The Boys And I Part 10

"Well," I went on, "Marie was no braver than Racey, for when she heard this terrible roar, she really thought the lion was coming after her, and she turned and ran, as fast as ever her feet could go, right the other way. She turned so suddenly and ran so fast, that when the gipsy girl turned round to look for her, she was out of sight."

"Was the gipsy vexed?" asked Tom.

"Of course she was."

"But it was very kind of her to say she would show Marie her two little dogs. Wasn't she a kind girl?"

"No, not really. Marie's grandmother told her afterwards that no doubt the girl had wanted to steal her, and that her people would have made Marie into a rope-dancing girl, because you see she was so pretty, and had such beautiful hair. And they would have taken her far away to other countries, and she was so little that after a while she would have forgotten her friends very likely, and her father and mother would never have seen her again. Just think what a difference it would have made if the lion hadn't roared just that minute! Marie would very likely have grown up a poor dancing girl, and n.o.body would ever have known who she was. And she would never have been mother's G.o.dmother, so I wouldn't ever have been telling you this story."

"How queer!" said Tom, consideringly. "All just because of the lion's roar. But please go on, Audrey. Where did Marie run to?"

"Zes, where did she zun to?" said Racey.

"You're a parrot, Racey. I don't believe you've been listening."

"I has," said Racey, indignantly.

"Well, she ran and ran, till she got quite out of the fair, and in among a lot of streets, where she didn't know her way a bit. She did know some of the big streets close to her grandmother's house a little, but these little narrow streets she didn't know one bit; and when she stopped, after running till she was quite out of breath, she didn't know how to go home at all. She was still frightened, she fancied perhaps the lion was running after her, and she looked about to see where she could go to be safe out of his way. Near to where she was she noticed a door open; she went up and peeped in. It was a kitchen, and in this kitchen an old woman was sitting with a pillow--not a pillow like what we have in bed, you know--but a hard cus.h.i.+on, more like a footstool, that's what they call a lace pillow--with a pillow before her, making lace. She looked a nice old woman, and the room seemed clean, and there were flowers in the window, so Marie peeped in a little further, and at last got in altogether, and stood in the doorway. The old woman looked up to see what it was that was in her light, and when she saw it was a little girl, she said, 'Good morning, miss,' to her very nicely, and asked her what she wanted. Marie said, 'Good morning, madame,' to her, quite nicely too, and then she said, still looking frightened--

"'Oh it's the lion; I ran away from the lion, because I thought he was going to eat me up.'

"The old woman quite understood, for of course she knew about the fair and the animals that were there, and she saw that the little girl must have strayed away from her friends. So she made Marie come in, and she gave her a little chair to sit on, and some milk to drink, and then she asked her her name, to try to find out who she was, only unfortunately Marie didn't know any of her name except just 'Marie.'

"'Dear me,' said the old woman, 'that won't do, there's such lots of little Maries.'

"But she went on questioning her till she found that Marie was staying with her grandmother, that she had come over the sea to stay with her, and that her grandmother had a parrot, whose cage hung out of the window, and who talked to the people pa.s.sing in the street, and that he called her grandmother's maid, 'Babette, Ba-Ba-bette.' And when Marie said that, the old woman quite jumped.

"'To be sure, to be sure,' she said. 'I know who is the young lady's grandmother;' and up she got, and put away her lace, and took Marie by the hand to lead her home. Marie was just a little frightened at first to go out into the street again, for fear the lion should be coming that way; but the old woman told her she was sure he wouldn't be, and _really_, you know, though Marie didn't know it, she had far more reason to be afraid of the gipsy girl than of the poor lion, who had only been roaring to amuse himself in his cage. But they got on quite well through the streets, and just as they came to the corner near where was Marie's grandmother's house, there they saw her grandmother and the nurse, and Babette behind them, and the cook behind her, and the gardener last of all, all coming hurry-scurrying out of the house, all to go different ways to look for Marie. Her grandmother had come home, you see, thinking _perhaps_ Marie had found her way there; but she and the nurse were most dreadfully frightened, and you can fancy how delighted they were when they found her. Only all the time of the fair after that, Marie's grandmother would not let her go out except in the garden, which was a big one though, for fear the gipsy dancing girl should try to steal her again."

"But she _didn't_?" said Racey, drawing a long breath.

"No, of course she didn't. If she had, I couldn't have told you the story."

"Oh I'm _so_ glad she didn't," said Racey again. "Oh Audrey, I'm _so_ glad n.o.body stolened her, and that no lionds eated her. Oh, it makes me s'iver to think of dipsies and lionds."

"You little stupid," said Tom. Really he was very tiresome about teasing poor Racey sometimes.

"You're not to tease him, Tom," I said; "and now it's your turn to tell a story."

"Well," said Tom, "it's about a boy that was dedfully frightened of li--"

"Oh Audrey, he's going to make up a' ugly story about me," said Racey, beseechingly.

"No, no, I'm not," said Tom, "I was only teasing. My story's very nice, but it's very short. Once there was a bird that lived in a garden--Pierson told me this story--but when it came winter the bird went away to some place where it was always summer. I _think_, but I'm not quite sure--I _think_ the bird went to the sun, Pierson said."

"Oh no, it couldn't be that. The sun's much too far away. I've heard about those birds. They don't go to the sun, they go to countries at the other side of the world, where the sun always s.h.i.+nes, that's what you're thinking of, Tom."

"Well, perhaps that was it," said Tom, only half satisfied, "though it would be much nicer to say they went to the sun. Well, this bird had a nest in the garden, and there was a girl that lived in the garden--I mean in the house where the garden was--that used to look at the birds, 'cause she liked them very much. And she liked this bird best, 'cause its nest was just under her window, and she heard it singing in the morning. And when it began to come winter she knew the bird would go away, so what do you think she did? She got it catched one day, and she tied a very weeny, weeny ribbon under its wing, some way that it couldn't come undone, and then she let it go. And soon it went away to that other country, and the winter came. And the girl was very ill that winter. I don't know if it was measles she had," said Tom, looking very wise, "but I should think it was. And they thought she was going to die after the winter was gone. And she kept wis.h.i.+ng the birds would come back, 'cause she thought she'd die before they comed. But at last one morning she heard a little squeaking--no I don't mean squeaking--I mean chirping, just outside her window, and she called the servants, and told them she was sure her bird had come back, and they must catch it. And her nurse catched it some way, and brought it to her, and what do you think? when she looked under its wing, there was the weeny ribbon she had tied. It was the very same bird. Wasn't it clever to know to come back to the very same _window_ even? It's quite true, Pierson knowed the girl."

"And did she die?" I asked Tom.

"Oh no; she was so glad the bird had come back, that she jumped out of bed, and got quite well that very minute."

"That very minute, Tom," I said; "she couldn't get well all in a minute."

"Oh, but she just did; and if you don't believe it, you needn't. Pierson knowed her. _I_ think it's a very nice story, not frightening at all."

"Yes, it's very nice," I said. "Thank you, Tom. Now, Racey, it's your turn."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER VII.

TOAST FOR TEA.

"Did you hear the children say.

Life is rather out of tune?"

"Mine's very stupid," said Racey.

"Never mind, I dare say it'll be very nice," said Tom and I encouragingly.

"It's about a fly," said Racey. "It was a fly that lived in a little house down in the corner of a window, and when it was a fine day it comed out and walked about the gla.s.s, and when it was a bad day it stayed in its bed. And one day when it was walking about the gla.s.s there was a little boy standing there and he catched the fly, and he thought he'd pull off its wings, 'cause then it couldn't get away--that was dedfully naughty, wasn't it?--and he was just going to pull off its wings when some one came behind him and lifted him up by his arms and said in a' awful _booing_ way--like a giant, you know--'If you pull off flies' wings, I'll pull off your arms,' and then he felt his arms tugged so, that he thought they'd come off, and he cried out--'Oh please, please, I won't pull off flies' wings if you'll let me go.' And then he was let go; but when he turned round he couldn't see anybody--wasn't it queer?--only the fly was very glad, and he never tried to hurt flies any more."

"But who was it that pulled the boy's arms?" said Tom, whose interest had increased as the story went on.

Racey looked rather at a loss. "I don't know," he said. "I should think it was a' ogre. It _might_ just have been the boy's papa, to teach him not to hurt flies, you know."

"That would be very stupid," said Tom.

"Well, it _might_ have been a' ogre," said Racey. "I made the story so quick I didn't quite settle. But I'll tell you another if you like, _all_ about ogres, kite real ones and awful dedful."

"No, thank you," said Tom, "I don't care for your stories, Racey.

They're all muddled."

Racey looked extremely hurt.

"Then I'll never tell you any more," he said. "I'll tell them all to Audrey, and you sha'n't listen."

"Indeed," said Tom, "I can listen if I choose. And when the new nurse comes she won't let you go on like that. She'll be vrezy cross, I know."

Racey turned to me, his eyes filled with tears.