This much more there is to tell: that if you can make friends with a black beetle you should get him to tell you stories of Butterwops. And this any good beetle will do willingly, for there never has been such a General as he was before or since. But of all the many tales of his valour and wisdom, there is none they love to tell better than the story of how he outwitted Curlywig the Hedge-hog. “That,” as little Jimmy said at a dinner given by all the beetles to their General to celebrate Curlywig’s flight, “is a story fit to be written in letters of Treacle on the Skirting Boards of Time.” (Adapted.)
FINIKIN AND HIS GOLDEN PIPPINS
Madame De Chatelaine
In a quiet little village surrounded by woods, there once lived a poor couple who owned nothing in the world but their cottage which sheltered them and a bit of ground where a few vegetables grew. They were blessed with two pretty little twin boys, much alike in face, though very different in character. One was a tidy, diligent, active little fellow, whom, on account of his delicate beauty, his mother used to call Finikin. The other was an idle, careless child, who always loitered if sent on an errand, and grumbled when asked to do any kind of work. This one the mother called Winikin.
The father earned a little money by going out to work as a day labourer. As long as he remained hale and hearty, he managed to provide for the wants of his family. But one summer he fell ill, and as they were too poor to buy good food and medicine he grew worse and worse, till at length his recovery seemed almost hopeless.
One day the patient wife thought of a good old hermit who lived in the neighboring forest, and who often gave advice to the poor cottagers. He had cured many a one with medicine made from plants and other homely remedies. She, therefore, called her boys and bade them go and ask the hermit what could be done for their sick father.
“The good man may send you to gather healing plants,” she said, “such as he often points out to the villagers. Be sure to follow his directions carefully and above all, do not loiter on the way.” She divided a rye-cake between them, to eat by the way, and off started the two boys for the forest. No sooner had they reached it than they saw from afar an old huntsman smoking his pipe under a tree.
“Oh!” cried Winikin, forgetting his mother’s caution, “there is old Roger! Let’s go to him instead of to the hermit. He always tells us such pleasant stories.”
“But father is very sick and mother told us not to loiter on the way,” said Finikin.
“Surely,” said Winikin, “Roger’s advice will be as good as the hermit’s. I shall not go any farther.”