Read Online The Tale of Hawthorn House by Susan Wittig Albert - Free Book Online
Authors: Susan Wittig Albert
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and pears, kick me upstairs,” he chortled, peering at her with one glittering black eye. “Still here, ducky dear?”
“Go away, JaCKboy,” Jemima said, with great dignity. “I am QUACK a busy duCK.” To prove it, she took her knitting out of the basket beside her. It was the tenth little yellow shawl, for the last of her ten ducklings—a good thing, too, since she was almost out of yarn.
“Busy lizzie, buzzie loozie,” Jackboy warbled gaily. He hopped from one foot to the other. “Rub-a-dub-ducky, chuck-a-luck-dabble-duck. Wot can I give ye, me fine Puddleplucky?”
“You’re giving me a headAChe,” said Jemima. She looked down at her knitting. Had she dropped a stitch in the previous row?
“Kiss me a-miss,” chirped Jackboy impolitely. “Miss me a kiss. Why ain’t yer eggs hatched, cluckie-duckie?”
“BeCAUse they haven’t,” Jemima snapped. She had dropped not one stitch but two, two rows back, not one—which I daresay wouldn’t be a problem for you, but for a duck of limited intelligence, it posed a puzzling dilemma. Should she rip out two whole rows and repair it, or simply go on and pretend it hadn’t happened?
“Bad batch!” Jackboy cackled maliciously. “Dropt stitch won’t fix, broke lock won’t latch, watched pot won’t boil, spoilt egg won’t hatch.”
“TaKe that baCK!” Jemima cried in dismay. “My eggs are not QUACK spoilt! They are the very finest of duCK eGGs!”
“Bad eggs,” Jackboy sang gaily. “Mad eggs, sad eggs, plaid eggs.” He twirled around on one foot. “Eggs begs, bandy legs, hat pegs, beer kegs!”
Jemima gave the bird a cold look. “PaCK it up, JaCK. I have important worK to do.”
“Kegs ’n’ kettles, kettles ’n’ hobs!” Jackboy shrieked madly. “Foils ’n’ fobs! Foxes ’n’ clockses! Watched clockses never boil! Boiled eggses never spoil.” And with that, he flew away.
Jemima settled herself back onto her nest, trying to concentrate on her knitting. Boiled eggs, spoilt eggs! Now she wouldn’t be able to get the phrase out of her mind. How many days had it been since she began to sit? Quite a few, she thought wearily, more than twenty-eight. More than thirty-two, more than thirty-five! Her brain was growing fuzzy, her thoughts were in a muddle, and her posterior had gone numb.
What in the world was keeping these eggs?
Why hadn’t they hatched?
Was something wrong with them?
But Jemima could not bear that thought, so she pushed it out of her mind. Anyway, they were bound to hatch soon. That very evening, or tomorrow. Certainly no later than the day after.
But wait! I hear you say. If the nesting season is over, where did our duck get those eggs? Did she hold back as long as she could and lay them very late, in hopes of keeping them safe from Sammy Jennings? Or did she—
But even though you are quite right to raise these questions, and I very much hope they are answered at some point in the future, we must not anticipate. So let us leave our duck sitting patiently on her nest under the feedbox in the Hill Top barn, and open another chapter of our story.
6
Miss Potter Makes a Special Delivery
It was Sunday morning and the Woodcocks, sister and brother, had breakfasted an hour ago. Miles Woodcock, wearing his slippers, was enjoying his pipe and newspaper beside the library fire. Saturday’s rain had persisted, and Dimity Woodcock was wondering whether she should brave the drizzle to go to morning service at St. Peter’s, or stay at home and finish the argyle stockings she was knitting for Miles. She had decided in favor of the stockings and was looking for her knitting basket when the doorbell rang.
“If that’s the constable, tell him to go away,” Miles said from behind his newspaper. “It’s Sunday. I worked hard at the fête yesterday, and I am taking a holiday.”
Dimity knew he didn’t mean it. Miles was the Justice of the Peace for Sawrey District. It was his job to certify deaths, investigate accidents,
“Go away, JaCKboy,” Jemima said, with great dignity. “I am QUACK a busy duCK.” To prove it, she took her knitting out of the basket beside her. It was the tenth little yellow shawl, for the last of her ten ducklings—a good thing, too, since she was almost out of yarn.
“Busy lizzie, buzzie loozie,” Jackboy warbled gaily. He hopped from one foot to the other. “Rub-a-dub-ducky, chuck-a-luck-dabble-duck. Wot can I give ye, me fine Puddleplucky?”
“You’re giving me a headAChe,” said Jemima. She looked down at her knitting. Had she dropped a stitch in the previous row?
“Kiss me a-miss,” chirped Jackboy impolitely. “Miss me a kiss. Why ain’t yer eggs hatched, cluckie-duckie?”
“BeCAUse they haven’t,” Jemima snapped. She had dropped not one stitch but two, two rows back, not one—which I daresay wouldn’t be a problem for you, but for a duck of limited intelligence, it posed a puzzling dilemma. Should she rip out two whole rows and repair it, or simply go on and pretend it hadn’t happened?
“Bad batch!” Jackboy cackled maliciously. “Dropt stitch won’t fix, broke lock won’t latch, watched pot won’t boil, spoilt egg won’t hatch.”
“TaKe that baCK!” Jemima cried in dismay. “My eggs are not QUACK spoilt! They are the very finest of duCK eGGs!”
“Bad eggs,” Jackboy sang gaily. “Mad eggs, sad eggs, plaid eggs.” He twirled around on one foot. “Eggs begs, bandy legs, hat pegs, beer kegs!”
Jemima gave the bird a cold look. “PaCK it up, JaCK. I have important worK to do.”
“Kegs ’n’ kettles, kettles ’n’ hobs!” Jackboy shrieked madly. “Foils ’n’ fobs! Foxes ’n’ clockses! Watched clockses never boil! Boiled eggses never spoil.” And with that, he flew away.
Jemima settled herself back onto her nest, trying to concentrate on her knitting. Boiled eggs, spoilt eggs! Now she wouldn’t be able to get the phrase out of her mind. How many days had it been since she began to sit? Quite a few, she thought wearily, more than twenty-eight. More than thirty-two, more than thirty-five! Her brain was growing fuzzy, her thoughts were in a muddle, and her posterior had gone numb.
What in the world was keeping these eggs?
Why hadn’t they hatched?
Was something wrong with them?
But Jemima could not bear that thought, so she pushed it out of her mind. Anyway, they were bound to hatch soon. That very evening, or tomorrow. Certainly no later than the day after.
But wait! I hear you say. If the nesting season is over, where did our duck get those eggs? Did she hold back as long as she could and lay them very late, in hopes of keeping them safe from Sammy Jennings? Or did she—
But even though you are quite right to raise these questions, and I very much hope they are answered at some point in the future, we must not anticipate. So let us leave our duck sitting patiently on her nest under the feedbox in the Hill Top barn, and open another chapter of our story.
6
Miss Potter Makes a Special Delivery
It was Sunday morning and the Woodcocks, sister and brother, had breakfasted an hour ago. Miles Woodcock, wearing his slippers, was enjoying his pipe and newspaper beside the library fire. Saturday’s rain had persisted, and Dimity Woodcock was wondering whether she should brave the drizzle to go to morning service at St. Peter’s, or stay at home and finish the argyle stockings she was knitting for Miles. She had decided in favor of the stockings and was looking for her knitting basket when the doorbell rang.
“If that’s the constable, tell him to go away,” Miles said from behind his newspaper. “It’s Sunday. I worked hard at the fête yesterday, and I am taking a holiday.”
Dimity knew he didn’t mean it. Miles was the Justice of the Peace for Sawrey District. It was his job to certify deaths, investigate accidents,
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