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“GOD bless you, Mother.”

“GOD bless you, my daughter.”

Sybil turned round and walked steadily away. The last glimpse I had of her was when she turned once more, and put the hair from her face to look at the old woman: but the tinker-mother did not see her, for she was muttering with her head upon her hands.

* * * * *

It was a remarkable summer–that summer when I had seven, and when we took so much interest in our neighbours.

I make a point of never disturbing myself about the events of by-gone seasons. At the same time, to rear a family of seven urchins is not a thing done by hedgehog-parents every year, and the careers of that family are very clearly impressed upon my memory.

Number one came to a sad end.

What on the face of the wood made him think of pheasants’ eggs, I cannot conceive. I’m sure I never said anything about them! It was whilst he was scrambling along the edge of the covert, that he met the Fox, and very properly rolled himself into a ball. The Fox’s nose was as long as his own, and he rolled my poor son over and over with it, till he rolled him into the stream. The young urchins swim like fishes, but just as he was scrambling to shore, the Fox caught him by the waistcoat and killed him. I do hate slyness!

Numbers two and three were flitted. I told them so, but young people will go their own way. They had excellent victuals.

Number four (my eldest daughter) settled very comfortably in life, and had a family of three. She might have sent them down to the burdocks to pick snails quite well, but she would take them out walking with her instead. They were picked up (all four of them) by two long-legged Irish boys, who put them into a basket and took them home. I do not think the young gentlemen meant any harm, for they provided plenty of food, and took them to bed with them. They set my daughter at liberty next day, and she spoke very handsomely of the young gentlemen, and said they had cured the skins with saltpetre, and were stuffing them when she left. But the subject was always an awkward one.

Number five is still living. He is the best hand at a fight with a snake that I know.

Numbers six and seven went to Covent Garden in a hamper. They say black-beetles are excellent eating.

The whole seven had a narrow escape with their lives just after Sybil left us. They over-ate themselves on snails, and Mrs. Hedgehog had to stay at home and nurse them. I kept my eye on our neighbours and brought her the news.

“Christian has come home,” I said, one day. “The Queen has given him a pardon.”

“Then he did take the pheasants’ eggs?” said Mrs. Hedgehog.

“Certainly not,” said I. “In the first place it wasn’t eggs, and in the second place it was Black Basil who took whatever it was, and he has confessed to it.”

“Then if Christian didn’t do it, how is it that he has been forgiven?” said Mrs. Hedgehog.

“I can’t tell you,” said I; “but so it is. And he is at this moment with the clergywoman and the tinker-mother.”

“Where is Sybil?” asked Mrs. Hedgehog.

I did not know then, and I am not very clear about her now. I never saw her again, but either I heard that she had married Black Basil, and that they had gone across the water to some country where the woods are bigger than they are here, or I have dreamt it in one of my winter naps.

I am inclined to think it must be true, because I always regarded Sybil as somewhat proud and unsociable, and I think she would like a big wood and very few neighbours.

But really when one sleeps for several months at a stretch it is not very easy to be accurate about one’s dreams.

FOOTNOTES:

Footnote B: Patteran = the gipsy “trail.”

Footnote C: “Poknees,” gipsy word for magistrate.