THE GOSSIP

He slept long and deeply, for when he woke he felt rested. But he did not open his eyes. “It must be time for Mrs. Freg to shake me,” he was thinking. “Until she does I’ll just stay as I am and pretend it wasn’t a dream, but real.” For although he remembered very well all that had happened to him yesterday, he could not believe it was true.

So he lay still in his snug bed, wondering that Mrs. Freg’s boys had left him so much of the bed-clothes. “How fine to have a little time to pretend a dream!” he said to himself. But Mrs. Freg did not come and did not come, until at last he opened his eyes, just in wonderment. “It must be six o’clock!”

When he saw where he was, and that the dream was true, his heart almost stood still for joy. He was indeed far away in the woods, safe and snug and warm in this bright house, and Mrs. Freg could never reach him here. And he would not go to the canning factory that day, nor the next, nor the next, nor ever again. The new mother had said so. His happiness brought him up in bed wide awake, and then he got out. He had not learned to bound out yet, but that came.

The fire was burning merrily. All was in order, the beds made and pushed back against the wall, the hearth swept, and some clusters of bright red berries arranged above the fireplace. But where were Ivra and Helma? Ivra had called her mother “Helma” last night, and so it was that Eric already called her and thought of her. There was not the tiniest sign of them.

Oh, but yes. There on the floor near the hearth lay a little brown sandal, one of its strings pulled out and making a curlycue on the floor. That must belong to Ivra. The fire, the red berries, and the little, worn sandal, seemed to be wishing Eric a good morning and a happy day. There was plenty of mush in the pot swinging over the fire, and on the table drawn up to it, a wooden spoon, a bowl, and a jug of rich cream. So they had not forgotten him. They had only let him sleep as long as he would. They must have stolen about like mice, getting breakfast, clearing up, and tidying the room; and then closed the door very softly behind them when they went out.

And wonder of wonders! After yesterday’s Indian Summer, outside it was a wild winter day. Gusts of snow were hurling against all the windows of the house, and blowing a fine spray under the door. Eric with his face against a windowpane could see only as far as the evergreen hedge because the trees beyond were wreathed in whirling snowclouds. The dead flowers in the garden were hidden under the blowing snow. The little straight walk up to the door was lost in it, and the footprints Ivra and Helma must have made when they went away were hidden too.

Something red blew against the hedge. For a minute Eric thought it was a big bird. But it found the opening and came through, and then he saw it was a little old woman. She came briskly up to the house, a red cape blowing about her, sometimes right up over her head, for because of the jug she was carrying she could not hold it down. She walked in without stopping to knock and was as surprised to see Eric there as he was to see her. But she got over it at once.

“Good morning,” she said cheerfully, going across the room, whisking a pitcher out of the cupboard and emptying her jug of milk into it. “This is the milk for them, and it’s as much as ever that I got here with it. The wind is in a fine mood-pushed me here and there all the way through the wood, and tried to steal my cape from me, say nothing of Helma’s milk! Perhaps some of the Wind Creatures wanted them, or it might be old Tree Man himself, looking for a winter cape for his daughter. But I said, ’No, no. The milk is for Helma and little Ivra! I take it to them every morning and I’ll take it this morning whether or no, so pull all you like cape or milk you’ll not get. The cape has a good clasp, and I’ve a good hold of the jug. Pull away!”

Here the old woman the pitcher put away, and the cupboard door closed dropped down on the settle and waited for Eric to speak. She was a jolly little old woman, one could see at a glance. Her face was the color of a good red apple, and just as round and shiny. Her eyes were beady black, bright and quick, and surrounded by a hundred finest wrinkles, that all the smiles of her life had made. Her mouth was pursed up like a button, out of which her words came shooting, quick and bright and merry.

Eric stood looking at her, not thinking to say anything. So after the briefest pause she went on, peeping into the pot.

“I see you have some mush here, so as I’ve come all the way from the farm and am ready for a second breakfast after my tussle with the wind, I’ll share it with you. Or perhaps you have had yours already.”

“No, no,” cried Eric, suddenly remembering how hungry he was and hoping she would not take it all. “I have just waked up.”

“So. Then we’ll breakfast together,” and away she flew to the cupboard again and brought out a second bowl and spoon. Then she stirred the mush round and round a few times and dished it up. Eric noticed that she divided it exactly evenly. She flooded both bowls with cream, and together they sat down to it. What a good breakfast that was, and how fast the little old woman talked!

But in spite of all her talking and flying around she had looked Eric up and down and through and through, and made up her mind what kind of a person he was. What she saw was a pale little boy of nine in a ragged shirt and trousers, and barefooted. His hair was shaggy and unbrushed but tossed back from a wide brow. His mouth was sullen. But she forgot all about shabby clothes, unbrushed hair, and sullen mouth when she came to his eyes. They were wide and clear, and returned the old woman’s keen glance with a gaze of steady interest. Sullen and pale, but clear-eyed she liked the little stranger. And so she went on talking.

“I bring them milk every day. It’s a long way here from my farm, but not too far when it’s for them. Helma’s gone into the village, hasn’t she? When I came to Little Pine Hill this morning the snow stopped whirling for a minute, and I caught a glimpse of her a-striding across the fields. It’s a fine way of walking she has like the bravest of Forest People! When I reached the Tree Man’s the wind didn’t stop for me, but I spied that child, Ivra, just where I knew she’d be, racing and chasing and dancing with the Snow Witches out at the edge of the wood. ’It’s a pity she can’t go with her mother,’ I said to myself when I saw her, ’and not be wasting her time like that. The Snow Witches are no good to any one. But ’”

Eric interrupted there, having finished his mush and pricking up his cars at the mention of witches.

“Are they really witches?” he cried. “And have you seen them yourself?”

“What else would they be?” asked the old woman. “They’re the creatures that come out in windy, snowy weather, to dance in the open fields and run along country roads. Ordinary people are afraid of them and stay indoors when they’re about. Their streaming white hair has a way of lashing your face as they rush by, and then they never look where they’re going. They care nothing about running into you and knocking the breath out of you. Then, they’re so cruel to children!”

“But Ivra isn’t afraid of them!” wondered Eric.

“Not she,” said the old woman. “She runs with them instead of away from them. When I saw them back there they had all taken hands and were leaping in a circle around her. She was jumping and dancing in the center as wild and lawless as they, and just as high, too. . . . But it’s a pity she isn’t with her mother all the same, going on decent errands in the village. Only of course it’s not her fault, poor child! She daren’t go into the village.”

“Why daren’t she?” asked Eric.

“How dare she?” cried the old woman. “She’d be seen, for she’s only part fairy, of course. But hush, hush!”

She clapped her hands over her mouth. “What am I telling you, one of the secrets of the forest, and you a stranger here? You must forget it all. Ivra’s a good child. Now don’t ask me any more questions, or I might tell you more.”

But Eric had begun to wonder. What did it mean, that Ivra was part fairy? And why wasn’t it safe for her to be seen in the village? And were there really witches, and was she playing with them out there in the wild day?

The old woman was talking on, but he heard no more.

Then the door blew open in a snowy gust of wind, and there stood Helma, the mother, her arms full of bundles, her cheeks ruddy from the wind, and her short hair crisp and blown.