Kitabı oku: «The Man with the Pan-Pipes, and Other Stories», sayfa 2

CHAPTER III

Hitherto, every time I had seen the man, it had been either in some large public street where a crowd would not have been allowed to collect, or in one of the quieter roads of private houses, where we generally walked, and where poor children seldom were to be seen.

But one day mamma sent Baby and me with nurse to carry some little comfort to one of the soldier's wives, who was so ill that she had been moved to the house of relations of hers in the town. They were very respectable people, but they lived in quite a tiny house in a poor street. Baby and I had never been there before, and we were much interested in watching several small people, about our own size, playing about. They were clean, tidy-looking children, so nurse, after throwing a glance at them, told us we might watch them from the door of the house while she went in to see the sick woman.

We had not stood there more than a minute or two when a strange, well-known sound caught my ears, squeak, squeal, rattle, rattle, rattle. Oh, dear! I felt myself beginning to tremble; I am sure I grew pale. The children we were watching started up, and ran some paces down the street to a corner, when in another moment appeared what I already knew was coming – the man with the Pan-pipes! But never had the sight of him so terrified me. For he was surrounded by a crowd of children, a regular troop of them following him through the poor part of the town where we were. If I had kept my wits, and looked on quietly, I would have soon seen that the children were not the least afraid, they were chattering and laughing; some, I fear, mocking and hooting at the poor imbecile. But just at that moment the last touch was added to my terror by my little brother pulling his hand out of mine.

"Baby wants to see too," he said, and off he trotted down the street.

My senses seemed quite to go.

"He's piping them away," I screamed, and then I am ashamed to say I turned and fled, leaving Baby to his fate. Why I did not run into the house and call nurse, I do not know; if I thought about it at all, I suppose I had a hazy feeling that it would be no good, that even nurse could not save us. And I saw that the crowd was coming my way, in another minute the squeaking piping would be close beside me in the street. I thought of nothing except flight, and terrified that I too should be bewitched by the sound, I thrust my fingers into my ears, and dashed down the street in the opposite direction from the approaching crowd. That was my only thought. I ran and ran. I wonder the people I passed did not try to stop me, for I am sure I must have looked quite as crazy as my imaginary wizard! But at last my breath got so short that I had to pull up, and to my great relief I found I was quite out of hearing of the faint whistle of the terrible pipes.

Still I was not completely reassured. I had not come very far after all. So I set off again, though not quite at such a rate. I hurried down one street and up another, with the one idea of getting further and further away. But by degrees my wits began to recover themselves.

"I wish I could find our home," I thought. "I can't go on running for always. Perhaps if I told mamma all about it, she'd find some way of keeping me and Baby safe."

But with the thought of Baby came back my terrors. Was it too late to save him? Certainly there were no rocks or caves to be seen such as Meta had described in her story. But she had said outside the town – perhaps the piper was leading all the children, poor darling Baby among them, away into the country, to shut them up for ever as had been done in Hamelin town. And with the dreadful thought, all my terrors revived, and off I set again, but this time with the more worthy intention of saving Baby. I must go home and tell mamma so that she would send after him. I fancied I was in a street not far from where we lived, and I hurried on. But, alas! when I got to the end it was all quite strange. I found myself among small houses again, and nearly dead with fatigue and exhaustion, I stopped in front of one where an old woman was sweeping the steps of her door.

"Oh, please," I gasped, "please tell me where Clarence Terrace is."

The old woman stopped sweeping, and looked at me. She was a very clean old woman, though so small that she was almost a dwarf, and with a slight hump on her shoulders. At another time I might have been so silly as to be frightened of her, so full was my head of fanciful ideas. But now I was too completely in despair to think of it. Besides her face was kind and her voice pleasant.

"Clarence Terrace," she squeaked. "'Tis a good bit from here. Have you lost your way, Missy?"

"I don't know," I said, "I – " but then a giddy feeling came over me, and I almost fell. The old woman caught me, and the next thing I knew was that she had carried me into her neat little kitchen, and was holding a glass of water to my lips, while she spoke very kindly. Her voice somehow brought things to a point, and I burst into tears. She soothed me, and petted me, and at last in answer to her repeated, "What's ado, then, lovey?" I was able to explain to her some part of my troubles. Not all of course, for even upset as I was, I had sense to know she would have thought me not "right in my head," if I had told her my cousin's strange fantastic story of the piper in the old German town.

"Frightened of old Davey," she said, when I stopped. "Dear dear, there's no call to be afeared of the poor old silly. Not but what I've said myself he was scarce fit to be about the streets for the look of him, though he'd not hurt a fly, wouldn't silly Davey."

"Then do you know him?" I asked, with a feeling of great relief. All the queer nightmare fears seemed to melt away, when I heard the poor crazy piper spoken of in a matter-of-fact way.

"Know him," repeated my new friend, "I should think we did. Bless you he comes every Saturday to us for his dinner, as reg'lar as the clock strikes, and has done for many a day. Twelve year, or so, it must be, since he was runned over by a bus, and his poor head smashed in, and his organ busted, and his pipes broke to bits. He was took to the 'orspital and patched up, but bein' a furriner was against him, no doubt," and the old woman shook her head sagely. "He couldn't talk proper before, and since, he can say nothink as any one can make head or tail of. But as long as he's free to go about with his rattlin' old box as was onst a' orgin, he's quite happy. They give 'im new pipes at the 'orspital, but he can't play them right. And a bit ago some well-intending ladies had 'im took off to a 'sylum, sayin' as he wasn't fit to be about. But he nearly died of the bein' shut up, he did. So now he's about again, he has a little room in a street near here, that is paid for, and he gets a many pennies, does Davey, and the neighbours sees to him, and he's quite content, and he does no harm, and all the town knows silly Davey."

"But don't naughty children mock at him and tease him sometimes?" I asked.

"Not so often as you'd think, and they're pretty sure to be put down if they do. All the perlice knows Davey. So now, my dear, you'll never be afeared of the poor thing no more, will you? And I'll step round with you to your 'ome, I will, and welcome."

So she did, and on the way, to my unspeakable delight, we came across nurse and Baby, nearly out of their wits with terror at having lost me. For Baby had only followed the piper a very short way, and did not find him interesting.

"Him were a old silly, and couldn't make nice music," said sensible Baby.

And though we often met poor crazy Davey after that, and many of my weekly pennies found their way to him as long as we stayed in the place, I never again felt any terror of the harmless creature. Especially after I had told the whole story to mamma, who was wise enough to see that too many fairy stories, or "fancy" stories are not a good thing for little girls, though of course she was too kind and too just to blame Meta, who had only wished to entertain and amuse me.

Pig-Betty
By M^rs. Molesworth

PART I

I AM going to tell you a story that mother told us. We think mother's stories far the most interesting and nicest of any we hear or read. And we are trying to write them all down, so that our children, if ever any of us have any, may know them too. We mean to call them "Grandmother's Stories." One reason why they are nice is, that nearly all of them are real, what is called "founded on fact." By the time our children come to hear them, mother says her stories will all have grown dreadfully old-fashioned, but we tell her that will make them all the nicer. They will have a scent of long-ago-ness about them, something like the faint lavendery whiff that comes out of mother's old doll-box, where she keeps a few of the toys and dolls' clothes she has never had the heart to part with.

The little story, or "sketch" – mother says it isn't worth calling a "story" – I am going to write down now, is already a long-ago one. For it isn't really one of mother's own stories; it was told her by her mother, so if ever our book comes to exist, this one will have to have a chapter to itself and be called "Great-grandmother's Story," won't it? I remember quite well what made mother tell it us. It was when we were staying in the country one year, and Francie had been frightened, coming through the village, by meeting a poor idiot boy who ran after us and laughed at us in a queer silly way. I believe he meant to please us, but Francie's fright made her angry, and she wanted nurse to speak to him sharply and tell him to get away, but nurse wouldn't.

"One should always be gentle to those so afflicted," she said.

When we got home we told mother about it, and Francie asked her to speak to nurse, adding, "It's very disagreeable to see people like that about. I think they should always be shut up, don't you, mother?"

"Not always," mother replied. "Of course, when they are at all dangerous, likely to hurt themselves or any one else, it is necessary to shut them up. And if they can be taught anything, as some can be, it is the truest kindness to send them to an asylum, where it is wonderful what patience and skill can sometimes make of them. But I know about that boy in the village. He is perfectly harmless, even gentle and affectionate. He has been at a school for such as he, and has learnt to knit – that is the only thing they could succeed in teaching him. It was no use leaving him there longer, and he pined for home most sadly. So as his relations are pretty well off, it was thought best to send him back, and he is now quite content. I wish I had told you about him. When you meet him again you must be sure to speak kindly – they say he never forgets if any one does so."

"Poor boy," said Ted and I; but Francie did not look quite convinced.

"I think he should be shut up," she repeated, in rather a low voice. Francie used to be a very obstinate little girl. "And I shan't speak to him kindly or any way."

Mother did not answer, though she heard. I know she did. But in a minute or two she said:

"Would you like to hear a story about an idiot, that your grandmother told me? It happened when she was a little girl."

Of course we all said "yes," with eagerness.

And this was the story.

"'Pig-Betty' isn't a very pretty name for a story, or for a person, is it? But Pig-Betty was a real person, though I daresay none of you have the least idea what the word 'pig' added to her own name meant," said mother. No, none of us had. We thought, perhaps, it was because this "Betty" was very lazy, or greedy or even dirty, but mother shook her head at all those guesses. And then she went on to explain. "Pig," in some parts of Scotland, she told us, means a piece of coarse crockery. It is used mostly for jugs, though in a general way it means any sort of crockery. "And long ago," mother went on – I think I'll give up putting 'mother said,' or 'mother went on,' and just tell it straight off, as she did.

Long ago then, when my mother was a little girl, she and her brothers and sisters used to spend some months of every year in a rather out-of-the-way part of Scotland. There was no railway and no "coach," that came within at all easy reach. The nearest town was ten or twelve miles away, and even the village was two or three. And a good many things, ordinary, common things, were supplied by pedlars, who walked long distances, often carrying their wares upon their backs. These pedlars came to be generally called by what they had to sell, as a sort of nickname. You may think it was a very hard life, but there were a good many nice things about it. They were always sure of a welcome, for it was a pleasant excitement in the quiet life of the cottages and farm-houses, and even of the big houses about, when one of these travelling merchants appeared; and they never needed to feel any anxiety about their board and lodging. They could always count upon a meal or two and on a night's shelter. Very often they slept in the barn of the farm-house – or even sometimes in a clean corner of the cows' "byre." They were not very particular.

Among these good people there were both men and women, and poor Pig-Betty was one of the latter.

My mother and the other children used always to ask as one of their first questions when they arrived at Greystanes – that was the name of their uncle's country house – on their yearly visit, if Pig-Betty had been there lately, or if she was expected to come soon. One or other was pretty sure to be the case.

They had several reasons for their interest in the old woman. One was that they were very fond of blowing soap-bubbles, which they seldom got leave to do in town, and they always bought a new supply of white clay pipes the first time Pig-Betty appeared; another was that she had what children thought very wonderful treasures hidden among the coarse pots and dishes and jugs that she carried in a shapeless bundle on her bent old back. And sometimes, if she were in a very good humour, she would present one of the little people with a green parrot rejoicing in a whistle in its tail, or with a goggle-eyed dog, reminding one of the creatures in Hans Andersen's tale of "The Three Soldiers." And the third reason was perhaps the strongest, though the strangest of all.