Part 10

Tom received him with an acclamation of joy; and as soon as they had stowed the calf away in a shed, he produced some of his very best ale, over which they discussed what was further to be done. The Cobbler said, "As soon as the butcher finds that his calf has disappeared, and that there are no signs of it, he will be sure to come back to you, having heard you had one; but be sure you do not let him have it a farthing under three pounds, for you know that was the price named by himself, and that he said he must have one to-day at any price. When we have had our joke out, we will give him back his money, making him pay the amount of our wager, and another gallon to boot. But he is a slippery rogue, so mind you do not part with the calf without receiving the money down. And now, what will you bet that I do not steal this very calf again?"

The landlord, enjoying the joke, betted another gallon, and his companion continued, "To prepare for another sale, tell him, as he is driving off--tell him you have another calf, the twin brother to this one, and so like it that no one can tell one from the other."

After all that had been arranged, the cobbler related every circumstance of the past adventure--not forgetting the butcher's soliloquy--to Tom's infinite amusement, and added, "Take particular notice whether he says anything about finding the shoes; for if he intends to act dishonestly we may alter our determination about giving him back his money." He had scarcely finished when they saw the butcher's cart at the door, so he hastened away to his former hiding-place.

The next moment the butcher was in the house, and he cried out, "Tom! you must positively let me have that calf of yours, for mine has played me an infernal trick, and has run off! I saw the brute, and ran after it. But it doesn't matter, for I know where it is, and can easily catch it again. But I'm in a hurry, so I thought it better to come back for yours."

"How did it happen?" Tom asked.

"Why, my horse got a stone in its hoof, and as I had to go a few yards off to get a dry stick to pick it out with, the brute took advantage of my being away, jumped out of the cart and got into a field by the side of the road. When I got back, though I saw it, it had the start of me, and I was not inclined to run far after it. But, now, I'm in a hurry; so tell me at once, Tom, what you want for your calf."

Tom answered, "You know that I do not quite believe in veal being poison, in spite of the great Doctor's opinion; but, to accommodate a friend, I don't mind parting with it cheap, though I really can't take less than three pounds."

The butcher, finding that his own words were used against him, made no difficulty, but, paying the money, carried off the calf, Tom calling after him that if he lost that he had his twin brother for him. He congratulated himself, as he drove along, that, though he paid dearly for the calf, he had, at least, got a good pair of shoes for nothing. To make up for lost time he put his horse to its best trot, but drew in suddenly when he got to the spot of his misfortune, for he heard a sound like the bleating of a calf. He listened for a moment, and then exclaimed, in glee, "Oh! it's you is it, my runaway? Now, take my word for it, you shall suffer for this."

He jumped out of the cart and got into the field, but the bleating seemed to proceed from the next field, and when he got there from another, till he was led on to a considerable distance from his cart.

The cobbler, who had imitated the bleating of a calf, when he had led on the butcher till he got confused, hurried back to where the cart was, and hastily taking out the calf, got safely back with it to Tom Turner's.

Tom, who had scarcely expected success this time, was fit to split his sides with laughter, when he heard an account of this last adventure, and in his turn told what had passed between him and the butcher.

"Why, the rascal!" exclaimed the Cobbler, who was a honest fellow himself, "so he intends to steal the shoes, for he knows well enough that they belong to me. We'll give him another chance when he comes back, for I'll tell him that I lost the shoes; but if then he does not restore them, why I'll sell them to him for his calf and the money we get out of him. Don't you think it will serve him right?" The landlord agreed, that if he persisted in dishonestly keeping the shoes, he would deserve to pay dearly for them, adding,--

"If we could manage it, it would be well to let him have his calf this time for nothing." But the Cobbler, who was very indignant at the fellow's shuffling dishonesty, said, "No, no, he deserves no manner of consideration, but I hope he won't prove quite as bad as I think him."

The butcher soon returned, and this time told the truth of the manner in which he had lost the calf; but when the cobbler told him of his loss he was far from confessing that he had found the shoes, and that they were then in his cart, hidden under some straw. He was out of humour at his own losses, and said, rather brutally, "You are so careless that your loss serves you right. What is your loss to mine? I have now paid four pounds ten for a calf, and still haven't got one for my customers. Come, Tom, my good Friend, you must be merciful this time, and let me have your other calf a little cheaper. If you'll let me have it for two pounds here's the money, but if not I must go back to old Hagan's for one."

Whilst this bargain was being concluded the cobbler went out, and looking in the butcher's cart soon found the shoes, which he took, replacing the straw as he found it.

Tom accepted the two pounds that were offered him, and the butcher was this time allowed to get his dearly-bought calf safely home; but I'm sorry to say the owner of the shoes had to wait another day for them, as the cobbler spent the remainder of that one with his friend, and merrily they spent it.

XXXVIII.

_The Miller and his Donkey._

There was a miller, never mind in what part of the country, who had a tall, gawky son; but their combined wit had not proved sufficient to keep their business in a flourishing condition, for the poor man got poorer and poorer, selling one thing after another that was not absolutely required to keep the mill going, when, indeed, there was work for it to do, till the turn came for the donkey to be sold.

This donkey had been a faithful servant to the miller, who looked upon it as a friend, and being a kind feeling man, it was with a heavy heart he made up his mind to take it to the fair to sell--but there is no resisting necessity.

On the day of the fair, having some distance to go, he started early, and took his son with him, that they might both see the last of their friend.

The donkey walked on in front, thoughtfully and demurely, as donkeys are wont to do, whilst the father and son followed sorrowfully. They soon got into the high road, which was crowded with people going to the fair, and the two poor simple fellows soon became the butt of the different wits. "That is a hopeful son of yours," one would say to the father; "you must feel proud of him I should think." And another would say to the son, pointing with his thumb to his father, "The old 'un looks a tartar; does he whip you much?" Many of the like remarks we made to father and son, loud enough to be heard by both, though pretended to be in a whisper; but the principal shafts were shot at them in conversations carried on round about, not a word of which could they fail to hear.

"Did you ever see such an old fool as that," said one, "to be walking along this hot road, and his donkey going on in front with nothing to carry?" "Oh," another said, "that's the donkey behind, for he in front is much the wiser of the two." "I wonder," another joined in, "the old fellow doesn't take more care of himself at his time of life, if not for his own sake, at least for his baby's, for what would become of the poor child if anything were to happen to him?"

Stung by these remarks the old man got on to the donkey, though he regretted giving the poor beast such a load to carry, and he sought to lighten it by partly walking, for his long legs easily reached the ground. This made matters worse, for he soon heard one of his tormentors say, "Look there, was there ever such an old brute? He's taking it easy, and lets his poor boy toil along as best he can. Such an interesting child, too! Oh, if its mother did but know how cruelly her darling child is being treated."

Hearing this the miller made his son take his place, and wondered, as he walked by his side, whether he was now doing right.

He was as far from it as ever, poor man, for he very shortly heard an exclamation, and this time from an old man, whose opinion should carry some weight. "Well, this is too bad; what will the world come to next? Here's a big lout of a fellow riding whilst his old father's walking. It's disgraceful, that it is, for if even the fellow's lame, at any rate he should make room for the old man. The donkey's strong enough to carry the two."

Now the miller got on the donkey in front of his son, to whom he whispered not to weigh too heavily on the poor beast's back, and they got on for some distance in peace. But it was not to last long, for when the donkey happened to stumble, from kicking against a stone, there was a general outcry: "They want to kill the poor beast. Is there no one to interfere? But it's one comfort that cruelty to animals can be punished. Who'll inform against these two big brutes? Why either of them is strong enough to carry the poor little thing, instead of breaking its back, as they are doing with their weight."

"When shall we do what's right?" said the poor Miller. "Get off, my Son, and so will I, and we'll carry the donkey between us. Surely then we shall not be blamed."

Having borrowed a strong pole, they tied the donkey's four legs to it, and each taking an end of the pole across his shoulder, they managed, though with great difficulty, to carry it; but it seemed impossible to please the people. There was a general shout of laughter as the two poor fellows toiled along, nearly weighed down by the load they were carrying; but that was not enough, for the most insulting epithets were showered upon them, till worried and distressed beyond endurance, the Old Man exclaimed, in despair, "I see there is no doing right, but as long as we remain together fault will be found, so we must part, my old friend;" and as they just then came to a bridge, with his son's help, he threw the donkey over the side into the river below.

[Decoration]

XXXIX.

_Doctor Dobbs, and his Horse Nobbs._

Doctor Daniel Dobbs, of Doncaster, had a nag that was called Nobbs. One day, in the middle of winter, the Doctor having been summoned to attend a patient at some distance from his dwelling, and being anxious to return home before it was dark, rode poor Nobbs very hard. On his arrival, not finding his man in the way, the Doctor fastened Nobbs by his bridle to a rail in the yard, and went into his parlour, where he sat down to warm himself by a good fire. It had happened that the Doctor's dairy-maid had brewed a barrel of strong beer, which had been drawn off into the cooler; and the dairy-maid having been called away to milk her cows, she had carelessly left the door of the brewhouse open. The steam of the beer proved wonderfully inviting to poor Nobbs, who had been hard rode, and now stood in the cold extremely thirsty. After sundry efforts he got loose from the rail, and repairing to the brewhouse, drank so heartily of the beer, that, before he was aware of it, he fell down dead drunk. The Doctor's man coming home, ran into the yard to convey Nobbs to the stable; not finding him at the rail, he looked about, and at length discovered him stretched upon the ground, cold and insensible. Bursting into the parlour, where the Doctor was seated with Mrs. Dobbs, he communicated to them the news of poor Nobby's decease. The Doctor and Mrs. Dobbs were both good-natured people, and of course were much concerned; but as the Doctor never suffered misfortunes to get the better of his discretion, he immediately gave orders that Nobbs should without delay be flayed, and that his skin should be taken next morning to the currier.

The Doctor's man accordingly set to work: poor Nobbs was dragged to the dunghill, his skin was stripped off, and he was left to be eaten by the hounds. He had not, however, lain long before the novelty of his situation had a considerable effect upon him. As he had lost his skin, of course the coldness of the night operated with double activity in dissipating the fumes of the beer which he had swallowed; and at length he awoke, got upon his legs, and trotted away to the stable-door, which happened to be close by the parlour. Not finding it open, and being both cold and hungry, he began to whinny for assistance. The Doctor and his wife had just done supper, and happened at that moment to be talking of the accident which had befallen their nag, over a hot bowl of brandy-punch. No sooner had Nobbs whinnied, than Mrs. Dobbs turned pale, and exclaimed, "Doctor Dobbs! as sure as I live, that is Nobb's voice--I know him by his whinny!"

"My Dear," said the Doctor, "it is Nobb's whinny sure enough; but, poor thing, he is dead, and has been flayed." He had hardly said this before Nobbs whinnied again--up jumps the Doctor, takes a candle in his hand, and runs into the yard. The first thing he saw was Nobbs himself without his skin. The Doctor summoned all his servants, ordered six sheep to be killed, and clapped their skins upon poor Nobbs. To make a long story short, Nobbs recovered, and did his work as well as ever. The sheep-skin stuck fast, and answered his purpose as well as his own skin ever did. But what is most remarkable, the wool grew rapidly; and when the shearing season came, the Doctor had Nobbs sheared. Every year he gave the Doctor a noble fleece, for he carried upon his back, you know, as much as six sheep; and as long as Nobbs lived, all the Doctor's stockings, and all Mrs. Dobbs' flannel petticoats, were made of his wool.

XL.

_The Brownie._

There was once a farmer whose name was John Burdon, a kindly, industrious man, who lived happily with his wife and children, in an old house, where his father had lived before him.

His five children were thriving and merry, with no more quarrelling than is usual amongst children, and altogether there was a quiet in the old house, in spite of the games that were going on within. Of a sudden all this changed, and every thing seemed to go wrong.

Whatever the game might be, one of the children was sure to be hurt. If they were playing at ball, the ball would be sure to strike one or the other on the nose or in the eye, on which a bellowing followed; or if the game was puss-in-the-corner, or blind-man's-buff, two or more of the children were certain to run their heads together, or tear their clothes, so that the good dame, whose boast it had always been that they never got into mischief, had now enough to do to repair the daily damage.

The farmer, now hearing constant complaints, said some evil spirit must have crept into the house; and he was right enough.

A brownie or goblin had taken up his abode there, and not finding the quiet within which the outside promised, bestowed his ill-humour upon the inmates, and daily invented some new scheme for tormenting the children.

In one corner of the kitchen in which they generally played there was a closet, where the brownie had located himself; and that he might watch them, and see at what moment he could best torment them, he had thrust out a knot that was in the closet door, thus making himself a little window.

Now, it happened one day that the eldest boy had the shoe-horn in his hand, and merely in play stuck it in the knot-hole, whence it was immediately ejected, striking the boy on the head.

As often as this was repeated so often it darted out, such good aim being taken that it invariably struck one of them on the head, and generally the one who had put it there.

Though one always suffered, it was sport to the others, and therefore the horn was frequently stuck in the hole, so that the brownie became more and more irritated, not confining his pranks to the children, but making the parents suffer in various ways.

There would be noises in the night, and things that were in daily use would all at once be mislaid, and, after ever so much trouble and worry, found in places where they had already been a dozen times looked for. There could be no doubt this was the brownie's doing, and there could be still less doubt when the chair was moved back, just at the moment when one of the old couple was going to sit down, and he or she went rolling on the floor, for then a laugh was heard proceeding from the moved chair.

This trick was played them more particularly when they had anything in their hands, such as a cup of tea, which would be emptied in the falling one's face, and the laughing on such occasions was louder and longer.

At length, unable to bear it, the farmer determined to leave a house where there was no longer any comfort, and, if possible, to let it.

The last load of the furniture was being removed, and the Farmer, following with his wife, said--

"I'm heavy at heart at leaving the old house, where, for years, we were so happy, and perhaps we shall not find the new one half as convenient."

"The new one will not be half as convenient," was uttered in a strange, squeaky voice, which seemed to be in an old tub at the back of the cart.

"Oh! oh! are you there?" cried the poor Farmer, "then we may as well turn back."

"Yes! turn back," said the squeaky voice.

They did, in fact, turn back, and from that day peace was restored to the house, for the brownie no longer tormented any of its inmates, nor, indeed, gave any signs of being there, excepting by immediately darting the shoe-horn out whenever it was put in the knot-hole.

THE END.

CHISWICK PRESS:--PRINTED BY WHITTINGHAM AND WILKINS, TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE.

Transcriber's note

Text in italics has been surrounded with _underscores_, and small capitals were changed to all capitals.

A few punctuation errors have been corrected silently, and an extraneous space was removed. Otherwise the original was preserved, including inconsistent spelling and hyphenation. For example: the river Pegnitz is also spelled as Pegnetz, this has not been changed.

End of Project Gutenberg's A Picture-book of Merry Tales, by Anonymous