The Tale of Little Pig Robinson (2 page)

Sam was in high spirits; he had had a big catch. He and his mate and two lads commenced to unload their fish into carts, as the
tide was too low to float the fishing boat up to the quay. The boat was full of herrings.

But, good luck or bad luck, Sam never failed to throw a handful of herrings to
Susan.

“Here’s for the two old girls and a hot supper! Catch them, Susan! Honest now! Here’s
a broken fish for you! Now take the others to Betsy.”

The ducks were dabbling and gobbling; the seagulls were screaming and swooping. Susan
climbed the steps with her basket of herrings and went home by back streets.

Old Betsy cooked two herrings for herself and Susan, another two for Sam’s supper when
he came in. Then she went to bed with a hot bottle wrapped in a
flannel petticoat to help her rheumatics.

Sam ate his supper and smoked a pipe by the fire; and then he went to bed. But Susan
sat a long time by the fire, considering. She considered many things — fish, and ducks, and Percy with a
lame foot, and dogs that eat mutton chops, and the yellow cat on the ship, and the pig. Susan thought it
strange to see a pig upon a ship called the “Pound of Candles”. The mice peeped out under the cupboard door.
The cinders fell together on the hearth. Susan purred gently in her sleep and dreamed of fish and pigs. She
could not understand that pig on board a ship. But I know all about him!

Y
ou
remember the song about the Owl and the Pussy Cat and their beautiful pea-green boat? How they took some
honey and plenty of money, wrapped up in a five pound note?

Now I am going to tell you the story of that pig, and why he went to live in the land
of the Bong tree.

When that pig was little he lived in Devonshire, with his aunts, Miss Dorcas and Miss
Porcas, at a farm called Piggery Porcombe. Their cosy thatched cottage was in an orchard at the top of a
steep red Devonshire lane.

The soil was red, the grass was green; and far away below in the distance they could
see red cliffs and a bit of bright blue sea. Ships with white sails sailed over the sea into the harbour of
Stymouth.

I have often remarked that the Devonshire farms have very strange names. If you had
ever seen Piggery Porcombe you would think that the people who lived there were very queer too! Aunt Dorcas
was a stout speckled pig who kept hens.

Aunt Porcas was a large smiling black pig who took in
washing. We shall not hear very much about them in this story. They led prosperous uneventful lives, and
their end was bacon. But their nephew Robinson had the most peculiar adventures that ever happened to a
pig.

Little pig Robinson was a charming little fellow; pinky white with small blue eyes,
fat cheeks and a double chin, and a turned-up nose, with a real silver ring in it. Robinson could see that
ring if he shut one eye and squinted sideways.

He was always contented and happy. All day long he ran about the farm, singing little
songs to himself, and grunting “Wee, wee, wee!” His aunts missed those little songs sadly after Robinson had
left them.

“Wee? Wee? Wee?” he answered when anybody spoke to him. “Wee? Wee? Wee?” listening
with his head on one side and one eye screwed up.

Robinson’s old aunts fed him and petted him and kept him on the trot.

“Robinson! Robinson!” called Aunt Dorcas. “Come quick! I hear a hen clucking. Fetch me
the egg; don’t break it now!”

“Wee, wee, wee!” answered Robinson, like a little Frenchman.

“Robinson! Robinson! I’ve dropped a clothes peg, come and pick it up for me!” called
Aunt Porcas from the drying green (she being almost too fat to stoop down and pick up anything).

“Wee, wee, wee!” answered Robinson.

Both the aunts were very, very stout. And the
stiles in the neighbourhood of Stymouth are narrow. The footpath from Piggery Porcombe crosses many fields;
a red trodden track between short green grass and daisies. And wherever the footpath crosses over from one
field to another field, there is sure to be a stile in the hedge.

“It is not me that is too stout; it is the stiles that are too thin,” said Aunt Dorcas
to Aunt Porcas. “Could you manage to squeeze through them if I stayed at home?”

“I could
not
. Not for two years I could
not
,” replied Aunt Porcas. “Aggravating, it
is
aggravating of that carrier man, to go and upset his donkey cart the day before market
day. And eggs at two and tuppence a dozen! How far do you call it to walk all the way
round by the road instead of crossing the fields?”

“Four miles if it’s one,” sighed Aunt Porcas, “and me using my last bit of soap.
However will we get our shopping done? The donkey says the cart will take a week to mend.”

“Don’t you think you could squeeze through the stiles if you went before
dinner?”

“No, I don’t, I would stick fast; and so would you,” said Aunt Porcas.

“Don’t you think we might venture —” commenced Aunt Dorcas.

“Venture to send Robinson by the footpath to Stymouth?” finished Aunt Porcas.

“Wee, wee, wee!” answered Robinson.

“I scarcely like to send him alone, though he is sensible for his size.”

“Wee, wee, wee!” answered Robinson.

“But there is nothing else to be done,” said Aunt Dorcas.

So Robinson was popped into the wash-tub with the last bit of soap. He was scrubbed
and dried and polished as bright as a new pin. Then he was dressed in a little blue cotton frock and
knickers, and instructed to go shopping to Stymouth with a big market basket.

In the basket were two dozen eggs, a bunch of daffodils, two spring cauliflowers; also
Robinson’s dinner of bread-and-jam sandwiches. The eggs and flowers and vegetables he must sell in the
market, and bring back various other purchases from shopping.

“Now take care of yourself in Stymouth, Nephew Robinson. Beware
of gunpowder, and ships’ cooks, and pantechnicons, and sausages, and
shoes, and ships, and sealing-wax. Remember the blue bag, the soap, the darning wool — what was the other
thing?” said Aunt Dorcas.

“The darning wool, the soap, the blue bag, the yeast — what was the other thing?” said
Aunt Porcas.

“Wee, wee, wee!” answered Robinson.

“The blue bag, the soap, the yeast, the darning wool, the cabbage seed — that’s five,
and there ought to be six. It was two more than four because it was two too many to tie knots in the corners
of his hankie, to remember by. Six to buy, it should be —”

“I have it!” said Aunt Porcas. “It was tea — tea, blue bag, soap, darning
wool, yeast, cabbage seed. You will buy most of them at Mr. Mumby’s.
Explain about the carrier, Robinson; tell him we will bring the washing and some more vegetables next
week.”

“Wee, wee, wee” answered Robinson, setting off with the big basket.

Aunt Dorcas and Aunt Porcas stood in the porch. They watched him safely out of sight,
down the field, and through the first of the many stiles. When they went back to their household tasks they
were grunty and snappy with each other, because they were uneasy about Robinson.

“I wish we had not let him go. You and your tiresome blue bag!” said Aunt
Dorcas.

“Blue bag, indeed! It was your darning wool and eggs!” grumbled Aunt Porcas. “Bother
that carrier man and his donkey cart! Why could not he keep out of the ditch until after market day?”

T
he
walk
to Stymouth was a long one, in spite of going by the fields. But the footpath ran downhill all the way, and
Robinson was merry. He sang his little song, for joy of the fine morning, and he chuckled “Wee, wee, wee!”
Larks were singing, too, high overhead.

And higher still — high up against blue sky, the great white gulls sailed in wide
circles. Their hoarse cries came softened back to earth from a great way up above.