Chapter 3

I made Miss Brown’s acquaintance a few days later. She was lying on a bed made up on two chairs, and was covered with cotton wool. She had scarcely any pain, and could not move at all; and the small face that peered out of what she called her “pitty warm snow” was wan and drawn and had a far-away look in the dark eyes.

Miss Brown possessed one treasure, her ‘luvly miss.’ I suppose I must call it a doll, though in what its claim to the title consisted I dared not ask; Miss Brown would have deeply resented the enquiry. It was a very large potato with a large and a small bulge. Into the large bulge were inserted three pieces of fire-wood, the body and arms of ‘luvly miss’; legs she had none.

How Miss Brown came by this treasure I never heard. She had an impression that it “flied froo the winder”—I fancy Mr Brown had a hand in the manufacture in one of his lucid moments; but it was a treasure indeed and the joy of Miss Brown’s life. She held long conversations with ‘luvly miss’ on all familiar subjects; and apparently obtained much strange and rare information from her. For example, Miss Brown and ‘luvly miss’ in some previous stage of their existence had inhabited a large chimney-pot together, “where it was always so warm and a bootie ‘mell of cookin’.’” Also she had a rooted belief that one day she and ‘luvly miss’ would be “hangels wiv’ black weils and basticks.” This puzzled me for some time, until I discovered it to be an allusion to the good deaconess who attended her, and whom Mrs Brown in gratitude designated by this title.

Alas for little Miss Brown and her ‘luvly miss’! their respective ends were drawing near. I went in one Friday, a week or so after the accident, and found Mrs Brown in tears and despair, and Miss Brown with a look of anguish on her poor little pinched face that was bad to see. ‘Luvly Miss’ was no more.

It was Mr Brown again; or, to trace back the links of occasion, it was the action of ‘The Three Fingers’ on Mr Brown’s frail constitution. He had come in late, seen ‘luvly miss’ on the table, and, with his usual heedlessness of consequence, had chucked her into the dying embers where—alas that I should have to say it!—she slowly baked. Little Miss Brown, when the miserable truth was broken to her, neither wept nor remonstrated; she lay quite still with a look of utter forsaken wretchedness on her tiny white face, and moaned very softly for ‘luvly miss.’

I came face to face with this state of things and I confess it staggered me. I knew Miss Brown too well to hope that any pink-and-white darling from the toy-shop could replace ‘luvly miss,’ or that she could be persuaded to admit even a very image of the dear departed into her affections. Then, too, the doctor said Miss Brown had but a few days at the most, perhaps only hours, to live; and comforted she must be.

All at once I had an inspiration, and never in my life have I welcomed one more. I knelt down by little Miss Brown and told her the story of the Phoenix. I had not reckoned in vain upon her imagination: would I “yerely and twooly bwing” her “werry own luvly miss out of the ashes?” I lied cheerfully and hastened away to the dust-bin, accompanied by Mrs Brown.

In a few minutes we returned with a pail of ashes, the ashes, of course, of ‘luvly miss’ mingled with those of the cruel fire which had consumed her. I danced solemnly round them, murmured mysterious words, parted the ashes, and revealed the form of ‘luvly miss.’ Love’s eyes were not sharp to mark a change, and little Miss Brown’s misplaced faith in me was strong. Never shall I forget the scream of joy which greeted the restored treasure, or the relief with which I saw an expression of peace settle once more on Miss Brown’s face.

* * * * *

I saw them again next day. Little Miss Brown was asleep in her last little bed, still wrapped in the “pitty warm snow,” and ‘luvly miss’ lay beside her.

Four Stories Told to Children

The Story of the Dreadful Griffin.

MY DEAR CHILDREN,—I am going to tell you a really breathless story for your holiday treat. It will have to begin with the moral, because everyone will be too much exhausted to read one at the end, and as the moral is the only part that really matters, it is important to come to it quite fresh.

We will, therefore, endeavour to learn from this story:—

If we fly at all, to fly _high_. To be extremely polite. To be kind and grateful to cats and all other animals.

All the trouble arose one day when the Princess (there is always a Princess in a fairy-tale, you know) was playing in the garden with her ball. She threw it up in the air much higher than usual and it never came down again. There was an awful shriek, like ten thousand steam-engines; all the ladies-in-waiting fainted in a row, the inhabitants of the place went stone-deaf, and the Captain of the Guard, who was in attendance with a company of his troops, seized the Princess, put her on his horse, galloped away followed by his soldiers to a castle on the top of a hill, deposited the Princess in the highest room, and then and only then, told her what had happened.

“Miss,” he said, for he was so upset he forgot Court etiquette, “Miss, your ball must have hit the Dreadful Griffin in the eye (I noticed he was taking a little fly in the neighbourhood), and that was the reason of the awful shriek. Well, Miss, the Dreadful Griffin never was known to forgive anybody anything, so I snatched you up quick before he could get at you and brought you to the Castle of the White Cats. There are seventeen of these animals sitting outside the door and twenty-seven more standing in the courtyard, so you’re as safe as safe can be, for the Dreadful Griffin can’t look at a white cat without getting the ague and then he shakes so a mouse wouldn’t be afraid of him. And now, Miss, I must go back to your Royal Pa, so I will wish you good-morning.”

Having made this long speech the Captain suddenly remembered the Court etiquette, became very hot and red, went out of the room backwards, and instantly fell over the seventeen cats who all swore at him, which so confused the poor man that he rolled down the stairs and out into the court where the twenty-seven cats were having rations of mouse-pie served out to them; and the Captain rolled into the middle of the pie, scalded himself badly with the gravy, and was thankful to jump on his horse and ride away with his soldiers to report matters to the King.

The King was so pleased with his promptitude that he made him the General of the Flying Squadron, which only fights in the air, and conferred on him the medal of the Society for the Suppression of Superfluous Salamanders, whereat the Captain was overjoyed.

But this is a digression, and I only told you because I wanted you to see that virtue is always rewarded.

Now for the poor Princess.

Well, she cried a little, of course, but the cats brought her some mouse-pie, which she found very good, and she was soon quite happy playing with some of the kittens and nearly forgot all about the Dreadful Griffin; but he did not forget about _her_, oh dear no! He flew after the Captain when he galloped away with the Princess, but when he saw the White Cats he shook with ague so fearfully that his teeth rolled about in his mouth like billiard balls and he had to go and get a new set before he could eat his dinner. Well, he was in a perfect fury, and how to get at the Princess he did not know. He swallowed several buckets of hot brimstone, rolled his head in a red flannel petticoat, put his tail in a hot sand-bag, and went to bed hoping to cure the ague, which he did completely, so that he was quite well next day and more anxious to eat the Princess than ever.

Now next door to the Dreadful Griffin (that is, a hundred miles away) there lived a Wicked Witch, and he went to consult her as to how he might get at the Princess. When the Wicked Witch heard what a sad effect White Cats had on the Griffin’s constitution she said that she would have expected a Griffin of his coils to have had more sense.

“Any slow-worm knows,” said the Wicked Witch, “that cats love mice better than Princesses; therefore get a large sack of fat mice, let them loose a little way from the castle, and when the cats see them they will run after them, and you can eat the Princess.”

The Dreadful Griffin was so pleased with the Wicked Witch that he presented her with a pair of fire-bricks and a hot-water tin, and then flew away to the Purveyor of Mice, who lived in a town about seventy miles away. He bought twelve hundred dozen fat mice of the best quality, all the Purveyor had in stock that were home-grown, and flew on with them to the castle. When he was a little way off he let the mice out, expecting all the cats to arrive at once; but not a cat appeared. They _heard_ mice and they _smelt_ mice, but not a cat moved, for they were on their honour; so they kept guard and licked their lips sadly. When the Griffin saw the last of the twelve hundred dozen mice disappearing down the road with never a cat after them, he was in a tremendous temper and flew away to the house of the Wicked Witch, only stopping to pick up a steam engine which he dropped through her roof, and then went home to bed. Next day he remembered a friend of his called the Grumpy Giant, who lived six doors away, that is, about a thousand miles, so he flew to ask his advice. When the Giant heard his story, he said in the gruffest voice you ever heard, “Mice is common, try sparrers” (by which you can see that he was quite an uneducated person), and then he turned over and went to sleep.

The Dreadful Griffin at once flew away to the Sparrow Preserves, bought eleven thousand, and then proceeded to let them fly close to the castle. Still not a cat moved. As the cats’ copy-book well says, “Honour is dearer to cats than mice or birds,” and all the kittens write this in round-hand as soon as they can do lessons at all, and never forget it.

Well, I really dare not describe the state of mind the Griffin was in; but he made the air so hot that all the people put on their thinnest clothes, although it was the middle of winter. He flew home puffing and snorting, and on the way he passed the house of the Amiable Answerer. He went in and told his story, and his voice shook with rage. The Amiable Answerer gave him a penny pink ice to cool him down, and then said gently:—

“I think, dear Mr Griffin, that green spectacles would meet your case. Then the cats which are now white would appear to you green and . . . ”

But the Griffin was already half-way to a Watchmaker’s where they sold glasses. He burst into the shop, frightened the watchmaker so that he fell into the works of the watch he was mending and could only be got out with the greatest difficulty, seized twelve pairs of green spectacles, put them on all at once and flew towards the castle.

Now the Dreadful Griffin was one of those creatures who do not stop to think, consequently he came to grief. White cats gave him the ague, but green dogs made him cough most fearfully; and a little way out of the town he met thirteen white poodles taking a walk, who of course all looked bright green to the Dreadful Griffin. He coughed so fearfully that all the twelve pairs of spectacles fell off his nose and were smashed to bits, and his plan was spoilt once more.

No, I am not going to tell you what the Dreadful Griffin said and did then, it is too terrible to speak of, but he had to keep in bed for a week, and drink hot tar, and have his chest ironed with a steam roller, and his nose greased with seven pounds of tallow candles; but all his misfortunes did not cure him of wanting to eat the Princess. When his cough was better, he went for a walk in the wood near which he lived, to think out a new plan. Suddenly he heard something croaking, and saw the Fat Frog sitting under a tree. Now the Dreadful Griffin was so low in his mind that he wanted to tell someone his troubles, so he told the Fat Frog.

“Don’t come near me,” said the Fat Frog when he had finished, “for I hate heat. If you look under the fifth tree from the end of the wood you’ll find a thin packet. Put it in sixteen gallons of water and pour it over the cats, only mind you shut your eyes first, and for goodness sake don’t come into this wood any more, you dry up the moisture.”

The Griffin quite forgot to thank the Fat Frog, he was a Griffin of _no_ manners, but he didn’t forget to take the packet. It was labelled ‘Reckitt’s,’ and when he put it in the water all the water turned bright blue. Then he took the pail in his claw, flew to the castle, shut his eyes and poured some of the contents of the pail over the cats in the courtyard.

When he opened his eyes there were twenty-seven bright blue, damp, depressed cats; and he passed them without any difficulty. He shut his eyes, wriggled up the stairs, poured the remaining mixture over the seventeen cats, who all turned as blue as the rest, and then he burst open the door of the Princess’s room. Fortunately there was a kind Fairy flying over the castle at that very moment, who, seeing what was happening, changed the Princess into a flea so that the Dreadful Griffin couldn’t see her anywhere.

No, if I couldn’t tell you before, I certainly must not attempt now to describe the Griffin’s behaviour when he found the Princess thus snatched from his jaws. He went grunting and bellowing and screaming along; and just as he was stopping to take breath he heard someone roaring with laughter, and saw a little yellow man sitting on the top bough of a tree.

“Are you laughing at ME?” said the Dreadful Griffin (he was so angry that he was quite polite). And the little man said quite as politely that he certainly _was_.

“Why?” said the Dreadful Griffin, still fearfully polite.

“Because you’re such a green Griffin,” said the yellow man; and he screamed with laughter again—“I know all about it, you’ve blued the cats and now the Princess has greened you. She’s turned into a flea, and you still want to eat her, and it never occurred to you, you green old grampus of a Griffin, that fleas like _cats_. I suppose the Princess flea wouldn’t jump on to a tabby kitten, and you couldn’t swallow the kitten—oh dear, no—of course not . . .”

But the Griffin was gone. He went to the Zoo, found a tabby kitten, though they are rare in that country, and flew back with it to the Princess’s room.

He waited half an hour and then swallowed the kitten at one gulp; but he instantly burst in four pieces, for the fluffy kitten tickled his digestive organs so much that they cracked his sides and he died; and the flea and the kitten came out quite unhurt, only a little damp.

Then a wonderful thing happened. The tabby kitten changed into the little yellow man who had laughed at the Griffin. He grew, and grew, and in a few minutes he was a handsome prince. His name was Prince Orange Plushikins. One day a cruel witch whom he had offended had changed him into an ugly yellow man, and had sworn that he should only regain his shape if he was eaten by a Griffin when under the form of a tabby kitten; which you know was precisely what happened. Well, Prince Orange Plushikins at once asked the Princess flea to marry him, and the minute the flea said “Yes,” the Princess reappeared. She and the Prince were married next morning; and all the cats went to the steam laundry and were washed and bleached and had their tails crimped and their whiskers starched; and they danced at the wedding, and everybody lived happily ever after.

The Discontented Daffodils.

THEY had the very loveliest home you can imagine, with beautiful soft moss and grass to grow in, trees to form a cosy shelter from the wind, and a dear little babbling stream to water them.

There were lots of daffodils in this pretty place, and nobody ever discovered the nook to gather them. They rejoiced in the spring sunshine and gentle breezes, the greeting of the birds, and the musical chatter of the brook; then when their brief visit to the upper world was over they nestled happily down in their warm mossy beds and slept till April came again to wake them.

A little apart from the rest were four daffodils growing at the root of a gnarled oak tree, and one fine sunshiny morning three of them took it into their silly little heads that they were dull, the place was dull, the other daffodils were dull, and they wanted a change.

It was mainly the fault of the cuckoo, for he was a grumbling, mischief-making bird and used to spend a good deal of time talking to the daffodils. This particular spring he had taken up his abode in the oak tree, and was fond of talking of all the grand things he had seen, and a great many he had not seen, for the cuckoo is a bird of fine imagination; and at last, as I have already said, three of the daffodils made up their minds that to be a flower and live in a wood was a very dreadful thing, and not to be put up with any longer.

Now the cuckoo had told many strange tales about creatures with two legs and beautiful coloured leaves which grew in an odd way, and feathers only on their heads. They could not fly, but they could run about from place to place, and dance and sing; and at last the daffodils decided that they wished to be like these curious creatures, which the cuckoo called _girls_.

Then there were sad times in that sweet little nook under the oak tree.

The naughty daffodils cried and quarrelled and bewailed their lot all day long, till they made themselves and everybody else extremely wretched. Their little sister shook her head at them, and scolded and said that for her part she was not meant to have legs; but it was all no use, the daffodils would not be quiet.

One day the Fairy Visitor who looked after the flowers in that part heard the silly blossoms crying, and stopped to ask what was the matter. When she heard the story she told them they were very foolish and discontented, and that the cuckoo was a most mischievous bird and liked to get people into trouble; but the daffodils would not listen. So knowing there is nothing so likely to cure silly flower as to give them their own silly way, she said—“Very well, my dears, you want to be girls, and girls you shall be.”

With that she waved her wand over the three daffodils and in a twinkle they were gone; in their places stood three tall pretty maidens dressed in soft yellow silk frocks with green stockings and shoes. For a minute they were too much astonished to speak, then clapping their hands they laughed and skipped for joy, and wanted to kiss the old fairy because they were so pleased at getting their own way; but the fairy would not look at them, and stooped over the little flower now growing all alone, saying kindly:—

“Well, little one, don’t you want to be a pretty maiden, too?”

But the daffodil shook her head with great determination:—

“I don’t want legs and I won’t have legs. I was meant to be a flower and a flower I will be, but if you could keep that meddling, chattering cuckoo away from this tree for a time I should be much obliged.”

And the fairy laughed and promised.

Meanwhile the three pretty maidens had set of hand in hand to seek their fortunes.

They went singing and dancing over the meadows in the soft afternoon sunshine, and thought how wise and clever they were to be girls instead of little unnoticed flowers growing in a wood.

Presently they came to a house and stopped to ask whether they could have a lodging for the night. There was no difficulty about it, for that is a happy country where there is no money and everything belongs to everybody, so the people of the house—an old man and woman—were delighted to see the beautiful maidens and made them heartily welcome, and the daffodils went to bed that night very happy and quite content with the result of their experiment. When they came to undress, however, they received a severe shock.

They were girls, real proper girls, they could chatter and eat and sleep, for the fairy was not one to do things by halves; but when they pulled off the dainty green shoes and stockings, they discovered that although they had the prettiest little legs and feet and toes in the world, they were quite green, the colour of daffodil leaves.

There wasn’t anything said about a “dear, darling, kind old fairy” then, I can assure you.

The first daffodil said she was a wicked old witch. The second said she was a horrible old woman; and the third said she knew the fairy meant to pay them out, and she would like to scratch her. Then they all set to work arguing and quarrelling and crying like silly babies, when suddenly a familiar “Cuck-oo!” sounded in their ears, and they saw our old acquaintance perched on the window sill.

He looked at the six little green feet, and his eyes twinkled; but before he could speak the three angry maidens all began scolding him at once, for they were delighted to have somebody fresh to find fault with.

The cuckoo, being in some respects a philosopher, did not attempt to interrupt, but when they were quite exhausted he said he really could not see any reason for their distress. No one would ever wish to see their feet, and they could always wear stockings. He added that he had great news, and had come on purpose to bring it.

“The King of Silverland,” he said, “is coming with all his court to hold high revel close to this place and celebrate the coming of age of his three sons. These princes were all born at once; and the king has decided to divide his kingdom into three equal parts and leave his sons to rule while he retires to his country place to study science. Now these Silver princes desire to marry three princesses, sisters born at once like themselves; but they are very hard to find, and the king is advertising everywhere for triplets. When I heard this I set off at once to tell you.”

The three maidens were so much interested and excited that they forgot their troubles and began to sing.

The cuckoo was pleased with his success, but told them they must go to bed and to sleep, and he would fetch them in the morning to show them the way to the King of Silverland’s court.

Next morning, although he arrived quite early, the maidens were up and ready for him, looking very pretty in their yellow frocks. The kind people of the house were quite sorry to part with their guests and begged them to come again, and the daffodil maidens set off in high spirits, following the cuckoo as he flew slowly ahead across the sunlit meadows. About noon they came in sight of the king’s court. The gorgeous tents were of cloth of silver fastened with silver ropes; fountains were playing in the open spaces, and flags flying everywhere. The daffodils attracted a great deal of attention as they made their way, blushing and a little frightened, through the crowds of soldiers, court ladies and attendants. At the door of the largest and most gorgeous tent stood three beautiful princes dressed in silver.

When they saw the maidens approaching, hand in hand, they gave a cry of joy and ran forward to greet them.

“Dear beautiful princesses,” they cried, “welcome to our court! May we ask your names and the country you come from?”

The cuckoo, perched on a tent-pole hard by, answered for them. “These are the Princesses Daffodil, daughters of the great King of Goldenland. They have come very many days’ journey to be present at your revels.”

Think of the cuckoo telling such a dreadful story and those naughty daffodils not contradicting him!