"A gallant ship, with a crew as brave As ever sailed the ocean wave."

The crew of the _Merry Maiden_, I may tell you at once, was a very small one indeed, and consisted--all told, that is--of the captain himself, who was likewise cook, boatswain, and bedmaker all combined; one st.u.r.dy, great boy of sixteen, strong enough to lift almost any weight, Sammy by name, who was first lieutenant, supercargo, and chief engineer, and who often took his trick at the wheel--that is, he took the tiller and relieved his captain, or mounted Jim and relieved Ransey; Ransey himself, who was second engineer--Jim, the stout old bay nag, being the engine itself, the moving power when no fair wind was blowing; and Bob, whose station was at the bows, and his duty to keep a good look-out and hail those aft if any other ship hove in sight or danger was near.

The _Merry Maiden_ rejoiced in one mast, which had to be cleverly lowered when a bridge had to be negotiated. The sail was a fore-and-aft one, though very full at times. Picturesquely reddish-brown it was, and looked so pretty sometimes against the green of the trees that, as the craft sailed slowly on in the sunshine, dreamy artists, seated smoking at their out-door easels, often made the _Merry Maiden_ part and parcel of the landscape they were painting.

I think that Tandy himself liked being on board. The barge was his own, and carrying light wares or parcels from village to village, or town to town, his trade.

Things had gone backwards with Tandy as long as he looked upon the rum when it was red; he had got into debt. But now he was comfortable, jolly once more, because his keel was clear, as he phrased it; and as he reclined to-day on the top of the cuddy, or p.o.o.p, with the tiller in his hand, Babs nestling near him, with the greenery of the woods, the fields, and little round knolls floating dreamily past him in the silvery haze of the sunshine, he looked a picture of health, happiness, and contentment.

Ransey and Babs took their ca.n.a.l life very easily. They never knew or cared where they were going to, nor thought of what they might see.

Even the boy's knowledge of the geography of his own country was very limited indeed.

He had some notion that his father's ca.n.a.l--he grandly termed it so occasionally--was somewhere away down in the midlands. And he was right. He hadn't learned to box the compa.s.s, however; and even had he possessed the knowledge, there wasn't a compa.s.s on board the _Merry Maiden_ to box or be boxed. Besides, the ship's head was seldom a whole hour in any one particular direction. The ca.n.a.l was a very winding one, its chief desire seeming to be to visit all the villages it could reach without being bothered with locks. These last were few and far between, because the country was rather a level one on the whole.

Nevertheless the fact of their not knowing exactly where they were going to, or what they would see next, lent an additional charm to the children's ca.n.a.l life. It was like the game children play on moonlight nights in Scotland. This is a very simple one, but has a great fascination for tiny dwellers in the country, and, besides, it gives excellent scope for the imagination. One child blindfolds another, and leads him here, there, and everywhere, without going far away from home--round the stackyards, over the fields by the edge of the woods, or across bridges, the blindfolded wondering all the time where he is, but feeling as if he were in fairyland, till at last his eyes are free, and he finds himself--well, in the very last place he could have dreamt of being.

There is no reason why ca.n.a.l life in England should not be most pleasant, and ca.n.a.l people just as happy as was the crew, all told, on board the _Merry Maiden_.

The saloon of the _Maiden_, as Tandy grandly called it, was by no means very large. It was simply a dear little morsel of a doll's-house, but the taste of the owner was shown in many different ways. By day the beds were folded up and were prettily draped with bright curtains.

There were a lounge, an easy-chair, a swing-lamp, a beautiful bra.s.s stove, and racks above and at both sides of it for plates and mugs and clear, clean tin cooking utensils; there were tiny cupboards and brackets and mirrors, and in almost every corner stood vases of wild flowers, culled by Babs and Ransey whenever they had a chance. And this was often enough, for really Jim was so wise a horse that he never required any urging to do his duty. He was never known to make either break or stumble. But when sail was on the ship, Jim had nothing to do except to walk after her and look about him. Sometimes the oats or the wheat grew close to the path, and then, although a very honest horse, Jim never failed to treat himself to a pluck. So he was as sleek and fat as any nag need be.

The weather was not always fine, of course, but on wet days Babs could be sent below, with Bob to mind her, to play with her picture-books, her lady doll, and her dolly-bone.

Ransey's father had made him discard now, for ever and ay, his ragged garments, although the boy had not done so without a sigh of regret-- they were so free and easy.

His best clothes, presented by Miss Scragley, were stowed away for high days and holidays, and the suit his father bought him and brought him was simply neat and somewhat nautical.

Let us take a little cruise in the _Merry Maiden_. Shall we, reader?

It will be a cruise in imagination certainly, but very real for all that, because it is from the life.

It is very early, then, in the joyous month of June, and the _Merry Maiden_ is lying alongside a green bank. There is no pier here. It is a country place. Yonder on the right is a pretty little ca.n.a.l-side inn, the "Jolly Tapsters." You can read its name on the sign that is swinging to and fro beneath a wide-spreading elm-tree. Under this tree is a seat, and a table also; and on fine evenings, after their day's work is done, honest labourers, dressed in smocks, who have been haymaking all day, come here to smoke long clays, to talk to their neighbours, and now and then beat the table with their pewters to ask for "another pint, landlord, if _you_ please."

Tandy lay in here last night and left a whole lot of parcels and things at that cosy hostelry; for the country all about is an agricultural one, beautifully wooded with rolling hills, with many a smiling mansion peeping grey or red above the trees, and many a well-tilled farm. The parcels will all be called for in due time.

The barge-master is up before even Ransey is stirring. He has lit the fire and made ready for breakfast. Before going on sh.o.r.e by the little gangway, he stirs Sammy up. Sammy, the sixteen-year-old boy, has been sleeping among the cargo with a morsel of tarpaulin for a blanket. He rubs his eyes, and in a few seconds pulls himself up, and begins, lazily enough, to sort and arrange the parcels and make notes for the next stop in a small black book, with a very thick pencil that he sticks in his mouth about once every three seconds to make it write more easily.

"What a lovely morning!" thinks Tandy, and Bob, who has come bounding after him, thinks so too. The sun is already up, however. From every copse and plantation comes the melody of birds. Flocks of rooks are flying heavily and silently away to the distant river, where among the reeds they will find plenty to eat. Swimming about in the ca.n.a.l yonder are half a score of beautiful ducks. No, not wild; wild birds seldom build on a busy ca.n.a.l side. They are the innkeeper's Rouens, and that splendid drake is very proud indeed. He lifts himself high out of the water and claps his wings in defiance as Bob pa.s.ses.

Yonder is a lark lilting loudly and sweetly high above the green corn.

There are linnets and greenfinches in the hedges, and warblers among the snow-white blossoms of the may.

There is a wealth of wild flowers everywhere--blue-eyed speedwells, the yellow celandine, the crimson of clover, the ragged robin, and ox-eye daisies weeping dew.

So balmy is the air and fresh that the barge-master has wandered further than he had intended. Hunger warns him to beat a retreat. Ca.n.a.l people, like caravan folks, have excellent appet.i.tes.

But here he is on board again. Ransey has already cooked and laid the breakfast, dressed Babs, and folded up the beds. With the ports all open the tiny saloon is sweet and clean.

"For what we are about to receive," the father begins, and little Ransey's head is bent and Babs's hands are clasped till grace is said.

Those eggs are fresh. The fish was caught but yesterday. b.u.t.ter and beautiful bread are always to be had cheap all along the ca.n.a.l.

Sammy's breakfast and Bob's are duly handed up the companion-way, and in half an hour after this the horse is yoked, the landlord has wished them all good luck, and they have gone on.

But the wind, though slight, is dead ahead for miles, and Jim has a heavy drag. Jim doesn't mind that a bit. He jingles his light harness, strains n.o.bly to his work, and jogs right merrily on.

Gradually the country wakens up to newness of life. Smoke comes curling up from many a humble cottage; c.o.c.ks are crowing here and there; and busy workman-like dogs are hurrying to and fro as they drive cattle or sheep to distant pasture lands.

There are houses dotted about everywhere, some very close to the ca.n.a.l side, from the doors of which half-dressed children rush out to wave naked arms and "hooray" as the barge goes slowly floating past. To these Babs must needs wave her wee hands and give back cheer for cheer.

Many of those cots, humble though they be, have the neatest of gardens, with flowers already blooming in beds and borders, in tubs and in boxes; neat little walks all sanded and yellow; and strings along the walls, up which, when summer is further advanced, climbers will find their way and trail in their loveliness over porch and windows.

There are orchards behind many of these, the gnarled trees snowed over with bloom, many clad in pink or crimson. All this brings to one's mind s.n.a.t.c.hes from Mrs Hemans:--

"The cottage homes of England, By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet-fanes.

Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there the lowly sleep As the bird beneath their eaves."

The sun climbs higher and higher, and the mists have disappeared from the far-off hills, and now you can tell it is school time.

Well-dressed children, in groups, are wending their way all in one direction. But they find time to cull wild flowers for teacher; and see, a bold, bright-faced lad comes near to the edge of the ca.n.a.l.

Perhaps he is charmed by the innocent beauty of little Babs. Who can tell? One thing we _are_ sure of--he has learned a little French, and is proud to air it.

"_Bon voyage_," he shouts.

And next moment a bonnie bunch of flowers falls right into the child's lap.

"Kiss your hand to him, dear," says father.

Babs smilingly does as she is told. No actress could do so more naturally.

Then the boy runs off, looking happy, and the barge floats on.

Book 1--CHAPTER EIGHT.

"POOR MARY! SHE HAS GONE ON."

The barge floats on, and soon the village appears in sight. Yes, thoroughly English, and therefore pretty: the old grey houses only half seen in the midst of the foliage; the wreaths of blue smoke; the broad, squat steeple; wooded hills behind, and amongst these latter here and there a tall Elizabethan house sheltering itself in a hollow, for wildly in winter do the winds sweep through the leafless oaks and elms now clad in all the glory of summer's green.

The ca.n.a.l makes a sweep just before it comes up to the village, as if it had entertained some thoughts of going past without calling. But it hasn't the heart to do so, and presently the barge is close alongside a kind of wooden platform which is dignified by the name of wharf.

Ransey dismounts to water his horse and slip on the nose-bag. Then, while Sammy is busy with his note-book, handing out cargo and taking fresh orders, he takes delighted Babs and Bob on sh.o.r.e to look at the shops. These visits to villages are much appreciated by her tiny ladyship, but if the streets are steep Ransey Tansey must take her on his back, and thus the two go on.

No fear of the "ship" leaving without them; and why, here is father himself, his hands deep in the pockets of his pilot jacket, and smoking.

A penny to Ransey and a halfpenny to Babs secure them additional happiness; but in less than an hour the anchor is weighed, and the _Merry Maiden_ is once more going on.

The wind changes, or the ca.n.a.l, or something; anyhow sail can now be set, and Jim thinks himself about the happiest horse in all creation.