Sing a Song of Sixpence Part 2

Nellie could not answer a word.

"Well, I must be going," said the Queen, recovering her good humour now that she had silenced Nellie.

Nellie was just making her a grand curtsey when the door burst open and in rushed the maid, holding her handkerchief to her face.

"It's the blackbird," she sobbed. "He's snapped off my nose."

"Stick it on again," said the Queen.

Nellie ran to get some sticking plaster, and stuck it on as hard as she could.

It looked rather funny, she thought, but could not exactly understand why for a little while, until she discovered it was stuck on upside down.

"You had better take it off again and put it on straight," said the Queen. But nothing would induce it to come off, it was stuck on so tight.

"I guess she'll have to stand on her head to blow her nose," said Nellie, thoughtfully.

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"Of course, the very thing," a.s.sented the Queen, cheerfully. "Well, I really must be going. Good-bye now, whatever, and don't forget my stockings," she continued, waving her hand in token of farewell, and she vanished, banging the door after her.

Nellie woke up with a start.

"Why, Miss Nellie, whatever are you doing all in the dark? And you have let the fire out too."

"Oh, Nursie, such lovely things have happened. The Queen has been here, and my lamb; oh, and lots of things."

"The Queen, indeed! Fiddle-sticks," said Nursie, with a sniff of disbelief.

"Yes, she was. And she had tea with me out of my doll's tea-set. And here's my dear little lamb. Why, wherever has it gone?" asked Nellie, rubbing her eyes and looking around.

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"And what on earth is that wool sticking out of your ears? Have you the ear-ache?"

"Oh, Nursie, I only put it there to keep my poetry from coming out."

"Well, I never did!" said Nursie, holding up her hands in surprise. "You are the _queerest_ child!"

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The Story of a Robin

She was a strange child, and led a lonely life, shut up in the almost deserted castle with no one but her miserly old grandfather and old Nanny for company. It was no wonder that she grew up with curious unchildlike fancies, which were yet not altogether unchildlike. Her mind found food for itself in the woods with their ever-changing tints, the sky, the clouds, the sunset, and last, but by no means least, the restless, never-silent sea, which bathed the foot of the rock where stood the picturesque old castle.

[Ill.u.s.tration: robin]

Of friends Elsie had none. The Squire could not afford to keep company--he was as poor as a rat, he used to say. Old Nanny was nearly as miserly as he--you would have said she counted the grains of oatmeal that she put into the porridge; not a particle of anything was ever wasted in that frugal household. Report said--but I am not responsible for the truth of this statement--that the miser had once had a piece of cheese which was always brought to table, not to eat, mind you, oh dear, no! but so that the odour might give a relish to the dry bread! Elsie had not even a dog for a companion--for that would have required, at least, some food. She used to look out of her little turret window and watch the clouds floating about in the sky, and the stars smiling down at her as they twinkled merrily up above. The moon was a very great friend of hers; she loved to see his broad cheerful face rising over the tree tops, and peeping in at her latticed windows.

Almost the only living creatures that she could make friends with were the bats and owls that found an abode in the ruined walls of the castle, and the robins that came hopping merrily around in search of the crumbs that were not there. She loved, too, to watch the spiders that came crawling stealthily out of their webs to catch any unwary fly that might be so bold as to venture into such an inhospitable mansion.

She had no toys--never in her life had she even seen a doll. Think of that, little Dorothy, with your collection of all kinds, from the rag baby to the beautiful wax and china ones with real hair and eyes that open and shut, and with all the dolls' clothes a child's heart could desire. She did not miss them--never having known the pleasure of such possessions.

But one real live pet she had--a robin that used to come hopping on to her window sill every morning, and for whom she saved a few crumbs from her scanty breakfast unknown to "gran'fer" or old Nanny, who you may be sure would never have countenanced such waste. He was a merry little birdie, with such a knowing twinkle in his eyes, that seemed to say he knew all about little Elsie and her ways, and was glad to come and cheer her up, and to make up to her for the lack of other friends by singing to her every morning his sweetest song. Fine times they had, too, when "gran'fer" was busy counting his money, and old Nanny was out gathering sticks. They never bought anything at Castle Grim that they could get without paying for. "Castle Hopeful" she called it, though why she chose such a very inappropriate name for it, it would be hard to say. If you come to think of it though, there was some sense in it, seeing that it left so many things to be hoped for--things that never came. As for such a thing as a new hat or a new frock, _that_ was too great a treat to be ever wished for. When the frock she wore would no longer hang on the fragile little form, when the bony arms came out half a yard below the sleeves, and the long thin legs from under the short skirt, then old Nanny grudgingly took out of the moth-eaten old wardrobe an old one of Elsie's mother's, and cut it down until the child could get inside it with something like ease. To be sure Nanny was no dressmaker, and the frock was neither pretty nor elegant; and as for fit, why, that was a mere trifle not worthy of serious consideration. Elsie could have jumped into it, but it was a frock, and that was enough. The little fisher-children who used to come gathering sea-weed and sh.e.l.ls on the beach used to look up with wistful eyes at the lonely little figure in the turret-window, singing and talking to herself; but she was never allowed to speak to them--Nanny was very strict about that. Elsie was one of the "quality," and must not mix with the fisher-children.

The child had learnt her letters, no one knew how. Moreover, she was the happy possessor of a few ragged old books--minus the covers and a few of the pages--which she had found in rummaging about in the old lumber room amongst broken furniture that would not sell, but was too good for firewood.

Such treasures these books were to Elsie--strange reading for a child, but very precious to her all the same. No "Alice in Wonderland," no "Little Folks," no "St Nicholas," or "Fairy Tales"; but the "Pilgrim's Progress," garnished with pictures--such pictures, enough to make your hair stand on end,--Foxe's "Book of Martyrs," and last, but by no means least, that most delightful of all books, "Don Quixote." How Elsie loved the Don and his bony steed! She knew all his adventures by heart--all that were in the book, that is--for, of course, both the beginning and the end were lost.

If you will promise not to mention it, I will tell you a great secret.

Elsie was writing a story herself. It was the nicest story you ever read in your life; but it was not very easy to read, being written in large badly-formed childish characters on odd leaves of old copy books, and sometimes the story and the copies got rather mixed; and the spelling was, to say the least of it, quite unique, but it was a lovely story for all that. Perhaps some day you will read it yourself. Elsie used to read it aloud to her little friend the robin, and he listened with his pert little head on one side as he hopped about picking up the crumbs she had saved with so much difficulty for him; he was a most grateful little birdie, and never forgot a kindness. She always knew his tap!

tap! at the window, and used to run to open it for him. It is very nice to have a little bird for a friend, for it never quarrels or sulks like some little boys or girls do, when it cannot get its own way.

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It was a bitterly cold day in December. The snow had been falling all night, and when morning came the earth was covered with a beautiful soft white carpet. It was lovely to look at. Elsie sat up in her little turret chamber watching the happy little fisher-children s...o...b..lling each other. She would have liked a game with them, but she knew that Nanny would not let her go. It was so cold, too, for there was no fire anywhere but in the kitchen, and Nanny was making what she called the dinner, and was always very cross when Elsie got in the way, so Elsie sat upstairs in her little turret chamber trying to warm her cold little hands by wrapping them up in an old shawl which had certainly been a good one in its day, but unluckily there was very little of it left.

After watching the children for a time, she crept downstairs into the kitchen.

"Oh, Nanny, let me help you with the dinner," she said pleadingly, "it's so cold upstairs."

The old woman was not a bad sort, but she was rather cross; everything had gone wrong with her that morning. First, she could not get any sticks on account of the snow, and the ones she had were damp and would not burn; then the Squire had grumbled at her for extravagance.

"Oh, get out of the way, you are more of a hindrance than a help," she answered pettishly.

Elsie went back again to her little room and looked out of the window at the pure white snow. How lovely it looked! She would just run out to see what it was like on the soft white carpet. How happy the hardy fisher-children looked, with their fresh glowing faces and st.u.r.dy limbs, as they pelted one another with the soft powdery snow!

She put on her old shawl and her apology for a hat, and stole quietly out to the enchanted land. Old Nanny saw her go, but took no notice, muttering to herself as she went on with her household duties. The fresh keen air made little Elsie feel quite gay and happy as she frisked about revelling in her new-found liberty.

"Oh, the snow! the lovely snow! I wonder who put it up in the sky? I wish I could go up to see who is making the dear little feathers. Is it the Man in the Moon, I wonder? I'd like to see him make the feathers.

Perhaps if I go far enough I'll get to the end of the world, and then I'll get up into the clouds, it does not look very far," she said to herself.

On she went merrily, with her eyes eagerly fixed upon the near horizon; but the way was long, and the poor little feet grew heavy and tired.

Her boots, much too large for her, and very thin, were wet through and through, but still she struggled bravely on. The snow was falling thickly and silently. The large flakes filled the air, blotting out the familiar landscape. There was everywhere nothing to be seen but snow!

snow! snow!

"I wonder if this is the right way," thought Elsie, as she plodded painfully along. "Perhaps gran'f'er will be cross if I get lost."

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