THE TALE OF PIGLING BLAND

[For Cicily and Charlie,

a Tale of the Christmas Pig]

Once upon a time there was an

old pig called Aunt Pettitoes. She

had eight of a family: four little girl

pigs, called Cross-patch, Suck-suck,

Yock-yock and Spot; and four little

boy pigs, called Alexander, Pigling

Bland, Chin-Chin and Stumpy.

Stumpy had had an accident to his

tail.

The eight little pigs had very fine

appetites—"Yus, yus, yus! they eat

and indeed they DO eat!" said Aunt

Pettitoes, looking at her family

with pride. Suddenly there were

fearful squeals; Alexander had

squeezed inside the hoops of the

pig trough and stuck.

Aunt Pettitoes and I dragged him

out by the hind legs.

Chin-chin was already in disgrace;

it was washing day, and he

had eaten a piece of soap. And

presently in a basket of clean

clothes, we found another dirty

little pig—"Tchut, tut, tut! whichever

is this?" grunted Aunt Pettitoes.

Now all the pig family are pink, or

pink with black spots, but this pig

child was smutty black all over;

when it had been popped into a

tub, it proved to be Yock-yock.

I went into the garden; there I

found Cross-patch and Suck-suck

rooting up carrots. I whipped them

myself and led them out by the

ears. Cross-patch tried to bite me.

"Aunt Pettitoes, Aunt Pettitoes!

you are a worthy person, but your

family is not well brought up.

Every one of them has been in

mischief except Spot and Pigling

Bland."

"Yus, yus!" sighed Aunt Pettitoes.

"And they drink bucketfuls of milk;

I shall have to get another cow!

Good little Spot shall stay at home

to do the housework; but the others

must go. Four little boy pigs and

four little girl pigs are too many

altogether." "Yus, yus, yus," said

Aunt Pettitoes, "there will be more

to eat without them."

So Chin-chin and Suck-suck went

away in a wheel-barrow, and

Stumpy, Yock-yock and Cross-

patch rode away in a cart.

And the other two little boy pigs,

Pigling Bland and Alexander went

to market. We brushed their coats,

we curled their tails and washed

their little faces, and wished them

good bye in the yard.

Aunt Pettitoes wiped her eyes

with a large pocket handkerchief,

then she wiped Pigling Bland's nose

and shed tears; then she wiped

Alexander's nose and shed tears;

then she passed the handkerchief to

Spot. Aunt Pettitoes sighed and

grunted, and addressed those little

pigs as follows—

"Now Pigling Bland, son Pigling

Bland, you must go to market. Take

your brother Alexander by the

hand. Mind your Sunday clothes,

and remember to blow your nose"

—(Aunt Pettitoes passed round the

handkerchief again)—"beware of

traps, hen roosts, bacon and eggs;

always walk upon your hind legs."

Pigling Bland who was a sedate

little pig, looked solemnly at his

mother, a tear trickled down his

cheek.

Aunt Pettitoes turned to the

other—"Now son Alexander take

the hand"—"Wee, wee, wee!"

giggled Alexander—"take the hand of

your brother Pigling Bland, you

must go to market. Mind—" "Wee,

wee, wee!" interrupted Alexander

again. "You put me out," said Aunt

Pettitoes—"Observe signposts and

milestones; do not gobble herring

bones—" "And remember," said I

impressively, "if you once cross the

county boundary you cannot come

back. Alexander, you are not

attending. Here are two licenses

permitting two pigs to go to market in

Lancashire. Attend Alexander. I

have had no end of trouble in getting

these papers from the policeman."

Pigling Bland listened

gravely; Alexander was hopelessly

volatile.

I pinned the papers, for safety,

inside their waistcoat pockets;

Aunt Pettitoes gave to each a little

bundle, and eight conversation

peppermints with appropriate

moral sentiments in screws of

paper. Then they started.

Pigling Bland and Alexander

trotted along steadily for a mile; at

least Pigling Bland did. Alexander

made the road half as long again

by skipping from side to side. He

danced about and pinched his

brother, singing—

"This pig went to market, this pig stayed

at home,

"This pig had a bit of meat—

let's see what they have given US for

dinner, Pigling?"

Pigling Bland and Alexander sat

down and untied their bundles.

Alexander gobbled up his dinner in

no time; he had already eaten all

his own peppermints—"Give me

one of yours, please, Pigling?" "But

I wish to preserve them for

emergencies," said Pigling Bland

doubtfully. Alexander went into squeals

of laughter. Then he pricked Pigling

with the pin that had fastened

his pig paper; and when Pigling

slapped him he dropped the pin,

and tried to take Pigling's pin, and

the papers got mixed up. Pigling

Bland reproved Alexander.

But presently they made it up

again, and trotted away together,

singing—

"Tom, Tom the piper's son, stole a pig

and away he ran!

"But all the tune that he could play, was

`Over the hills and far away!'"

"What's that, young Sirs? Stole a

pig? Where are your licenses?" said

the policeman. They had nearly run

against him round a corner. Pigling

Bland pulled out his paper; Alexander,

after fumbling, handed over

something scrumply—

"To 2 1/2 oz. conversation sweeties

at three farthings"—"What's this?

this ain't a license?" Alexander's

nose lengthened visibly, he had lost

it. "I had one, indeed I had, Mr.

Policeman!"

"It's not likely they let you start

without. I am passing the farm.

You may walk with me." "Can I

come back too?" inquired Pigling

Bland. "I see no reason, young Sir;

your paper is all right." Pigling

Bland did not like going on alone,

and it was beginning to rain. But it

is unwise to argue with the police;

he gave his brother a peppermint,

and watched him out of sight.

To conclude the adventures of

Alexander—the policeman sauntered

up to the house about tea

time, followed by a damp subdued

little pig. I disposed of Alexander in

the neighborhood; he did fairly

well when he had settled down.

Pigling Bland went on alone

dejectedly; he came to cross roads and

a sign-post—"To Market-town 5

miles," "Over the Hills, 4 miles,"

"To Pettitoes Farm, 3 miles."

Pigling Bland was shocked, there

was little hope of sleeping in Market

Town, and tomorrow was the

hiring fair; it was deplorable to

think how much time had been

wasted by the frivolity of Alexander.

He glanced wistfully along the

road towards the hills, and then set

off walking obediently the other

way, buttoning up his coat against

the rain. He had never wanted to

go; and the idea of standing all by

himself in a crowded market, to be

stared at, pushed, and hired by

some big strange farmer was very

disagreeable—

"I wish I could have a little garden

and grow potatoes," said Pigling

Bland.

He put his cold hand in his

pocket and felt his paper, he put his

other hand in his other pocket and

felt another paper—Alexander's!

Pigling squealed; then ran back

frantically, hoping to overtake

Alexander and the policeman.

He took a wrong turn—several

wrong turns, and was quite lost.

It grew dark, the wind whistled,

the trees creaked and groaned.

Pigling Bland became frightened

and cried "Wee, wee, wee! I can't

find my way home!"

After an hour's wandering he got

out of the wood; the moon shone

through the clouds, and Pigling

Bland saw a country that was new

to him.

The road crossed a moor; below

was a wide valley with a river twinkling

in the moonlight, and beyond

—in misty distance—lay the hills.

He saw a small wooden hut,

made his way to it, and crept inside

—"I am afraid it IS a hen house,

but what can I do?" said Pigling

Bland, wet and cold and quite tired

out.