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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 40154
   :PG.Title: Sing a Song of Sixpence
   :PG.Released: 2012-07-07
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Mary Holdsworth
   :DC.Title: Sing a Song of Sixpence
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1892
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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SING A SONG OF SIXPENCE
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      Cover

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      [Transcriber's note: the illustrations in this book were originally
      black and white line drawings.  They appear to have
      been colorized by a previous owner of the book.]

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   .. _`Nellie`:

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      Nellie

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   SING A SONG OF SIXPENCE.

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      BY

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      MARY HOLDSWORTH.

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      EDINBURGH AND LONDON:
      OLIPHANT, ANDERSON, & FERRIER.
      1892

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      BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

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      *Uniform in Pretty Cloth Binding.*

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      SING A SONG OF SIXPENCE.
      MARY, MARY, QUITE CONTRARY.
      WHERE THE SKY FALLS.
      ADVENTURES OF KING CLO.
      A PRINCESS IN DISGUISE.
      A STRANGER IN THE TEA.

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      Headpiece

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   Sing a Song of Sixpence.

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A brand new sixpence fresh
from the Mint!  How it
sparkled and glittered in the
dancing sunlight!  Such a treasure
for a small girl to possess!  But
then, on the other hand, what a
heavy responsibility!

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   Nellie


All day long it had been burning
a hole in her pocket, and as for
learning lessons, not an idea would
enter her head.  Everything went
in at one ear and out of the other,
as Miss Primmer sternly remarked
when Nellie could not say her
poetry.  But, indeed, Nellie *did* try
hard to learn her lessons; she
squeezed her eyes together as tightly
as possible, though how shutting her
eyes was to prevent the lessons
from coming out of her ears was
not very clear.  "But *I must* learn
them now," she sighed, "or Miss
Primmer will keep me in to-morrow,
and I shan't be able to go out with
Nursie and Reggie to spend my
sixpence.  Oh dear!  I wish I could
learn my poetry and keep it in, I
guess I'd better get a bit of cotton
wool to put in my ears and then it
*can't* come out.  There, now!

   |   "'Mary had a little lamb,
   |     Its fleece was white as snow,
   |   And everywhere that Mary went
   |     The lamb was sure to go.'
   |

"That's lovely!  I wish I'd a
lamb.  I think I'll buy one with
my sixpence.  Won't it be nice?
And I can keep it in the garden,
and me and Reggie can take it out
for a walk.  Oh, and have a blue
ribbon round its neck and a sash
on!  He shall have my blue sash,
and I'll save it some of my milk
from breakfast.  Unless it's
chocolate creams.  How many should I
get for sixpence?  Loads, I should
think!  I *love* chocs., but I'd like
a lamb too!  I'll buy them both--a
lamb and some chocs.  Lemme
see now.  What was I saying?  Oh,
my poetry.

   |   "'It followed her to school one day'--

Oh, and take it to school.  Won't
it be fun?  What will Miss Primmer
say when she sees my lamb?  She
won't say nothing to a dear, darling
little lamb!  I *love* lambs!  Me and
Reggie will have some wool off it
to make some stockings for Pa.
I'll make them all by myself, and
Pa will think I'm dreffle clever,
won't he?  And some for Ma,
and Uncle Dick.  Oh, and Aunt
Euphemia shall have some for her
niggers.  Where's my sixpence
gone?  It was in my pocket.  Oh,
here it is!  What do they put
the Queen's head on it for?  And
a crown.  It does look funny,
as though it would tumble off.  I
wish I was the Queen and wore a
crown.  I'd have lots of sixpences.
I'd go to Miss Primmer's and give
all the little girls one each, and then
they could all have a lamb each and
some chocs.  And I'd have lots of
chocs.--*loads* of them.  I wish it was
to-morrow to spend my sixpence."

Nellie sat gazing dreamily into the
nursery fire, with wide-open blue
eyes, "Lemme say my poetry again.

   |   "'Mary had a little lamb'--

With a blue sash on.  What shall
I call my lamb?"  She went on
gazing with loving eyes at her
bright new sixpence.  "I think I'll
call her the Queen.  You won't
mind my calling my lamb after you,
do you?" she said to her Majesty,
who was looking very dignified
indeed; at least, as dignified as it was
possible to look when she had to
hold her head as stiff as possible
to keep the crown from toppling
off.  It must have given her a crick
in her neck.

Her Majesty smiled graciously.

"Oh, not at all, don't mention
it," she said politely.

"Thank you so much," said
Nellie, who was sitting in front of
the fire with her hands clasped
across her knee.

"Get up and make your curtsey;
I suppose you know how," said her
Majesty.

"Oh yes, Miss Primmer always
makes us curtsey when we come in
and go out," answered Nellie,
getting up and making the best one
she could.

"That is not very graceful.  This
is the way," the Queen said, coming
forward and showing her how to do
it.  "Only you see I have to keep
my head steady to keep the crown
on, so it's rather awkward."

Nellie bowed as she was directed,
and the Queen returned the bow
with great dignity.  Nellie was
much impressed.  Fancy the Queen
bowing to her!  What lovely tales
she would have to tell to-morrow!

"What are you going to do with
your new sixpence?" asked her
Majesty, when she had seated
herself again.

"I thought I'd buy a lamb, and
then I could make a pair of socks
for Pa with the wool."

The Queen smiled.  "Very
sensible indeed," she said, patting
Nellie on the head; "and you might
make me a pair too, you know."

Nellie's eyes sparkled.  "And
will you really wear them?" she
asked eagerly.

"I *always* wear stockings," said
the Queen in an offended tone.
"You don't suppose I go about
barefoot, do you?"

"I did not mean that!" cried
Nellie, aghast.  The bare idea of
such a thing!

"And don't make them too
large," went on the Queen; "I am
very particular about the fit."

"I'd like to be a queen and
wear a crown," said Nellie, after
a pause.

Her Majesty smiled.  "Indeed!
And pray, what would you do if you
were?"

"I'd buy a lamb for all the
children at Miss Primmer's.  Oh, and
chocs.--such lots of chocs.  And
I'd put on my best frock every day,
and have cake every time I wanted
it, and I'd have as many sixpences
as I liked, and----"

"Stop, that will do," said the
Queen; "if you always wore your
best frock you'd soon want a new
one, and then where would all your
sixpences be?  And as for the
cake, I always keep *my* cupboards
locked, so that no one can take a
piece without asking for it; and the
honey cupboard.  I am very fond
of honey."

"Yes, I know, we sing about it
in school," said Nellie.

"Oh, indeed? you do, do you?
That's very nice.  But what do you
sing about me?"

"Oh, we sing:--

   |   "'Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,
   |   Four and twenty blackbirds baking in a pie.
   |   When the pie was opened the birds began to sing,
   |   Was not that a dainty dish to set before a king?
   |   The king was in his counting house, counting out his money,
   |   The queen was in the parlour eating bread and honey,
   |   The maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes,
   |   There came a little blackbird and snapped off her nose.'"
   |

"That's very pretty," said her
Majesty; "I wish I could write
poetry like that."

"Can't you?" asked Nellie,
looking surprised; she thought queens
could do everything.

"No," said her Majesty with a
sigh; "I never could, though I've
often tried."

"Try, try, try again," said Nellie.
"We sing that in school too."

"Well, what shall it be about?"
asked the Queen.

"Oh, about my lamb," said Nellie
promptly.

"Where is it?" asked the Queen,
putting on her spectacles.  "I think
I'll write about you."

"Here I am," cried a funny
squeaky little voice, and there, if
you please, was the prettiest, fleeciest
little white lamb you ever saw in
your life, with a blue ribbon round
its neck, and Nellie's best blue sash
tied in a bow round its tail.

"Oh, how sweet!" cried the
Queen, clapping her hands.

The lamb tossed its head proudly.

"Come near and let me look at
you, you pretty thing," said the
Queen, patting it.  "Now I'll write
my poetry.  Get me a bottle of
ink and a copy-book to write it in."

"Would not a slate be better,"
said Nelly politely, "and then you
could copy it neatly into your book
afterwards, you know.  That's the
way we do at school."

"Well, yes, perhaps that would
be best.  I might make a blot."

Nellie got her slate and a piece
of pencil with a nice point.  The
Queen took it, and sat for about five
minutes groaning and turning up
her eyes to the ceiling, but nothing
came of it.  Nellie watched her
anxiously.

"Have you not 'most finished?"
she asked after a while.

"*Could* you tell me how to spell
honey?" asked the Queen.  "I
quite forget, it is so long since I
went to school."

"I don't know," said Nellie, "I
have not learned that yet.  I'll get
the dictionary.

"There now," said the Queen
triumphantly, holding up the slate
for Nellie to look at.  It was written
in large round letters, something
like Nellie's writing, with double
lines to keep it even.

   |   "Oh dear, what can the matter be?
   |   Dear, dear, what can the matter be?
   |   Oh dear, what can the matter be?
   |   Nellie's so long making tea!
   |   She promised to give me some bread and some honey,
   |   Some cake and some jam--I gave her the money,
   |   What can she be doing?  It *is* very funny, I *do* want
   |       my afternoon tea."
   |

"There," said the Queen with a
deep sigh, "you can't say I never
wrote any poetry.  By-the-by, don't
you think it's nearly time the pie
was done?"

"Pie?" asked Nellie, looking
surprised.

"Yes," said her Majesty sharply.
"You said there were four and
twenty blackbirds baking in a pie,
didn't you?  Just go and see if it's
done, I'm getting hungry."

"But where is the king?  You
can't have it without him?"

"Never mind him.  Let me have
the pie."

"Was it from the king's counting
house my sixpence came?"

"Of course," said the Queen
testily.  "Now go and see about
that pie."

Nellie went.  It was a most
delicious pie, crisp and brown.  It
made her mouth water to look at it.

"I do hope the Queen won't
be greedy and want to eat it all
herself," she thought, as she took it
in and put it on the table.

"Present it on one knee,"
commanded the Queen.

Nellie did so.  The Queen seized
the knife and cut open the pie.
All the blackbirds began singing so
sweetly.  It was the loveliest concert
you ever heard in your life.

"Now that's what I call a most
dainty dish," said her Majesty,
looking much pleased.

"But you are not going to eat
the dear little birds?" asked Nellie
anxiously.

"Of course not," said the Queen
pettishly.  "Get me a bit of bread
and honey.  You know how fond
I am of it."

One of the blackbirds flew out of
the window as Nellie went to the
cupboard to get out some honey for the
Queen and a piece of cake for herself.

"Cookey makes such nice cakes,"
she said, with her mouth full.

"You should not talk with your
mouth full," said the Queen.  "You
can give me one to taste."

Nellie went down on one knee
and presented it the way she had
been shown.  The Queen took it
at once and began to eat it.  Such
big bites she took too, which rather
surprised Nellie, who had seen Miss
Primmer at afternoon tea daintily
mincing thin wafers of bread and
butter.

"What are you staring at?"
asked the Queen.  "I hate to be
stared at--it's very rude.  Get me
my bread and honey at once."

Nellie presented that too on one knee.

"Have you not a drop of tea?
I'm dreadfully thirsty," asked the
Queen.

"I have nothing but my doll's
tea set, and they are rather tiny,"
answered Nelly doubtfully, going
to the cupboard and getting them out.

"Never mind, I can drink all
the more," said her Majesty, and
indeed she *did* drink.  Nellie had
never seen anything like it.  There
was no time for her to drink a drop
herself, she was so busy waiting on
the Queen.  After a bit she quite
lost count of the number of cups
she drank.

"Don't you think you have drunk
enough cups now?" she asked at
length, thinking it about time she
had a cup of tea herself.

"Drunk enough cups indeed," said
the Queen huffily, "as if I have
drunk *any* cups."

Nellie was silent for a moment.

"It's dreffel wicked to tell stories,"
she said, holding up one finger
warningly.  "Do you know where
you'll go if you tell stories?"

"I shall go home," said the Queen,
"if you are going to be rude;
besides, I have not told any stories."

"Oh!  You said you had not
drunk any cups, and you have drunk
*millions*."

The Queen drew herself up haughtily.

"Pray, how many cups did you
put out?" she asked in a very
dignified manner.

"Six," answered Nellie promptly.

"Well, then, count them.  There
they are.  One, two, three, four,
five, six.  How can you say I have
drunk any of them? and millions
too.  It is you who are telling the
stories.  I *never* drink cups.  I
drink tea."

Nellie did not know what to say
to this.  "Well, you drank plenty
of tea, then," she said.  "You did
not leave any for me."

"I think it is about time I went
home, if that is the way you treat
your visitors," said her Majesty,
highly offended.  "It is very rude
to tell people how much they eat.
I shan't come to see you again.
And after letting you have that six-pence, too."

"It was Pa who gave it to me,"
said Nellie, who was a very truthful
child.

"Well, how did my head come
on it then if it did not come from
me in the first place?"

Nellie could not answer a word.

"Well, I must be going," said
the Queen, recovering her good
humour now that she had silenced
Nellie.

Nellie was just making her a
grand curtsey when the door burst
open and in rushed the maid,
holding her handkerchief to her face.

"It's the blackbird," she sobbed.
"He's snapped off my nose."

"Stick it on again," said the Queen.

Nellie ran to get some sticking
plaster, and stuck it on as hard as
she could.

It looked rather funny, she
thought, but could not exactly
understand why for a little while,
until she discovered it was stuck on
upside down.

"You had better take it off again
and put it on straight," said the
Queen.  But nothing would induce
it to come off, it was stuck on
so tight.

"I guess she'll have to stand on
her head to blow her nose," said
Nellie, thoughtfully.

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   Nellie


"Of course, the very thing,"
assented the Queen, cheerfully.
"Well, I really must be going.
Good-bye now, whatever, and don't
forget my stockings," she continued,
waving her hand in token of
farewell, and she vanished, banging the
door after her.

Nellie woke up with a start.

"Why, Miss Nellie, whatever
are you doing all in the dark?  And
you have let the fire out too."

"Oh, Nursie, such lovely things
have happened.  The Queen has
been here, and my lamb; oh, and
lots of things."

"The Queen, indeed!  Fiddle-sticks,"
said Nursie, with a sniff of
disbelief.

"Yes, she was.  And she had
tea with me out of my doll's tea-set.
And here's my dear little lamb.
Why, wherever has it gone?" asked
Nellie, rubbing her eyes and looking around.

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   Nellie


"And what on earth is that wool
sticking out of your ears?  Have
you the ear-ache?"

"Oh, Nursie, I only put it there
to keep my poetry from coming out."

"Well, I never did!" said Nursie,
holding up her hands in surprise.
"You are the *queerest* child!"

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   The Story of a Robin

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She was a strange child, and led
a lonely life, shut up in the
almost deserted castle with no
one but her miserly old grandfather
and old Nanny for company.  It
was no wonder that she grew up
with curious unchildlike fancies,
which were yet not altogether
unchildlike.  Her mind found food for
itself in the woods with their
ever-changing tints, the sky, the clouds,
the sunset, and last, but by no
means least, the restless, never-silent
sea, which bathed the foot of the
rock where stood the picturesque
old castle.

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   robin


Of friends Elsie had none.  The
Squire could not afford to keep
company--he was as poor as a rat,
he used to say.  Old Nanny was
nearly as miserly as he--you would
have said she counted the grains
of oatmeal that she put into the
porridge; not a particle of anything
was ever wasted in that frugal
household.  Report said--but I am
not responsible for the truth of this
statement--that the miser had once
had a piece of cheese which was
always brought to table, not to eat,
mind you, oh dear, no! but so that
the odour might give a relish to the
dry bread!  Elsie had not even a
dog for a companion--for that would
have required, at least, some food.
She used to look out of her little
turret window and watch the clouds
floating about in the sky, and the
stars smiling down at her as they
twinkled merrily up above.  The
moon was a very great friend of
hers; she loved to see his broad
cheerful face rising over the tree
tops, and peeping in at her latticed
windows.

Almost the only living creatures
that she could make friends with
were the bats and owls that found
an abode in the ruined walls of the
castle, and the robins that came
hopping merrily around in search
of the crumbs that were not there.
She loved, too, to watch the spiders
that came crawling stealthily out of
their webs to catch any unwary fly
that might be so bold as to venture
into such an inhospitable mansion.

She had no toys--never in her
life had she even seen a doll.
Think of that, little Dorothy, with
your collection of all kinds, from
the rag baby to the beautiful wax
and china ones with real hair and
eyes that open and shut, and with
all the dolls' clothes a child's heart
could desire.  She did not miss
them--never having known the
pleasure of such possessions.

But one real live pet she had--a
robin that used to come hopping
on to her window sill every morning,
and for whom she saved a few
crumbs from her scanty breakfast
unknown to "gran'fer" or old
Nanny, who you may be sure
would never have countenanced
such waste.  He was a merry little
birdie, with such a knowing twinkle
in his eyes, that seemed to say
he knew all about little Elsie and
her ways, and was glad to come
and cheer her up, and to make up
to her for the lack of other friends
by singing to her every morning
his sweetest song.  Fine times
they had, too, when "gran'fer"
was busy counting his money, and
old Nanny was out gathering
sticks.  They never bought
anything at Castle Grim that they
could get without paying for.
"Castle Hopeful" she called it,
though why she chose such a very
inappropriate name for it, it would
be hard to say.  If you come to
think of it though, there was some
sense in it, seeing that it left so
many things to be hoped
for--things that never came.  As for
such a thing as a new hat or a new
frock, *that* was too great a treat
to be ever wished for.  When the
frock she wore would no longer
hang on the fragile little form,
when the bony arms came out half
a yard below the sleeves, and the
long thin legs from under the short
skirt, then old Nanny grudgingly
took out of the moth-eaten old
wardrobe an old one of Elsie's
mother's, and cut it down until the
child could get inside it with
something like ease.  To be sure Nanny
was no dressmaker, and the frock
was neither pretty nor elegant;
and as for fit, why, that was a
mere trifle not worthy of serious
consideration.  Elsie could have
jumped into it, but it was a frock,
and that was enough.  The little
fisher-children who used to come
gathering sea-weed and shells on
the beach used to look up with
wistful eyes at the lonely little
figure in the turret-window, singing
and talking to herself; but she was
never allowed to speak to them--Nanny
was very strict about that.
Elsie was one of the "quality,"
and must not mix with the fisher-children.

The child had learnt her letters,
no one knew how.  Moreover, she
was the happy possessor of a
few ragged old books--minus the
covers and a few of the pages--which
she had found in rummaging
about in the old lumber room
amongst broken furniture that
would not sell, but was too good
for firewood.

Such treasures these books were
to Elsie--strange reading for a
child, but very precious to her all
the same.  No "Alice in
Wonderland," no "Little Folks," no "St
Nicholas," or "Fairy Tales"; but
the "Pilgrim's Progress," garnished
with pictures--such pictures, enough
to make your hair stand on end,--Foxe's
"Book of Martyrs," and
last, but by no means least, that
most delightful of all books, "Don
Quixote."  How Elsie loved the
Don and his bony steed!  She
knew all his adventures by heart--all
that were in the book, that is--for,
of course, both the beginning
and the end were lost.

If you will promise not to mention
it, I will tell you a great secret.
Elsie was writing a story herself.
It was the nicest story you ever
read in your life; but it was not
very easy to read, being written in
large badly-formed childish
characters on odd leaves of old copy
books, and sometimes the story and
the copies got rather mixed; and the
spelling was, to say the least of it,
quite unique, but it was a lovely
story for all that.  Perhaps some
day you will read it yourself.
Elsie used to read it aloud to
her little friend the robin, and he
listened with his pert little head on
one side as he hopped about
picking up the crumbs she had saved
with so much difficulty for him; he
was a most grateful little birdie,
and never forgot a kindness.  She
always knew his tap! tap! at the
window, and used to run to open it
for him.  It is very nice to have a
little bird for a friend, for it never
quarrels or sulks like some little
boys or girls do, when it cannot get
its own way.

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   :alt: Elsie

   Elsie


It was a bitterly cold day in
December.  The snow had been
falling all night, and when morning
came the earth was covered with a
beautiful soft white carpet.  It was
lovely to look at.  Elsie sat up in
her little turret chamber watching
the happy little fisher-children
snowballing each other.  She would
have liked a game with them, but
she knew that Nanny would not let
her go.  It was so cold, too, for
there was no fire anywhere but in
the kitchen, and Nanny was
making what she called the dinner, and
was always very cross when Elsie
got in the way, so Elsie sat upstairs
in her little turret chamber trying to
warm her cold little hands by
wrapping them up in an old shawl which
had certainly been a good one in
its day, but unluckily there was
very little of it left.  After
watching the children for a time, she
crept downstairs into the kitchen.

"Oh, Nanny, let me help you
with the dinner," she said pleadingly,
"it's so cold upstairs."

The old woman was not a bad
sort, but she was rather cross;
everything had gone wrong with
her that morning.  First, she could
not get any sticks on account of the
snow, and the ones she had were
damp and would not burn; then the
Squire had grumbled at her for
extravagance.

"Oh, get out of the way, you are
more of a hindrance than a help,"
she answered pettishly.

Elsie went back again to her
little room and looked out of the
window at the pure white snow.
How lovely it looked!  She would
just run out to see what it was like
on the soft white carpet.  How
happy the hardy fisher-children
looked, with their fresh glowing
faces and sturdy limbs, as they
pelted one another with the soft
powdery snow!

She put on her old shawl and
her apology for a hat, and stole
quietly out to the enchanted land.
Old Nanny saw her go, but took
no notice, muttering to herself as
she went on with her household
duties.  The fresh keen air made
little Elsie feel quite gay and happy
as she frisked about revelling in her
new-found liberty.

"Oh, the snow! the lovely snow!
I wonder who put it up in the sky?
I wish I could go up to see who
is making the dear little feathers.
Is it the Man in the Moon, I
wonder?  I'd like to see him make
the feathers.  Perhaps if I go far
enough I'll get to the end of the
world, and then I'll get up into the
clouds, it does not look very far,"
she said to herself.

On she went merrily, with her
eyes eagerly fixed upon the near
horizon; but the way was long,
and the poor little feet grew heavy
and tired.  Her boots, much too
large for her, and very thin, were
wet through and through, but still
she struggled bravely on.  The
snow was falling thickly and
silently.  The large flakes filled
the air, blotting out the familiar
landscape.  There was everywhere
nothing to be seen but snow! snow! snow!

"I wonder if this is the right
way," thought Elsie, as she plodded
painfully along.  "Perhaps gran'f'er
will be cross if I get lost."

.. figure:: images/img-047.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: robin

   robin


She turned round to try and
retrace her steps, but the little
footmarks were covered with the fast
falling snow, she could not see
which way she had come.  For a
time she wandered on wearily and
aimlessly, until she took a false step
and felt herself slipping, slipping.
Where?  Was it into the middle of
the earth? or was it into Snow
Land?  Only Snow Land was up
above, and she was going down,
down, down!  In vain she tried to
keep her footing; she sank down
into the drift.  The snow came
down blinding and choking her.
The cruel cold snow that looked
so soft and gentle and yielding.
She shut her eyes to try to keep it out.

"I wonder if gran'fer will be
sorry if his little girl is lost? and
Nanny? and oh! my dear little
Robin, who'll save him the crumbs
if I have to stop down here?  My
dear little Robin!  I wish gran'fer
would come!  I'm getting so sleepy!"
and the poor tired child lay still
with closed eyes.

Tap! tap! tap!  What was that
on her forehead.

Elsie opened her heavy eyes and
looked around.  There was her
own dear little Robin flapping his
wings and hovering around her.
Was it a dream?  Elsie rubbed
her eyes.  No, there he was in
reality, in his warm red and brown
coat.

"Oh dear Robin! fly home and
tell gran'fer I'm lost in the snow!"
she cried entreatingly.

Robin perched his saucy little
head on one side, and looked at
her with his bright twinkling eyes
as though he quite understood
what she said.

The snow had ceased falling, and
the sky looked thick and yellow as
though it were lined with cotton
wool.  Elsie felt cold and stiff, and
her limbs ached--she felt she could
not stay much longer in her snowy bed.

"Fly home, Robin, and tell
gran'fer," she repeated, and Robin
flew away.

Elsie sighed, and half wished she
had not sent him.  He was
company, at any rate; she was tired of
being alone.  But gran'f'er would
soon know, and come to fetch her home.

She tried to keep her eyes open
to watch for his coming, but it was
hard work, and oh! she was so
tired! so tired!  Would gran'fer
never come?  Perhaps he was so
busy counting his money that he
would never think of his little girl
lying out there under the cruel snow!

At Castle Grim, in the
old-fashioned kitchen, sat Nanny over
the fire, shivering, but not with the
cold, though it was cold enough.

Where could the child be?  The
soup was ready for the master as
soon as he should come in, but the
child, little Elsie, where was she?
Presently a shuffling step outside
was heard, and the miser came in.
He was a curious looking figure,
with scanty grey locks hanging
over his stooping shoulders.  His
clothes were green with age, but
well brushed and mended.  He
seated himself at the table, and
looked round for his little grand-daughter.

"Where is Elsie?" he asked
with a frown.

The old woman's voice trembled.

"She went out into the snow,
and has not come back," she
answered, putting her apron to her
eyes; "and these old bones are not
fit to go out to look for her."

The old man got up and went
to the window.  The dusk was
beginning to come on in the short
December afternoon.

"Which way did she go?" he
asked at length.

"I don't know.  I did not watch
her go," mumbled the old woman.
"I was too busy--I can't be always
watching folks."

"We must track her footsteps,"
said the miser, getting his
greatcoat.  But in the grounds in front
of the house the snow lay in an
unbroken sheet; no signs of any
footmarks--they were all covered
by this time.  Nanny and the
miser looked at each other in
consternation.

"She is lost in the snow,"
muttered the old woman sitting
down in front of the fire, with her
apron over her head, rocking
herself to and fro.  The miser, too,
sat down, and covering his face
with his hands, groaned aloud.

What was he to do?  Where to
go?  On one side of the castle lay
the sea, on the other the moor.  It
was like looking for a needle in a
bottle of hay to search for her--and
there were no tracks to follow.
The old man was greatly distressed;
miser though he was, he had a
man's heart, and in his own way
he loved his little granddaughter,
though, to be sure, he loved money
more--or thought he did.  But the
child was very dear to him--she was
all that was left to the lonely old man.

The pair sat in silence for a
while, plunged in thought; suddenly
the miser arose.

"Light the lantern," he said briefly.

"What are you going to do with
it, master?" she asked in a shrill
quavering treble.

"To search for the child.  Be quick."

Nanny groaned.  "You'll go and
get lost too," she whined.  "And
there'll be nobody left but me."

Tap, tap, tap, at the window pane.

"What's that?" asked the old
man sharply.

Nanny hobbled to the window
and looked out; there was nobody.

Tap, tap, tap again at the
window.  The miser himself went this
time and opened it.

In flew a robin, hopping about
with his head on one side, and his
keen twinkling eyes fixed upon the
miser.

"Bless me!  It's a robin!  What
does it want?  Crumbs?  Can't
afford to keep birds," said the old
man gruffly.

Robin flew to the window, and
then turned as if to say, "Follow me."

The old woman watched it
curiously.

"Birds are queer creatures; you
would almost say it knew where the
child was," she said.

"Eh!  What?" asked the old
man sharply, looking more
attentively at the bird.

Robin gave a little chirp, tapped
at the window with its bill, and
then turned again as if to say
"Why don't you come?"

The miser brightened up.

"Dear me!  I really think you
are right," he said, again taking up
the lantern.

Robin flew out, stopping every
now and then to see if the miser
was following him.  On, on they
went a weary way.  The moon
struggled hard to pierce through
the thick clouds, and shed a pale
silvery light around to guide them
on their way.

At last, with a succession of little
chirps, Robin stopped before
something that looked like a dark speck.
The miser followed cautiously, for
he well knew the treacherous
moors.  He stood still while
Robin scraped away the snow from
her face with his little bill, and
there lay poor little Elsie, fast
asleep, nearly buried in the snow.
Gran'f'er very carefully lifted her
out of the drift, and wrapping her
in his great coat, wended his way
home with a great joy in his heart,
Robin hovering around all the way.

Old Nanny was sitting by the
dying embers with her apron over
her head, rocking herself backwards
and forwards, and crooning a doleful
dirge; but she sprang up joyfully
when the old man entered with the
child in his arms.

"Make up the fire," were the
first words he said.  Nanny put on
a small stick.

"A good roaring fire," added
the old man.  Nanny could hardly
believe her ears, but she cautiously
put on another stick.

The old man carefully laid Elsie
down on the one arm-chair the
room possessed.

"More, put on more, pile it up
the chimney, let us have a bright
warm fire to bring her back to
life," he said, rubbing his hands.
Nanny nearly dropped with
surprise.  Never, never before during
the fifty odd years that she had
lived at Castle Grim had such an
order been given.  In a few minutes
a bright cheerful fire was blazing
on the hearth, and the kettle
singing lustily.

Restoratives were applied to the
little white-faced child, and she
was well rubbed and wrapped in
blankets.  Soon she opened her
eyes.  The first thing they lit upon
was the robin, who had followed
them in and was hopping about
with his head on one side, looking
very proud and clever indeed, as he
had a right to be, for was it not he
who had found out where Elsie lay
buried in the snow, and had brought
gran'f'er to look for her?

"Oh, Robin! dear Robin!" cried
the child in a weak voice.  "Dear
gran'f'er, it was Robin who came to
tell you where I was.  I sent him,
you know."

Gran'f'er, who had been sitting
watching the pair, said suddenly,
with an air of great resolution--no
one knew how much it cost him to
say it--"Robin is to have some
crumbs every day.  I am very poor,
and it will nearly ruin me, but he
shall have them."

Elsie's eyes sparkled.  "Oh
gran'f'er!  My own dear little
Robin!  Do you really mean it?"
she asked, clapping her weak little
hands.

"Yes," said the old man firmly.
"He shall have them."

"Dear little Robin, do you hear
what gran'fer says?" cried Elsie
joyfully.

Robin looked very knowing
indeed, as if he understood all about
it, and with a jerk of his perky little
head, as much as to say, "Good-bye,
I must be off to my family, or
else they'll think I'm lost in the
snow too."  Off he flew.

Who says birds have no sense?
Not Elsie certainly, nor yet gran'fer,
for he thinks Elsie's robin the
most wonderful bird that ever lived.

Elsie is all right again now; and,
indeed, she is not at all sorry she
was lost in the snow that day, for
it has shown her how much gran'fer
loves her.  And gran'fer--you
would not know him--he has quite
turned over a new leaf, and is a
miser no more.  He now wears a
good suit that is not more than
twenty years old, and has become
quite liberal too, for he no longer
counts the sticks, nor the peas that
are put into the soup.  He has kept
his word about the crumbs; every
morning a handful is thrown out,
which Robin, with his head very
much on one side, and accompanied
by his family and a select circle of
friends, picks up with great relish,
doing the honours in his best style.
And not only that, but--believe it
or not as you will, it is certainly
true--every Christmas a sheaf of
corn is nailed to the barn door for
the birds, more particularly for the
robins, though all are welcome;
and you never in your life heard
such a chirping and chattering as
there is when this interesting
ceremony takes place.  The birds come
from far and near, the fathers, the
mothers, the sisters, the cousins,
and the aunts, to join in the feast;
and gran'f'er, and Elsie, and old
Nanny come out to watch them eat
their Christmas dinner.

.. vspace:: 3

.. figure:: images/img-062.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: birds

   birds

.. vspace:: 3

.. figure:: images/img-063.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: tailpiece

   tailpiece

.. vspace:: 3

.. figure:: images/img-064.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: Molly

   Molly

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::