The Tale of Hawthorn House (10 page)

“Pardon
moi
?”
Aunt Susan, Miss Potter’s fat black Berkshire pig, looked up from her muddy wallow in a corner of the pig sty.
“I didn’t quite catch that.”

Miss Potter was fond of saying that Aunt Susan had such full, round cheeks that she looked as if she had the mumps, although I think it is doubtful that pigs catch the mumps. More likely, Aunt Susan had been stuffing herself again. She was Miss Potter’s favorite pig and had come to live at Hill Top when she was a tiny piglet, small enough to fit into one of Miss Potter’s pattens. She was quite the pet, sleeping in a basket beside Miss Potter’s bed and drinking milk from a baby bottle until she was big enough to look after herself.

Now fully pig-size (and then some), Aunt Susan still enjoyed kitchen privileges: biscuits and brown bread and beans and rice pudding from the Hill Top table, all stirred together in a bucket and moistened with warm, fresh milk from Kitchen the cow, and one or two eggs added to the mix. Which is why Aunt Susan was the fattest, laziest pig in the Hill Top barnyard, and why she was always thinking ahead to the next meal.

“Eggsie-peggsie in a nestie-pestie,”
Jackboy remarked informatively, stretching his black wings.

“I think,”
hazarded Dorcas,
“the fellow is babbling about eggs.”
Dorcas was a clever, enterprising pig, slimmer, speedier, and not nearly so docile as Aunt Susan. Whenever she could, Dorcas pushed her way under the fence and darted into the woods (if you have ever seen a pig run, you will know that “dart” is exactly the right word). When she was safely out of sight in the woods, she always trotted straight to her favorite oak tree to root for acorns until someone fetched her home to tea.

“Eggs?”
Aunt Susan murmured. She rolled over onto her right side, setting in motion a muddy tidal wave.
“I am very fond of eggs. I have been known to eat them raw, but I prefer fried or scrambled.”
She closed her eyes, grunting dreamily.
“Poached eggs are very good, too. And shirred eggs, and soft-boiled and baked. And creamed with chipped beef on toast, and deviled, and smothered and—”

“Ducksie-wucksie,”
remarked Jackboy in a confidential tone.
“Quacksie-hatchie-missie-blissie.”
And with that, he flew away.

Dorcas scratched her piggy ear with one hind hoof.
“I always imagine that there is some great significance in Jackboy’s tales, but they are probably just nonsense. It sounds as if he is talking about ducks and eggs.”

“There is no nonsense about eggs,”
said Aunt Susan firmly.
“They are extremely significant. Chicken eggs, duck eggs, goose eggs, guinea eggs, partridge eggs—delightfully tasty, each and every one of them.”
She shuddered.
“Except, of course, when they are served with pork sausages or bacon. Then they are incredibly inedible.”

As you can see, some of the barnyard animals had other things on their minds than the absent Jemima. But there was someone else who cared, and who listened closely to the magpie’s maniacal chatter. This was Kep the collie, who was deeply troubled by the duck’s disappearance.

For centuries, collies have been bred as herding dogs. Their job is to keep all the barnyard creatures safe, to ward off predators, and assist the shepherd in rounding up wayward animals. Kep, like other collies, took his work very seriously. He was on the job day and night, paying close attention to the comings and goings of every animal on the farm. Not an easy task, I’ll warrant, but one for which he was suited by nature and training.

Collies are different from all other animals in this regard, you see. Most creatures have learned to pay no attention to the sudden disappearances of friends, who may be here one minute and gone the next. In fact, there’s an important reason for this apparent nonchalance. It cannot be comfortable to think that one’s missing comrade—a chicken or a pig or a goose or a duck, or even a cow or a sheep—might reappear in a day or two on the Hill Top dinner table, roasted and basted or steamed, seasoned, stewed, sauced, or stuffed. Oneself might be next! So one learns to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear, to bury one’s head in the sand. One cultivates the fine art of ignorance.

But Kep was constitutionally unable to do this, and had been deeply troubled by Jemima’s absence. He suspected that she harbored a certain fondness for the fox, and feared that (foolish duck that she was, so easily beguiled) she might have agreed to run away with him. He had already spent quite some time searching, so when Dorcas happened to mention that Jackboy might (or might not) be chattering about ducks and eggs, he cornered the magpie beside the barn.

“Jemima Puddle-duck has been absent without leave for some weeks,”
Kep said, fixing Jackboy with a stern stare.
“She is of
average height and weight, with white feathers, a yellow beak, yellow legs, and orange-colored webbed feet—last seen wearing a shawl and poke bonnet. If you have any information concerning the whereabouts of this missing duck, it is imperative that you inform me at once.”

Jackboy spread his iridescent black tail into a glossy fan.
“Bat and wicket, wot’s the ticket?”
he chuckled.
“Wot’ll ye give me t’ spill me bill?”

“The ticket?”
Kep bared his teeth.
“What’ll I give you, snitch? I’ll yank out all your tail feathers, that’s what I’ll do, bird-brain. You won’t look so smart then, will you, nincompoop?”

Jackboy took two giant hops backward.
“Wot?”
he cried, his bright magpie-eyes anxious.
“Me whistle and flute? Me weasel and stoat? Me black tail-coat?”

“Yes, your whistle and flute,”
Kep growled.
“Every fine feather in that fashionable magpie tail of yours.”
He narrowed his eyes and flexed his claws.
“And I’m big enough and fast enough to do it, too. If you value your feathers, you’d better squawk, stool pigeon!”

Jackboy gave a lurid shriek.
“Stranger ranger under-the-manger! Spy with yer mince pies!”
And off he flew.

Jackboy’s directions might seem incoherent to us, but Kep was a clever collie. He put his head under the feedbox and spied the duck. She was standing over her nest, tenderly turning her eggs, counting them with the counting rhyme that country children used in those days to count birds on a roof. Perhaps you will recognize it:

 
She stopped, turned, and settled herself on the nest, gently quacking the last line to herself:
“Eleven a seCRet that will
never be told.”
And then she tucked her head under her wing, in preparation for a nap.

“What do you think you’re doing?”
a voice asked severely.

Startled, Jemima pulled her head out from under her wing and her eyes flew open. She was frightened until she realized that it was Kep.
“I am QUACK hatching my duCKLUCKLINGS,”
she said, with as much dignity as a duck can muster.
“Please go baCK to whatever you were doing so I can CArry on.”

Ducklings! Kep thought in surprise.
“But you’ve been gone for nearly two months,”
he replied, in a more kindly tone.
“It shouldn’t take that long to—”

“Two months!”
quacked Jemima.
“Alas, alaCK, I am thunderstruCK! I had no idea! Why, I COuld have hatched two CLutches in that amount of time!”

Kep frowned. He did not like to alarm Jemima, but he didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to know that something was obviously wrong here. Chicken eggs took twenty-one days to hatch, give or take a day or two. Goose eggs took thirty. Duck eggs took twenty-eight. Why were these eggs taking twice as long to hatch? It was time to find out what was going on.

“Is it possible that they are . . .”
The word he wanted was “infertile,” but it seemed a very indelicate word to use in conversation with a lady.
“Is it possible that your eggs have no ducklings in them?”
he asked gently.

“No duCKluCKlings?”
Jemima squawked indignantly.
“Of COurse there are duCKluCKlings! I have been feeling movement in them for some time now.”

But there was another question to be asked. Hesitantly, he said,
“Well, then, are they
your
eggs, Jemima?”

“My eGGs? Indeed they are my eGGs!”
Jemima quacked, flapping her wings in high dudgeon.
“In faCT, I have been sitting on them for such a protraCTed time that a certain part of my anatomy—it would be improper to name it—is thoroughly numb.
These eGGs belong to me and to no one else. Are you QUestioning my ownership?”

Kep sighed. This was clearly a sensitive issue.
“I shall re-phrase,”
he said.
“What I mean to say is—what I want to know is—”
This sort of thing was not at all up his line, and he was at a loss as to how exactly to put it. He took a breath.
“That is to say, did you, er, did you lay these eggs yourself?”

“Did I QUACK lay these eGGs?”
The duck’s eyes flashed and she ruffled her feathers in a great show of outrage.
“Did I lay them
myself
? What sort of unKIndly QUestion is that, sir? You should be ashamed, asking a lady QUACK such a thing.”

Kep was ashamed. But the question had to be answered. He waited until the ruffled feathers had subsided, then, very humbly, he lay down and put his nose between his forepaws.
“Well?”
he asked. He wagged his tail gently.
“Did you?”

Jemima gave him a sulky look.
“Did I what?”

Jemima preened a feather, ignoring him. But her silence told him the answer. She had taken the eggs from another bird’s nest. Stolen them, if you like. She was guilty of egg-napping. But while Kep was fully aware that one must pay for one’s crimes, he could also understand why Jemima had done it. A mother duck could scarcely be blamed for longing to do what ducks had done since ducks had been put on this earth with the instruction “Be fruitful and multiply” in their pockets.

However, there were other considerations. The mother from whom the eggs had been stolen, for one, who must be frantic about their loss. What mother bird would not worry if she came back to her nest and found her entire clutch gone, vanished without a trace? And just as importantly, he had to think what sort of bird that would hatch from these eggs. What if they weren’t duck eggs? What if Jemima had somehow managed to collect the eggs of some predatory bird, thereby introducing nearly a dozen dangerous strangers to the barn lot? The idea turned him cold from the tip of his nose to the tip of his tail.

Trying to hide his apprehension, Kep said, very quietly:
“I know that maternity is a delicate subject, and must be approached with respect and consideration. But you do want to clear up the mystery, don’t you?”

“Mystery?”
Jemima shot him a defensive look.
“What QUACK mystery?”

“
The mystery of your eggs, my dear duck, and why it is taking so long to hatch them.”
Kep managed a reassuring smile.
“If you could tell me where they came from, I might do a spot of detective work and tell you when you may expect the blessed event.”

Once he knew the location, Kep thought, it should not be difficult to locate the real mother. Whether he should then have to restore the eggs to their rightful owner, he wasn’t sure, but he was confident that he would sort it out somehow. Of course, if you know anything about collies, you know they are always exceedingly confident about
everything
. There is no puzzle that is too difficult for these self-assured, self-reliant dogs to solve, no challenge too formidable for them to meet. Give them a simple task, such as fetching the newspaper, and they will fetch tea and toast and a bucket of coals and a shawl in case you are cold. And then they will go belowstairs to make sure that the cook has ordered the fish and that there will be hot water for your bath.

But even among collies, Kep stands out. It is no wonder that he could speak with such confidence to Jemima.

There was a long silence. Finally, Jemima quacked, in a tentative way, not quite rejecting, not quite accepting,
“Do you aCTually thinK that’s liKely? That you could tell me
. . .
when?”

Kep smiled with that calm, encouraging demeanor that makes collies such pleasant dogs to have in one’s life.
“Yes, it’s possible. But to be of the greatest help, I should need to see your eggs—that is, if you would be so kind as to show them to me.”

Another silence.
“Oh, very well, then,”
the duck said finally. She heaved a heavy sigh, resigned.
“TaKe a looK, if you feel you must.”
Her face averted, she stood up and lifted her wings so that her eggs were clearly visible.

Kep leaned over to look. He counted. There were ten. And even though his experience of eggs was rather limited, they looked right to him. They were not stones or croquet balls or figments of a duck’s fertile imagination. These eggs were smallish, nicely rounded, white, and—to the eye, at least— perfect in every respect except one. They had not yet hatched. And they should have done, had they been duck eggs.

“Thank you,”
said the dog respectfully, recognizing how difficult it had been for the duck to show him her treasures. He waited until she had rearranged her feathers and was settled back on her nest.
“Now, if you will be so kind as to tell me where you got them—”

“Must I?”
she whispered.

“I fear so,”
he replied softly.
“Otherwise, how can I investigate?”

Another silence. Then, in an even lower voice, she said,
“I don’t fancy QUACK all the other duCKs knowing. They’ll want some for themselves, you see.”

“I promise not to say a word to anyone.”
He held up his right paw.
“Collie’s honor, Jemima.”