Uncle Joe's Stories

Sometimes these rambles had extended far into the forest where the adventures which I have been relating had befallen Evelyn; and during these wanderings she had often talked to her brother upon her favourite subject, and told him strange legends of fairies and goblins, at which he had always laughed heartily.

He had no great belief in such things himself, he used to say. Perhaps his head was too full of Latin or Greek, or perhaps he had not turned his attention sufficiently to fairy-land stories; but anyhow, he listened to his sister without being convinced by what she said, and she had more than once been rather vexed at his want of faith.

Now it so happened that Philip came home for his summer holidays the very day after his sister's disappearance. Great was his consternation, as you may suppose, at finding what had happened, and no less was his sorrow at the loss of his favourite companion.

He arrived in the morning, and was so overcome by the news that he was only able to gulp down two plates full of cold beef, some apple tart and custard, a little bread and cheese, and a couple of glasses of beer, at the family luncheon.

After this he went out on the lawn, and thought deeply over the business; but without being able to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion.

Whilst he stood and thought, Pincher came running up to him, and began to jump upon him with great manifestations of delight. Philip caressed him, and as he did so, remarked to himself half aloud:

"Pincher, old boy, why should not you and I have a ramble in the wood?"

As he spoke, the thought came into his heart that there was someone else besides Pincher with whom he used to ramble, and a sigh broke involuntarily from him as he remembered that he had no other companion now than his faithful dog.

He took a stick in his hand, sauntered over the lawn, through the little gate at the end of the meadow, and into the big wood away among the trees, where he and Evelyn had so often roamed together.

He strolled lazily along, and happened, strangely enough, to take the very same line which his sister had taken the day before.

Presently Pincher started a rabbit, and, according to the invariable practice of terriers, rushed after it as fast as he could; whilst the rabbit, also following the custom of its race, fled before him at the top of its speed, taking the direction straight as a line towards the fairy glade.

Philip gave a shout, and dashed after his dog without hesitation, although he had no expectation either that he would come up with Pincher, or Pincher with the rabbit. But before he had gone many yards, he knew, by unfailing evidence, that the chase had come to an end. Pincher had stopped, probably at the hole into which the rabbit had made its escape, and was no longer yelping as he had continually done during the pursuit, but, as the boy thought most likely, scratching furiously at the hole. Philip pushed his way forward as well as he could, and called to his dog, who presently responded by a bark, the sound of which enabled his master to discover where he was. It was near the roots of a large tree, surrounded by fern and brushwood; and Pincher was running round and round this tree, and then darting off into the fern, and as quickly coming back again, as if something had puzzled him completely and he was anxious to have it set right as soon as possible.

The boy stood still for a moment, looked first one way and then another, but could see nothing. Of course the truth was that the fairies were there, and Pincher knew it, but had no means of letting his master know, for he did not happen to understand English or French, and even in Dog Latin would have made but a poor hand in conversing with human beings. But animals, as is well known, can often see fairies and such creatures when they are invisible to human eye; and I suppose that Pincher very likely had not only discovered the elves, but had been surprised and utterly disconcerted by perceiving that his master's sister, his own little friend and kind mistress, was amongst them.

I do not say for certain that he discovered this; but dogs of the terrier kind, especially when well-bred as Pincher was, are very keen scented, and could probably smell out their master or mistress even if disguised ten times over as a goblin or fairy. So as the dog chanced to have stumbled upon the very spot where the fairies were all sleeping, it is only natural to suppose from his behaviour that he not only saw the little creatures, but recognised Evelyn.

The fairies, for their part, were nearly as much disconcerted as the dog, for they had expected no visitor, and had not intended to wake up and move for two or three hours more at least. They knew that neither dog nor boy could hurt them, of course; but still they were hastily roused from their sleep, and I dare say that their movements, running to and fro to hide themselves wherever they could, considerably added to the confusion of the dog.

Philip of course saw nothing at all, for it is a very unusual circumstance for fairies to allow themselves to be seen by any one who has not implicit faith in their existence and power. So he called Pincher to come away, and would presently have quitted the glade altogether without ever knowing how close he had been to his lost sister. But, for the first and only time in his life, Pincher seemed inclined to disobey his master. He ran round the tree again, whined, sat up on his hind quarters, chattering his teeth and half howling, as if he saw a polecat or stoat or squirrel in the top branches of the old pollard, and waited to be put up the tree so as to have a chance of getting at it.

Philip thought that this must certainly be the case, and, changing his mind about leaving the place, turned round and again approached the tree. As he did so, to his intense astonishment he heard a voice behind him, which certainly, and beyond all doubt, called him by his name. He turned sharply round, and to his great surprise could see no one at all. At the same time a voice again called him from the other side, and with precisely the same result. This went on for several moments. His name seemed to be called at intervals from every side, and wherever he turned, the voice or voices were always behind him. Profoundly puzzled, and rather vexed by this extraordinary incident, the boy was at a loss to know what to do, and at last exclaimed:

"By Jingo, this is a queer thing!"

Hardly had he uttered these words, when a chorus of laughter burst upon his astonished ears; and to his unutterable astonishment he heard a number of voices singing, to a tune he well knew, the following words:

"We don't want to hide; but by Jingo, if we do,We've got the fern – we've got the trees —We've got the brambles too."

And again loud laughter ran through the forest, whilst Pincher danced round the old pollard more frantically than ever.

Philip stood rooted to the ground with surprise, when a sound, somewhat different from the rest, attracted his attention; and looking round he perceived a large white owl attentively regarding him with her eyes wide open. As soon as she saw that he was aware of her presence, the owl gravely bowed her head three times, and then began to speak in a voice so exactly like that of a human being, that you would not have known the difference, unless you had actually seen her in her feathers, and been assured by the evidence of your own eyesight that she was a veritable bird. And these were the words that fell upon the ears of her astonished listener: —

"In every glade of forest lone,Some mystic word of might is known,Which, once pronounced, to mortals' eyesGives sight they have not otherwise;Gives mortal ears a hearing newOf things much disbelieved – yet true;And suffers mortal hand to traceThe circle of the magic space.Boy! list – thou hast obtained this aid."By Jingo" – motto of our glade —Converts all here to friends from foes,And bids all secrets to disclose.Break branch from tree where thou dost stand,'Twill serve thee for a magic wand;Around thee then a circle traceWithin this same enchanted place;Then wish a wish, and speak the word —'Tis granted ere thy voice be heard;And thou shall rule like any kingWithin the sacred Fairy Ring."

Philip listened with great attention to the observations of the owl, which appeared to him to be exceedingly clear and distinct, although the circumstances under which they were made were singular, and the quarter from which they came unexpected. He felt, however, that he was "in for the thing," as he afterwards expressed it, and that he had better comply with the directions of the worthy bird. He therefore stretched out his hand and broke off a branch from the nearest tree, which happened to be hazel. He then sharpened the end of the branch, and drew with it a circle, in the midst of which he remained standing.

Now, of course, the correct and proper thing for the boy to have done would have been to have immediately pronounced the magic words; wished for his sister back at the same moment; for her then to have appeared and thrown herself into his arms, and for the story to have thus ended in a comfortable, good, old-fashioned way, which would have been eminently satisfactory to all parties concerned. Why should not I make this happen? Well, I really would if I could, but you must remember that all these stories are as true as the histories of "Don Quixote," "Baron Munchausen," "Gulliver's Travels," and all those other histories, upon the veracious nature of which no sensible person has ever entertained a doubt. So you will see at once that I cannot, as a fair and true historian, invent anything, even for the purpose of pleasing my beloved readers, but must go on perforce and relate the facts as they really occurred.

Philip was doubtless very fond of his sister, and if it had been put to him by anyone at the moment that the above course was that which he ought to pursue, I am sure that he would have done so without the slightest hesitation. But as nobody did tell him, and the owl (probably because it was not her business to do so) made no such suggestion, I regret to say that, for the instant, Philip followed another line of thought, and when he again pronounced the mystic words, "By Jingo," he wished – not that his sister might instantly appear, but – that he might understand what was the nature of the strange place in which he seemed to be, and the meaning of all that had occurred. You will see at once that this was rather a different thing from wishing for his sister; and the reason of his not doing so probably was that, in the hurry and surprise of the whole affair, he did not connect it with her disappearance. So, as I say, he wished that he might be able to understand the mysteries of the place.

As soon as ever he had formed this wish, the fairies of course became visible to the boy. They came out on all sides, just as they had come when they had disclosed themselves to Evelyn. They peered from strange corners and holes, they darted quickly from spot to spot, and abandoned altogether the rest and sleep from which the coming of the boy had disturbed them.

Soon, however, their proceedings acquired greater regularity. I suppose it was in consequence of his standing in the magic ring, or perhaps it might have been by the mere virtue of the mystic words which he had pronounced; but for some reason or other the fairies had no power over him as they had had over his sister. More than this, they seemed to have been constrained by some one of those mysterious rules which obtain in Fairy-land to pay him some kind of respect and homage.

They linked hand in hand, and whilst Philip looked on in the greatest astonishment, they formed in a circle round the space in which he stood, and danced merrily round him for at least a couple of minutes. Then they stopped, and whilst all the rest fell back into the fern and brushwood behind, the queen remained, and after a short pause, addressed the boy as follows: —

"Possessor of the magic wordsWhich here control both fays and birds:What would'st thou in this glade to-day,That we can give thee – if we may?"

Now Philip was not much of a hand at rhyming: to tell the truth, he disliked all poetry particularly, from Dr. Watts' hymns up to the Latin verses he had to do at school. For an instant he doubted whether, in spite of this, he was not bound to make some reply in rhyme, as well as he could manage it, having been addressed in this manner by the lady before him. However, on second thoughts, it appeared to him that probably this was needless, as he had accidentally acquired a position which was evidently one of authority. Therefore he replied in the way ordinarily employed among mortals, that is, in prose; and, having now remembered the main object of his expedition into the wood, he thus replied: —

"Madam, I want my sister Evelyn. I cannot tell whether or no you can help me in the matter, but my sister has disappeared and I am looking for her everywhere."

The fairy bowed with grave courtesy when Philip had spoken thus, and then answered him at once, —

"Those who invade our magic bower,And hold – and speak – the words of power,Have their first wish – and thou hast prayedTo know the nature of the glade.If thou had'st wished thy sister free,It had not been denied to thee;And she no longer might have beenThe subject of the Fairy Queen.But we small children of the moonAre bound to grant no second boon;And if thou would'st regain the lost,Thou now wilt have to count the cost!Reseek thine home – for one whole dayNo single word to mortal say:And by no sign or look or sighPermit them to discover why!For that same time be only fedWith crystal water and with bread,Then, at the rising of the moon,Come here and ask the second boon!"

She spoke; and, even as she ended, her little form appeared to grow fainter and less perceptible to Philip's eyes, and at last faded away altogether. He stood at first amazed, and then wrapped in deep thought. It was evident, from what the fairy had said, that she not only knew what had become of Evelyn, but had the power to restore her.

It seemed a very wonderful thing, but he could not disbelieve the evidence of his own senses, which had assured him of the presence of fairies; and if they could be present, as he had seen and heard them, they might certainly possess power of which he had previously had no idea. There was no doubt in his mind that, if he could only carry out the directions which the Fairy Queen had given, he would stand a very good chance of recovering his sister. It was true that there might be some difficulty in not speaking to anybody for a whole day, especially as no one would understand or guess the reason, and there would also be required a certain amount of self-denial – especially in the case of a schoolboy just come home for the holidays – in restricting himself to the homely diet of bread and water. However, then and there he made up his mind to try his best, and all the more so as he could not but feel that he had been somewhat thoughtless and negligent of Evelyn's interests in not having made her the subject of his first wish.

Pincher now showed as much eagerness to leave the spot as he had previously evinced to keep to the tree. I forgot to mention that he had crept to his master's side within the magic circle just as the fairies appeared. Probably, being a sagacious dog, he knew that if he remained outside it, he might be changed into a rat or a hedgehog, or something unpleasant, and so made sure of his safety from such a fate. Now, however, he seemed actuated by one sole desire, namely, that of leaving the place; and, as his young master was entirely of the same opinion, they made no longer stay.

Philip walked back through the wood the same way that he had come, regained the shrubberies, walked up the lawn and re-entered the house. There he was at once encountered by his mother, who accosted him with affectionate words, and eagerly asked him if he had heard any news of his sister. When the boy for reply merely placed one finger upon his mouth and said nothing, the good lady seemed, and doubtless was, rather astonished.

"My darling boy," she said, "what is the matter? Why don't you speak? Are you hurt? Have you any pain anywhere?" And withal she poured upon him such a torrent of questions that Philip did not know what to do. Still, however, he persevered in his silence, although it was very hard to do so when his mother kissed him and spoke so kindly to him all the while. He could hardly bear it, so broke hastily from her, and ran up to his own room, pushing almost rudely past Mrs. Trimmer, who met him on the stairs and was quite ready for a chat.

When he got to his room he threw himself into a chair, and pondered over all the strange events of that afternoon, which seemed to him beyond belief, only that, as they had actually taken place under his own eyes, he could not help believing them. Whilst thus engaged, the dressing-bell rang, and the servant brought up some warm water and put out his evening clothes.

"What time shall I call you to-morrow morning, master Philip?" asked the man, and was exceedingly surprised to find that the young gentleman made no reply whatever. He repeated the question with the same result, and then, supposing that Philip must have some unknown reason for his conduct, left the room without further remark.

The boy proceeded to dress and, at the proper time, descended to the drawing-room, where his father and mother already were. They were both in a melancholy frame of mind, as may well be supposed, for no tidings had been heard of their daughter, and they could not but fear that she was lost to them for ever. Philip walked stealthily into the room, in the direst perplexity how he should be able to avoid speaking.

"Well, my dear boy," began his mother directly, "have you found your tongue yet?"

The boy made no reply, upon which his father joined in.

"Philip, my boy, why do not you answer your mother?"

Still no word came from Philip, and his father, who was accustomed to be treated with respect and obedience, grew angry at his continued silence.

"Why don't you speak, boy?" he asked again. "Your mother and I are in trouble enough to-day without your adding to it by any childish folly of this kind. I should have thought you would have felt the same as we do."

Still the poor boy spoke not a word, which made his father still more angry.

"Have you got no tongue in your head, sir?" he cried, and laid his hand upon Philip's shoulder somewhat roughly.

But the mother here interposed.

"Don't scold him, James," she said. "Don't be cross with the boy – remember he is the only child we have left now," and she burst into tears.

In soothing her the husband forgot the boy, or perhaps found it more convenient to say nothing further at the moment. They went into dinner, and were astonished to see Philip shake his head when the servants offered him soup, fish, and roast veal (of which he was particularly fond) and content himself with eating his bread and drinking a glass of water. They began to think that their son must be ill; but it was in vain that they questioned him. He only put his finger over his mouth and resolutely declined to speak. Then his father expressed his fear that something or other must have frightened or hurt him in such a manner as to have affected his brain, and, at length, he determined to send for the doctor, who lived about three miles off, in the nearest town. Still Philip remained silent, and the strangeness of the occurrence was so far useful to his parents as that it, in some measure, turned the current of their thoughts from the great sorrow in which they had previously been absorbed.

As soon as the doctor came he performed the usual mysteries of his profession. He looked at Philip's tongue and said it was not unhealthy. He felt his pulse and declared there was no fever, and he finally pronounced that his indisposition – for such he termed it – though Philip was never better in his life, proceeded from some temporary disarrangement of the nervous system, which he had no doubt of being able to treat with success. He prescribed two pills to be taken at night, and a draught (the colour of which was the only pleasant thing about it) in the morning, and left the patient with a promise to return next day. During the whole of his visit, however, not one syllable did he get out of Philip, which, as he prided himself upon his conversational powers, and the successful manner in which he always got on, especially with young people, rather annoyed him.

When Doctor Pillgiver had gone, the parents, somewhat relieved by his report, strove again to persuade their son to resume his natural habits of conversation, for Philip was a boy neither sullen nor shy, but one that generally talked freely, and had plenty to say for himself. As, however, he entirely declined to say anything, his father at last got angry, and, telling him that he feared he was giving way to an obstinacy which, unless conquered, would prove his ruin, sent him upstairs to bed.

Poor Philip was really rejoiced at this, for he was not likely to have any mortal to speak to before morning. But his tender mother, unhappy at the thought that her boy might be ill, and thinking that he might repent of his silence after he had left her and his father, came to his bedside to see him the last thing before she herself retired. This was hard to bear, for to refuse the last kiss and "good-night" to one's mother is difficult indeed. Philip felt this, but he also felt that everything probably depended upon his obeying the conditions of the fairy queen, so the rogue pretended to be asleep, and said nothing, even when the dear mother softly kissed his forehead and invoked a blessing upon her beloved son.

All that night the boy could scarcely sleep for thinking over the extraordinary things that had happened. He tossed uneasily to and fro, then got up and drank some water, then laid down in one particular position, and determined to remain just so until he did get to sleep – then changed his mind and turned quite round to try another position, and altogether managed to have such a restless and uncomfortable night as seldom falls to the share of a boy of his age and good health.

At last morning came, and Thomas, the footman, called him as usual, wondering again that his young master never wished him "good morning," or asked him if it was a fine day, as he almost always did. Philip dressed and came down to prayers and breakfast, according to his father's rule, or otherwise he would have slipped out of the house and kept away all day, until the time of his silence should be past. It was a great trial to him that morning, for his parents were both evidently vexed with him, and could not understand the meaning of his silence.

His father spoke so sharply to him that the tears came into his eyes, but his mother again interceded for him, and as soon as breakfast was over he stole away to take refuge in the garden.

Here again he had difficulties to encounter, for the gardener came to ask him some question about the rolling of the cricket-ground, about which Philip was always very anxious, and it was exceedingly tiresome not to be able to answer him, especially as this was the head gardener, and anyone who has ever had anything to do with such people, knows that they are personages of dignity and position, with whom it is never safe to trifle. So the boy knew that he ran no small chance of having his cricket-ground altogether neglected if he offended Mr. Collyflower, and would not have run the risk on any account, had not the recovery of his sister been of paramount importance.

Next he sauntered into the park, where the gamekeeper presently appeared to take his wishes as to a hawk's nest which he had found, and the eggs of which he thought he could get, if so be that Master Philip would fancy to have them.

It seemed both uncivil and ungrateful to give no answer, but he felt the whole weight of his responsibility and said never a word. But his worst trial was yet to come.

Flora Malcolm, a young lady who lived near, and of whom Philip was particularly fond, rode over to luncheon that day, and wanted him to ride part of the way back with her. She was astonished at his silence and at his diet at luncheon, and rallied him considerably upon both. Yet the boy held his tongue.

Most fortunately for him, his father had again gone off to renew his search after the lost girl, for had he been at luncheon, I think it more than probable that he would have resorted to some of those paternal remedies for filial disobedience which would have rendered poor Philip extremely uncomfortable, even if it had not ended in his disobeying the injunction of the fairy queen, and so losing Evelyn for ever.