At last the head groom had an idea. "Let us fasten on another tail,"

he said, "an't please your worship!"

"Ha!" cried the Baron, starting at the notion. "'Tis well! Ho! there, Hodge, Barnaby, Perkin! Cut me the tails from the three cart-horses, and tie them together. And be quick about it, ye knaves!"

The three grooms flew to execute their master's mandate, and returned in a few minutes, bearing a magnificent tail, whose varied hues of black, sorrel, and white, showed it to be the spoil of Dobbin, Smiler, and b.u.mps, the three stout Flemish cart-horses.

"By my halidome, a motley tail!" exclaimed the Baron. "But it boots not, so it be a tail! Fasten it on with all speed, for time presses!--ha! what is this!"

Well might the Baron start, and exclaim.

The moment the three grooms touched the flanks of Gray Berold, before they had time to lay hands on the stump of his tail, they found themselves flying through the air, and tumbling in a very uncomfortable sort of way against the wall of the courtyard. Marry, that was a brave kick! and when he had given it, the charger looked round after the unhappy grooms, and tossed his stately head, and snorted, evidently meaning to say, "_Don't_ you want to try it again?"

But the grooms did not want to try it again. They picked themselves up, and rubbed their poor shins and their poor heads, and proceeded to hobble off on their poor feet as fast as they could. But they did not hobble far, for the voice of the Baron was heard in angry expostulation.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "They found themselves flying through the air."]

"How now, varlets!" cried that n.o.bleman. "Do you slink away like beaten hounds because, forsooth, the good beast shakes off a fly, or lashes out his heels in playful sport? Shame on ye, coward hinds!

Back, I command ye, and tie me on that tail. Obey, sirrahs, or else--hum--ha--hrrrrugh!!!" and the Baron waved his battle-axe, and looked as if he had swallowed the meat-chopper and the gridiron and the blunderbuss, all at one mouthful.

Hodge, Barnaby, and Perkin were in a bad way, a.s.suredly. On the one hand was the charger, snorting defiance, and with his heels all ready for the next kick, should they presume to touch him; on the other was the furious Baron, also snorting, and with his battle-axe all ready for the next whack, should they presume _not_ to touch him. Here were two sharp horns to a dilemma!

Cautiously the poor knaves crept up once more behind Gray Berold.

"Vault thou upon his back, Perkin!" whispered Barnaby. "Perchance from there--" Whizz! whack! thud!--This time Berold did not wait for them to touch him: the sound of their voices was enough; there they all lay again in a heap against the wall, moaning sore and cursing the day they were born.

But now the Baron's humor changed. "Beshrew me!" he cried. "'Tis a gallant steed. He will not brook, at such a moment, the touch of hireling hands. 'Tis well! give _me_ the tail, my masters! and ye shall see."

Alas! they did see; they saw their Baron rolling over and over on the ground. They saw their Baron roll; they heard their Baron rave; they turned and fled for their lives.

At this moment the portal swung open, and the Lady Ermengarde appeared. She had seen all from an upper window, and she now hastened to raise her fallen lord, who sat spluttering and cursing on the ground, unable to rise, owing to the weight of his armor. "Oh! blame not the steed!" cried the lovely lady. "Chide not the gallant beast, good my lord! 'twas not the touch, 'twas the _tail_, he could not brook. Tie the rustic tail of a plebeian cart-horse on Gray Berold?

Oh! fie, my lord! it may not be. _I_ will provide a tail for your charger!"

"You!" exclaimed the Baron. "What mean you, lady?"

The Lady Ermengarde replied by drawing from the embroidered pouch which hung from her jewelled girdle a pair of shears. Snip! snap!

snip! snap! and before her astonished lord could interfere, the golden tresses, the pride of the whole country-side, were severed from her head. Deftly she tied the shining curls together; lightly she stepped to where Gray Berold stood. She stroked his n.o.ble head; she spoke to him; she showed him the tresses, and told him what she had done. Then with her own hands she tied them on to the stump of his tail with her embroidered girdle; and Gray Berold moved not fore-leg nor hind, but stood like a steed of granite till it was done.

The retainers were dissolved in tears; the Baron sobbed aloud as he climbed, with the a.s.sistance of seven hostlers, into the saddle; but the heroic lady smiled, and bade them be of good cheer. She could get a black wig, she said; and she had always thought she should look better as a brunette.

And to make a long story short, said the wood-pigeon, she _did_ get a black wig, and looked like a beauty in it. And the Baron went to the tournament, and won all the prizes. And Gray Berold lived to be sixty years old, and wore the golden tail to the end of his days. And that's all.

CHAPTER IX.

"Oh! what a delightful story, Pigeon Pretty!" cried Toto. "Did you hear any more like it? I wish I had that red book! Did the boy look as nice as his sister? What was his name?"

"His name," said the pigeon, "was Jim, I think. And he did not--no, Toto, he certainly did _not_ look as nice as his sister. In fact, although I pitied him because he was ill, I thought he looked like a disagreeable sort of boy."

"Red hair?" interposed the squirrel, looking at the racc.o.o.n.

"Freckled face?" asked the racc.o.o.n, looking at the squirrel.

"Why, yes!" said the pigeon, in surprise. "He _had_ red hair and a freckled face; but how should you two know anything about him?"

The squirrel and the racc.o.o.n nodded at each other.

"Same boy, I should say!" said Cracker.

"Same boy, _I_ should say!" answered c.o.o.n.

"What is it?" asked Toto, curious as usual. "Tell us about it, one of you! It is early yet, and we have plenty of time."

"Well, I will tell you," said the squirrel. "I meant to keep it and tell it next time, for I cannot make up stories as easily as some of you, and this is something that really happened; but I might just as well tell it now, especially as Pigeon Pretty has told you about the boy.

"You need not be at all sorry for that boy," he continued. "He is a bad boy, and he deserves all he got, and more too."

"Dear, dear!" said the grandmother. "I am sorry to hear that. What did he do, Mr. Cracker?"

"He tried to rob my Uncle Munkle of his winter store!" replied the squirrel. "And he got the worst of it, that's all."

"Who is your Uncle Munkle?" asked Toto. "I don't know him, do I?"

"No," said Cracker. "He lives quite at the other end of the wood, where people sometimes go for f.a.gots and nuts and such things. n.o.body ever comes near our end of the wood, because they are afraid of Bruin.

"My uncle is a Munk," he continued, "and a most excellent person."

"A monk?" interrupted the grandmother in amazement.

"Yes, a Chipmunk!" said the squirrel. "It's the same thing, I believe, only we spell it with a _u_. Third cousin to a monkey, you know."

Toto and his grandmother both looked quite bewildered at this; but the racc.o.o.n smiled sweetly, and said,--

"Go on, Cracker, my boy! never try to explain things _too_ fully; it's apt to be a little tedious, and it is always better to leave something to the imagination."

"I am going on," said Cracker. "As I said before, people sometimes go into that part of the wood; there are one or two hives not far from it."

"One or two hives?" interrupted Toto. "What _do_ you mean, Cracker?"

"Why, a lot of houses together," said the squirrel. "Don't you call them hives? The only other creatures I know that live in that kind of way (and a very poor way it is, to my thinking) are the bees, and their places are called hives."

"A collection of houses, Mr. Cracker," said the grandmother gently, "is called a village or a town, according to its size; a village being a small collection."

"Oh!" said the squirrel. "Thank you, ma'am! I will try to remember that. Well, this boy Jim lives in the nearest village, and sometimes goes into the forest. Now, the autumn is slipping away fast, as we all know; and last week my Uncle Munkle, who is always fore-handed and thrifty, thought it was high time to be getting in his winter store of nuts and acorns. So he sent for his nephews to come and help him (he has no children of his own). We all went, of course, and c.o.o.n went with us, for my uncle always gives us a feast after the nuts are in, and c.o.o.n always goes wherever there is anything to--"

"What?" said the racc.o.o.n, looking up sharply.

"Wherever there is anything to be _done_!" said the squirrel hastily.