VIII
PETERKIN IN THE VALLEY
AN old farmer came hobbling out of his house, along the little path that ran to the edge of the haystack. His mouth was wide open, and his eyes well-nigh popped from his head at the sight of so strange a fellow in his haystack.
“Heigh!” cried the farmer, “what are you doing in my stack, eh? And what’s that silly, pearly thing you have at your side? What are you doing in this peaceful valley, eh?”
“I’m flying,” replied Peterkin, climbing down to the ground. “I’ve flown from there to here, from the earth to the stars, from the moon to the sun ... and here I am, hungry as hungry can be. So come along, old farmerman, and feed me full of all the best things of your cupboard.”
“Not I!” cried the toothless old farmer. “Not until you tell me your whole story.”
So they sat themselves down in the shade of a blossoming tree, and Peterkin told the tale of his adventures; of how he had lived in the pumpkin patch, and the wind had swept him away, in his pumpkin house, far upon the sea; and of the storms and the frisky whale, and the desert shore, and the loss of Pumperkin, and of how he made his final escape in the cup of the flying shell ... and here he was!
The old farmer listened, with growing wonder. He could only shake his head and lick his toothless gums with his long tongue and say, “Tut, tut, what a queer affair! Tut, tut, tut!”