The Brownies and Other Tales | Page 5

and I've not an easy
life of it. The pay is poor enough when one can get the work, and the
work is hard enough when one has a clear day to do it in; but
housekeeping and bairn-minding don't leave a man much time for his
trade. No! no! Ma'am, the luck of the Trouts is gone, and 'Bairns are a
burden,' is the motto now. Though they are one's own," he muttered to
himself, "and not bad ones, and I did hope once would have been a
blessing."
"There's Johnnie," murmured the old lady, dreamily. "He has a face like
an apple."
"And is about as useful," said the Tailor. "He might have been different,
but his brother leads him by the nose."
His brother led him in as the Tailor spoke, not literally by his snub,

though, but by the hand. They were a handsome pair, this lazy couple.
Johnnie especially had the largest and roundest of foreheads, the
reddest of cheeks, the brightest of eyes, the quaintest and most twitchy
of chins, and looked altogether like a gutta-percha cherub in a chronic
state of longitudinal squeeze. They were locked together by two grubby
paws, and had each an armful of moss, which they deposited on the
floor as they came in.
"I've swept this floor once to-day," said the father, "and I'm not going
to do it again. Put that rubbish outside." "Move it, Johnnie!" said his
brother, seating himself on a stool, and taking out his knife and a piece
of wood, at which he cut and sliced; while the apple-cheeked Johnnie
stumbled and stamped over the moss, and scraped it out on the doorstep,
leaving long trails of earth behind him, and then sat down also.
"And those chips the same," added the Tailor; "I will not clear up the
litter you lads make."
"Pick 'em up, Johnnie," said Thomas Trout, junior, with an exasperated
sigh; and the apple tumbled up, rolled after the flying chips, and
tumbled down again.
"Is there any supper, Father?" asked Tommy.
"No, there is not, Sir, unless you know how to get it," said the Tailor;
and taking his pipe, he went out of the house.
"Is there really nothing to eat, Granny?" asked the boy.
"No, my bairn, only some bread for breakfast to-morrow."
"What makes Father so cross, Granny?"
"He's wearied, and you don't help him, my dear."
"What could I do, Grandmother?"
"Many little things, if you tried," said the old lady. "He spent
half-an-hour to-day, while you were on the moor, getting turf for the
fire, and you could have got it just as well, and he been at his work."
"He never told me," said Tommy.
"You might help me a bit just now, if you would, my laddie," said the
old lady coaxingly; "these bits of cloth want tearing into lengths, and if
you get 'em ready, I can go on knitting. There'll be some food when this
mat is done and sold."
"I'll try," said Tommy, lounging up with desperate resignation. "Hold
my knife, Johnnie. Father's been cross, and everything has been
miserable, ever since the farm was sold. I wish I were a big man, and

could make a fortune.--Will that do, Granny?"
The old lady put down her knitting and looked. "My dear, that's too
short. Bless me! I gave the lad a piece to measure by."
"I thought it was the same length. Oh, dear! I am so tired;" and he
propped himself against the old lady's chair.
"My dear! don't lean so; you'll tipple me over!" she shrieked.
"I beg your pardon, Grandmother. Will that do?"
"It's that much too long."
"Tear that bit off. Now it's all right."
"But, my dear, that wastes it. Now that bit is of no use. There goes my
knitting, you awkward lad!"
"Johnnie, pick it up!--Oh! Grandmother, I am so hungry." The boy's
eyes filled with tears, and the old lady was melted in an instant.
"What can I do for you, my poor bairns?" said she. "There, never mind
the scraps, Tommy."
"Tell us a tale, Granny. If you told us a new one, I shouldn't keep
thinking of that bread in the cupboard.--Come, Johnnie, and sit against
me. Now then!"
"I doubt if there's one of my old-world cracks I haven't told you," said
the old lady, "unless it's a queer ghost story was told me years ago of
that house in the hollow with the blocked-up windows."
"Oh! not ghosts!" Tommy broke in; "we've had so many. I know it was
a rattling, or a scratching, or a knocking, or a figure in white; and if it
turns out a tombstone or a white petticoat, I hate it."
"It was nothing of the sort as a tombstone," said the