelion a glass of cider!'
`That was grand!' I said, biting my lip to keep myself from laughing.
`Wasn't it?' said Bruno, very earnestly. `You know it isn't everyone that's had such an honour as that!'
This set me thinking of the various queer things we call `an honour' in this world, which, after all, haven't a bit more honour in them than what the dear little Bruno enjoyed (by the way, I hope you're beginning to like him a little, naughty as he was?) when he took the Duke of Dandelion a glass of cider.
I don't know how long I might have dreamed on in this way, if Bruno hadn't suddenly roused me. `Oh, come here quick!' he cried, in a state of the wildest excitement. `Catch hold of his other horn! I can't hold him more than a minute!'
He was struggling desperately with a great snail, clinging to one of its horns, and nearly breaking his poor little back in his efforts to drag it over a blade of grass.
I saw we should have no more gardening if I let this sort of thing go on, so I quietly took the snail away, and put it on a bank where he couldn't reach it. `We'll hunt it afterwards, Bruno,' I said, `if you really want to catch it. But what's the use of it when you've got it?'
`What's the use of a fox when you've got it?' said Bruno. `I know you big things hunt foxes.'
I tried to think of some good reason why `big things' should hunt foxes, and he shouldn't hunt snails, but none came into my head; so I said at last: `Well, I suppose one's as good as the other. I'll go snail-hunting myself some day.'
`I should think you wouldn't be so silly,' said Bruno, `as to go snail-hunting all by yourself. Why, you'd never get the snail along, if you hadn't somebody to hold on to his other horn!'
`Of course I shan't go alone,' I said, quite gravely. `By the way, is that the best kind to hunt, or do you recommend the ones without shells?'
`Oh no, we never hunt the ones without shells,' Bruno said, with a little shudder at the thought of it. `They're always so c'oss about it; and then, if you tumble over them, they're ever so sticky!'
By this time we had nearly finished the garden. I had fetched some violets, and Bruno was just helping me to put in the last, when he suddenly stopped and said, `I'm tired.'
`Rest, then,' I said. `I can go on without you.'
Bruno needed no second invitation: he at once began arranging the dead mouse as a kind of sofa. `And I'll sing you a little song,' he said, as he rolled it about.
`Do,' I said. `There's nothing I should like better.'
`Which song will you choose?' Bruno said, as he dragged the mouse into a place where he could get a good view of me. `"Ting, ting, ting" is the nicest.'
There was no resisting such a strong hint as this: however, I pretended to think about it for a moment, and then said: `Well, I like "Ting, ting, ting" best of all.'
`That shows you're a good judge of music,' Bruno said, with a pleased look. `How many bluebells would you like?' And he put his thumb into his mouth to help me to consider.
As there was only one bluebell within easy reach, I said very gravely that I thought one would do this time, and I picked it and gave it to him. Bruno ran his hand once or twice up and down the flowers, like a musician trying an instrument, producing a most delicious, delicate tinkling as he did so. I had never heard flower-music before—I don't think one can, unless one's in the `eerie' state—and I don't know qu
ite how to give you an idea of what it was like, except by saying that it sounded like a peal of bells a thousand miles off. When he had satisfied himself that the flowers were in tune, he seated himself on the dead mouse (he never seemed really comfortable anywhere else), and, looking up at me with a merry twinkle in his eyes, he began. By the way, the tune was rather a curious one, and you might like to try it for yourself, so here are the notes:
`Rise, oh, rise! The daylight dies:
The owls are hooting, ting, ting, ting!
Wake, oh, wake! Beside the lake
The elves are fluting, ting, ting, ting!
Welcoming our fairy king,
We sing, sing, sing.'
He sang the first four lines briskly and merrily, making the bluebells chime in time with the music; but the last two he sang quite slowly and gently, and merely waved the flowers backwards and forwards above his head. And when he had finished the first verse, he left off to explain. `The name of our fairy king is Obberwon'—he meant `Oberon', I believe—`and he lives over the lake—there—and now and then he comes in a little boat—and then we go and meet him—and then we sing this song, you know.'
`And then you go and dine with him?' I said mischievously.
`You shouldn't talk,' Bruno hastily said; `it interrupts the song so.'
I said I wouldn't do it again.
`I never talk myself when I'm singing,' he went on, very gravely; `so you shouldn't either.' Then he turned the bluebells once more and sang:
`Hear, oh, hear! From far and near
A music stealing, ting, ting, ting!
Fairy bells adown the dells
Are merrily pealing, ting, ting, ting!
Welcoming our fairy king
We ring, ring, ring.
`See, oh, see! On every t'ee
What lamps are shining, ting, ting, ting!
They are eyes of fiery flies
To light our dining, ting, ting, ting!
Welcoming our fairy king
They swing, swing, swing.
`Haste, oh, haste! to take and haste
The dainties waiting, ting, ting, ting!
Honey-dew is stored—'
`Hush, Bruno!' I interrupted, in a warning whisper. `She's coming!'
Bruno checked his song only just in time for Sylvie not to hear him, and then, catching sight of her as she slowly made her way through the long grass, he suddenly rushed out headlong at her like a little bull, shouting: `Look the other way! Look the other way!'
`Which way?' Sylvie asked, in rather a frightened tone, as she looked round in all directions to see where the danger could be.
`That way!' said Bruno, carefully turning her round with her face to the wood. `Now, walk backwards—walk gently—don't be f'ightened: you shan't t'ip!'
But Sylvie did `t'ip' notwithstanding: in fact he led her, in his hurry, across so many little sticks and stones, that it was really a wonder the poor child could keep on her feet at all. But he was far too much excited to think of what he was doing.
I silently pointed out to Bruno the best place to lead her to, so as to get a view of the whole garden at once: it was a little rising ground, about the height of a potato; and, when they had mounted it, I drew back into the shade, that Sylvie mightn't see me.
I heard Bruno cry out triumphantly `Now you may look!' and then followed a great clapping of hands, but it was all done by Bruno himself. Sylvie was quite silent—she only stood and gazed with her hands clasped tightly together, and I was afraid she didn't like it after all.
Bruno too was watching her anxiously, and when she jumped down off the mound, and began wandering up and down the little walks, he cautiously followed her about, evidently anxious that she should form her own opinion of it all, without any hint from him. And when at last she drew a long breath, and gave her verdict—in a hurried whisper, and without the slightest regard to grammar—`It's the loveliest thing as I never saw in all my life before!' the little fellow looked as well pleased as if it had been given by all the judges and juries in England put together.
`And did you really do it all by yourself, Bruno?' said Sylvie. `And all for me?'
`I was helped a bit,' Bruno began, with a merry little laugh at her surprise. `We've been at it all the afternoon—I thought you'd like—' and here the poor little fellow's lip began to quiver, and all in a moment he burst out crying, and running up to Sylvie he flung his arms passionately round her neck, and hid his face on her shoulder.
There was a little quiver in Sylvie's voice too as she whispered: `Why, what's the matter, darling?' and tried to lift up his head and kiss him.
But Bruno only clung to her, sobbing, and wouldn't be comforted till he had confessed all. `I t'ied—to spoil your garden—first—but—I'll never— never—' and then came another burst of tears, which drowned the rest of the sentence. At last he got out the words, `I liked—putting in the flowers—for you, Sylvie—and I never was so happy before—' and the rosy little face came up at last to be kissed, all wet with tears as it was.
Sylvie was crying too by this time, and she said nothing but `Bruno, dear!' and `I never was so happy before—' though why two children who had never been so happy before should both be crying, was a great mystery to me.
I felt very happy too, but of course I didn't cry: `big things' never do, you know—we leave all that to the fairies. Only I think it must have been raining a little just then, for I found a drop or two on my cheeks.
After that they went through the whole garden again, flower by flower, as if it were a long sentence they were spelling out, with kisses for commas, and a great hug by way of a full-stop when they got to the end.
`Do you know, that was my river-edge, Sylvie?' Bruno began, looking solemnly at her.
Sylvie laughed merrily. `What do you mean?' she said; and she pushed back her heavy brown hair with both hands, and looked at him with dancing eyes in which the big teardrops were still glittering.
Bruno drew in a long breath, and made up his mouth for a great effort. `I mean rev-enge,' he said `now you under'tand.' And he looked so happy and proud at having said the word right at last, that I quite envied him. I rather think Sylvie didn't `under'tand' at all; but she gave him a little kiss on each cheek, which seemed to do just as well.
So they wandered off lovingly together, in among the buttercups, each with an arm twined round the other, whispering and laughing as they went, and never so much as once looked back at poor me. Yes, once, just before I quite lost sight of them, Bruno half turned his head, and nodded me a saucy little good-bye over one shoulder. And that was all the thanks I got for my trouble.
I know you're sorry the story's come to an end—aren't you?—so I'll just tell you one thing more. They very last thing I saw of them was this—Sylvie was stooping down with her arms round Bruno's neck, and saying coaxingly in his ear: `Do you know, Bruno, I've quite forgotten that hard word—do say it once more. Come! Only this once, dear!'
But Bruno wouldn't try it again.
CRUNDLE CASTLE
(Early story from The Rectory Magazine: circa 1850)
CHAPTER ONE
`LOVE ME LOVE MY DOG'
`MY dear Miss Primmins' said the kind and comfortable lady, Mrs Cogsby, a burly good-natured body, engaged in that most delightful occupation of gardening on a summer evening, which consisted of amputating a few dead rosebuds with an enormous and sanguinary looking knife, apparently constructed originally for the rather unusual purpose of murdering crocodiles, but which she employed on the present occasion with no more apparent emotion than if it were the most delicate lady's penknife. `My dear Miss Primmins, you mustn't think of going a step further, before you've come in, and had a glass of elder wine. Besides you haven't seen my darling Guggy this age, and he's so improved!' The said darling Guggy was a rather over-grown boy of about 6 years old, the delight of his mother, and the utter detestation of all the neighbourhood, who were miserably victimised by Mrs Cogsby for whole evenings together, admiring him and hearing of
his performances. He was always carried into the room by his mother's express desire, though it was noticed by the more observant of her visitors that the nurse only took him up outside the door, indeed it was impossible for any human nurse to have carried him 10 yards without dropping.
`Rely, Mem,' began the present victim, a sickly decayed looking young lady, of considerably over 70, who screwed all her words with some difficulty out of one of the smallest mouths, `rely, Mem, I kiddnt think of intrewding on your seclusion.' But Mrs Cogsby would hear of no excuse, and she was soon seated in the parlour, where in the course of 1/2 an hour, 8 or 10 other victims were assembled, and the darling Guggy was introduced.
`Oh! what a charming boy!' was the general exclamation on his first appearance, the charming boy meanwhile standing at his mother's knee with his thumb in his mouth, vouchsafing not a word to any of the company; `I really must show you,' began Mrs Cogsby, `a remarkable production of Guggy's. It's a portrait of his father, wonderfully like him, (a universal elevation of eye-brows) only the poor dear man wouldn't look at it, when I shewed it him today, but went off in a fluff.' (Probably a combination of flurry and huff, a confusion of words being one of Mrs Cogsby's peculiarities.) At this moment a gentle knock was heard at the door.
CHAPTER TWO
ON the door being opened, Mr Cogsby senior timidly entered the room: he cast an anxious glance around him, detected Miss Primmins in the act of examining his portrait, and with a faint shriek of horror, sunk into a chair. Mrs Cogsby flew to him, and by dint of a well directed battery of the most energetic slaps on the back, succeeded in restoring the vital spark. `My dear Alfred,' she murmured reproachfully in his ear, as soon as she saw signs of returning consciousness, `to think that you should yield to this weakness! you, to whom I'm sure I've been more than a mother.' `I beg your pardon, ma'am' interposed a pale tall young man, leaning over a chair, with a large head of a small stick constantly in his mouth, `but do you happen to be his—grandmother?' `Sir!' said Mrs Cogsby with a withering glance, which silenced him in a moment. Even in that awful moment she had the presence of mind to ring the bell. `Show that person out!' said she faintly, and the young man, rather astounded at the effect of his speech, followed the indignant maid-servant, who saw that the mistress had received some insult, though what it was she was by no means clear. The danger over Mrs Cogsby began to think it was her turn to have a scene, and accordingly began, `The brute! the beast!!! to call—a young lady—n-not 30—t-to call her—a granan-an-mother—oh!' and here, having reached the climax, she fell, executing her favourite manoeuvre of sinking upon a sofa in a picturesque attitude.
Complete Works of Lewis Carroll Page 74
