[Illustration: ]

A LITTLE BOY LOST


By W. H. Hudson

Illustrated by A. D. M'Cormick


CONTENTS

_CHAPTER_

I THE HOME ON THE GREAT PLAIN,

II THE SPOONBILL AND THE CLOUD,

III CHASING A FLYING FIGURE,

IV MARTIN IS FOUND BY A DEAF OLD MAN,

V THE PEOPLE OF THE MIRAGE,

VI MARTIN MEETS WITH SAVAGES,

VII ALONE IN THE GREAT FOREST,

VIII THE FLOWER AND THE SERPENT,

IX THE BLACK PEOPLE OF THE SKY,

X A TROOP OF WILD HORSES,

XI THE LADY OF THE HILLS,

XII THE LITTLE PEOPLE UNDERGROUND,

XIII THE GREAT BLUE WATER,

XIV THE WONDERS OF THE HILLS,

XV MARTIN'S EYES ARE OPENED,

XVI THE PEOPLE OF THE MIST,

XVII THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA,

XVIII MARTIN PLAYS WITH THE WAVES,


CHAPTER I


THE HOME ON THE GREAT PLAIN

Some like to be one thing, some another. There is so much to be done,
so many different things to do, so many trades! Shepherds, soldiers,
sailors, ploughmen, carters - one could go on all day naming without
getting to the end of them. For myself, boy and man, I have been
many things, working for a living, and sometimes doing things just
for pleasure; but somehow, whatever I did, it never seemed quite the
right and proper thing to do - it never quite satisfied me. I always
wanted to do something else - I wanted to be a carpenter. It seemed
to me that to stand among wood-shavings and sawdust, making things
at a bench with bright beautiful tools out of nice-smelling wood,
was the cleanest, healthiest, prettiest work that any man can do.
Now all this has nothing, or very little, to do with my story: I
only spoke of it because I had to begin somehow, and it struck me
that I would make a start that way. And for another reason, too.
_His father was a carpenter_. I mean Martin's father - Martin, the
Little Boy Lost. His father's name was John, and he was a very good
man and a good carpenter, and he loved to do his carpentering better
than anything else; in fact as much as I should have loved it if I
had been taught that trade. He lived in a seaside town, named
Southampton, where there is a great harbour, where he saw great
ships coming and going to and from all parts of the world. Now, no
strong, brave man can live in a place like that, seeing the ships
and often talking to the people who voyaged in them about the
distant lands where they had been, without wishing to go and see
those distant countries for himself. When it is winter in England,
and it rains and rains, and the east wind blows, and it is grey and
cold and the trees are bare, who does not think how nice it would be
to fly away like the summer birds to some distant country where the
sky is always blue and the sun shines bright and warm every day? And
so it came to pass that John, at last, when he was an old man, sold
his shop, and went abroad. They went to a country many thousands of
miles away - for you must know that Mrs. John went too; and when the
sea voyage ended, they travelled many days and weeks in a wagon
until they came to the place where they wanted to live; and there,
in that lonely country, they built a house, and made a garden, and
planted an orchard. It was a desert, and they had no neighbours, but
they were happy enough because they had as much land as they wanted,
and the weather was always bright and beautiful; John, too, had his
carpenter's tools to work with when he felt inclined; and, best of
all, they had little Martin to love and think about.

But how about Martin himself? You might think that with no other
child to prattle to and play with or even to see, it was too lonely
a home for him. Not a bit of it! No child could have been happier.
He did not want for company; his playfellows were the dogs and cats
and chickens, and any creature in and about the house. But most of
all he loved the little shy creatures that lived in the sunshine
among the flowers - the small birds and butterflies, and little
beasties and creeping things he was accustomed to see outside the
gate among the tall, wild sunflowers. There were acres of these
plants, and they were taller than Martin, and covered with flowers
no bigger than marigolds, and here among the sunflowers he used to
spend most of the day, as happy as possible.

He had other amusements too. Whenever John went to his carpenter's
shop - for the old man still dearly loved his carpentering - Martin
would run in to keep him company. One thing he liked to do was to
pick up the longest wood-shavings, to wind them round his neck and
arms and legs, and then he would laugh and dance with delight, happy
as a young Indian in his ornaments.

A wood-shaving may seem a poor plaything to a child with all the
toyshops in London to pick and choose from, but it is really very
curious and pretty. Bright and smooth to the touch, pencilled with
delicate wavy lines, while in its spiral shape it reminds one of
winding plants, and tendrils by means of which vines and creepers
support themselves, and flowers with curling petals, and curled
leaves and sea-shells and many other pretty natural objects.

One day Martin ran into the house looking very flushed and joyous,
holding up his pinafore with something heavy in it.

"What have you got now?" cried his father and mother in a breath,
getting up to peep at his treasure, for Martin was always fetching
in the most curious out-of-the-way things to show them.

"My pretty shaving," said Martin proudly.

[Illustration: ]

When they looked they were amazed and horrified to see a spotted
green snake coiled comfortably up in the pinafore. It didn't appear
to like being looked at by them, for it raised its curious
heart-shaped head and flicked its little red, forked tongue at them.

His mother gave a great scream, and dropped the jug she had in her
hand upon the floor, while John rushed off to get a big stick.
"Drop it, Martin - drop the wicked snake before it stings you, and
I'll soon kill it."

Martin stared, surprised at the fuss they were making; then, still
tightly holding the ends of his pinafore, he turned and ran out of
the room and away as fast as he could go. Away went his father after
him, stick in hand, and out of the gate into the thicket of tall wild
sunflowers where Martin had vanished from sight. After hunting about
for some time, he found the little run-away sitting on the ground
among the weeds.

"Where's the snake?" he cried.

"Gone!" said Martin, waving his little hand around. "I let it go and
you mustn't look for it."

John picked the child up in his arms and marched back to the room
and popped him down on the floor, then gave him a good scolding.
"It's a mercy the poisonous thing didn't sting you," he said.
"You're a naughty little boy to play with snakes, because they're
dangerous bad things, and you die if they bite you. And now you must
go straight to bed; that's the only punishment that has any effect
on such a harebrained little butterfly."

Martin, puckering up his face for a cry, crept away to his little
room. It was very hard to have to go to bed in the daytime when he
was not sleepy, and when the birds and butterflies were out in the
sunshine having such a good time.

"It's not a bit of use scolding him - I found that out long ago,"
said Mrs. John, shaking her head. "Do you know, John, I can't help
thinking sometimes that he's not our child at all."

"Whose child do you think he is, then?" said John, who had a cup of
water in his hand, for the chase after Martin had made him hot, and
he wanted cooling.

"I don't know - but I once had a very curious dream."

"People often do have curious dreams," said wise old John.

"But this was a very curious one, and I remember saying to myself,
if this doesn't mean something that is going to happen, then dreams
don't count for much."

"No more they do," said John.

"It was in England, just when we were getting ready for the voyage,
and it was autumn, when the birds were leaving us. I dreamed that I
went out alone and walked by the sea, and stood watching a great
number of swallows flying by and out over the sea - flying away to
some distant land. By-and-by I noticed one bird coming down lower
and lower as if he wanted to alight, and I watched it, and it came
down straight to me, and at last flew right into my bosom. I put my
hand on it, and looking close saw that it was a martin, all pure
white on its throat and breast, and with a white patch on its back.
Then I woke up, and it was because of that dream that I named our
child Martin instead of John as you wished to do. Now, when I watch
swallows flying about, coming and going round the house, I sometimes
think that Martin came to us like that one in the dream, and that
some day he will fly away from us. When he gets bigger, I mean."

"When he gets littler," you mean, said John with a laugh. "No, no,
he's too big for a swallow - a Michaelmas goose would be nothing to
him for size. But here I am listening to your silly dreams instead of
watering the melons and cucumbers!" And out he went to his garden,
but in a minute he put his head in at the door and said, "You may go
and tell him to get up if you like. Poor little fellow! Only make him
promise not to go chumming with spotted snakes any more, and not to
bring them into the house, because somehow they disagree with me."

[Illustration: ]


CHAPTER II


THE SPOONBILL AND THE CLOUD

As Martin grew in years and strength, his age being now about seven,
his rambles began to extend beyond the waste grounds outside of the
fenced orchard and gate. These waste grounds were a wilderness of
weeds: here were the sunflowers that Martin liked best; the wild
cock's-comb, flaunting great crimson tufts; the yellow flowering
mustard, taller than the tallest man; giant thistle, and wild
pumpkin with spotted leaves; the huge hairy fox-gloves with yellow
bells; feathery fennel, and the big grey-green thorn-apples, with
prickly burs full of bright red seed, and long white wax-like flowers,
that bloomed only in the evening. He could never get high enough on
anything to see over the tops of these plants; but at last he found
his way through them, and discovered on their further side a wide
grassy plain with scarcely a tree on it, stretching away into the
blue distance. On this vast plain he gazed with wonderment and
delight. Behind the orchard and weedy waste the ground sloped down
to a stream of running water, full of tall rushes with dark green
polished stems, and yellow water-lilies. All along the moist banks
grew other flowers that were never seen in the dry ground above - the
blue star, and scarlet and white verbenas; and sweet-peas of all
colours; and the delicate red vinegar flower, and angel's hair, and
the small fragrant lilies called Mary's-tears, and tall scattered
flags, flaunting their yellow blossoms high above the meadow grass.

Every day Martin ran down to the stream to gather flowers and shells;
for many curious water-snails were found there with brown
purple-striped shells; and he also liked to watch the small birds
that build their nests in the rushes.

There were three of these small birds that did not appear to know
that Martin loved them; for no sooner would he present himself at
the stream than forth they would flutter in a great state of mind.
One, the prettiest, was a tiny, green-backed little creature, with a
crimson crest and a velvet-black band across a bright yellow breast:
this one had a soft, low, complaining voice, clear as a silver bell.
The second was a brisk little grey and black fellow, with a loud,
indignant chuck, and a broad tail which he incessantly opened and
shut, like a Spanish lady playing with her fan.

The third was a shy, mysterious little brown bird, peering out of
the clustering leaves, and making a sound like the soft ticking of a
clock. They were like three little men, an Italian, a Dutchman, and
a Hindoo, talking together, each in his own language, and yet well
able to understand each other. Martin could not make out what they
said, but suspected that they were talking about him; and he feared
that their remarks were not always of a friendly nature.

At length he made the discovery that the water of the stream was
perpetually running away. If he dropped a leaf on the surface it
would hasten down stream, and toss about and fret impatiently
against anything that stood in its way, until, making its escape, it
would quickly hurry out of sight. Whither did this rippling, running
water go? He was anxious to find out. At length, losing all fear and
fired with the sight of many new and pretty things he found while
following it, he ran along the banks until, miles from home, he came
to a great lake he could hardly see across, it was so broad. It was
a wonderful place, full of birds; not small, fretful creatures
flitting in and out of the rushes, but great majestic birds that
took very little notice of him. Far out on the blue surface of the
water floated numbers of wild fowl, and chief among them for grace
and beauty was the swan, pure white with black head and neck and
crimson bill. There also were stately flamingoes, stalking along
knee-deep in the water, which was shallow; and nearer to the shore
were flocks of rose-coloured spoonbills and solitary big grey herons
standing motionless; also groups of white egrets, and a great
multitude of glossy ibises, with dark green and purple plumage and
long sickle-like beaks.

The sight of this water with its beds of rushes and tall flowering
reeds, and its great company of birds, filled Martin with delight;
and other joys were soon to follow. Throwing off his shoes, he
dashed with a shout into the water, frightening a number of ibises;
up they flew, each bird uttering a cry repeated many times, that
sounded just like his old father's laugh when he laughed loud and
heartily. Then what was Martin's amazement to hear his own shout and
this chorus of bird ha, ha, ha's, repeated by hundreds of voices all
over the lake. At first he thought that the other birds were mocking
the ibises; but presently he shouted again, and again his shouts
were repeated by dozens of voices. This delighted him so much that
he spent the whole day shouting himself hoarse at the waterside.

When he related his wonderful experience at home, and heard from his
father that the sounds he had heard were only echoes from the beds
of rushes, he was not a bit wiser than before, so that the echoes
remained to him a continual wonder and source of never-failing
pleasure.

Every day he would take some noisy instrument to the lake to startle
the echoes; a whistle his father made him served for a time; after
that he marched up and down the banks, rattling a tin canister with
pebbles in it; then he got a large frying-pan from the kitchen, and
beat on it with a stick every day for about a fortnight. When he
grew tired of all these sounds, and began casting about for some new
thing to wake the echoes with, he all at once remembered his
father's gun - just what he wanted, for it was the noisiest thing in
the world. Watching his opportunity, he got secretly into the room
where it was kept loaded, and succeeded in carrying it out of the
house without being seen; then, full of joyful anticipations, he ran
as fast as the heavy gun would let him to his favourite haunt.

When he arrived at the lake three or four spoonbills - those beautiful,
tall, rose-coloured birds - were standing on the bank, quietly dozing
in the hot sunshine. They did not fly away at his approach, for the
birds were now so accustomed to Martin and his harmless noises that
they took very little notice of him. He knelt on one knee and
pointed the gun at them.

[Illustration: ]

"Now, birdies, you don't know what a fright I'm going to give
you - off you go!" he cried, and pulled the trigger.

The roar of the loud report travelled all over the wide lake,
creating a great commotion among the feathered people, and they rose
up with a general scream into the air.

All this was of no benefit to Martin, the recoil of the gun having
sent him flying over, his heels in the air; and before he recovered
himself the echoes were silent, and all the frightened birds were
settling on the water again. But there, just before him, lay one of
the spoonbills, beating its great rose-coloured wings against the
ground.

Martin ran to it, full of keen distress, but was powerless to help;
its life's blood was fast running away from the shot wounds it had
received in its side, staining the grass with crimson. Presently it
closed its beautiful ruby-coloured eyes and the quivering wings grew
still.

Then Martin sat down on the grass by its side and began to cry, Oh,
that great bird, half as tall as himself, and so many times more
lovely and strong and beautiful in its life - he had killed it, and
it would never fly again! He raised it up very tenderly in his arms
and kissed it - kissed its pale green head and rosy wings; then out
of his arms it tumbled back again on to the grass.

"Oh, poor bird," he cried suddenly, "open your wings and fly away!"

But it was dead.

Then Martin got up and stared all round him at the wide landscape,
and everything looked strange and dim and sorrowful. A shadow passed
over the lake, and a murmur came up out of the rushes that was like
a voice saying something that he could not understand. A great cry
of pain rose from his heart and died to a whisper on his lips; he
was awed into silence. Sinking down upon the grass again, he hid his
face against the rosy-breasted bird and began to sob. How warm the
dead bird felt against his cheek - oh, so warm - and it could not live
and fly about with the others.

At length he sat up and knew the reason of that change that had come
over the earth. A dark cloud had sprung up in the south-west, far
off as yet, and near the horizon; but its fringe already touched and
obscured the low-hanging sun, and a shadow flew far and vast before
it. Over the lake flew that great shadow: the waters looked cold and
still, reflecting as in a polished glass the motionless rushes, the
glassy bank, and Martin, sitting on it, still clasping in his arms
the dead rose-coloured bird.

Swifter and vaster, following close upon the flying shadow, came the
mighty cloud, changing from black to slaty grey; and then, as the
sun broke forth again under its lower edge, it was all flushed with
a brilliant rose colour. But what a marvellous thing it was, when
the cloud covered a third of the wide heavens, almost touching the
horizon on either side with its wing-like extremities; Martin,
gazing steadily at it, saw that in its form it was like an immense
spoonbill flying through the air! He would gladly have run away then
to hide himself from its sight, but he dared not stir, for it was
now directly above him; so, lying down on the grass and hiding his
face against the dead bird, he waited in fear and trembling.

[Illustration: ]

He heard the rushing sound of the mighty wings: the wind they
created smote on the waters in a hurricane, so that the reeds were
beaten flat on the surface, and a great cry of terror went up from
all the wild birds. It passed, and when Martin raised his bowed head
and looked again, the sun, just about to touch the horizon with its
great red globe, shone out, shedding a rich radiance over the earth
and water; while far off, on the opposite side of the heavens, the
great cloud-bird was rapidly fading out of sight.


CHAPTER III


CHASING A FLYING FIGURE

After what had happened Martin could never visit the waterside and
look at the great birds wading and swimming there without a feeling
that was like a sudden coldness in the blood of his veins. The rosy
spoonbill he had killed and cried over and the great bird-cloud that
had frightened him were never forgotten. He grew tired of shouting
to the echoes: he discovered that there were even more wonderful
things than the marsh echoes in the world, and that the world was
bigger than he had thought it. When spring with its moist verdure
and frail, sweet-smelling flowers had gone; when the great plain
began to turn to a rusty-brown colour, and the dry hard earth was
full of cracks, and the days grew longer and the heat greater, there
came an appearance of water that quivered and glittered and danced
before his wondering sight, and would lead him miles from home every
day in his vain efforts to find out what it was. He could talk of
nothing else, and asked endless questions about it, and they told
him that this strange thing was nothing but the Mirage, but of
course that was not telling him enough, so that he was left to
puzzle his little boy-brains over this new mystery, just as they had
puzzled before over the mystery of the echoes. Now this Mirage was a
glittering whiteness that looked just like water, always shining and
dancing before him and all round him, on the dry level plain where
there was no water. It was never quiet, but perpetually quivering
and running into wavelets that threw up crests and jets of sprays as
from a fountain, and showers of brilliant drops that flashed like
molten silver in the sunlight before they broke and vanished, only
to be renewed again. It appeared every day when the sun was high and
the air hot, and it was often called _The False Water_. And false it
was, since it always flew before him as he ran, so that although he
often seemed to be getting nearer to it he could never quite
overtake it. But Martin had a very determined spirit for a small boy,
and although this appearance of water mocked his efforts a hundred
times every day with its vanishing brightness and beauty, he would
not give up the pursuit.

Now one day when there was not a cloud on the great hot whitey-blue
sky, nor a breath of air stirring, when it was all silent, for not
even a grass-hopper creaked in the dead, yellow, motionless grass,
the whole level earth began to shine and sparkle like a lake of
silvery water, as Martin had never seen it shine before. He had
wandered far away from home - never had he been so far - and still he
ran and ran and ran, and still that whiteness quivered and glittered
and flew on before him; and ever it looked more temptingly near,
urging him to fresh exertions. At length, tired out and overcome
with heat, he sat down to rest, and feeling very much hurt at the
way he had been deceived and led on, he shed one little tear. There
was no mistake about that tear; he felt it running like a small
spider down his cheek, and finally he saw it fall. It fell on to a
blade of yellow grass and ran down the blade, then stopped so as to
gather itself into a little round drop before touching the ground.
Just then, out of the roots of the grass beneath it, crept a tiny
dusty black beetle and began drinking the drop, waving its little
horns up and down like donkey's ears, apparently very much pleased
at its good fortune in finding water and having a good drink in such
a dry, thirsty place. Probably it took the tear for a drop of rain
just fallen out of the sky.

"You _are_ a funny little thing!" exclaimed Martin, feeling now less
like crying than laughing.

The wee beetle, satisfied and refreshed, climbed up the grass-blade,
and when it reached the tip lifted its dusty black wing-cases just
enough to throw out a pair of fine gauzy wings that had been neatly
folded up beneath them, and flew away.

[Illustration: ]

Martin, following its flight, had his eyes quite dazzled by the
intense glitter of the False Water, which now seemed to be only a
few yards from him: but the strangest thing was that in it there
appeared a form - a bright beautiful form that vanished when he gazed
steadily at it. Again he got up and began running harder than ever
after the flying mocking Mirage, and every time he stopped he
fancied that he could see the figure again, sometimes like a pale
blue shadow on the brightness; sometimes shining with its own
excessive light, and sometimes only seen in outline, like a figure
graved on glass, and always vanishing when looked at steadily.
Perhaps that white water-like glitter of the Mirage was like a
looking-glass, and he was only chasing his own reflection. I cannot
say, but there it was, always before him, a face as of a beautiful
boy, with tumbled hair and laughing lips, its figure clothed in a
fluttering dress of lights and shadows. It also seemed to beckon to
him with its hand, and encourage him to run on after it with its
bright merry glances.

[Illustration: ]

At length when it was past the hour of noon, Martin sat down under a
small bush that gave just shade enough to cover him and none to spare.
It was only a little spot of shade like an island in a sea of heat
and brightness. He was too hot and tired to run more, too tired even
to keep his eyes open, and so, propping his back against the stem of
the small bush, he closed his tired hot eyes.


CHAPTER IV


MARTIN IS FOUND BY A DEAF OLD MAN

Martin kept his eyes shut for only about a minute, as he thought;
but he must have been asleep some time, for when he opened them the
False Water had vanished, and the sun, looking very large and crimson,
was just about to set. He started up, feeling very thirsty and
hungry and bewildered; for he was far, far from home, and lost on
the great plain. Presently he spied a man coming towards him on
horseback. A very funny-looking old man he proved to be, with a face
wrinkled and tanned by sun and wind, until it resembled a piece of
ancient shoe-leather left lying for years on some neglected spot of
ground. A Brazil nut is not darker nor more wrinkled than was the
old man's face. His long matted beard and hair had once been white,
but the sun out of doors and the smoke in his smoky hut had given
them a yellowish tinge, so that they looked like dry dead grass. He
wore big jack-boots, patched all over, and full of cracks and holes;
and a great pea-jacket, rusty and ragged, fastened with horn buttons
big as saucers. His old brimless hat looked like a dilapidated
tea-cosy on his head, and to prevent it from being carried off by
the wind it was kept on with an old flannel shirtsleeve tied under
his chin. His saddle, too, like his clothes, was old and full of
rents, with wisps of hair and straw-stuffing sticking out in various
places, and his feet were thrust into a pair of big stirrups made of
pieces of wood and rusty iron tied together with string and wire.

[Illustration: ]

"Boy, what may you being a doing of here?" bawled this old man at
the top of his voice: for he was as deaf as a post, and like a good
many deaf people thought it necessary to speak very loud to make
himself heard.

"Playing," answered Martin innocently. But he could not make the old
man hear until he stood up on tip-toe and shouted out his answer as
loud as he could.

"Playing," exclaimed the old man. "Well, I never in all my life!
When there ain't a house 'cepting my own for leagues and leagues,
and he says he's playing! What may you be now?" he shouted again.

"A little boy," screamed Martin.

"I knowed that afore I axed," said the other. Then he slapped his
legs and held up his hands with astonishment, and at last began to
chuckle. "Will you come home along o' me?" he shouted.

"Will you give me something to eat?" asked Martin in return.

"Haw, haw, haw," guffawed the old fellow. It was a tremendous laugh,
so loud and hollow, it astonished and almost frightened Martin to
hear it. "Well I never!" he said. "He ain't no fool, neither. Now,
old Jacob, just you take your time and think a bit afore you makes
your answer to that."

This curious old man, whose name was Jacob, had lived so long by
himself that he always thought out loud - louder than other people
talk: for, being deaf, he could not hear himself, and never had a
suspicion that he could be heard by others.

"He's lost, that's what he is," continued old Jacob aloud to himself.
"And what's more, he's been and gone and forgot all about his own
home, and all he wants is summat to eat. I'll take him and keep him,
that's what I'll do: for he's a stray lamb, and belongs to him that
finds him, like any other lamb I finds. I'll make him believe I'm
his old dad; for he's little and will believe most anything you
tells him. I'll learn him to do things about the house - to boil the
kettle, and cook the wittels, and gather the firewood, and mend the
clothes, and do the washing, and draw the water, and milk the cow,
and dig the potatoes, and mind the sheep and - and - and that's what
I'll learn him. Then, Jacob, you can sit down and smoke your pipe,
'cos you'll have some one to do your work for you."

Martin stood quietly listening to all this, not quite understanding
the old man's kind intentions. Then old Jacob, promising to give him
something to eat, pulled him up on to his horse, and started home at
a gallop.

Soon they arrived at a mud hovel, thatched with rushes, the roof
sloping down so low that one could almost step on to it; it was
surrounded with a ditch, and had a potato patch and a sheep enclosure;
for old Jacob was a shepherd, and had a flock of sheep. There were
several big dogs, and when Martin got down from the horse, they
began jumping round him, barking with delight, as if they knew him,
half-smothering him with their rough caresses. Jacob led him into
the hut, which looked extremely dirty and neglected, and had only
one room. In the corners against the walls were piles of sheep-skins
that had a strong and rather unpleasant smell: the thatch above was
covered with dusty cobwebs, hanging like old rags, and the clay
floor was littered with bones, sticks, and other rubbish. The only
nice thing to see was a teakettle singing and steaming away merrily
on the fire in the grate. Old Jacob set about preparing the evening
meal; and soon they sat down at a small deal table to a supper of
cold mutton and potatoes, and tea which did not taste very nice, as
it was sweetened with moist black sugar. Martin was too hungry to
turn up his nose at anything, and while he ate and drank the old man
chuckled and talked aloud to himself about his good fortune in
finding the little boy to do his work for him. After supper he
cleared the table, and put two mugs of tea on it, and then got out
his clay pipe and tobacco.

"Now, little boy," he cried, "let's have a jolly evening together.
Your very good health, little boy," and here he jingled his mug
against Martin's, and took a sip of tea.

"Would you like to hear a song, little boy?" he said, after
finishing his pipe.

"No," said Martin, who was getting sleepy; but Jacob took no to mean
yes, and so he stood up on his legs and sang this song: -


"My name is Jacob, that's my name;
And tho' I'm old, the old man's game -
The air it is so good, d'ye see:
And on the plain my flock I keep,
And sing all day to please my sheep,
And never lose them like Bo-Peep,
Becos the ways of them are known to me."

"When winter comes and winds do blow,
Unto my sheep so good I go -
I'm always good to them, d'ye see -
Ho, sheep, say I, both ram, both ewe,
I've sung you songs all summer through,
Now lend to me a skin or two,
To keep the cold and wet from out o' me."


This song, accompanied with loud raps on the table, was bellowed
forth in a dreadfully discordant voice; and very soon all the dogs
rushed into the room and began to bark and howl most dismally, which
seemed to please the old man greatly, for to him it was a kind of
applause. But the noise was too much for Martin; so he stopped up
his ears, and only removed his fingers from them when the
performance was over. After the song the old man offered to dance,
for he had not yet had amusement enough.

"Boy, can you play on this?" he shouted, holding up a frying-pan and
a big stick to beat it with. Of course Martin could play on _that_
instrument: he had often enough played on one like it to startle the
echoes on the lake, in other days. And so, when he had been lifted
on to the table, he took the frying-pan by the handle, and began
vigorously beating on it with the stick. He did not mind the noise
now since he was helping to make it. Meanwhile old Jacob began
flinging his arms and legs about in all directions, looking like a
scarecrow made to tumble about by means of springs and wires. He
pounded the clay floor with his ponderous old boots until the room
was filled with a cloud of dust; then in his excitement he kicked
over chairs, pots, kettles, and whatever came in his way, while he
kept on revolving round the table in a kind of crazy fandango.
Martin thought it fine fun, and screamed with laughter, and beat his
gong louder than ever; then to make matters worse old Jacob at
intervals uttered whoops and yells, which the dogs answered with
long howls from the door, until the din was something tremendous.

[Illustration: ]

At length they both grew tired, and then after resting and sipping
some more cold tea, prepared to go to bed. Some sheep-skins were
piled up in a corner for Martin to sleep on, and old Jacob covered
him with a horse-rug, and tucked him in very carefully. Then the kind
old man withdrew to his own bed on the opposite side of the room.

About midnight Martin was wakened by loud horrible noises in the room,
and started up on bed trembling with fear. The sounds came from the
old man's nose, and resembled a succession of blasts on a ram's horn,
which, on account of its roughness and twisted shape, makes a very
bad trumpet. As soon as Martin discovered the cause of the noise he
crept out of bed and tried to waken the old snorer by shouting at him,
tugging at his arms and legs, and finally pulling his beard. He
refused to wake. Then Martin had a bright idea, and groping his way
to the bucket of cold water standing beside the fire-place, he
managed to raise it up in his arms, and poured it over the sleeper.
The snoring changed to a series of loud choking snorts, then ceased.
Martin, well pleased at the success of his experiment, was about to
return to his bed when old Jacob struggled up to a sitting posture.

"Hullo, wake up, little boy!" he shouted. "My bed's all full o'
water - goodness knows where it comes from."

"I poured it over you to wake you up. Don't you know you were making
a noise with your nose?" cried Martin at the top of his voice.

"You - you - you throwed it over me! You - O you most wicked little
villain you! You throwed it over me, did you!" and here he poured
out such a torrent of abusive words that Martin was horrified and
cried out, "O what a naughty, wicked, bad old man you are!"

It was too dark for old Jacob to see him, but he knew his way about
the room, and taking up the wet rug that served him for covering he
groped his way to Martin's bed and began pounding it with the rug,
thinking the naughty little boy was there.

"You little rascal you - I hope you like that! - and that! - and that!"
he shouted, pounding away. "I'll learn you to throw water over your
poor old dad! And such a - a affectionate father as I've been too,
giving him sich nice wittels - and - and singing and dancing to him to
teach him music. Perhaps you'd like a little more, you takes it so
quietly? Well, then, take that! - and that! - and that! Why, how's
this - the young warmint ain't here arter all! Well, I'm blowed if
that don't beat everythink! What did he go and chuck that water over
me for? What a walloping I'll give him in the morning when it's light!
and now, boy, you may go and sleep on my bed, 'cos it's wet, d'ye see;
and I'll sleep on yourn, 'cos it's dry."

Then he got into Martin's bed, and muttered and grumbled himself to
sleep. Martin came out from under the table, and after dressing
himself with great secrecy crept to the door to make his escape. It
was locked and the key taken away. But he was determined to make his
escape somehow, and not wait to be whipped; so, by and by, he drew
the little deal table close against the wall, and getting on to it
began picking the rushes one by one out of the lower part of the
thatch. After working for half-an-hour, like a mouse eating his way
out of a soft wooden box, he began to see the light coming through
the hole, and in another half hour it was large enough for him to
creep through. When he had got out, he slipped down to the ground,
where the dogs were lying. They seemed very glad to see him, and
began pressing round to lick his face; but he pushed them off, and
ran away over the plain as fast as he could. The stars were shining,
but it was very dark and silent; only in moist places, where the
grass grew tall, he heard the crickets strumming sadly on their
little harps.

At length, tired with running, he coiled himself in a large tussock
of dry grass and went to sleep, just as if he had been accustomed to
sleep out of doors all his life.


CHAPTER V


THE PEOPLE OF THE MIRAGE

In that remote land where Martin was born, with its bright warm
climate and rich soil, no person need go very long hungry - not even
a small boy alone and lost on the great grassy plain. For there is a
little useful plant in that place, with small leaves like clover
leaves and a pretty yellow flower, which bears a wholesome sweet root,
about as big as a pigeon's egg and of a pearly white colour. It is
so well known to the settlers' children in that desert country that
they are always wandering off to the plain to look for it, just as
the children in a town are always running off with their halfpence
to the sweet-stuff shop. This pretty white root is watery, so that
it satisfies both hunger and thirst at the same time. Now when Martin
woke next morning, he found a great many of the little three-leaved
plants growing close to the spot where he had slept, and they
supplied him with a nice sweet breakfast. After he had eaten enough
and had amused himself by rolling over and over several times on the
grass, he started once more on his travels, going towards the
sunrise as fast as he could run. He could run well for a small boy,
but he got tired at last and sat down to rest. Then he jumped up and
went on again at a trot: this pace he kept up very steadily, only
pausing from time to time to watch a flock of small white birds that
followed him all the morning out of curiosity. At length he began to
feel so hot and tired that he could only walk. Still he kept on; he
could see no flowers nor anything pretty in that place - why should
he stay in it? He would go on, and on, and on, in spite of the heat,
until he came to something. But it grew hotter as the day advanced,
and the ground about him more dry and barren and desolate, until at
last he came to ground where there was scarcely a blade of grass: it
was a great, barren, level plain, covered with a slight crust of
salt crystals that glittered in the sun so brightly that it dazzled
and pained his eyesight. Here were no sweet watery roots for
refreshment, and no berries; nor could Martin find a bush to give
him a little shade and protection from the burning noonday sun. He
saw one large dark object in the distance, and mistaking it for a
bush covered with thick foliage he ran towards it; but suddenly it
started up, when he was near, and waving its great grey and white
wings like sails, fled across the plain. It was an ostrich!

Now this hot, shadeless plain seemed to be the very home and
dwelling-place of the False Water. It sparkled and danced all round

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