Chapter Four.
David’s Pig.
By the time Ambrose was quite well again, and able to run about with the others and play as usual, the holidays were over; Miss Grey came back, and lessons began.
It was late autumn; hay-time had passed and harvest, and all the fields looked brown and bare and stubbly. The garden paths were covered with dry withered leaves, which made a pleasant sound when you shuffled your feet in them, and were good things for Dickie to put into her little barrow, for as often as she collected them there were soon plenty more. Down they came from the trees, red, brown, yellow, when the wind blew, and defied the best efforts of Dickie and Andrew. There were very few flowers left now—only a few dahlias and marigolds, and some clumps of Michaelmas daisies, so the garden looked rather dreary; but to make up for this there was a splendid crop of apples in the orchard, and the lanes were thickly strewn with bright brown acorns. And these last were specially interesting to David, for it was just about this time that he got his pig.
David was a solid squarely-built little boy of seven years old, with hair so light that it looked almost grey, and very solemn blue eyes. He spoke seldom, and took a long time to learn things, but when once that was done he never forgot them; and in this he was unlike Nancy, who could learn quickly, but forget almost as soon. Miss Grey always felt sure that when once David had struggled through a lesson, whether it were the kings and queens of England, or the multiplication table, that he would remember it if she asked him a question weeks afterwards. But then it was a long time before he knew it—so long that it often seemed a hopeless task. Nevertheless, if David was slow he was certainly sure, and people had a habit of depending upon him in various matters. For instance, when Nurse wanted to intrust the baby for a few moments to any of the children during her absence from the nursery, it was never to the three elder she turned, but to David, and her confidence was not misplaced. Once having undertaken any charge or responsibility, David would carry it through unflinchingly, whether it were to amuse the baby, or to take care of any of the animals while their various owners were away. It would have been impossible to him to have forgotten to feed the dormouse for a week as Nancy did, or to have left Sappho the canary without any water, which Pennie to her great agony of mind was once guilty of doing.
David’s animals never missed their meals, or were neglected in any way; he was particularly proud of his sleek rabbits, which, together with a family of white rats, lived in the barn, and certainly throve wonderfully, if numbers mean prosperity. The biggest rabbit was called Goliath, and it was David’s delight to hold him up by the ears, in spite of his very powerful kicks, and exhibit his splendid condition to any admiring beholder. But though Goliath was handsome, and the white rats numerous, their owner was not quite satisfied, for his fondest wish for some time past had been to possess a pig. A nice little round black pig, with a very curly tail; he would then be content, and ask nothing further of fortune.
He thought of the pig, and hoped for the pig, and it would not be too much to say that he dreamed of the pig. When he passed a drove of them in the road, squeaking, pushing, grunting, and going every way but the right, he would stand in speechless admiration. His mind was a practical one, and did not dwell merely on the pleasure of owning the pig itself, but also on the prospect of fattening, selling, and realising money by it.
“You’d never be able to have it killed,” said Nancy, who was his chief confidante, “after you got fond of it, and it got to know you; you’d as soon kill Goliath.”
“I shouldn’t have it killed,” answered David. “I should sell it to the farmer.”
“Well; but he’d have it killed,” pursued the relentless Nancy.
This was unanswerable.
“Never mind. I want a pig, and I shall save up my money,” said David sturdily.
David’s bank was a white china house which stood on the nursery mantel-shelf; it had a very red roof with a hole in it, and into this he continued for some time to drop all his pennies, and halfpennies, and farthings with great persistency, and a mind steadily fixed on the pig. After all, however, he got it without spending any of his savings, and this is how it happened:—
One fine morning at the end of September the children were all ready for their usual walk with Miss Grey—all, that is, except Dickie, who, being still a nursery child, went out walking with Nurse and baby. The other four, however, were ready, not only as regards hats and jackets, but were also each provided with something to “take out,” which, in their opinion, was quite as indispensable. Penelope therefore carried a sketching book, Ambrose a boat under one arm, and under the other a camp-stool in case Miss Grey should be tired, Nancy two dolls and a skipping-rope, and David a whip and a long chain. At the end of this was the terrier dog Snuff, choking and struggling with excitement, and giving vent to smothered barks. Snuff would willingly have been loose, and there was indeed not the least occasion for this restraint, as it would have been far easier to lose David than the dog; he knew well, however, that children have their little weaknesses in these matters, and submitted to his bondage with only a few whines of remonstrance when the company had once fairly started.
His patience was a good deal tried on this occasion, as well as that of the children, for it seemed as though Mrs Hawthorn never would finish talking to Miss Grey in the hall. At last, however, she said something which pleased them very much:
“I want you to go to Hatchard’s Farm for me, and ask about the butter.”
Now Hatchard’s Farm was the place of all others that the children delighted to visit. It was about two miles from Easney, and the nicest way to it was across some fields, where you could find mushrooms, into a little narrow lane where the thickly growing blackberry brambles caught and scratched at you as you passed. This lane was muddy in winter, and at no time in the year did it appear so desirable to Miss Grey as to the children; but it was such a favourite walk with them that she generally yielded. The only other way of getting to the farm was by the high-road, and that was so dreadfully dull! After scrambling along the lane a little while, you saw the red-brown roofs of the barns and outbuildings clustering round the house itself, and almost hiding it, and soon a pleasant confusion of noises met your ear. Ducks quacked, hens cackled, pigeons perched about on the roofs kept up a monotonous murmur; then came the deep undertones of the patient cows, and as you neared the house you could generally hear Mrs Hatchard’s voice in her dairy adding its commanding accents to the medley of sounds. It certainly was a delightful farm, and David had long ago determined that when he grew up he would have one just like it, and wear brown leather gaiters like Farmer Hatchard’s. He would also keep pigs like his—quite black, with very short legs and faces, and tightly curled tails. But some time must pass before this, and the next best thing was to go as often as possible to see them, and ask all manner of questions of the farmer or his men. There was no one in the great wide kitchen when the party arrived on this occasion, and Miss Grey sat down to wait for Mrs Hatchard, while the children made their usual tour of admiring examination. They had seen every object in the room hundreds of times before, but how interesting they always were! The high-backed settle on each side of the fire was dark with age, and bright with the toil of Mrs Hatchard’s hands; the heavy oak rafters were so conveniently low that the children could see the farmer’s gun, a bunch of dips, a pair of clogs, a side of bacon kept there as in a sort of storehouse. At the end of the room opposite the wide hearth was the long narrow deal table, where the farmer and his men all dined together at twelve o’clock, for they were old-fashioned people at Hatchard’s Farm; and behind the door hung the cuckoo clock, before which the children never failed to stand in open-mouthed expectation if it were near striking the hour. On all this the sun darted his rays through the low casement, and failed to find, for all his keen glances, one speck of dust.
Miss Grey sat in the window-seat looking absently out at the marigolds and asters in the gay garden, when she felt a little hand suddenly placed in hers, and, turning round, saw David, his face crimson with suppressed excitement:
“Come,” he said, pulling her gently, “come and look here.”
He led her to the hearth, and pointed speechless to something which looked like a small flannel bundle in a basket. As she looked at it, it moved a little.
“Well, Davie,” said she, “what is this wonderful thing? Something alive?”
David had knelt down close to the bundle and was peering in between the folds of the flannel with an expression of reverent awe. He looked up gravely.
“Don’t you see,” he said slowly in lowered accents, “it’s a little baby pig!”
Stooping down Miss Grey examined it more closely, and found that it was indeed a little black pig of very tender age, so closely covered up in flannel that only its small pointed snout and one eye were visible.
“Do you suppose it’s ill?” inquired David.
“I daresay it is,” answered Miss Grey; “we’ll ask Mrs Hatchard about it presently.”
The other children had gathered round, all more or less interested in the invalid pig; but presently, Pennie having suggested that they should go and see the new little calf, they ran out of the kitchen in search of fresh excitement.
“Come along, Davie,” said Ambrose, looking back from the door; “come out and see the other pigs.”
“No,” said David decidedly, “I shall stop here.”
He took his seat as he spoke on the corner of the settle nearest the pig, with the evident intention of waiting for Mrs Hatchard’s arrival; he was not going to lose a chance of inquiring closely into such an important subject.
And at last Mrs Hatchard came bustling in, cheerful, brisk, and ruddy-faced as usual, with many apologies for her delay. Miss Grey plunged at once into business with her, and the patient David sat silently biding his time for the fit moment to put his questions.
“Won’t you run out, little master?” said the good-natured farmer’s wife, noticing the grave little figure at last. “There’s the calves to see, and a fine litter of likely young pigs too.”
“No, thank you,” said David politely. “I want to know, please, why you keep this one little pig in here, and whether it’s ill.”
“Oh, aye,” said Mrs Hatchard, coming up to the basket and stooping to look at the occupant, which was now making a feeble grunting noise. “I’d most forgot it. You see it’s the Antony pig, and it’s that weakly and dillicut I took it away to give it a chance. I doubt I sha’n’t rear it, though, for it seems a poor little morsel of a thing.”
“How many other little pigs are there?” asked David.
“Why, there’s ten on ’em—all fine likely pigs except this one, and they do that push and struggle and fight there’s no chance for him.”
“Why do you call it the Antony pig?” pursued David with breathless interest.
“Well, I don’t rightly know why or wherefore,” said Mrs Hatchard; “it’s just a name the folks about here always give to the smallest pig in the litter.”
“Do you think Farmer Hatchard knows?” inquired David.
“Well, he might,” said Mrs Hatchard, “and then again he mightn’t. But I tell you what, Master David, if yonder little pig lives, and providin’ the vicar has no objections, I’ll give him to you. You always fancied pigs, didn’t you now?”
David was still leaning fondly over the basket, and made no reply at first. It took some time to fully understand the reality of such a splendid offer.
“Come, Davie,” said Miss Grey, “we must say good-bye and go and find the others.”
Then he got up, and held out his hand gravely to Mrs Hatchard.
“Good-bye,” he said. “Thank you. I hope you’ll accede in rearing the Antony pig. I should like to have it very much, if father will let me.”
David went home from the farm hardly able to believe in his own good fortune, but according to his custom he said very little.
The matter was discussed freely, however, by the other children, and it was so interesting that it lasted them all the way back. Would the pig live? they wondered, and if it did, would their father let David have it? Where would it live? What would David call the pig if he did get it? This last inquiry was put by Ambrose, and he felt quite rebuked when his brother replied scornfully, “Antony, of course.”
But there was some demur on the part of the vicar when he was informed of the proposed addition to his live stock.
“I don’t like to disappoint you, my boy,” he said, “but you know Andrew has plenty to do already. He has the garden to look after, and the cows, and my horse. I don’t think I could ask him to undertake anything more.”
Poor little David’s face fell, and his underlip was pushed out piteously. He would not have cried for the world, and none of the children ever thought of questioning what their father said; so he stood silent, though he felt that the world without the Antony pig would be empty indeed.
“Do you want it very much, Davie?” said the vicar, looking up from his writing at the mournful little face.
“Yes, father, I do,” said David, and with all his resolution he could not choke back a little catching sob as he spoke.
“Well, then, look here,” said his father; “if you will promise me to take entire charge of it, and never to trouble Andrew, or call him away from his work to attend to it, you shall have the pig. But if I find that it is neglected in any way, I shall send it back at once to Farmer Hatchard. Is that a bargain?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” cried the delighted David; and he ran out to tell the result of his interview to the anxious children waiting outside the study door.
So David was to have the pig; and, with the assistance of Ambrose and a few words of advice from Andrew, he at once began to prepare a habitation for it. Fortunately there was an old sty still in existence, which only wanted a little repairing, and everything was soon ready. But the rearing of the Antony pig still hung trembling in the balance, and some anxious weeks were passed by David; he called to inquire after it as often as he possibly could, and, to his great joy, found it on each occasion more lively and thriving—thanks to Mrs Hatchard’s devoted care.
And at last the long-wished-for day arrived. Antony was driven to his new home with a string tied round his leg, in the midst of a triumphal procession of children, and David’s joy and exultation were complete.
There was certainly no danger of his neglecting his charge, or of asking anyone to assist him in its service; never was pig so well cared for as Antony, and as time went on he showed an intelligent appreciation of David’s attentions not unmixed with affection. Perhaps in consequence of these attentions he soon developed much shrewdness of character, and had many little humorous ways which were the pride of his master’s heart. The two were fast friends, and seemed to understand each other without the need of speech, though David had been known to talk to his pig when he believed himself to be in private. As for the selling part of the plan, it seemed quite to have faded away, and when Andrew said with a grin:
“Well, young master, t’pig ’ull soon be ready for market noo,” David got quite hot and angry, and changed the subject at once.
On rare occasions Antony was conducted, making unctuous snorts of pleasure, into the field to taste a little fresh grass and rout about with his inquisitive nose; but the garden was of course forbidden ground. Therefore, when he was once discovered in the act of enjoying himself amongst Andrew’s potatoes, the consternation was extreme. It was Nancy who saw him, as she sat one morning learning a French verb, and staring meanwhile absently out of the schoolroom window. Her expression changed suddenly from utter vacancy to keen interest, and her monotonous murmur of “J’ai, Tu as, Il a,” to a shout of, “Oh, Davie, there’s Antony in the garden!”
“Nancy,” said Miss Grey severely, “you know it is against rules to talk in lesson time. Be quiet.”
“But I can’t really, Miss Grey,” said Nancy, craning her neck to get a better view of the culprit; “he’s poking up the potatoes like anything. Andrew will be so cross. You’d better just let us go and chase him back again.”
The excitement had now risen so high that Miss Grey felt this would really be the best plan, for attention to lessons seemed impossible, and soon the four children were rushing helter-skelter across the garden in pursuit of Antony. With a frisk of his tail and a squeak of defiance he led the chase in fine style, choosing Andrew’s most cherished borders. What a refreshment it was, after the tedium of French verbs and English history, and what a pity when Antony, after a brave resistance, was at length hustled back into his sty!
Whether the door was insecure, or not too carefully fastened after this, remains uncertain; but it is a fact that these pig-chases came to be of pretty frequent occurrence, and always happened, by some strange chance, during school hours. The cry of, “Pig out!” and the consequent rush of children in pursuit, at last reached such a pitch that both Miss Grey and the much-tried Andrew made complaint to the vicar. Miss Grey declared that discipline was becoming impossible, and Andrew that there would not be a “martal vegetable in the garden if Master David’s pig got out so often.” Then the vicar made a rule to this effect:
“If David’s pig is seen in the garden again, it goes back that same day to Farmer Hatchard.”
The vicar’s rules were not things to be disregarded, and his threats were always carried out. David and Ambrose might have been seen with a large hammer and nails very busy at the pig-sty that afternoon, and Antony’s visits to the garden ceased, until one unlucky occasion when David was away from home, and it fell out in the following manner:—
In the cathedral town of Nearminster, ten miles from Easney, lived Pennie’s godmother Miss Unity Cheffins, and it was Mr and Mrs Hawthorn’s custom to pay her an annual visit of two or three days, taking each of the four elder children with them in turn. It was an occasion much anticipated by the latter, but more for the honour of the thing than from any actual pleasure connected with it, for Miss Unity was rather a stiff old lady, and particular in her notions as to their proper behaviour. She was fond of saying, “In my time young people did so and so,” and of noticing any little failure in politeness, or even any personal defect. She was a rich old lady, and lived in a great square house just inside the Cathedral Close; it was sombrely furnished, and full of dark old portraits, and rare china bowls and knick-knacks, which last Miss Unity thought a great deal of, and dusted carefully with her own hands. Amongst the many injunctions impressed upon the children, they were told never to touch the china, and there were indeed so many pitfalls to be avoided, that the visit was not by any means an unmixed pleasure to Mrs Hawthorn. The children themselves, however, though they missed the freedom of their home, and were a little afraid of the upright Miss Unity, managed to extract enjoyment from it, and always looked enviously upon the one of their number whose turn it was to go to Nearminster.
And now the time had come round again, and it was David’s turn to go, but there was one drawback to his pleasure, because he must leave the pig. Who could say that some careless hand might not leave the door of the sty open or insecurely fastened during his absence? Then Antony’s fate would be certain, for Andrew was only too eager to carry out the vicar’s sentence of banishment, and was on the watch for the least excuse to hurry the pig back to the farm.
After turning it over in his mind, David came to the conclusion that he could best ensure Antony’s safety by placing him under someone’s special care, and he chose Nancy for this important office.
“You will take care of him, won’t you?” he said, drawing up very close to her and fixing earnest eyes upon her face, “and see that his gate is always fastened.”
Nancy was deeply engaged in painting a picture in the Pilgrim’s Progress; she paused a moment to survey the effect of Apollyon in delicate sea-green, and said rather absently:
“Of course I will. And so will Ambrose and so will Pennie.”
“No, but I want you partickerlerlery to do it,” said David, bungling dreadfully over the long word in his anxiety—“you more than the others.”
“All right,” said Nancy with her head critically on one side.
“I want you to promise three things,” went on David—“to keep his gate shut, and to give him acorns, and not to let Dickie poke a stick at him.”
“Oh, yes, I’ll promise,” said Nancy readily.
“Truly and faithfully?” continued David, edging still closer up to her; “you won’t forget?”
“No, I really won’t,” said Nancy with an impatient jerk of her elbow; “don’t you worry me any more about it.”
“I took care of your dormouse when you went,” continued David, “and didn’t forget it once. So you ought to take care of my pig, it’s only fair.”
“Well, don’t I tell you I’m going to?” said Nancy, laying down her paint-brush with an air of desperation. “I sha’n’t do it a bit more for your asking so often. Do leave off.”
“You’ll only be away three days, Davie,” said Pennie, looking up from her book; “we can manage to take care of Antony that little while I should think.”
“Well,” said David, “Nancy’s got to be ’sponsible, because I took care of her mouse.”
“If I were you,” said Ambrose with a superior air, “I wouldn’t use such long words; you never say them right.”
“I say,” interrupted Pennie, putting down her book, “what do you all like best when you go to Nearminster? I know what I like best.”
“Well, what is it?” said Ambrose; “you say first, and then Nancy, and then me, and then David.”
“Well,” said Pennie, clasping her knees with much enjoyment, “what I like best is going to church in the Cathedral in the afternoon. When it’s a little bit dusky, you know, but not lighted up, and all the pillars look misty, and a long way off, and there are very few people. And then the boys sing, and you feel quite good and just a little bit sad; I can’t think why it is that I never feel like that in our church; I suppose it’s a cathedral feeling. That’s what I like best. Now you, Nancy.”
“Why,” said Nancy without the least hesitation. “I like that little Chinese mandarin that stands on the mantel-piece in Miss Unity’s sitting-room, and wags its head.”
“And I like the drive back here best,” said Ambrose, “because, when we’re going there’s only Miss Unity to see at the end; but when we get here there are all the animals and things.”
“I don’t call that liking Nearminster. I call it liking home,” said Nancy. “Now, it’s your turn, David.”
“I don’t know what I like best,” said David solemnly. “I only know what I like least.”
“What’s that?”
“Miss Unity,” said David with decision.
“Should you call her very ugly?” inquired Ambrose.
“Yes, of course, quite hideous,” replied Nancy indistinctly, with her paint-brush in her mouth.
“Well, I’m not quite sure,” said Pennie; “once I saw her eyes look quite nice, as if they had a light shining at the back of them.”
“Like that face Andrew made for us out of a hollow pumpkin, with a candle inside?” suggested Nancy.
“You’re always so stupid, Nancy!” said Ambrose scornfully. “I know what Pennie means about Miss Unity; I’ve seen her eyes look nice too. Don’t you remember, too, how kind she was when Dickie was so rude to her? I’ve never been so afraid of her since that.”
The next day the party started for Nearminster in the wagonette, David sitting in front with his feet resting comfortably on his own little trunk. Andrew, who drove, allowed him to hold the whip sometimes, and the end of the reins—so it was quite easy to fancy himself a coachman; but this delightful position did not make him forget other things. Beckoning to Nancy, who stood with the rest on the rectory steps, he lifted a solemn finger.
“Remember!” he said.
Nancy nodded, the wagonette drove away followed by wavings, and good-byes, and shrieking messages from the children, and was soon out of sight.
“That was like Charles the First,” said Pennie; “don’t you remember just before they cut off his head—”
“Oh, don’t!” said Nancy; “pray, don’t talk about Charles the First out of lesson time.”