An Enchanted Garden: Fairy Stories

“So you had forgotten all about me,” in a melancholy tone, quite unlike a cheery little robin. “I gave up to that other fellow and let him tell his story first. I suppose you don’t care to hear mine.”

“Oh, dear robin, of course we do,” said Alix. “But you see we didn’t understand.”

“I’ve been following you about all these days. I’m sure you might have seen me, and I’ve been asking you over and over again if you didn’t want to listen.”

“But you see, dear robin, we couldn’t understand what you said. It takes a good while to get used to – to your way of speaking, you know,” said Alix. She was desperately afraid of hurting his feelings still more.

“I am afraid that is not the real reason. You think a robin’s story is sure to be stupid. You see I am not one of those fine travelled fellows – the swallows and the martins, and all the rest of them – who spend the winter in the south and know such a lot of the world. I’m only a home bird. Here I was hatched and here I have lived, and mean to live till I die. It’s quite true that my story is a very stupid one. I’ve made no fine acquaintances such as kings and queens and princesses, and I’ve never visited at court, north or south either, so you know what you have to expect.”

He seemed rather depressed, but less offended than he had been.

“Please begin,” said Rafe. “I’m sure we shall like your story. We don’t want always to hear the same kind.” The robin cleared his throat.

“Such as it is,” he began, “I can vouch for the truth of it, as it happened to be my own self. I didn’t ‘have it’ from any one else. And in my own mind I have given it the name of ‘The Christmas Surprise.’”

And after he had cleared his throat again for the last time, he went straight on.

“I have often noticed,” he began, “that whatever we have not got, whatever is not ours or with us at the present moment, is the thing we prize the most. This applies both to birds and human beings, and it is often the case about the seasons of the year. There is a great charm about absence. In the winter we are always looking forward to the spring and the summer; in the hot summer we think of the cool shady days of autumn, of the cheerful fires and merry doings that come with Christmas. I am speaking especially of men and women and children just now, but there is a good deal of the same kind of thing among us birds, though you mightn’t think it. And of all birds, I think we robins have the most sympathy with human folk. We really love Christmas time; it is gratifying to know how much we are thought of at that season – how our portraits are sent about by one friend to another, how our figures are placed on your Christmas trees, and how every one thinks of us with kindness. And except by very thoughtless people we are generally cared for well. During a hard winter it is seldom that our wants are forgotten. I myself,” and here he plumed himself importantly, “I myself have been most fortunate in this respect. There are at least a dozen houses within easy flight of Ladywood where I am always sure of a good breakfast of crumbs.”

“But,” began Alix, rather timidly, “please don’t mind my interrupting you, but doesn’t Mrs Caretaker look after you? I thought that was what she was here for, to take care of all the living creatures in this garden.”

“Exactly so, exactly so,” said the robin, hastily, “far be it from me to make any complaint. I would not change my home for the garden of a palace. But, as I have said, I think we robins have much sympathy with your race. Human beings interest me extremely. I like to study their characters. So I go about in my own part of the country a good deal, and thus I know the ways of many of my wingless neighbours pretty intimately. Thus comes it that I have stories to tell, all from my own observation, you see. Well, as I was remarking, we often love to dwell in fancy on what is not ours at present, so as it is really like a summer day, quite hot for the time of year, I daresay it will amuse you to transport your thoughts to Christmas time. Most of my human stories belong to that season, for it is then we have so much to do with you. The Christmas of which I am going to tell you was what is called an ‘old-fashioned one,’ – though it strikes me that snowy, frosty, very cold Christmases are fast becoming new-fashioned again – ah, it was cold! I was a young bird then; it was my first experience of frost and snow, and in spite of my feathers I did shiver, I can tell you. Still I enjoyed it; I was strong and hearty, and I began to make acquaintance with the houses in the neighbourhood, at several of which one was pretty sure of a breakfast in front of some window.

“There was a very large house which had been shut up for some time, as the owners were abroad. It had a charming terrace in front, and my friends and I often regretted that it was not inhabited. For the terrace faced south and all the sunshine going was sure to be found there, and it would have been a pleasant resort for us. And one morning our wishes were fulfilled. I met a cousin of mine flying off in great excitement.

”‘The Manor House is open again,’ he told me. ‘Come quickly. Through the windows on to the terrace, fires are to be seen in all the rooms, and they are evidently preparing for a merry Christmas. No doubt they will not forget us, but it is as well to remind them that we should be glad of some crumbs.’

“I flew off with him, and found it just as he had said. The house had quite a different appearance; it looked bright and cheery, and in one room a large party was assembled at breakfast. We – for several of us were there – hopped up and down the terrace for some little time, but no notice was taken of us. So one by one my companions flew away, remarking that it was no use wasting their time; they would look in again some other day when perhaps the new-comers would have thought of them. But I remained behind; I was not very busy, being a young bird, and I felt a wish to see something of the family who had been so long absent, for I am of what some people call a ‘curious’ disposition; I myself should rather describe it as observant and thoughtful.

“I perched close beside the dining-room window and peeped in. There were several grown-up people, but only two children; two little girls, very prettily dressed, but thin and pale, and with a somewhat discontented expression of face. After a while, when the meal was over and all had risen from the table, the children came to the window with a young lady and stood looking out.

“Oh, how cold it is,” said one of them shivering, “I wish papa and mamma had not come back to England. I liked India much better.”

“So did I,” said the other little girl. “I don’t want to go a walk when it’s so cold. Need we go, Miss Meadows? And yet I don’t know what to do in the house. I’m tired of all our toys. We shall have new ones next week when Christmas Day comes; that’s a good thing.”

The young lady they called Miss Meadows looked rather troubled. In her heart she thought the children had far too many toys already, and she felt sure they would get tired of the new ones before they had had them long.

“I don’t care much for Christmas except for the toys,” said the first little girl. “Do you, Miss Meadows?”

“Yes, indeed I do, Norna dear,” she said. “And I think in your heart you really care for it too – and Ivy also. You both know why it should be so cared for.”

“Oh, yes; in that sort of a way, I know it would be naughty not to care for it,” said Norna, looking a little ashamed. “But it’s different when you’ve lived in England, I suppose. Mamma has told us stories of Christmas when she was little, that sounded very nice – all about carols, and lots of cousins playing together, and presents, and school feasts. But we haven’t any cousins to play with. Had you, Miss Meadows, at your own home?”

Miss Meadows’ eyes looked rather odd for a moment. She turned away for half an instant and then she seemed all right again.

“I had lots of brothers and sisters,” she said, “and that’s even better than cousins.”

It was her first Christmas away from home, and she had only been a few days with Norna and Ivy.

“I wish we had!” sighed Norna, who always wanted what she had not got.

“But surely there are some things you can have that would cheer you up,” said Miss Meadows. “Perhaps it is too soon to settle about school feasts just yet, but have you no presents to get ready for any one?”

“No,” sighed Ivy. “Mamma has everything she wants; and so have we. It’s rubbish giving each other presents just to say they’re presents.”

“Yes,” said Miss Meadows. “I think it is. But – ”

She said no more, for just then Ivy touched her, and whispered softly, —

“I do believe there’s a real little robin redbreast. Don’t let’s frighten him away.”

The child’s eyes sparkled with pleasure; she looked quite different.

“It’s the first real one we’ve ever seen,” said she and Norna together.

“Poor little man!” said their governess; “he must be hungry to be so tame. Let us throw crumbs every morning, children. I am sure your mamma won’t mind. This terrace is a splendid place.”

The idea pleased them mightily. I hid myself in the ivy for a few moments, and when I came out again, there was a delightful spread all ready. So I flew down and began to profit by it, expressing my thanks, of course, in a well-bred manner. The window was still open, and I heard some words that Miss Meadows murmured to herself:

“I wish I could find out some little service for others that they could do, even this first Christmas,” she said.

“They would be so much happier, poor little things! Dear robin, I am even grateful to you for making me think of throwing out crumbs.”

She looked so sweet that my heart warmed to her, and I wished I could help her. And at that moment an idea struck me. You will soon hear what it was.

I had another visit to pay that morning; indeed I had been on my way to do so when the exciting news about the Manor House attracted me thither. But now I flew off, to the little home where I was always welcome. It was a very small cottage at the outskirts of the same village of which the home of the newly-returned family was the great house. In this cottage lived a couple and their two children – a boy and a girl. They had always been poor, but striving and thrifty, so that the little place looked bright and comfortable though so bare, and the children tidy and rosy. But now, alas! things had changed for the worse. A bad accident to the father, who was a woodcutter, had entirely crippled him; and though some help was given them, it was all the poor mother could do to keep out of the workhouse. I made a point of visiting the cottage every day; it cheered them up, and there were generally some crumbs for me. But this morning – not that it mattered to me after my good breakfast at the Manor House – there were none; and as I alighted on the sill of the little kitchen and looked in, everything was dull and cheerless. No fire was lighted; the two children, Jem and Joyce, sat crouched together on the settle by the empty grate as if to gain a little warmth from each other. They looked blue and pinched, and scarcely awake; but when they saw me at the window they brightened up a little.

“There’s robin,” said Joyce. “Poor robin! we’ve nothing for you this morning.”

A small pane was broken in the window and pasted over with paper, but a corner was torn, and so I could hear what they said.

“No indeed,” said Jem; “we’ve had nothing ourselves – not since yesterday at dinner time. And it is so cold.”

I stood still on one leg, and chirped that I was very sorry. I think they understood me.

“Mother’s gone to Farmer Bantry’s,” said Joyce, as if she was glad to have some one – “even a bird,” some folk who know precious little about us would say – to tell her troubles to. “They’re cleanin’ up for Christmas, and she’ll get a shilling and maybe some broken victuals, she said. So we’re tryin’ to go to sleep again to make the time pass.”

“There was two sixpences yesterday,” said Jem, mournfully; “and one would ’a got some coal, and t’other some bread and tea. But the doctor said as father must have somefin’ – ” (Jem was only five and Joyce eight) – “queer stuff – I forget the name – to wunst. So mother she went to the shop, and father’s got the stuff, and he’s asleep; but we’ve not had nuffin’.”

“And Christmas is coming next week, mother says,” Joyce added. “Last Christmas we had new shoes, and meat for dinner.”

I was sadly grieved for them. Joyce spoke in a dull, broken sort of tone that did not sound like a child. But I hoped to serve them better than by standing there repeating my regret; so, after a few more chirps of sympathy, I flew off.

“Robin doesn’t care to stay,” said Jem, dolefully.

Later in the day I met the children’s mother trudging home. She looked tired; but she had a basket on her arm, so I hoped the farmer’s wife had given them some scraps which would help them for the time.

Now I had a plan in my head. Late that afternoon, after flying all round the Manor House and peeping in at a great many windows, I perched in the ivy – there was ivy over a great part of the walls – just outside one on the first floor. It was the children’s bedroom. I waited anxiously, afraid that I might have no chance of getting in; but fortunately for me the fire smoked a little when it was lighted in the evening for the young ladies to be dressed by, and the nurse opened the window a tiny bit, so in I flew, very careful not to be seen, you may be sure. I found a very cosy corner on the edge of a picture in a dark part of the room, and there I had time for a nap before Norna and Ivy came to bed. Then when all was silent for the night, I flew down and took up my quarters on the rail at the head of Norna’s bed; and when I had spent an hour or so beside her, I gently fluttered across to her sister; and though I was chirping nearly all the time, my voice was so low that no one entering the room would have noticed it; or if they had done so, they would probably have thought it a drowsy cricket, half aroused by the pleasant warmth of the fire.

But my chirping did more than soothe my little friends’ slumbers (and here the robin cocked his head afresh and looked very solemn). Children (he said), human beings know very little about themselves. You don’t know, for instance, anything at all about yourselves when you’re asleep, or what dreams really are. You speak of being “sleepy,” or half-asleep, as if it meant something very stupid; whereas, sometimes when you are whole asleep, you are much wiser than when you are awake. Now it is not my business to teach you things you’re perhaps not meant to understand at present, but this I can tell you – if I perched on your pillows at night when you’re asleep, and chirped in my own way to you, you’d have no difficulty in understanding me. And this was what happened to the two little maidens a few nights before their first Christmas in England. They thought they had had a wonderful dream – each of them separately, and they never knew that the robin who flew out of the window early in the morning before any one noticed him, had had anything to do with it.

I (for it was I myself, of course) perched again in the ivy beside the dining-room window, partly, I allow, with a view to breakfast; partly and principally to see what would happen.

They did not forget me – us, perhaps I should say, for several other birds collected on the terrace, thanks to the news I had scattered about – and as soon as those within had risen from table, Miss Meadows and her two little companions came to the window, which they opened, and threw out a splendid plateful of crumbs. It was not so cold this morning. I hopped close to them, for I wanted to hear what they were saying as they stood by the open window-door, all the grown-up people having left the room.

The pale little faces looked bright and eager, and very full of something their owners were relating.

“Yes, Miss Meadows; it was quite wonderful. Ivy dreamed it, and I dreamed it. I believe it was a fairy dream.”

“And please do let us try to find out if there are any poor children like that near here,” said Ivy. “I don’t think there could be; do you, Miss Meadows?”

Miss Meadows shook her head.

“I’m afraid, dear, it is not uncommon in either town or country to find children quite as poor as those you dreamt of. But when we go out a walk to-day, we’ll try and inquire a little. It would be nice if you could do something for other people even this first Christmas in England.”

She looked quite bright and eager herself; and as the three started off down the drive about an hour later, on their way to the village, I noticed that they were all talking eagerly, and that Norna and Ivy were giving little springs as they walked along one on each side of their kind governess; and I must confess I felt pleased to think I had had some hand in this improvement.

Miss Meadows had lived most of her life in the country, and she was accustomed to country ways. So she meant to go to the village, and there try to pick up a little information about any of the families who might be very poor this Christmas time. But I had no intention of letting them go so far – no indeed – I knew what I was about.

The cottage of my little friends, Joyce and Jem, was about half-way between the Manor House and the village, and the village was a good mile from the great house. A lane led from the high road to the cottage. Just as the three reached the corner of the lane, Ivy gave a little cry.

“Miss Meadows, Norna,” she said, “there is the robin. I’m sure it’s our robin. Don’t you think it is, Miss Meadows?”

The governess smiled.

“There are a great many robins, Ivy dear. It’s not very likely it’s the same one. We human beings are too stupid to tell the difference between birds of the same kind, you see.”

But, as you know, Ivy was right.

“Do let’s follow him a little way down the lane,” she said. “He keeps hopping on and then looking back at us. I wonder if his home is down here.”

No, it was not my home, but it was my little friends’ home; and soon I managed to bring the little party to a standstill before the cottage gate, where I had perched.

“What a nice cottage,” said Norna; and so it looked at the first glance. But in a moment or two she added: “Oh, do look at that little girl; how very thin and pale she is!”

It was Joyce. Miss Meadows called to her; and in her kind way soon got the little girl to tell her something of their troubles. Things were even worse with them to-day; for Jem’s feet were so bad with chilblains that he could not get about at all. The governess satisfied herself that there was no illness in the cottage that could hurt Norna and Ivy, and then they all went in to see poor Jem; and Miss Meadows went upstairs to speak to the bedridden father. When she came down again her face looked very sad, but bright too.

“Children,” she said, as soon as they were out on the road again, “I don’t think we need go on to the village. We have found what we were looking for.”

Then she went on to tell them that she had left a message with the woodcutter, asking his wife to come up to speak to her that evening at the Manor House.

“I know your mamma won’t mind,” she said. “I will tell her all about it as soon as we get home. She will like you to try to do something for these poor children,” – which was quite true. The lady of the Manor was kind and gentle; only, you see, many years in India had got her out of English ways.

So that evening, when the woodcutter’s wife came up to the great house, there was a grand consultation. And for some days to come, for Christmas was very near, Ivy and Norna were so busy that they had no time to grumble at the cold or to wish they were back in India, though they did find time to skip and dance along the passages, and to sing verses of the carols Miss Meadows was teaching them.

Things improved at the cottage from that day. But it is about Christmas morning I want to tell you.

Joyce and Jem woke early – long before it was light – but they lay still and spoke in a whisper, not to wake their poor father or their tired mother. There was no one to hear except a little robin, who had managed to creep in the night before.

“It’s Christmas, Jem,” said Joyce; “and we shall have a nice fire. They’ve sent mother some coals from the great house; and I believe we’re going to have meat for dinner.”

Jem sighed with pleasure. He could scarcely believe it.

“Shall we go to church like last Christmas, Joyce?” he asked. “My boots is so drefful bad, I don’t know as I could walk in them.”

“So’s mine,” said Joyce. “But p’r’aps if the roads is very dry, we might manage.”

And so they chattered, till at last the first rays of winter daylight began to find their way into the little room. The children looked about them – somehow they had a feeling that things could not look quite the same on Christmas morning! But what they did see was something very wonderful. On the floor near the window were two very big brown paper parcels; and Joyce jumping out of bed to see what they were, saw that to each was pinned a card; and on one card was written, “Joyce,” on the other, “Jem.”

“Jem,” she cried, “it must be fairies,” and with trembling fingers they undid the packages.

It is difficult to tell you their delight!

There was a new frock of warm linsey for Joyce, and a suit of corduroy for Jem, boots for both – stockings and socks – two splendid red comforters, one knitted by Ivy and one by Norna; a picture book for each, a bag of oranges, and a beautiful home-made cake.

Never were children so wild with joy; never had there been such a Christmas surprise.

I was so pleased that I could not remain hidden any longer. Out I came, and perching on the window-sill, warbled a Christmas carol in my own way. And I must say children are very quick.

“Dear robin,” said Joyce; “do you know, Jem, I do believe he’s a fairy! I shouldn’t wonder if he’d somehow told the kind little young ladies to come and see us.”

There was a pause. Rafe and Alix waited a moment to make sure that the robin had quite finished; then they looked up. He was not in such a hurry to fly off as the other bird had been.

“Thank you very much, dear robin,” they said. “It is a very pretty story indeed; and then it’s so nice to know it’s quite true.”

The robin looked pleased.

“Yes,” he said, “there’s that to be said for it. It’s a very simple, homely story; but it’s my own experience. But now I think I must bid you good-bye for the present, though there’s no saying but what we may meet again.” He flew off.

“Rafe,” said Alix, “besides all the things mamma does and lets us help in sometimes for the poor people, wouldn’t it be nice if we found some children we could do things for, more our own selves, you know?”

“Yes,” Rafe agreed, “I think it would be.”