"The cock has crowed; we must start before the hens come out; they might shout to Mr. Piperson."
Pig-wig sat down again, and commenced to cry.
"Come away Pig-wig; we can see when we get used to it. Come! I can hear them clucking!"
Pigling had never said shuh! to a hen in his life, being peaceable; also he remembered the hamper.
He opened the house door quietly and shut it after them. There was no garden; the neighbourhood of Mr. Piperson's was all scratched up by fowls. They slipped away hand in hand across an untidy field to the road.
The sun rose while they were crossing the moor, a dazzle of light over the tops of the hills. The sunshine crept down the slopes into the peaceful green valleys, where little white cottages nestled in gardens and orchards.
"That's Westmorland," said Pig-wig. She dropped Pigling's hand and commenced to dance, singing—
"Tom, Tom, the piper's son, stole a pig
and away he ran!
"But all the tune that he could play,
was 'Over the hills and far away!'"
"Come, Pig-wig, we must get to the bridge before folks are stirring."
"Why do you want to go to market, Pigling?" inquired Pig-wig presently.
"I don't want; I want to grow potatoes." "Have a peppermint?" said
Pig-wig. Pigling Bland refused quite crossly. "Does your poor toothy
hurt?" inquired Pig-wig. Pigling Bland grunted.