The Tale of Hill Top Farm

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Get out of here and don’t even think about coming back,” he snapped, baring his teeth and swatting at the rat with his paw. They all stood watching while Roger-Dodger scrambled hastily through the tunnel to the out-of-doors.

  “We’re letting them go?” asked Crumpet incredulously. Like Tabitha, she had no taste for rat, but it went against her nature to release them. It seemed very clear that Ridley Rattail, down on his gentleman’s luck, had stolen the School Roof Fund, and the other two were cheating him out of it. However you looked at it, they were an unsavory lot.

  “Oh, they won’t go far,” Rascal replied with confidence, as the other two rats made their ignominious exits.

  Rascal was right. For the instant Roger-Dodger darted out of the hole and into the schoolyard, he was fair game for the Professor, who had been impatiently waiting to learn what had become of the money and who (since owls have very little sense of smell), was not at all offended by Roger-Dodger’s disgracefully ratty odor.

  “Put me down, Round-Head!” shrilled Roger-Dodger, as the Professor seized the rat in his claw. The rat’s striped jersey was bunched up around his ears. “Put me down, you pirate!”

  “Don’t be impertinent,” the Professor admonished sternly, giving the rat a good shake as he flapped his huge wings and lifted into the air. “Impertinence does not become a rat whooo is invited to dinner.”

  “Invited to dinner?” Roger-Dodger cried, turning pale with fear as he looked down to see the ground, now very far below. Unable to bear the sight, he covered his eyes with his paws. “Oh, I’m done for, I’m dead! I’ll never again see the wharves, or dance with the ladies in the Whitechapel pubs. I’ll never again see me mates, or Newgate Jack, Gor’bless his bones!”

  Which proved not quite true. For at that moment, the Professor looked down over his shoulder and saw Newgate Jack scrambling out of the hole and staggering off dazedly across the schoolyard. Not being an owl who wasted his opportunities, the Professor made a graceful turn, swooped, and snatched. Then, bearing one rat in each large claw and feeling mightily pleased with his night’s work, he flew off to his home in the hollow beech in Cuckoo Brow Wood, where he took out a large iron pot and the recipe for fricasseed rat that had been given to him by his cousin, Old Brown, who lived on an island in a lake not far away. It called for a carrot, a parsnip, a stick of celery, an onion, and two rats (or one squirrel), skinned. These ingredients were to be stewed all together over a slow fire until quite tender, then seasoned with plenty of fresh parsley and a pinch of cayenne and served over dumplings.

  As dinner was cooking, the Professor went up to his observatory, which was located at the very top of the beech. There was a ladder, so that he could invite his friends up to have a look at the heavens, but being an owl, the Professor disregarded it and flew, instead of climbing. Over the low observatory door was a hand-painted notice board, reading:

  G. N. OWL, D. PHIL.

  OBSREVER AT LARJE

  MIND YR HED!

  The Professor spent the next pleasant hour having a look at the moon through his telescope, which was mounted on a swivel that allowed him to see the entire sky, and making notes in his Obsrever’s Notbook. Then he flew back down to enjoy his gourmet dinner, taking it, as usual, with a small glass of mead, which he brewed himself from honey and strawberries, with a sprig of rosemary, a few cloves, and some orange peel. He found his plate of fricasseed rat quite satisfactory, and when he had finished, he retired with a cup of dandelion coffee to his favorite chair, where he fell sound asleep over a copy (in translation) of Sir Isaac Newton’s Principia Mathematica.

  It was too bad, of course, that when the Professor made off with the rats, he had only two claws and was not wearing a waistcoat with pockets. For when Ridley Rattail dragged himself out of the hole, he found that he was able to get clean away, which he did as fast as his four paws could carry him. Since it was a moonlit night and he was strongly apprehensive about owls, he kept to the cover of the bushes and brambles, where his breeches were ripped and torn. When he reached Wilfin Beck, he had to swim for it, stripping off his jacket, waistcoat, and breeches and carrying them, rolled, in his teeth. Once on the other side, he was busy wringing out his tail when he was accosted by Fritz Ferret, who actually liked the taste of rat. He had to run very fast—faster than he had ever run in his life—in order to escape with most of his fur and his tail intact. He managed to gather up all of his clothes except for his jacket, and Fritz took it home to use for a duster.

  Which is why, when Ridley Rattail arrived at last at Hill Top Farm, where his dear friend Rosabelle Rat lived in seclusion in the attic, he was without a jacket, his breeches were torn, he had lost one of his smart boots, and he was cold and wet right through his fur to his skin. Not only that, but he was overwhelmed with misery at the thought of being forced to abandon his treasure. (Ridley Rattail was not quite clever enough to realize that, had their game gone on much longer, Roger-Dodger and Newgate Jack would have taken every last farthing away from him.)

  Rascal, Tabitha, and Crumpet, on the other hand, were rejoicing. They gathered up the coins and counted them to be sure that they were all there: one sovereign, two half-crowns, three florins, and nine shillings (including the florin that had fallen out of Roger-Dodger’s jersey when Crumpet held him upside down and shook him). The envelope into which Dimity Woodcock had put the money was rather the worse for wear, of course. The upper right-hand corner had been chewed, there were dusty rat-prints all over it, and a crooked column of tallies where Newgate Jack had scored the game of bowls. But Tabitha held it open with her paw while Crumpet counted the coins into it, one at a time, doing sums in her head to make sure that the whole two pounds was accounted for. Then Rascal took the envelope carefully in his teeth and carried it to Miss Nash’s desk. He put it into the top drawer, where she would be sure to see it first thing in the morning.

  But not before Tabitha had taken up the stub of pencil and written, in her very best copperplate hand (paw, rather):

  NO MORE RATS.

  22

  Acorn to the Rescue

  Sawrey lay sound asleep under the silent, silvery moon, the little village wrapped in a curling mist that rose from the marshes and fields like wisps of fairy web. In his home in the hollow oak, G. N. Owl napped fitfully over Principia Mathematica, while Ridley Rattail slept the sleep of utter exhaustion in the attic at Hill Top Farm. Rascal, Crumpet, and Tabitha, satisfied that they had done a good night’s work, had also gone home to their beds.

  Miss Potter’s animals were asleep as well, snug in their traveling boxes in Miss Potter’s bedroom. Josey Rabbit dreamed expansively of the fields and meadows and woods that stretched to the horizon and beyond. Beside her, Mopsy dreamed that she was lying on her back in fragrant mounds of wild thyme and clover, kicking her heels and batting at butterflies. Mrs. Tig’s nose twitched with delight as she dreamed of beetles and worms and snails and fallen apples. And in his little wooden cage, his head pillowed on excelsior, Tom Thumb dreamed of a grand wedding at Westminster Cathedral: himself in white tie and tail, with a lavender boutonniere; Teasel in a pink-and-white dress and tulle veil, with a bouquet of primroses and forget-me-nots; and champagne and wedding cake and dancing after.

  Teasel, however, was not dreaming, for she was not asleep. Instead, she lay uneasily awake, wondering what she had got herself into. She could understand that her fiancé, because he was a city mouse, had different ideas about what he wanted in a wife—different, that is, from Acorn, who was perfectly content with her just the way she was, and did not demand that she learn to curtsy, or wear a blue silk dress trimmed in lace, or drink French champagne. And now that she thought about it, she wondered whether she could actually love a mouse who was so skittish about owls, and bragged of actually eating calves’ foot jelly, and kept comparing her to his first wife.

  Teasel sat up and looked at Tom’s sleeping form. Yes, he was certainly a handsome mouse, plump and sleek, with elegant paws and polished whiskers and a d
elightfully long, astonishingly white tail. He had delicate sensibilities, and charming manners, too, and an alluring mouse-of-the-world sophistication. He was nothing at all like Acorn, whose paws were worn with work, whose brown tail and ears had got all tattered in various brave adventures, and whose fur and whiskers were usually dusty and full of cobwebs. But Acorn didn’t mind the owls (although he was careful not to tempt them), and he wasn’t afraid to go straight up to Honeysuckle and ask her politely for a little bucket of milk. And he actually enjoyed sitting down to a dinner of turnips and corn, or a breakfast of oats, with a bit of cheese now and then for a tea-time treat. No fancy dishes or fine wine for Acorn. He was a country mouse, through and through.

  And at the thought of Acorn’s cobwebby whiskers and tattered tail and comfortable, homely ways, Teasel began to cry. She had made a dreadful mistake, leaving her home in the haystack and eloping with a city mouse—without even a note of explanation for her parents or for Acorn. Dear, sweet Acorn, with whom she had shared so many happy times, dancing, and playing hide-and-seek in the meadow, and chasing one another through the sweet, clean hay. What must he think of her, abandoning him as she had? She would never see him again, never hear his cheerful voice calling—

  “Teasel!”

  Teasel sat up straight, her large ears perked forward, her whiskers twitching, her heart pounding hard in her chest. Was someone calling her name? Was it possible that—

  “Teasel, it’s me! Acorn! I’m here to rescue you!”

  “Rescue me?” she cried, scrambling up and running over to clutch the bars with her paws. “Oh, Acorn, do you think you could?”

  “Of course I can,” Acorn said, with a vigorous determination. “I’ve been searching for you ever since I heard you’d been kidnapped by some scoundrel. I won’t rest until you’re safe.”

  And without a word, he jumped up on the shelf beside Tom Thumb’s cage and began gnawing at one of the wooden bars. Acorn’s teeth were sturdy and strong, and he had completely gnawed through one bar and started on another almost before Teasel realized what he was doing.

  “Oh, Acorn!” she said, sighing in breathless admiration as she watched those teeth, those determined country-mouse teeth, so hard at work—at work for her, setting her free.

  One more minute, and the second bar was gnawed through, and Acorn was holding out a paw. “Can you squeeze through?” he asked anxiously.

  “Of course I can,” Teasel replied. She pushed herself through the opening and into Acorn’s waiting arms. She did not bother to leave a note for Tom.

  The sun rose to the east over Lake Windermere, the cheerful light rousing the village to its daily tasks and waking Tom Thumb from his nightlong sleep. With a dreamy smile, his eyes still closed, he rolled over and put out a paw.

  “Teasel,” he said. “Oh, Teasel, my love. Come here and give your sweetheart a big kiss.”

  But Teasel did not reply. Tom opened his eyes and saw, to his horror, that the bars of the cage had been gnawed through and his fiancée was gone. He gave a frantic squeal and began to run in circles. “Oh, woe!” he cried. “Oh, woe, woe, woe!”

  Mrs. Tiggy, who slept very hard, slumbered on, but Josey and Mopsy woke up with a start. “What’s happened?” Josey cried. “Is somebody dead?”

  “Teasel’s been kidnapped!” Tom sobbed. “Teasel, my lovely, the love of my heart, the light of my life—she’s gone, gone, gone!”

  In the bed in the middle of the room, Beatrix sat up straight, threw off the covers, and pulled a shawl around her shoulders. “What’s all this squeaking?” she asked, getting out of bed and padding over to the cages. “What’s wrong?”

  But one glance answered her question. “Oh, I see,” she said, and added reasonably, “I suppose your friend got homesick, Tom, and gnawed through the wooden bars to let herself out.”

  “No, no!” Tom shrieked, growing more frantic by the minute. “She was kidnapped, I tell you! Teasel would never leave me!”

  Beatrix picked up Tom, squealing and kicking, and put him into the rabbits’ box. “You can stay here until your cage is repaired,” she said in a comforting tone. She stroked the quivering mouse with the tip of her finger. “Don’t be so sad, Tom. You’ll find another companion, I’m sure.”

  “Never, never,” cried Tom. “I’ll never love another mouse the way I loved Teasel!”

  Beatrix sighed, thinking of her own loss. “But if you don’t, you know, you’ll just have to learn to live alone. Not all stories have a happy ending.”

  And with that, she threw off her shawl and began to get dressed. Today was a busy day.

  23

  Miss Nash Is Surprised

  It was eight o’clock in the morning, and Miss Nash was walking from Sunnyside Cottage, where she lived, to Sawrey School. It was a pretty October morning, cool and crisp, with the fragrance of autumn. The golden trees seemed to shimmer against the blue sky and the blackberry briars along the lane were covered with red and yellow leaves, making brave patches of color in the sunshine.

  But these sights brought Margaret little pleasure, for she was terribly anxious about what the morning would bring. If Miss Crabbe had made her accusations to Constable Braithwaite, it was entirely possible that Jeremy Crosfield had been arrested and taken to Hawkshead for arraignment before the magistrate. If Miss Crabbe had not yet gone to the constable, for whatever reason, there would no doubt be a great deal of turmoil and anxiety and mutterings about the money. And to add to the difficulties, there was no Bertha to clean and light the stove, carry coal and cinders and water, and sweep the floors. All those duties would fall upon Margaret’s shoulders. It was no wonder that her heart was heavy, her feet dragged, and the day ahead seemed filled with ominous storm clouds.

  But Miss Nash was in for a surprise—several of them, in fact. She had just inserted the key in the lock and was preparing to open the school door, when she heard someone calling her name.

  “Miss Nash, oh, Miss Nash!”

  She turned to see Vicar Sackett hurrying across the school yard. His scarf was flying, and he thrust his walking stick into the air with a great energy.

  “Good morning, Vicar,” Margaret said without enthusiasm, and turned the key. This was no time for a chat. She would barely be able to get Bertha’s work done before the children arrived.

  “Oh, Miss Nash, I have news,” the vicar said breathlessly. He lifted his hat and put it back on. “Terrible news, I’m sorry to say. Miss Crabbe has broken her leg.”

  Margaret turned, appalled. For a moment, she couldn’t catch her breath or speak. “Broken . . . her leg?” she managed at last.

  “Yes, yes, her leg.” The vicar took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. “Dreadful. A very bad break. Very bad. Doctor Butters came, of course. She is confined to bed.” He eyed her and added, with deliberate emphasis. “Miss Crabbe is going nowhere.”

  Margaret still could not quite comprehend. Miss Crabbe was such a determined person, so firm of purpose, so resolute. It was inconceivable that anything might arrest her forward motion. “But . . . but how? How could such a thing happen?”

  “She fell on the stairs at Castle Cottage,” the vicar replied. “She says she stepped on the cat.” He cleared his throat, sketched a gesture with his walking stick, and cleared his throat again. “I believe that she was on her way to see Constable Braithwaite when it happened.”

  Margaret found that she had been holding her breath. “Oh,” she said, with enormous relief. “Then she didn’t—”

  “No,” said the vicar. “She didn’t.”

  Margaret straightened her shoulders. “Well, then,” she said, and was surprised by the cheeriness in her voice. “Let’s make a cup of tea and talk about how we can handle her classroom. I have a suggestion or two to make.”

  “Wonderful,” said the vicar, with obvious relief. He beamed. “I knew we could count on you, Miss Nash.”

  In the little teachers’ pantry, while their tea brewed, Margaret told the vicar what she had in mind.
First, the vicar might write a note to Bertha Stubbs, explaining what had happened and asking her to return to her work. Surely, Bertha would not reject the vicar’s plea—and in Miss Crabbe’s absence, there would be no reason for her to refuse. Second, the vicar might call upon Mrs. Holland, who had come in to take the infants’ class when Margaret’s mother had fallen ill two years before. If Mrs. Holland, who was very capable, could take the younger children, Margaret herself would take the older ones. The arrangement might be extended for the length of Miss Crabbe’s absence, if Mrs. Holland were available.

  The vicar sipped his tea and put down his cup. “I might as well tell you the whole truth,” he said. “I very much doubt that Miss Crabbe will return to her post. She is . . . not well.” He hesitated, started to elaborate, then thought better of it. He settled for: “However, that is a bridge perhaps more easily crossed in future months. In the meantime, I am glad that you are willing to take Miss Crabbe’s place. I will contact Mrs. Holland and see when it is possible for her to come in.”

  “And Bertha Stubbs,” Margaret said, thinking of those buckets of coal.

  “And Bertha Stubbs,” the vicar agreed. “I shall get on it at once.” He finished his tea, took his hat, and went to the door, where he paused, his hand on the knob. “Oh, yes, one more thing I thought I would mention. I am glad to tell you that the Parish Register has been found and returned to its rightful place.”

  “How wonderful!” Margaret exclaimed. “You must be very relieved that it has been returned. Where was it? Who found it?”

  The vicar put on his hat. “I must be on my way,” he said vaguely, and was gone.