FullReads

But it was not the abundant and varied supply of food which had determined my choice of our home: it was not even because no woodland bower could be more beautiful,–because the coppice foliage was fresh and tender overhead, and the old leaves soft and elastic to the prickles below,–because the young oaks sheltered us behind, and we had a charming outlook over the brook in front, between a gnarled alder and a young sycamore, whose embracing branches were the lintel of our doorway.

No. I chose this particular spot in this particular wood, because I had reason to believe it to be a somewhat neglected bit of what men call “property,”–because the bramble bushes were unbroken, the fallen leaves untrodden, the hyacinths and ragged-robins ungathered by human feet and hands,–because the old fern-fronds faded below the fresh green plumes,–because the violets ripened seed,–because the trees were unmarked by woodmen and overpopulated with birds, and the water-rat sat up in the sun with crossed paws and without a thought of danger,–because, in short, no birds’-nesting, fern-digging, flower-picking, leaf-mould-wanting, vermin-hunting creatures ever came hither to replenish their ferneries, gardens, cages, markets, and museums.

My feelings can therefore be imagined when I was roused from an afternoon nap one warm summer’s day by the voices of men and women. Several possibilities came into my mind, and I imparted them to my wife.

“They may be keepers.”

“They may be poachers.”

“They may be boys birds’-nesting.”

“They may be street-sellers of ferns, moss, and so forth.”

“They may be collectors of specimens.”

“They may be pic-nic-ers–people who bring salt twisted up in a bit of paper with them, and leave it behind when they go away. Don’t let the children touch it!”

“They may be–and this is the worst that could happen–men collecting frogs, toads, newts, snails, and hedgehogs for the London markets. We must keep very quiet. They will go away at sunset.”

I was quite wrong, and when I heard the slow wheels of a cart I knew it. They were none of these things, and they did not go away. They were travelling tinkers, and they settled down and made themselves at home within fifty yards of mine.

My nerves have never been strong since that day under the furze bush. My first impulse was to roll myself up so tightly that I got the cramp, whilst every spine on my back stood stiff with fright. But after a time I recovered myself, and took counsel with Mrs. Hedgehog.

“Two things,” said she, “are most important. We must keep the children from gadding, and we must make them hold their tongues.”

“They never can be so foolish as to wish to quit your side, my dear, in the circumstances,” said I. But I was mistaken.

I know nothing more annoying to a father who has learned the danger of indiscreet curiosity in his youth, than to find his sons apparently quite uninfluenced by his valuable experience.

“What are tinkers like?” was the first thing said by each one of the seven on the subject.

“They are a set of people,” I replied, in a voice as sour as a green crab, “who if they hear us talking, or catch us walking abroad, will kill your mother and me, and temper up two bits of clay and roll us up in them. Then they will put us into a fire to bake, and when the clay turns red they will take us out. The clay will fall off and our coats with it. What remains they will eat–as we eat snails. You seven will be flitted. That is, you will be pegged to the ground till you grow big.” (I thought it well not to mention the bread and milk.) “Then they will kill and bake and eat you in the same fashion.”

I think this frightened the children; but they would talk about the tinkers, though they dared not go near them.

“The best thing you can do,” said Mrs. Hedgehog, “is to tell them a story to keep them quiet. You can modulate your own voice, and stop if you hear the tinkers.”