The Tale of Little Pig Robinson - Beatrix Potter [2]
Chapter Two
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.
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 will 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