
* A Project Gutenberg Canada Ebook *

This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few
restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make
a change in the ebook (other than alteration for different
display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of
the ebook. If either of these conditions applies, please
check gutenberg.ca/links/licence.html before proceeding.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be under
copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada, check your
country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT
IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

Title: The Tale of Little Pig Robinson
Author: Potter, Helen Beatrix (1866-1943)
Date of first publication: 1930
Date first posted: 23 August 2008
Date last updated: 23 August 2008
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #162

This ebook was produced by:
Iona Vaughan, Marcia Brooks, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




[Illustration]




THE TALE OF

LITTLE PIG ROBINSON

By

BEATRIX POTTER

AUTHOR OF

"THE TALE OF PETER RABBIT," ETC.

[Illustration]


FREDERICK WARNE & CO. LTD.

LONDON AND NEW YORK




Copyright (c) 1930 Frederick Warne, London
All rights reserved

Published in Great Britain by
Frederick Warne (Publishers) Ltd., London




THE TALE OF

LITTLE PIG ROBINSON




CHAPTER I


When I was a child I used to go to the seaside for the holidays. We
stayed in a little town where there was a harbour and fishing boats and
fishermen. They sailed away to catch herrings in nets. When the boats
came back home again some had only caught a few herrings. Others had
caught so many that they could not all be unloaded on to the quay. Then
horses and carts were driven into the shallow water at low tide to meet
the heavily laden boats. The fish were shovelled over the side of the
boat into the carts, and taken to the railway station, where a special
train of fish trucks was waiting.

Great was the excitement when the fishing boats returned with a good
catch of herrings. Half the people in the town ran down to the quay,
including cats.

There was a white cat called Susan who never missed meeting the boats.
She belonged to the wife of an old fisherman named Sam. The wife's name
was Betsy. She had rheumatics, and she had no family except Susan and
five hens. Betsy sat by the fire; her back ached; she said "Ow! Ow!"
whenever she had to put coal on, and stir the pot. Susan sat opposite to
Betsy. She felt sorry for Betsy; she wished she knew how to put the
coal on and stir the pot. All day long they sat by the fire, while Sam
was away fishing. They had a cup of tea and some milk.

[Illustration]

"Susan," said Betsy, "I can hardly stand up. Go to the front gate and
look out for Master's boat."

Susan went out and came back. Three or four times she went out into the
garden. At last, late in the afternoon, she saw the sails of the fishing
fleet, coming in over the sea.

"Go down to the harbour; ask Master for six herrings; I will cook them
for supper. Take my basket, Susan."

Susan took the basket; also she borrowed Betsy's bonnet and little plaid
shawl. I saw her hurrying down to the harbour.

Other cats were coming out of the cottages, and running down the steep
streets that lead to the sea front. Also ducks. I remember that they
were most peculiar ducks with top-knots that looked like Tam-o'-Shanter
caps. Everybody was hurrying to meet the boats--nearly everybody. I
only met one person, a dog called Stumpy, who was going the opposite
way. He was carrying a paper parcel in his mouth.

Some dogs do not care for fish. Stumpy had been to the butcher's to buy
mutton chops for himself and Bob and Percy and Miss Rose. Stumpy was a
large, serious, well-behaved brown dog with a short tail. He lived with
Bob the retriever and Percy the cat and Miss Rose who kept house. Stumpy
had belonged to a very rich old gentleman; and when the old gentleman
died he left money to Stumpy--ten shillings a week for the rest of
Stumpy's life. So that was why Stumpy and Bob and Percy the cat all
lived together in a pretty little house.

Susan with her basket met Stumpy at the corner of Broad Street. Susan
made a curtsy. She would have stopped to inquire after Percy, only she
was in a hurry to meet the boat. Percy was lame; he had hurt his foot.
It had been trapped under the wheel of a milk cart.

Stumpy looked at Susan out of the corner of his eye; he wagged his tail,
but he did not stop. He could not bow or say "good afternoon" for fear
of dropping the parcel of mutton chops. He turned out of Broad Street
into Woodbine Lane, where he lived; he pushed open the front door and
disappeared into a house. Presently there was a smell of cooking, and I
have no doubt that Stumpy and Bob and Miss Rose enjoyed their mutton
chops.

[Illustration]

Percy could not be found at dinner time. He had slipped out of the
window, and, like all the other cats in the town, he had gone to meet
the fishing boats.

Susan hurried along Broad Street and took the short cut to the harbour,
down a steep flight of steps. The ducks had wisely gone another way,
round by the sea front. The steps were too steep and slippery for anyone
less sure-footed than a cat. Susan went down quickly and easily. There
were forty-three steps, rather dark and slimy, between high backs of
houses.

A smell of ropes and pitch and a good deal of noise came up from below.
At the bottom of the steps was the quay, or landing-place, beside the
inner harbour.

The tide was out; there was no water; the vessels rested on the dirty
mud. Several ships were moored beside the quay; others were anchored
inside the breakwater.

Near the steps, coal was being unloaded from two grimy colliers called
the "Margery Dawe" of Sunderland, and the "Jenny Jones" of Cardiff. Men
ran along planks with wheel-barrowfuls of coal; coal scoops were swung
ashore by cranes, and emptied with loud thumping and rattling.

[Illustration]

Farther along the quay, another ship called the "Pound of Candles" was
taking a mixed cargo on board. Bales, casks, packing-cases, barrels--all
manner of goods were being stowed into the hold; sailors and stevedores
shouted; chains rattled and clanked. Susan waited for an opportunity to
slip past the noisy crowd. She watched a cask of cider that bobbed and
swung in the air, on its passage from the quay to the deck of the "Pound
of Candles." A yellow cat who sat in the rigging was also watching the
cask.

The rope ran through the pulley; the cask went down bobbitty on to the
deck, where a sailor man was waiting for it. Said the sailor down below:

"Look out! Mind your head, young sir! Stand out of the way!"

"Wee, wee, wee!" grunted a small pink pig, scampering round the deck of
the "Pound of Candles."

The yellow cat in the rigging watched the small pink pig. The yellow cat
in the rigging looked across at Susan on the quay. The yellow cat
winked.

Susan was surprised to see a pig on board a ship. But she was in a
hurry. She threaded her way along the quay, amongst coal and cranes, and
men wheeling hand-trucks, and noises, and smells. She passed the fish
auction, and fish boxes, and fish sorters, and barrels that women were
filling with herrings and salt.

Seagulls swooped and screamed. Hundreds of fish boxes and tons of fresh
fish were being loaded into the hold of a small steamer. Susan was glad
to get away from the crowd, down a much shorter flight of steps on to
the shore of the outer harbour. The ducks arrived soon afterwards,
waddling and quacking. And old Sam's boat, the "Betsy Timmins," last of
the herring fleet and heavy laden, came in round the breakwater; and
drove her blunt nose into the shingle.

Sam was in high spirits; he had had a big catch. He and his mate and two
lads commenced to unload their fish into carts, as the tide was too low
to float the fishing boat up to the quay. The boat was full of herrings.

But, good luck or bad luck, Sam never failed to throw a handful of
herrings to Susan.

"Here's for the two old girls and a hot supper! Catch them, Susan!
Honest now! Here's a broken fish for you! Now take the others to Betsy."

The ducks were dabbling and gobbling; the seagulls were screaming and
swooping. Susan climbed the steps with her basket of herrings and went
home by back streets.

[Illustration]

Old Betsy cooked two herrings for herself and Susan, another two for
Sam's supper when he came in. Then she went to bed with a hot bottle
wrapped in a flannel petticoat to help her rheumatics.

Sam ate his supper and smoked a pipe by the fire; and then he went to
bed. But Susan sat a long time by the fire, considering. She considered
many things--fish, and ducks, and Percy with a lame foot, and dogs that
eat mutton chops, and the yellow cat on the ship, and the pig. Susan
thought it strange to see a pig upon a ship called the "Pound of
Candles." The mice peeped out under the cupboard door. The cinders fell
together on the hearth. Susan purred gently in her sleep and dreamed of
fish and pigs. She could not understand that pig on board a ship. But I
know all about him!




CHAPTER II


You remember the song about the Owl and the Pussy Cat and their
beautiful pea-green boat? How they took some honey and plenty of money,
wrapped up in a five pound note?

    _They sailed away, for a year and a day,
    To the land where the Bong tree grows--
    And, there in a wood, a piggy-wig stood,
    With a ring at the end of his nose--his nose,
    With a ring at the end of his nose._

Now I am going to tell you the story of that pig, and why he went to
live in the land of the Bong tree.

When that pig was little he lived in Devonshire, with his aunts, Miss
Dorcas and Miss Porcas, at a farm called Piggery Porcombe. Their cosy
thatched cottage was in an orchard at the top of a steep red Devonshire
lane.

The soil was red, the grass was green; and far away below in the
distance they could see red cliffs and a bit of bright blue sea. Ships
with white sails sailed over the sea into the harbour of Stymouth.

[Illustration]

I have often remarked that the Devonshire farms have very strange names.
If you had ever seen Piggery Porcombe you would think that the people
who lived there were very queer too! Aunt Dorcas was a stout speckled
pig who kept hens. Aunt Porcas was a large smiling black pig who took in
washing. We shall not hear very much about them in this story. They
led prosperous uneventful lives, and their end was bacon. But their
nephew Robinson had the most peculiar adventures that ever happened to a
pig.

Little pig Robinson was a charming little fellow; pinky white with small
blue eyes, fat cheeks and a double chin, and a turned-up nose, with a
real silver ring in it. Robinson could see that ring if he shut one eye
and squinted sideways.

He was always contented and happy. All day long he ran about the farm,
singing little songs to himself, and grunting "Wee, wee, wee!" His aunts
missed those little songs sadly after Robinson had left them.

"Wee? Wee? Wee?" he answered when anybody spoke to him. "Wee? Wee? Wee?"
listening with his head on one side and one eye screwed up.

Robinson's old aunts fed him and petted him and kept him on the trot.

"Robinson! Robinson!" called Aunt Dorcas. "Come quick! I hear a hen
clucking. Fetch me the egg; don't break it now!"

"Wee, wee, wee!" answered Robinson, like a little Frenchman.

"Robinson! Robinson! I've dropped a clothes peg, come and pick it up for
me!" called Aunt Porcas from the drying green (she being almost too fat
to stoop down and pick up anything).

"Wee, wee, wee!" answered Robinson.

Both the aunts were very, very stout. And the stiles in the
neighbourhood of Stymouth are narrow. The footpath from Piggery
Porcombe crosses many fields; a red trodden track between short green
grass and daisies. And wherever the footpath crosses over from one field
to another field, there is sure to be a stile in the hedge.

"It is not me that is too stout; it is the stiles that are too thin,"
said Aunt Dorcas to Aunt Porcas. "Could you manage to squeeze through
them if I stayed at home?"

"I could _not_. Not for two years I could _not_," replied Aunt Porcas.
"Aggravating, it _is_ aggravating of that carrier man, to go and upset
his donkey cart the day before market day. And eggs at two and tuppence
a dozen! How far do you call it to walk all the way round by the road
instead of crossing the fields?"

"Four miles if it's one," sighed Aunt Porcas, "and me using my last bit
of soap. However shall we get our shopping done? The donkey says the
cart will take a week to mend."

"Don't you think you could squeeze through the stiles if you went before
dinner?"

"No, I don't, I would stick fast; and so would you," said Aunt Porcas.

"Don't you think we might venture----" commenced Aunt Dorcas.

"Venture to send Robinson by the footpath to Stymouth?" finished Aunt
Porcas.

"Wee, wee, wee!" answered Robinson.

"I scarcely like to send him alone, though he is sensible for his size."

"Wee, wee, wee!" answered Robinson.

"But there is nothing else to be done," said Aunt Dorcas.

So Robinson was popped into the wash-tub with the last bit of soap. He
was scrubbed and dried and polished as bright as a new pin. Then he was
dressed in a little blue cotton frock and knickers, and instructed to go
shopping to Stymouth with a big market basket.

In the basket were two dozen eggs, a bunch of daffodils, two spring
cauliflowers; also Robinson's dinner of bread-and-jam sandwiches. The
eggs and flowers and vegetables he must sell in the market, and bring
back various other purchases from shopping.

"Now take care of yourself in Stymouth, Nephew Robinson. Beware of
gunpowder, and ships' cooks, and pantechnicons, and sausages, and
shoes, and ships, and sealing-wax. Remember the blue bag, the soap, the
darning-wool--what was the other thing?" said Aunt Dorcas.

"The darning-wool, the soap, the blue bag, the yeast--what was the other
thing?" said Aunt Porcas.

"Wee, wee, wee!" answered Robinson.

"The blue bag, the soap, the yeast, the darning-wool, the cabbage
seed--that's five, and there ought to be six. It was two more than four
because it was two too many to tie knots in the corners of his hankie,
to remember by. Six to buy, it should be----"

"I have it!" said Aunt Porcas. "It was tea--tea, blue bag, soap,
darning-wool, yeast, cabbage seed. You will buy most of them at Mr.
Mumby's. Explain about the carrier, Robinson; tell him we will bring the
washing and some more vegetables next week."

"Wee, wee, wee!" answered Robinson, setting off with the big basket.

Aunt Dorcas and Aunt Porcas stood in the porch. They watched him safely
out of sight, down the field, and through the first of the many stiles.
When they went back to their household tasks they were grunty and snappy
with each other, because they were uneasy about Robinson.

"I wish we had not let him go. You and your tiresome blue bag!" said
Aunt Dorcas.

[Illustration]

"Blue bag, indeed! It was your darning-wool and eggs!" grumbled Aunt
Porcas. "Bother that carrier man and his donkey cart! Why could not he
keep out of the ditch until after market day?"




CHAPTER III


The walk to Stymouth was a long one, in spite of going by the fields.
But the footpath ran downhill all the way, and Robinson was merry. He
sang his little song, for joy of the fine morning, and he chuckled "Wee,
wee, wee!" Larks were singing, too, high overhead.

[Illustration]

And higher still--high up against blue sky, the great white gulls sailed
in wide circles. Their hoarse cries came softened back to earth from a
great way up above. Important rooks and lively jackdaws strutted about
the meadows amongst the daisies and buttercups. Lambs skipped and
baa'ed; the sheep looked round at Robinson.

"Mind yourself in Stymouth, little pig," said a motherly ewe.

Robinson trotted on until he was out of breath and very hot. He had
crossed five big fields, and ever so many stiles; stiles with steps;
ladder stiles; stiles of wooden posts; some of them were very awkward
with a heavy basket. The farm of Piggery Porcombe was no longer in sight
when he looked back. In the distance before him, beyond the farmlands
and cliffs--never any nearer--the dark blue sea rose like a wall.

Robinson sat down to rest beside a hedge in a sheltered sunny spot.
Yellow pussy willow catkins were in flower above his head; there were
primroses in hundreds on the bank, and a warm smell of moss and grass
and steaming moist red earth.

"If I eat my dinner now, I shall not have to carry it. Wee, wee, wee!"
said Robinson.

The walk had made him so hungry he would have liked to eat an egg as
well as the jam sandwiches; but he had been too well brought up.

"It would spoil the two dozen," said Robinson.

He picked a bunch of primroses and tied them up with a bit of
darning-wool that Aunt Dorcas had given him for a pattern.

[Illustration]

"I will sell them in the market for my very own self, and buy sweeties
with my pennies. How many pennies have I got?" said Robinson, feeling in
his pocket. "One from Aunt Dorcas, and one from Aunt Porcas, and one
for my primroses for my very own self--oh, wee, wee, wee! There is
somebody trotting along the road! I shall be late for market!"

Robinson jumped up and pushed his basket through a very narrow stile,
where the footpath crossed into the public road. He saw a man on
horse-back. Old Mr. Pepperil came up, riding a chestnut horse with white
legs. His two tall greyhounds ran before him; they looked through the
bars of the gates into every field that they passed. They came bounding
up to Robinson, very large and friendly; they licked his face and asked
what he had got in that basket. Mr. Pepperil called them. "Here, Pirate!
Here, Postboy! Come here, sir!" He did not wish to be answerable for the
eggs.

The road had been recently covered with sharp new flints. Mr. Pepperil
walked the chestnut horse on the grass edge, and talked to Robinson. He
was a jolly old gentleman, very affable, with a red face and white
whiskers. All the green fields and red ploughland between Stymouth and
Piggery Porcombe belonged to him.

"Hullo, hullo! And where are you off to, little Pig Robinson?"

"Please, Mr. Pepperil, sir, I'm going to market. Wee, wee, wee!" said
Robinson.

"What, all by yourself? Where are Miss Dorcas and Miss Porcas? Not ill,
I trust?"

Robinson explained about the narrow stiles.

"Dear, dear! Too fat, too fat? So you are going all alone? Why don't
your aunts keep a dog to run errands?"

Robinson answered all Mr. Pepperil's questions very sensibly and
prettily. He showed much intelligence, and quite a good knowledge of
vegetables, for one so young. He trotted along almost under the horse,
looking up at its shiny chestnut coat, and the broad white girth, and
Mr. Pepperil's gaiters and brown leather boots. Mr. Pepperil was pleased
with Robinson; he gave him another penny. At the end of the flints, he
gathered up the reins and touched the horse with his heel.

"Well, good day, little pig. Kind regards to the aunts. Mind yourself in
Stymouth." He whistled for his dogs, and trotted away.

[Illustration]

Robinson continued to walk along the road. He passed by an orchard
where seven thin dirty pigs were grubbing. They had no silver rings in
their noses! He crossed Styford bridge without stopping to look over the
parapet at the little fishes, swimming head up stream, balanced in the
sluggish current; or the white ducks that dabbled amongst floating
masses of water-crowsfoot. At Styford Mill he called to leave a message
from Aunt Dorcas to the Miller about meal; the Miller's wife gave him an
apple.

[Illustration]

At the house beyond the mill, there is a big dog that barks; but the big
dog Gypsy only smiled and wagged his tail at Robinson. Several carts and
gigs overtook him. First, two old farmers who screwed themselves round
to stare at Robinson. They had two geese, a sack of potatoes, and some
cabbages, sitting on the back seat of their gig. Then an old woman
passed in a donkey cart with seven hens, and long pink bundles of
rhubarb that had been grown in straw under apple barrels. Then with a
rattle and a jingle of cans came Robinson's cousin, little Tom Pigg,
driving a strawberry roan pony, in a milk float.

He might have offered Robinson a lift, only he happened to be going in
the opposite direction; in fact, the strawberry roan pony was running
away home.

"This little pig went to market!" shouted little Tom Pigg gaily, as he
rattled out of sight in a cloud of dust, leaving Robinson standing in
the road.

[Illustration]

Robinson walked on along the road, and presently he came to another
stile in the opposite hedge, where the footpath followed the fields
again. Robinson got his basket through the stile. For the first time he
felt some apprehension. In this field there were cows; big sleek Devon
cattle, dark red like their native soil. The leader of the herd was a
vicious old cow, with brass balls screwed on to the tips of her horns.
She stared disagreeably at Robinson. He sidled across the meadow and got
out through the farther stile as quickly as he could. Here the new
trodden footpath followed round the edge of a crop of young green wheat.
Someone let off a gun with a bang that made Robinson jump and cracked
one of Aunt Dorcas's eggs in the basket.

A cloud of rooks and jackdaws rose cawing and scolding from the wheat.
Other sounds mingled with their cries; noises of the town of Stymouth
that began to come in sight through the elm trees that bordered the
fields; distant noises from the station; whistling of an engine; the
bump of trucks shunting; noise of workshops; the hum of a distant town;
the hooter of a steamer entering the harbour. High overhead came the
hoarse cry of the gulls, and the squabbling cawing of rooks, old and
young, in their rookery up in the elm trees.

Robinson left the fields for the last time and joined a stream of
country people on foot and in carts, all going to Stymouth Market.




CHAPTER IV


Stymouth is a pretty little town, situated at the mouth of the river
Pigsty, whose sluggish waters slide gently into a bay sheltered by high
red headlands. The town itself seems to be sliding downhill in a basin
of hills, all slipping seaward into Stymouth harbour, which is
surrounded by quays and the outer breakwater.

The outskirts of the town are untidy, as is frequently the case with
seaports. A straggling suburb on the western approach is inhabited
principally by goats, and persons who deal in old iron, rags, tarred
rope, and fishing nets. There are rope walks, and washing that flaps on
waggling lines above banks of stony shingle, littered with seaweed,
whelk shells and dead crabs--very different from Aunt Porcas's
clothes-lines over the clean green grass.

And there are marine stores that sell spyglasses, and sou'westers, and
onions; and there are smells; and curious high sheds, shaped like sentry
boxes, where they hang up herring nets to dry; and loud talking inside
dirty houses. It seemed a likely place to meet a pantechnicon. Robinson
kept in the middle of the road. Somebody in a public-house shouted at
him through the window, "Come in, fat pig!" Robinson took to his heels.

[Illustration]

The town of Stymouth itself is clean, pleasant, picturesque, and well
behaved (always excepting the harbour); but it is extremely steep
downhill. If Robinson had started one of Aunt Dorcas's eggs rolling at
the top of High Street, it would have rolled all the way down to the
bottom; only it would have got broken certainly against a doorstep, or
underfoot. There were crowds in the streets, as it was market day.

[Illustration]

Indeed, it was difficult to walk about without being pushed off the
pavement; every old woman that Robinson met seemed to have a basket as
big as his own. In the roadway were fish barrows, apple barrows, stalls
with crockery and hardware, cocks and hens riding in pony carts, donkeys
with panniers, and farmers with wagon-loads of hay. Also there was a
constant string of coal carts coming up from the docks. To a
country-bred pig, the noise was confusing and fearful.

Robinson kept his head very creditably until he got into Fore Street,
where a drover's dog was trying to turn three bullocks into a yard,
assisted by Stumpy and half the other dogs of the town. Robinson and two
other little pigs with baskets of asparagus bolted down an alley and hid
in a doorway until the noise of bellowing and barking had passed.

When Robinson took courage to come out again into Fore Street, he
decided to follow close behind the tail of a donkey who was carrying
panniers piled high with spring broccoli. There was no difficulty in
guessing which road led to market. But after all these delays it was not
surprising that the church clock struck eleven.

[Illustration]

Although it had been open since ten, there were still plenty of
customers buying, and wanting to buy, in the market hall. It was a
large, airy, light, cheerful, covered-in place, with glass in the roof.
It was crowded, but safe and pleasant, compared with the jostling and
racket outside in the cobble-paved streets; at all events there was no
risk of being run over. There was a loud hum of voices; market folk
cried their wares; customers elbowed and pushed round the stalls. Dairy
produce, vegetables, fish, and shell fish were displayed upon the flat
boards on trestles.

Robinson had found a standing place at one end of a stall where Nanny
Nettigoat was selling periwinkles.

"Winkle, winkle! Wink, wink, wink! Maa, maa-a!" bleated Nanny.

Winkles were the only thing that she offered for sale, so she felt no
jealousy of Robinson's eggs and primroses. She knew nothing about his
cauliflowers; he had the sense to keep them in the basket under the
table. He stood on an empty box quite proud and bold behind the trestle
table, singing:

"Eggs, new laid! Fresh new-laid eggs! Who'll come and buy my eggs and
daffodillies?"

"I will, sure," said a large brown dog with a stumpy tail, "I'll buy a
dozen. My Miss Rose has sent me to market on purpose to buy eggs and
butter."

"I am so sorry, I have no butter, Mr. Stumpy; but I have beautiful
cauliflowers," said Robinson, lifting up the basket, after a cautious
glance round at Nanny Nettigoat, who might have tried to nibble them.
She was busy measuring periwinkles in a pewter mug for a duck customer
in a Tam-o'-Shanter cap. "They are lovely brown eggs, except one that
got cracked; I think that white pussy cat at the opposite stall is
selling butter--they are beautiful cauliflowers."

"I'll buy a cauliflower, lovey, bless his little turned-up nose; did he
grow them in his own garden?" said old Betsy, bustling up; her
rheumatism was better; she had left Susan to keep house. "No, lovey, I
don't want any eggs; I keep hens myself. A cauliflower and a bunch of
daffodils for a bow-pot, please," said Betsy.

"Wee, wee, wee!" replied Robinson.

"Here, Mrs. Perkins, come here! Look at this little pig stuck up at a
stall all by himself!"

"Well, I don't know!" exclaimed Mrs. Perkins, pushing through the crowd,
followed by two little girls. "Well, I never! Are they quite new laid,
sonny? Won't go off pop and spoil my Sunday dress like the eggs Mrs.
Wyandotte took first prize with at five flower shows, till they popped
and spoiled the judge's black silk dress? Not duck eggs, stained with
coffee? That's another trick of flower shows! New laid, guaranteed? Only
you say one is cracked? Now I call that real honest: it's no worse for
frying. I'll have the dozen eggs and a cauliflower, please. Look, Sarah
Polly! Look at his silver nose-ring."

[Illustration]

Sarah Polly and her little girl friend went into fits of giggling, so
that Robinson blushed. He was so confused that he did not notice a
lady who wanted to buy his last cauliflower, till she touched him.
There was nothing else left to sell, but a bunch of primroses. After
more giggling and some whispering the two little girls came back, and
bought the primroses. They gave him a peppermint, as well as the penny,
which Robinson accepted; but without enthusiasm and with a preoccupied
manner.

The trouble was that no sooner had he parted with the bunch of primroses
than he realised that he had also sold Aunt Porcas's pattern of darning
wool. He wondered if he ought to ask for it back; but Mrs. Perkins and
Sarah Polly and her little girl friend had disappeared.

Robinson, having sold everything, came out of the market hall, sucking
the peppermint. There were still numbers of people coming in. As
Robinson came out upon the steps his basket got caught in the shawl of
an elderly sheep, who was pushing her way up. While Robinson was
disentangling it, Stumpy came out. He had finished his marketing. His
basket was full of heavy purchases. A responsible, trustworthy, obliging
dog was Stumpy, glad to do a kindness to anybody.

When Robinson asked him the way to Mr. Mumby's, Stumpy said: "I am going
home by Broad Street. Come with me, and I will show you."

"Wee, wee, wee! Oh, thank you, Stumpy!" said Robinson.




CHAPTER V


Old Mr. Mumby was a deaf old man in spectacles, who kept a general
store. He sold almost anything you can imagine, except ham--a
circumstance much approved by Aunt Dorcas. It was the only general store
in Stymouth where you would not find displayed upon the counter a large
dish, containing strings of thin, pale-coloured, repulsively uncooked
sausages, and rolled bacon hanging from the ceiling.

[Illustration]

"What pleasure," said Aunt Dorcas feelingly--"what possible pleasure can
there be in entering a shop where you knock your head against a ham? A
ham that may have belonged to a dear second cousin?"

Therefore the aunts bought their sugar and tea, their blue bag, their
soap, their frying pans, matches, and mugs from old Mr. Mumby.

All these things he sold, and many more besides, and what he did not
keep in stock he would obtain to order. But yeast requires to be quite
fresh, he did not sell it; he advised Robinson to ask for yeast at a
baker's shop. Also he said it was too late in the season to buy cabbage
seed; everybody had finished sowing vegetable seeds this year. Worsted
for darning he did sell; but Robinson had forgotten the colour.

Robinson bought six sticks of delightfully sticky barley sugar with his
pennies, and listened carefully to Mr. Mumby's messages for Aunt Dorcas
and Aunt Porcas--how they were to send some cabbages next week when the
donkey cart would be mended; and how the kettle was not repaired yet,
and there was a new patent box-iron he would like to recommend to Aunt
Porcas.

Robinson said "Wee, wee, wee?" and listened, and little dog Tipkins who
stood on a stool behind the counter, tying up grocery parcels in blue
paper bags--little dog Tipkins whispered to Robinson--"Were there any
rats this spring in the barn at Piggery Porcombe? And what would
Robinson be doing on Saturday afternoon?"

"Wee, wee, wee!" answered Robinson.

Robinson came out of Mr. Mumby's, heavily laden. The barley sugar was
comforting; but he was troubled about the darning wool, the yeast, and
the cabbage seed. He was looking about rather anxiously, when again he
met old Betsy, who exclaimed:

"Bless the little piggy! Not gone home yet? Now it must not stop in
Stymouth till it gets its pocket picked!"

Robinson explained his difficulty about the darning wool.

Kind old Betsy was ready with help.

"Why, I noticed the wool round the little primrose posy; it was
blue-grey colour like the last pair of socks that I knitted for Sam.
Come with me to the wool shop--Fleecy Flock's wool shop. I remember the
colour; well I do!" said Betsy.

[Illustration]

Mrs. Flock was the sheep that had run against Robinson; she had bought
herself three turnips and come straight home from market, for fear of
missing customers while her shop was locked up.

Such a shop! Such a jumble! Wool all sorts of colours, thick wool, thin
wool, fingering wool, and rug wool, bundles and bundles all jumbled up;
and she could not put her hoof on anything. She was so confused and slow
at finding things that Betsy got impatient.

"No, I don't want wool for slippers; _darning wool_, Fleecy; darning
wool, same colour as I bought for my Sam's socks. Bless me, _no_, not
knitting needles! Darning wool."

"Baa, baa! Did you say white or black, m'm? Three ply, was it?"

"Oh, dear me, _grey_ darning wool on cards; not heather mixture."

"I know I have it somewhere," said Fleecy Flock helplessly, jumbling up
the skeins and bundles. "Sim Ram came in this morning with part of the
Ewehampton clip; my shop is completely cluttered up----"

It took half an hour to find the wool. If Betsy had not been with him,
Robinson never would have got it.

"It's that late, I must go home," said Betsy. "My Sam is on shore to-day
for dinner. If you take my advice you will leave that big heavy basket
with the Miss Goldfinches, and hurry with your shopping. It's a long
uphill walk home to Piggery Porcombe."

Robinson, anxious to follow old Betsy's advice, walked towards the Miss
Goldfinches. On the way he came to a baker's, and he remembered the
yeast.

It was not the right sort of baker's, unfortunately. There was a nice
bakery smell, and pastry in the window; but it was an eating house or
cook shop.

When he pushed the swing door open, a man in an apron and a square white
cap turned round and said, "Hullo! Is this a pork pie walking on its
hind legs?"--and four rude men at a dining table burst out laughing.

Robinson left the shop in a hurry. He felt afraid to go into any other
baker's shop. He was looking wistfully into another window in Fore
Street when Stumpy saw him again. He had taken his own basket home, and
come out on another errand. He carried Robinson's basket in his mouth
and took him to a very safe baker's, where he was accustomed to buy dog
biscuits for himself. There Robinson purchased Aunt Dorcas's yeast at
last.

They searched in vain for cabbage seed; they were told that the only
likely place was a little store on the quay, kept by a pair of wagtails.

"It is a pity I cannot go with you," said Stumpy. "My Miss Rose has
sprained her ankle; she sent me to fetch twelve postage stamps, and I
must take them home to her, before the post goes out. Do not try to
carry this heavy basket down and up the steps; leave it with the Miss
Goldfinches."

Robinson was very grateful to Stumpy. The two Miss Goldfinches kept a
tea and coffee tavern which was patronized by Aunt Dorcas and the
quieter market people. Over the door was a sign-board upon which was
painted a fat little green bird called "The Contented Siskin," which was
the name of their coffee tavern. They had a stable where the carrier's
donkey rested when it came into Stymouth with the washing on Saturdays.

Robinson looked so tired that the elder Miss Goldfinch gave him a cup of
tea; but they both told him to drink it up quickly.

"Wee, wee, wee! Yock yock!" said Robinson, scalding his nose.

In spite of their respect for Aunt Dorcas, the Miss Goldfinches
disapproved of his solitary shopping; and they said that the basket was
far too heavy for him.

"Neither of us could lift it," said the elder Miss Goldfinch, holding
out a tiny claw. "Get your cabbage seed and hurry back. Sim Ram's pony
gig is still waiting in our stable. If you come back before he starts I
feel sure he will give you a lift; at all events he will make room for
your basket under the seat--and he passes Piggery Porcombe. Run away
now!"

"Wee, wee, wee!" said Robinson.

"Whatever were they thinking of to let him come alone? He will never get
home before dark," said the elder Miss Goldfinch. "Fly to the stable,
Clara; tell Sim Ram's pony not to start without the basket."

The younger Miss Goldfinch flew across the yard. They were industrious,
sprightly little lady birds, who kept lump sugar and thistle seed as
well as tea in their tea-caddies. Their tables and china were spotlessly
clean.




CHAPTER VI


Stymouth was full of inns; too full. The farmers usually put up their
horses at the "Black Bull" or the "Horse and Farrier"; the smaller
market people patronized the "Pig and Whistle."

There was another inn called the "Crown and Anchor" at the corner of
Fore Street. It was much frequented by seamen; several were lounging
about the door with their hands in their pockets. One sailor-man in a
blue jersey sauntered across the road, staring very hard at Robinson.

Said he--"I say little pig! do you like snuff?"

Now if Robinson had a fault, it was that he could not say "No"; not even
to a hedgehog stealing eggs. As a matter of fact, snuff or tobacco made
him sick. But instead of saying, "No, thank you, Mr. Man," and going
straight away about his business, he shuffled his feet, half closed one
eye, hung his head on one side, and grunted.

The sailor pulled out a horn snuff box and presented a small pinch to
Robinson, who wrapped it up in a little bit of paper, intending to give
it to Aunt Dorcas. Then, not to be outdone in politeness, he offered the
sailor-man some barley sugar.

[Illustration]

If Robinson was not fond of snuff, at all events his new acquaintance
had no objection to candy. He ate an alarming quantity. Then he pulled
Robinson's ear and complimented him, and said he had five chins. He
promised to take Robinson to the cabbage seed shop; and, finally, he
begged to have the honour of showing him over a ship engaged in the
ginger trade, commanded by Captain Barnabas Butcher, and named the
"Pound of Candles."

Robinson did not very much like the name. It reminded him of tallow, of
lard, of crackle and trimmings of bacon. But he allowed himself to be
led away, smiling shyly, and walking on his toes. If Robinson had only
known...that man was a ship's cook!

As they turned down the steep narrow lane, out of High Street, leading
to the harbour, old Mr. Mumby at his shop door called out anxiously,
"Robinson! Robinson!" But there was too much noise of carts. And a
customer coming into the shop at that moment distracted his attention,
and he forgot the suspicious behaviour of the sailor. Otherwise, out of
regard for the family, he would undoubtedly have ordered his dog,
Tipkins, to go and fetch Robinson back. As it was, he was the first
person to give useful information to the police, when Robinson had been
missed. But it was then too late.

Robinson and his new friend went down the long flight of steps to the
harbour basin--very high steps, steep and slippery. The little pig was
obliged to jump from step to step until the sailor kindly took hold of
him. They walked along the quay hand in hand: their appearance seemed to
cause unbounded amusement.

Robinson looked about him with much interest. He had peeped over those
steps before when he had come into Stymouth in the donkey cart, but he
had never ventured to go down, because the sailors are rather rough, and
because they frequently have little snarling terriers on guard about
their vessels.

There were ever so many ships in the harbour; the noise and bustle was
almost as loud as it had been up above in the market square. A big
three-masted ship called the "Goldielocks" was discharging a cargo of
oranges; and farther along the quay, a small coasting brig called
"Little Bo Peep" of Bristol was loading up with bales of wool belonging
to the sheep of Ewehampton and Lambworthy.

[Illustration]

Old Sim Ram, with a sheepbell and big curly horns, stood by the
gangway keeping count of the bales. Every time the crane swung round and
let down another bale of wool into the hold, with a scuffle of rope
through the pulley, Simon Ram nodded his old head, and the bell went
"tinkle tinkle, tong," and he gave a gruff bleat.

He was a person who knew Robinson by sight and ought to have warned him.
He had often passed Piggery Porcombe when he drove down the lane in his
gig. But his blind eye was turned towards the quay; and he had been
flustered and confused by an argument with the pursers as to whether
thirty-five bales of wool had been hoisted on board already or only
thirty-four.

So he kept his one useful eye carefully on the wool, and counted
it by the notches on his tally stick--another bale--another
notch--thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven; he hoped the number would
come right at the finish.

His bob-tailed sheep dog, Timothy Gyp, was also acquainted with
Robinson, but he was busy superintending a dog fight between an Airedale
terrier belonging to the collier "Margery Daw" and a Spanish dog
belonging to the "Goldielocks." No one took any notice of their growling
and snarling, which ended in both rolling over the side of the quay and
falling into the water. Robinson kept close to the sailor and held his
hand very tight.

The "Pound of Candles" proved to be a good-sized schooner, newly painted
and decorated with certain flags, whose significance was not understood
by Robinson. She lay near the outer end of the jetty. The tide was
running up fast, lapping against the ship's sides and straining the
thick hawsers by which she was moored to the quay.

The crew were stowing goods on board and doing things with ropes under
the direction of Captain Barnabas Butcher; a lean, brown, nautical
person with a rasping voice. He banged things about and grumbled; parts
of his remarks were audible on the quay. He was speaking about the tug
"Sea-horse"--and about the spring tide, with a north-east wind behind
it--and the baker's man and fresh vegetables--"to be shipped at eleven
sharp; likewise a joint of...." He stopped short suddenly, and his eye
lighted upon the cook and Robinson.

[Illustration]

Robinson and the cook went on board across a shaky plank. When Robinson
stepped on to the deck, he found himself face to face with a large
yellow cat who was blacking boots.

The cat gave a start of surprise and dropped its blacking brush. It then
began to wink and make extraordinary faces at Robinson. He had never
seen a cat behave in that way before. He inquired whether it was ill.
Whereupon the cook threw a boot at it, and it rushed up into the
rigging. But Robinson he invited most affably to descend into the cabin,
to partake of muffins and crumpets.

I do not know how many muffins Robinson consumed. He went on eating them
until he fell asleep; and he went on sleeping until his stool gave a
lurch, and he fell off and rolled under the table. One side of the
cabin floor swung up to the ceiling; and the other side of the ceiling
swung down to the floor. Plates danced about; and there were shoutings
and thumpings and rattling of chains and other bad sounds.

Robinson picked himself up, feeling bumped. He scrambled up a sort of a
ladder-staircase on to the deck. Then he gave squeal upon squeal of
horror! All round the ship there were great big green waves; the houses
on the quay were like dolls' houses; and high up inland, above the red
cliffs and green fields, he could see the farm of Piggery Porcombe
looking no bigger than a postage stamp. A little white patch in the
orchard was Aunt Porcas's washing, spread out to bleach upon the grass.
Near at hand the black tug "Sea-horse" smoked and plunged and rolled.
They were winding in the tow rope which had just been cast loose from
the "Pound of Candles."

[Illustration]

Captain Barnabas stood up in the bows of his schooner; he yelled and
shouted to the master of the tug. The sailors shouted also, and pulled
with a will, and hoisted the sails. The ship heeled over and rushed
through the waves, and there was a smell of the sea.

As for Robinson--he tore round and round the deck like one distracted,
shrieking very shrill and loud. Once or twice he slipped down; for the
deck was extremely sideways; but still he ran and he ran. Gradually his
squeals subsided into singing, but still he kept on running, and this is
what he sang--

    "_Poor Pig Robinson Crusoe!
    Oh, how in the world could they do so?
    They have set him afloat, in a horrible boat,
    Oh, poor pig Robinson Crusoe!_"

The sailors laughed until they cried; but when Robinson had sung that
same verse about fifty times, and upset several sailors by rushing
between their legs, they began to get angry. Even the ship's cook was no
longer civil to Robinson. On the contrary, he was very rude indeed. He
said that if Robinson did not leave off singing through his nose, he
would make him into pork chops.

Then Robinson fainted, and fell flat upon the deck of the "Pound of
Candles."




CHAPTER VII


It must not be supposed for one moment that Robinson was ill-treated on
board ship. Quite the contrary. He was even better fed and more petted
on the "Pound of Candles" than he had been at Piggery Porcombe. So,
after a few days' fretting for his kind old aunts (especially while he
was seasick), Robinson became perfectly contented and happy. He found
what is called his "sea legs"; and he scampered about the deck until the
time when he became too fat and lazy to scamper.

The cook was never tired of boiling porridge for him. A whole sack full
of meal and a sack of potatoes appeared to have been provided especially
for his benefit and pleasure. He could eat as much as he pleased. It
pleased him to eat a great deal and to lie on the warm boards of the
deck. He got lazier and lazier as the ship sailed south into warmer
weather. The mate made a pet of him; the crew gave him tit-bits. The
cook rubbed his back and scratched his sides--his ribs could not be
tickled, because he had laid so much fat on. The only persons who
refused to treat him as a joke were the yellow tom-cat and Captain
Barnabas Butcher, who was of a sour disposition.

The attitude of the cat was perplexing to Robinson. Obviously it
disapproved of the maize meal porridge business, and it spoke
mysteriously about the impropriety of greediness, and about the
disastrous results of over-indulgence. But it did not explain what those
results might be, and as the cat itself cared neither for yellow meal
nor 'taties, Robinson thought that its warnings might arise from
prejudice. It was not unfriendly. It was mournful and foreboding.

The cat itself was crossed in love. Its morose and gloomy outlook upon
life was partly the result of separation from the owl. That sweet
hen-bird, a snowy owl of Lapland, had sailed upon a northern whaler,
bound for Greenland. Whereas the "Pound of Candles" was heading for the
tropic seas.

[Illustration]

Therefore the cat neglected its duties, and was upon the worst of terms
with the cook. Instead of blacking boots and valeting the Captain, it
spent days and nights in the rigging, serenading the moon. Between times
it came down on deck, and remonstrated with Robinson.

It never told him plainly why he ought not to eat so much; but it
referred frequently to a mysterious date (which Robinson could never
remember)--the date of Captain Butcher's birthday, which he celebrated
annually by an extra good dinner.

"That's what they are saving up apples for. The onions are
done--sprouted with the heat. I heard Captain Barnabas tell the cook
that onions were of no consequence as long as there were apples for
sauce."

[Illustration]

Robinson paid no attention. In fact, he and the cat were both on the
side of the ship, watching a shoal of silvery fishes. The ship was
completely becalmed. The cook strolled across the deck to see what the
cat was looking at and exclaimed joyfully at sight of fresh fish.
Presently half the crew were fishing. They baited their lines with bits
of scarlet wool and bits of biscuit; and the boatswain had a successful
catch on a line baited with a shiny button.

The worst of button fishing was that so many fish dropped off while
being hauled on deck. Consequently Captain Butcher allowed the crew to
launch the jolly boat, which was let down from some iron contraption
called "the davits" on to the glassy surface of the sea. Five sailors
got into the boat; the cat jumped in also. They fished for hours. There
was not a breath of wind.

[Illustration]

In the absence of the cat, Robinson fell asleep peacefully upon the warm
deck. Later he was disturbed by the voices of the mate and the cook, who
had not gone fishing. The former was saying:

"I don't fancy loin of pork with sunstroke, Cooky. Stir him up; or else
throw a piece of sail cloth over him. I was bred on a farm myself. Pigs
should never be let sleep in a hot sun."

"As why?" inquired the cook.

"Sunstroke," replied the mate. "Likewise it scorches the skin; makes it
peely like; spoils the look of the crackling."

At this point a rather heavy dirty piece of sail cloth was flung over
Robinson, who struggled and kicked with sudden grunts.

"Did he hear you, Matey?" asked the cook in a lower voice.

"Don't know; don't matter; he can't get off the ship," replied the mate,
lighting his pipe.

"Might upset his appetite; he's feeding beautiful," said the cook.

Presently the voice of Captain Barnabas Butcher was heard. He had come
up on deck after a siesta below in his cabin.

"Proceed to the crow's nest on the main mast; observe the horizon
through a telescope according to latitude and longitude. We ought to be
amongst the archipelago by the chart and compass," said the voice of
Captain Butcher.

[Illustration]

It reached the ears of Robinson through the sail cloth in muffled tones,
but peremptory: although it was not so received by the mate, who
occasionally contradicted the Captain when no one else was listening.

"My corns are very painful," said the mate.

"Send the cat up," ordered Captain Barnabas briefly.

"The cat is out in the boat fishing."

"Fetch him in then," said Captain Barnabas, losing his temper. "He has
not blacked my boots for a fort-night." He went below; that is, down a
step-ladder into his cabin, where he proceeded to work out the latitude
and longitude again, in search of the archipelago.

"It's to be hoped that he mends his temper before next Thursday, or he
won't enjoy roast pork!" said the mate to the cook.

They strolled to the other end of the deck to see what fish had been
caught; the boat was coming back.

As the weather was perfectly calm, it was left over night upon the
glassy sea, tied below a port-hole (or ship's window) at the stern of
the "Pound of Candles."

The cat was sent up the mast with a telescope; it remained there for
some time. When it came down it reported quite untruthfully that there
was nothing in sight. No particular watch or look-out was kept that
night upon the "Pound of Candles" because the ocean was so calm. The cat
was supposed to watch--if anybody did. All the rest of the ship's
company played cards.

[Illustration]

Not so the cat or Robinson. The cat had noticed a slight movement under
the sail cloth. It found Robinson shivering with fright and in floods
of tears. He had overheard the conversation about pork.

"I'm sure I have given you enough hints," said the cat to Robinson.
"What do you suppose they were feeding you up for? Now don't start
squealing, you little fool! It's as easy as snuff, if you will listen
and stop crying. You can row, after a fashion." (Robinson had been out
fishing occasionally and caught several crabs). "Well, you have not far
to go; I could see the top of the Bong tree on an island N.N.E., when I
was up the mast. The straits of the archipelago are too shallow for the
'Pound of Candles,' and I'll scuttle all the other boats. Come along,
and do what I tell you!" said the cat.

The cat, actuated partly by unselfish friendship, and partly by a
grudge against the cook and Captain Barnabas Butcher, assisted Robinson
to collect a varied assortment of necessaries. Shoes, sealing-wax, a
knife, an armchair, fishing tackle, a straw hat, a saw, fly papers, a
potato pot, a telescope, a kettle, a compass, a hammer, a barrel of
flour, another of meal, a keg of fresh water, a tumbler, a teapot,
nails, a bucket, a screwdriver----

"That reminds me," said the cat, and what did it do but go round the
deck with a gimlet and bore large holes in the three boats that remained
on board the "Pound of Candles."

By this time there began to be ominous sounds below; those of the
sailors who had had bad hands were beginning to be tired of carding. So
the cat took a hasty farewell of Robinson, pushed him over the ship's
side, and he slid down the rope into the boat. The cat unfastened the
upper end of the rope and threw it after him. Then it ascended the
rigging and pretended to sleep upon its watch.

Robinson stumbled somewhat in taking his seat at the oars. His legs were
short for rowing. Captain Barnabas in the cabin suspended his deal, a
card in his hand, listening (the cook took the opportunity to look under
the card), then he went on slapping down the cards, which drowned the
sound of oars upon the placid sea.

[Illustration]

After another hand, two sailors left the cabin and went on deck. They
noticed something having the appearance of a large black beetle in the
distance. One of them said it was an enormous cockroach, swimming with
its hind legs. The other said it was a dolphinium. They disputed,
rather loudly. Captain Barnabas, who had had a hand with no trumps at
all after the cook dealing--Captain Barnabas came on deck and said:

"Bring me my telescope."

The telescope had disappeared; likewise the shoes, the sealing-wax, the
compass, the potato pot, the straw hat, the hammer, the nails, the
bucket, the screwdriver, and the armchair.

"Take the jolly boat and see what it is," ordered Captain Butcher.

"All jolly fine, but suppose it is a dolphinium?" said the mate
mutinously.

"Why, bless my life, the jolly boat is gone!" exclaimed a sailor.

"Take another boat, take all the three other boats; it's that pig and
that cat!" roared the Captain.

[Illustration]

"Nay, sir, the cat's up the rigging asleep."

"Bother the cat! Get the pig back! The apple sauce will be wasted!"
shrieked the cook, dancing about and brandishing a knife and fork.

The davits were swung out, the boats were let down with a swish and a
splash, all the sailors tumbled in, and rowed frantically. And most of
them were glad to row frantically back to the "Pound of Candles." For
every boat leaked badly, thanks to the cat.




CHAPTER VIII


Robinson rowed away from the "Pound of Candles." He tugged steadily at
the oars. They were heavy for him. The sun had set, but I understand
that in the tropics--I have never been there--there is a phosphorescent
light upon the sea. When Robinson lifted his oars, the sparkling water
dripped from the blades like diamonds. And presently the moon began to
rise above the horizon--rising like half a great silver plate. Robinson
rested on his oars and gazed at the ship, motionless in the moonlight,
on a sea without a ripple. It was at this moment--he being a quarter of
a mile away--that the two sailors came on deck, and thought his boat was
a swimming beetle.

[Illustration]

Robinson was too far away to see or hear the uproar on board the "Pound
of Candles"; but he did presently perceive that three boats were
starting in pursuit. Involuntarily he commenced to squeal, and rowed
frantically. But before he had time to exhaust himself by racing, the
ship's boats turned back. Then Robinson remembered the cat's work with
the gimlet, and he knew that the boats were leaking. For the rest of the
night he rowed quietly, without haste. He was not inclined to sleep, and
the air was pleasantly cool. Next day it was hot, but Robinson slept
soundly under the sail cloth, which the cat had been careful to send
with him, in case he wished to rig up a tent.

The ship receded from view--you know the sea is not really flat. First
he could not see the hull, then he could not see the deck, then only
part of the masts, then nothing at all.

[Illustration]

Robinson had been steering his course by the ship. Having lost sight
of this direction sign, he turned round to consult his compass--when
bump, bump, the boat touched a sandbank. Fortunately it did not stick.

Robinson stood up in the boat, working one oar backwards, and gazing
around. What should he see but the top of the Bong tree!

Half an hour's rowing brought him to the beach of a large and fertile
island. He landed in the most approved manner in a convenient sheltered
bay, where a stream of boiling water flowed down the silvery strand. The
shore was covered with oysters. Acid drops and sweets grew upon the
trees. Yams, which are a sort of sweet potato, abounded ready cooked.
The bread-fruit tree grew iced cakes and muffins, ready baked; so no
pig need sigh for porridge. Overhead towered the Bong tree.

[Illustration]

If you want a more detailed description of the island, you must read
"Robinson Crusoe." The island of the Bong tree was very like Crusoe's,
only without its drawbacks. I have never been there myself, so I rely
upon the report of the Owl and the Pussy Cat, who visited it eighteen
months later, and spent a delightful honeymoon there. They spoke
enthusiastically about the climate--only it was a little too warm for
the Owl.

Later on Robinson was visited by Stumpy and little dog Tipkins. They
found him perfectly contented, and in the best of good health. He was
not at all inclined to return to Stymouth. For anything I know he may be
living there still upon the island. He grew fatter and fatter and more
fatterer; and the ship's cook never found him.




[End of _The Tale of Little Pig Robinson_ by Beatrix Potter]