"I'll tell my mother!" whimpered Grizzle. "I'll go and tell her how you all treat me, and I know she won't have me insulted. Boo-00-00!" And off he scampered, roaring lustily, but his mother did not happen to be in her generally placid mood that day, for she had caught cold, and was somewhat rheumatic. So Piggy got no redress for his troubles, nor pity either; however, he did not seem to care much, for he went on in the same mean pitiful manner, telling tales of everybody, and getting everyone into scrapes as much as he could. He was obliged to be as deaf as possible, for whenever he put his nose outside the sty, some one was sure to begin "Tell-tale-tit! your tongue shall be slit, And everybody in the yard shall have a little bit!" Then it was caught up, and echoed by all within hearing. At last, to the great delight of the population of the yard, the butcher did come, and when Grizzle caught a glimpse of his blue apron, whisking into the kitchen door, and saw Roger carry out a great bucket of hot water, he knew his fate was sealed. Vainly did he hide himself in the straw, and when they came for him, make a bolt between Roger's legs, upsetting him in the mud. He only provoked them, though he succeeded in rushing into the yard. But no one would hide him or help him. The hens clucked like mad, when he ran into the hen-house; the cat mewed fearfully as she sat over the gate, so he could not get out there. He tried to get behind the water-butts, but old Surly hunted him out with great glee. The butcher in blue, and Roger, only heard the usual noises of the farm-yard, but to the wretched Grizzle the animal conversation was clear enough, and the burden of the old song, rang in his ears for the last time, as he lay squeak. ing piteously under the hands of the butcher. And the prophecy met with a literal fulfilment, for after the pig was killed and cut up, his tongue was hung up to drain in the larder window. There it was espied by the cat, who made a bold spring, and bore it off in triumph. Pussy carried her trophy to the yard, for once generously dividing the spoil with all her neighbours. The cocks and hens came flocking in, and the pigeons fluttered down to see what was doing, while Pussy, assisted by Surly, gave a morsel to each. The old Sow was curled up in her straw, little dreaming how the conclave at the barn door, over the remnants of the once mischievous tongue, that was now powerless to do any more harm (for it was really slit) were crowing, cackling, mewing, cooing and growling the old familiar rhyme-with the addition— "And everyone in the yard did have a bit! THE LAST PATCH. Now you see by this time, Crosspatch had collected a famous quantity of pieces; but when she came to look them over, she found they were not quite enough to make her counterpane with, and so as she had exhausted almost every other source, she was obliged to ask the trees to help her. And they took pity upon her, and were really quite generous with their leaves. The sycamore and vine lent her some graceful shapes; and the fig and holly gave her some glossy bits, that contrasted well with them; and Autumn very kindly dyed some on purpose for her, so she had crimson, purple, tawny yellow, bright gold, and plenty of brown and russet. But the naughty village boys seeing the old woman, bent and withered with age, and battered by wind and storm, still busied, collecting in the hedges the pretty red bramble and the dark purple briony leaves, used to call out 66 “ Crosspatch, lift the latch, Sit by the fire and spin; But Crosspatch never troubled herself to listen to them, for she was an older and wiser woman than she used to be. She had wanted help, and had been obliged to bridle her old bitter tongue to obtain it, till civil speaking became almost a habit with her. Moreover she was busy now, gathering the 188 CROSSPATCH, THE CRICKET, & THE COUNTERPANE. down of the thistle, to line her quilt withbesides borrowing the spikes of the thorn-bush, and begging the threads of the spider for needles and cotton to put it together with, to get it finished before the goblin woke. But the elvish guest is asleep still, though this all happened ever so long ago, in the "once upon a time" days. Perhaps Sleepyhead's dose of poppy syrup was rather a large one, and he had not been used to sleeping draughts. In the Autumn, when the winds are sighing sadly through the shivering branches, and the leaves are dropping fast in piles of gold and russet, while the hedges are decked here and there with crimson and purple; if you meet an old bent woman collecting these bright coloured relics of Summer, you may know it is Crosspatch, selecting the prettiest coloured patches for her quilt, and thinking she hears, through the dreary sound of the wind, the terrible goblin striding after her and demanding his warm counterpane. FINIS. |