“This is really quite ridiculous,” he said with a shamefaced smile, “but in point of fact there seems to be nothing in the rule book that says that only sheepdogs may compete. So it looks as though the judges are bound to allow Mr. Hogget to run this, er, sheep-pig I suppose we’ll have to call it, ha, ha! One look at it, and the sheep will disappear into the next county without a doubt! Still, we might as well end the day with a good laugh!”
And indeed at that moment a great gale of laughter arose, as Hogget, receiving a most unwilling nod from the judges, said quietly, “Away to me, Pig,” and Babe began his outrun to the right.
How they roared at the mere sight of him running (though many noticed how fast he went), and at the purely crazy thought of a pig herding sheep, and especially at the way he squealed and squealed at the top of his voice, in foolish excitement they supposed.
But though he was excited, tremendously excited at the thrill of actually competing in the Grand Challenge Sheepdog Trials, Babe was nobody’s fool. He was yelling out the password: “I may be ewe, I may be ram, I may be mutton, may be lamb, but on the hoof or on the hook, I bain’t so stupid as I look,” as he ran.
This was the danger point—before he’d met his sheep—and again and again he repeated the magic words, shouting above the noise of wind and rain, his eyes fixed on the ten sheep by the Holding Post. Their eyes were just as fixed on him, eyes that bulged at the sight of this great strange animal approaching, but they held steady, and the now distant crowd fell suddenly silent as they saw the pig take up a perfect position behind his sheep, and heard the astonished judges award ten points for a faultless outrun.
Just for luck, in case they hadn’t believed their ears, Babe gave the password one last time. “…I bain’t so stupid as I look,” he panted, “and a very good afternoon to you all, and I do apologize for having to ask you to work in this miserable weather, I hope you’ll forgive me?”
At once, as he had hoped, there was a positive babble of voices.
“Fancy him knowing the pa-a-a-a-a-assword!”
“What lovely ma-a-a-a-anners!”
“Not like them na-a-a-a-asty wolves!”
“What d’you want us to do, young ma-a-a-a-aster?”
Quickly, for he was conscious that time was ticking away, Babe, first asking politely for their attention, outlined the course to them.
“And I would be really most awfully grateful,” he said, “if you would all bear these points in mind. Keep tightly together, go at a good steady pace, not too fast, not too slow, and walk exactly through the middle of each of the three gates, if you’d be good enough. The moment I enter the shedding ring, would the four of you who are wearing collars (how nice they look, by the way) please walk out of it. And then if you’d all kindly go straight into the final pen, I should be so much obliged.”
All this talk took quite a time, and the crowd and the judges and Mrs. Hogget and her hundreds of thousands of fellow-viewers began to feel that nothing else was going to happen, that the sheep were never going to move, that the whole thing was a stupid farce, a silly joke that had fallen flat.
Only Hogget, standing silent in the rain beside the sarsen stone, had complete confidence in the skills of the sheep-pig.
And suddenly the miracle began to happen.
Marching two by two, as steady as guardsmen on parade, the ten sheep set off for the Fetch Gates, Babe a few paces behind them, silent, powerful, confident. Straight as a die they went toward the distant Hogget, straight between the exact center of the Fetch Gates, without a moment’s hesitation, without deviating an inch from their unswerving course. Hogget said nothing, made no sign, gave no whistle, did not move as the sheep rounded him so closely as almost to brush his boots, and, the Fetch completed, set off for the Drive Away Gates. Once again, their pace never changing, looking neither to left nor to right, keeping so tight a formation that you could have dropped a big tablecloth over the lot, they passed through the precise middle of the Drive Away Gates, and turned as one animal to face the Cross Drive Gates.
It was just the same here. The sheep passed through perfectly and wheeled for the Shedding Ring, while all the time the judges’ scorecards showed maximum points and the crowd watched in a kind of hypnotized hush, whispering to one another for fear of breaking the spell.
“He’s not put a foot wrong!”
“Bang through the middle of every gate.”
“Lovely steady pace.”
“And the handler, he’s not said a word, not even moved, just stood there leaning on his stick.”
“Ah, but he’ll have to move now—you’re never going to tell me that pig can shed four sheep out of the ten on his own!”
The Shedding Ring was a circle perhaps forty yards in diameter, marked out by little heaps of sawdust, and into it the sheep walked, still calm, still collected, and stood waiting.
Outside the circle Babe waited, his eyes on Hogget.
The crowd waited.
Mrs. Hogget waited.
Hundreds of thousands of viewers waited.
Then, just as it seemed nothing more would happen, that the man had somehow lost control of the sheep-pig, that the sheep-pig had lost interest in his sheep, Farmer Hogget raised his stick and with it gave one sharp tap upon the great sarsen stone, a tap that sounded like a pistol shot in the tense atmosphere.
And at this signal Babe walked gently into the circle and up to his sheep.
“Beautifully done,” he said to them quietly, “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you all. Now, if the four ladies with collars would kindly walk out of the ring when I give a grunt, I should be so much obliged. Then if you would all be good enough to wait until my boss has walked across to the final collecting pen over there and opened its gate, all that remains for you to do is to pop in. Would you do that? Please?”
“A-a-a-a-a-a-ar,” they said softly, and as Babe gave one deep grunt the four collared sheep detached themselves from their companions and calmly, unhurriedly, walked out of the Shedding Ring.
Unmoving, held by the magic of the moment, the crowd watched with no sound but a great sigh of amazement. No one could quite believe his eyes. No one seemed to notice that the wind had dropped and the rain had stopped. No one was surprised when a single shaft of sunshine came suddenly through a hole in the gray clouds and shone full upon the great sarsen stone. Slowly, with his long strides, Hogget left it and walked to the little enclosure of hurdles, the final test of his shepherding. He opened its’ gate and stood, silent still, while the shed animals walked back into the ring to rejoin the rest.
Then he nodded once at Babe, no more, and steadily, smartly, straightly, the ten sheep, with the sheep-pig at their heels, marched into the final pen, and Hogget closed the gate.
As he dropped the loop of rope over the hurdle stake, everyone could see the judges’ marks.
A hundred out of a hundred, the perfect performance, never before reached by man and dog in the whole history of sheepdog trials, but now achieved by man and pig, and everyone went mad!
At home Mrs. Hogget erupted, like a volcano, into a great lava flow of words, pouring them out toward the two figures held by the camera, as though they were actually inside that box in the corner of her sitting room, cheering them, praising them, congratulating first one and then the other, telling them how proud she was, to hurry home, not to be late for supper, it was shepherd’s pie.
As for the crowd of spectators at the Grand Challenge Sheepdog Trials they shouted and yelled and waved their arms and jumped about, while the astonished judges scratched their heads and the amazed competitors shook theirs in wondering disbelief.
“Marvelous! Ma-a-a-a-a-a-arvelous!” bleated the ten penned sheep. And from the back of an ancient Land Rover at the top of the car-park a tubby old black-and-white collie bitch, her plumed tail wagging wildly, barked and barked and barked for joy.
In all the hubbub of noise and excitement, two figures still stood silently side by side.
Then
Hogget bent, and gently scratching Babe between his great ears, uttered those words that every handler always says to his working companion when the job is finally done.
Perhaps no one else heard the words, but if they did, there was no doubting the truth of them.
“That’ll do,” said Farmer Hogget to his sheep-pig. “That’ll do.”
DICK KING-SMITH was born in 1922 in Gloucestershire, England. After years of farming and teaching, he turned to writing children’s books. He is the beloved author of countless critically acclaimed novels for children, including Ace: The Very Important Pig, Harriet’s Hare, and Harry’s Mad.
Mr. King-Smith lives in a small seventeenth-century cottage near Bristol, England, three and a quarter miles from the house in which he was born. His stories have earned him praise on both sides of the Atlantic.
The Merman
by Dick King-Smith
While vacationing in Scotland, Zeta meets a rather unusual fellow. He’s a terrific swimmer. He chats with seals. And he has a fish tail. Marinus is a merman—definitely not your average summer friend. Who else could teach Zeta everything from swimming to astronomy to French? Everything’s an adventure when Marinus is around, and as the summer ends, Zeta knows she’ll miss her new friend terribly.
Luckily, Marinus has one last surprise in store for her—one that will last a lifetime.…
“King-Smith is a master storyteller with a lively sense of humor.”
—School Library Journal
“Humor is King-Smith’s forte.”
—Booklist
“King-Smith’s wit is unabated; his sharp characterizations are a delight.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Three Terrible Trins
by Dick King-Smith
The terrible trins (like twins, but three) are a fearsome lot. These three mice are about to turn things upside down at Orchard Farm—and teach the farmer’s cats who’s really boss. But outwitting bad-tempered Farmer Budge and his pesky mousetraps isn’t going to be quite so easy. It’ll take some fancy footwork and the help of all four mouse clans to make things safe at Orchard Farm once and for all.
*“All in all, a delightful romp.”
—School Library Journal (starred review)
*“A deftly written, fast-paced animal fantasy.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“King-Smith grabs the reader’s attention from his opening sentence. And…the author never loosens his grip.”
—Publishers Weekly
An ALA Notable Book
An IRA-CBC Children’s Choice
A Booklist Editors’ Choice
Harriet’s Hare
by Dick King-Smith
The last thing Harriet Butler expects to meet is a talking hare from outer space. But one morning, in her father’s wheat field, that’s exactly what happens. Wiz (as Harriet names him) turns out to be a master of surprises and the best friend she’s had since her mother died. She comes to dread the day he’ll return to his own planet, leaving her even lonelier than before.
But Wiz has more in store for Harriet than she could ever imagine. And before he goes, he’ll give Harriet a gift that is sure to change her life…forever.
“A warm tale full of gentle poignance, frolicking humor, and magic…Those who have yet to discover this talented author should be charmed.”
—School Library Journal
*“A tender, heartwarming story…Children will find themselves completely drawn into [the] wonderful fantasy adventures.”
—Booklist (starred review)
The Invisible Dog
by Dick King-Smith
Henry is Janie’s new dog, a magnificent Great Dane with big black spots. The only unusual thing about Henry is that Janie can’t see him. In fact, no one can—he’s invisible!
But everyone agrees that Henry makes the perfect pet. He’s always quiet and obedient. He even eats invisible food bought with invisible money! Still, Janie can’t help wishing that her pretend Great Dane was a little more real. Then a chain of mysterious events—and perhaps a touch of magic—bring the invisible Henry to life!
“King-Smith has created another irresistible yarn…that readers will love.”
—Booklist
“…chock full of warmth, zany imagination and soft-hearted irony. This novel will appeal to animal lovers of all ages.”
—Publishers Weekly
Also by
DICK KING-SMITH
Before he was a beloved children’s book author, Dick King-Smith was a soldier, a farmer, a salesman, a factory worker, and a teacher. But he was always a devoted family man who loved the countryside he lived in and the animals he kept.
In this insightful memoir, Dick King-Smith recounts the joys and failures of his life with equal humor and candor. And he remembers a delightful cast of animal characters, including Anna, the dachshund who turned out to be just stubborn, not deaf, and Monty, the 600-pound pig who liked to be scratched on top of his head.
As readers delight in recognizing the inspiration behind many of Dick King-Smith’s books, they’ll also see how a collection of experiences made a man a writer.
A Publishers Weekly Best Children’s Book
*“A warm and witty memoir. For kids from one to ninety-two, these pages reveal a gifted writer with an affection for animals and a simple country life, a passion for his work, and sheer goodness of heart.”
—Publishers Weekly, Starred
Available now from Knopf Books for Young Readers
Being a duck isn’t all it’s quacked up to be.
But don’t trying telling that to Frank—he’s a chicken with a dream. All he thinks about are webbed feet, waterproof feathers, and the cool water of the pond. Unfortunately, he’s just not duck material: He tries to swim and nearly drowns.
Luckily, Frank’s human friends have just the solution—a custom-made wet suit and a pair of flippers! Frank may look funny, but he feels like one lucky duck.
Until a certain young chick catches his eye, that is…
Funny, charming, and completely delightful, this story is classic Dick King-Smith.
One of the New York Public Library’s 100 Titles for Reading and Sharing
“Thoroughly engaging.…Chipper dialogue, generous helpings of humor, and a lickety-split plot add up to an amusing chapter book.”
—Publishers Weekly
Babe: The Gallant Pig Page 6
