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The Fantastical World of Magical Beasts. Andrew Lang
Читать онлайн.Название The Fantastical World of Magical Beasts
Год выпуска 0
isbn 4064066399092
Автор произведения Andrew Lang
Издательство Bookwire
It was Cyril who wrote the paper that told the carpet to take away the rats and bring milk, because there seemed to be no doubt in any breast that, however Persian cats may be, they must like milk.
‘Let’s hope it won’t be musk-milk,’ said Anthea, in gloom, as she pinned the paper face-downwards on the carpet. ‘Is there such a thing as a musk-cow?’ she added anxiously, as the carpet shrivelled and vanished. ‘I do hope not. Perhaps really it would have been wiser to let the carpet take the cats away. It’s getting quite late, and we can’t keep them all night.’
‘Oh, can’t we?’ was the bitter rejoinder of Robert, who had been fastening the side door. ‘You might have consulted me,’ he went on. ‘I’m not such an idiot as some people.’
‘Why, whatever—’
‘Don’t you see? We’ve jolly well got to keep the cats all night – oh, get down, you furry beasts! – because we’ve had three wishes out of the old carpet now, and we can’t get any more till tomorrow.’
The liveliness of Persian mews alone prevented the occurrence of a dismal silence.
Anthea spoke first.
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘Do you know, I really do think they’re quieting down a bit. Perhaps they heard us say milk.’
‘They can’t understand English,’ said Jane.
‘You forget they’re Persian cats, Panther.’
‘Well,’ said Anthea, rather sharply, for she was tired and anxious, ‘who told you “milk” wasn’t Persian for milk. Lots of English words are just the same in French – at least I know “miaw” is, and “croquet”, and “fiancé”. Oh, pussies, do be quiet! Let’s stroke them as hard as we can with both hands, and perhaps they’ll stop.’
So everyone stroked grey fur till their hands were tired, and as soon as a cat had been stroked enough to make it stop mewing it was pushed gently away, and another mewing mouser was approached by the hands of the strokers. And the noise was really more than half purr when the carpet suddenly appeared in its proper place, and on it, instead of rows of milk-cans, or even of milk-jugs, there was a cow. Not a Persian cow, either, nor, most fortunately, a musk-cow, if there is such a thing, but a smooth, sleek, dun-coloured Jersey cow, who blinked large soft eyes at the gaslight and mooed in an amiable if rather inquiring manner.
Anthea had always been afraid of cows; but now she tried to be brave.
‘Anyway, it can’t run after me,’ she said to herself. ‘There isn’t room for it even to begin to run.’
The cow was perfectly placid. She behaved like a strayed duchess till someone brought a saucer for the milk, and someone else tried to milk the cow into it. Milking is very difficult. You may think it is easy, but it is not. All the children were by this time strung up to a pitch of heroism that would have been impossible to them in their ordinary condition. Robert and Cyril held the cow by the horns; and Jane, when she was quite sure that their end of the cow was quite secure, consented to stand by, ready to hold the cow by the tail should occasion arise.
Anthea, holding the saucer, now advanced towards the cow. She remembered to have heard that cows, when milked by strangers, are susceptible to the soothing influence of the human voice. So, clutching her saucer very tight, she sought for words to whose soothing influence the cow might be susceptible. And her memory, troubled by the events of the night, which seemed to go on and on for ever and ever, refused to help her with any form of words suitable to address a Jersey cow in.
‘Poor pussy, then. Lie down, then, good dog, lie down!’ was all that she could think of to say, and she said it.
And nobody laughed. The situation, full of grey mewing cats, was too serious for that.
Then Anthea, with a beating heart, tried to milk the cow. Next moment the cow had knocked the saucer out of her hand and trampled on it with one foot, while with the other three she had walked on a foot each of Robert, Cyril, and Jane.
Jane burst into tears.
‘Oh, how much too horrid everything is!’ she cried. ‘Come away. Let’s go to bed and leave the horrid cats with the hateful cow. Perhaps somebody will eat somebody else. And serve them right.’
They did not go to bed, but they had a shivering council in the drawing-room, which smelt of soot – and, indeed, a heap of this lay in the fender. There had been no fire in the room since Mother went away, and all the chairs and tables were in the wrong places, and the chrysanthemums were dead, and the water in the pot nearly dried up. Anthea wrapped the embroidered woolly sofa blanket round Jane and herself, while Robert and Cyril had a struggle, silent and brief, but fierce, for the larger share of the fur hearthrug.
‘It is most truly awful,’ said Anthea, ‘and I am so tired. Let’s let the cats loose.’
‘And the cow, perhaps?’ said Cyril. ‘The police would find us at once. That cow would stand at the gate and mew – I mean moo – to come in. And so would the cats. No; I see quite well what we’ve got to do. We must put them in baskets and leave them on people’s doorsteps, like orphan foundlings.’
‘We’ve got three baskets, counting Mother’s work one,’ said Jane brightening.
‘And there are nearly 200 cats,’ said Anthea, ‘besides the cow – and it would have to be a different-sized basket for her; and then I don’t know how you’d carry it, and you’d never find a doorstep big enough to put it on. Except the church one – and—’
‘Oh, well,’ said Cyril, ‘if you simply make difficulties—’
‘I’m with you,’ said Robert. ‘Don’t fuss about the cow, Panther. It’s simply got to stay the night, and I’m sure I’ve read that the cow is a remunerating creature, and that means it will sit still and think for hours. The carpet can take it away in the morning. And as for the baskets, we’ll do them up in dusters, or pillow-cases, or bath-towels. Come on, Squirrel. You girls can be out of it if you like.’
His tone was full of contempt, but Jane and Anthea were too tired and desperate to care; even being ‘out of it’, which at other times they could not have borne, now seemed quite a comfort. They snuggled down in the sofa blanket, and Cyril threw the fur hearthrug over them.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘that’s all women are fit for – to keep safe and warm, while the men do the work and run dangers and risks and things.’
‘I’m not,’ said Anthea, ‘you know I’m not.’
But Cyril was gone.
It was warm under the blanket and the hearth-rug, and Jane snuggled up close to her sister; and Anthea cuddled Jane closely and kindly, and in a sort of dream they heard the rise of a wave of mewing as Robert opened the door of the nursery. They heard the booted search for baskets in the back kitchen. They heard the side door open and close, and they knew that each brother had gone out with at least one cat. Anthea’s last thought was that it would take at least all night to get rid of 199 cats by twos. There would be ninety-nine journeys of two cats each, and one cat over.
‘I almost think we might keep the one cat over,’ said Anthea. ‘I don’t seem to care for cats just now, but I daresay I shall again some day.’ And she fell asleep. Jane also was sleeping.
It was Jane who awoke with a start, to find Anthea still asleep. As, in the act of awakening, she kicked her sister, she wondered idly why they should have gone to bed in their boots; but the next moment she remembered where they were.
There