LITMIR.BIZ

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across the little valley. ‘Mrs. Vincey’s baking day. Bread should rise well this weather.’ He yawned, and that set them both yawning.

      The bracken about rustled and ticked and shook in every direction. They felt that little crowds were stealing past.

      ‘Doesn’t that sound like – er – the People of the Hills?’ said Una.

      ‘It’s the birds and wild things drawing up to the woods before people get about,’ said Puck, as though he were Ridley the keeper.

      ‘Oh, we know that. I only said it sounded like.’

      ‘As I remember ’em, the People of the Hills used to make more noise. They’d settle down for the day rather like small birds settling down for the night. But that was in the days when they carried the high hand. Oh, me! The deeds that I’ve had act and part in, you’d scarcely believe!’

      ‘I like that!’ said Dan. ‘After all you told us last year, too!’

      ‘Only, the minute you went away, you made us forget everything,’ said Una.

      Puck laughed and shook his head. ‘I shall this year, too. I’ve given you seizin of Old England, and I’ve taken away your Doubt and Fear, but your memory and remembrance between whiles I’ll keep where old Billy Trott kept his night-lines – and that’s where he could draw ’em up and hide ’em at need. Does that suit?’ He twinkled mischievously.

      ‘It’s got to suit,’ said Una, and laughed. ‘We can’t magic back at you.’ She folded her arms and leaned against the gate. ‘Suppose, now, you wanted to magic me into something – an otter? Could you?’

      ‘Not with those boots round your neck.’

      ‘I’ll take them off.’ She threw them on the turf. Dan’s followed immediately. ‘Now!’ she said.

      ‘Less than ever now you’ve trusted me. Where there’s true faith, there’s no call for magic.’ Puck’s slow smile broadened all over his face.

      ‘But what have boots to do with it?’ said Una, perching on the gate.

      ‘There’s cold iron in them,’ said Puck, and settled beside her. ‘Nails in the soles, I mean. It makes a difference.’

      ‘How?’

      ‘Can’t you feel it does? You wouldn’t like to go back to bare feet again, same as last year, would you? Not really?’

      ‘No – o. I suppose I shouldn’t – not for always. I’m growing up, you know,’ said Una.

      ‘But you told us last year, in the Long Slip – at the theatre – that you didn’t mind Cold Iron,’ said Dan.

      ‘I don’t; but folk in housen, as the People of the Hills call them, must be ruled by Cold Iron. Folk in housen are born on the near side of Cold Iron – there’s iron in every man’s house, isn’t there? They handle Cold Iron every day of their lives, and their fortune’s made or spoilt by Cold Iron in some shape or other. That’s how it goes with Flesh and Blood, and one can’t prevent it.’

      ‘I don’t quite see. How do you mean?’ said Dan.

      ‘It would take me some time to tell you.’

      ‘Oh, it’s ever so long to breakfast,’ said Dan. ‘We looked in the larder before we came out.’ He unpocketed one big hunk of bread and Una another, which they shared with Puck.

      ‘That’s Little Lindens’ baking,’ he said, as his white teeth sunk in it. ‘I know Mrs. Vincey’s hand.’ He ate with a slow sideways thrust and grind, just like old Hobden, and, like Hobden, hardly dropped a crumb. The sun flashed on Little Lindens’ windows, and the cloudless sky grew stiller and hotter in the valley.

      ‘Ah – Cold Iron,’ he said at last to the impatient children. ‘Folk in housen, as the People of the Hills say, grow so careless about Cold Iron. They’ll nail the Horseshoe over the front door, and forget to put it over the back. Then, some time or other, the People of the Hills slip in, find the cradle-babe in the corner, and – ’

      ‘Oh, I know. Steal it and leave a changeling,’ Una cried.

      ‘No,’ said Puck firmly. ‘All that talk of changelings is people’s excuse for their own neglect. Never believe ’em. I’d whip ’em at the cart-tail through three parishes if I had my way.’

      ‘But they don’t do it now,’ said Una.

      ‘Whip, or neglect children? Umm! Some folks and some fields never alter. But the People of the Hills didn’t work any changeling tricks. They’d tiptoe in and whisper, and weave round the cradle-babe in the chimney-corner – a fag-end of a charm here, or half a spell there – like kettles singing; but when the babe’s mind came to bud out afterwards, it would act differently from other people in its station. That’s no advantage to man or maid. So I wouldn’t allow it with my folks’ babies here. I told Sir Huon so once.’

      ‘Who was Sir Huon?’ Dan asked, and Puck turned on him in quiet astonishment.

      ‘Sir Huon of Bordeaux – he succeeded King Oberon. He had been a bold knight once, but he was lost on the road to Babylon, a long while back. Have you ever heard, “How many miles to Babylon?"’

      ‘Of course,’ said Dan, flushing.

      ‘Well, Sir Huon was young when that song was new. But about tricks on mortal babies. I said to Sir Huon in the fern here, on just such a morning as this: “If you crave to act and influence on folk in housen, which I know is your desire, why don’t you take some human cradle-babe by fair dealing, and bring him up among yourselves on the far side of Cold Iron – as Oberon did in time past? Then you could make him a splendid fortune, and send him out into the world?”

      ‘“Time past is past time,” says Sir Huon. “I doubt if we could do it. For one thing, the babe would have to be taken without wronging man, woman, or child. For another, he’d have to be born on the far side of Cold Iron – in some house where no Cold Iron ever stood; and for yet the third, he’d have to be kept from Cold Iron all his days till we let him find his fortune. No, it’s not easy,” he said, and he rode off, thinking. You see, Sir Huon had been a man once.

      ‘I happened to attend Lewes Market next Woden’s Day even, and watched the slaves being sold there – same as pigs are sold at Robertsbridge Market nowadays. Only, the pigs have rings on their noses, and the slaves had rings round their necks.’

      ‘What sort of rings?’ said Dan.

      ‘A ring of Cold Iron, four fingers wide, and a thumb thick, just like a quoit, but with a snap to it for to snap round the slave’s neck. They used to do a big trade in slave-rings at the Forge here, and ship them to all parts of Old England, packed in oak sawdust. But, as I was saying, there was a farmer out of the Weald who had bought a woman with a babe in her arms, and he didn’t want any encumbrances to her driving his beasts home for him.’

      ‘Beast himself!’ said Una, and kicked her bare heel on the gate.

      ‘So he blamed the auctioneer. “It’s none o’ my baby,” the wench puts in. “I took it off a woman in our gang who died on Terrible Down yesterday.” “I’ll take it off to the Church then,” says the farmer. “Mother Church’ll make a monk of it, and we’ll step along home."

      ‘It was dusk then. He slipped down to St. Pancras’ Church, and laid the babe at the cold chapel door. I breathed on the back of his stooping neck – and – I’ve heard he never could be warm at any fire afterwards. I should have been surprised if he could! Then I whipped up the babe, and came flying home here like a bat to his belfry.

      ‘On the dewy break of morning of Thor’s own day – just such a day as this – I laid the babe outside the Hill here, and the People flocked up and wondered at the sight.

      ‘“You’ve brought him, then?” Sir Huon said, staring like any mortal man.

      ‘“Yes, and he’s brought his mouth with him too,” I said. The babe was crying loud for his breakfast.

      ‘“What

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