The Tale of Little Pig Robinson (4 page)

Also there was a
constant string of coal carts coming up from the docks. To a country-bred pig, the noise was confusing and
fearful.

Robinson kept his head very creditably until he got into Fore Street, where a drover’s
dog was trying to turn three bullocks into a yard, assisted by Stumpy and half the other dogs of the town.
Robinson and two other little pigs with baskets of asparagus bolted down an alley and hid in a doorway until
the noise of bellowing and barking had passed.

When Robinson took courage to come out again into Fore Street, he decided to follow
close behind the tail of a donkey who was carrying panniers piled high with spring broccoli. There was no
difficulty in guessing which road led to market.

But after all these delays it was not surprising that the
church clock struck eleven.

Although it had been open since ten, there were still plenty of customers buying, and
wanting to buy, in the market hall. It was a large, airy, light, cheerful, covered-in place, with glass in
the roof. It was crowded, but safe and pleasant, compared with the jostling and racket outside in the
cobble-paved streets; at all events there was no risk of being run over. There was a loud hum of voices;
market folk cried their wares; customers elbowed and pushed round the stalls. Dairy produce, vegetables,
fish, and shell fish were displayed upon the flat boards on trestles.

Robinson had found a standing place at one end of a stall where Nanny Nettigoat was
selling periwinkles.

“Winkle, winkle! Wink, wink, wink! Maa, maa-a!” bleated Nanny.

Winkles were the only thing that she offered for sale, so she felt no jealousy of
Robinson’s eggs and primroses. She knew nothing about his cauliflowers; he had the sense to keep them in the
basket under the table. He stood on an empty box, quite proud and bold behind the trestle table,
singing:

“Eggs, new laid! Fresh new-laid eggs! Who’ll come and buy my eggs and
daffodillies?”

“I will, sure,” said a large brown dog with a stumpy tail, “I’ll buy a dozen. My Miss
Rose has sent me to market on purpose to buy eggs and butter.”

“I am so sorry, I have no butter, Mr. Stumpy; but I have beautiful cauliflowers,” said
Robinson, lifting up the basket, after a cautious glance round at
Nanny Nettigoat, who might have tried to nibble them. She was busy measuring periwinkles in a pewter mug for
a duck customer in a tam-o’-shanter cap. “They are lovely brown eggs, except one that got cracked; I think
that white pussy cat at the opposite stall is selling butter — they are beautiful cauliflowers.”

“I’ll buy a cauliflower, lovey, bless his little turned-up nose; did he grow them in
his own garden?” said old Betsy, bustling up; her rheumatism was better; she had left Susan to keep house.
“No, lovey, I don’t want any eggs; I keep hens myself. A cauliflower and a bunch of daffodils for a bow-pot,
please,” said Betsy.

“Wee, wee, wee!” replied Robinson.

“Here, Mrs. Perkins, come here! Look at this
little pig stuck up at a stall all by himself!”

“Well, I don’t know!” exclaimed Mrs. Perkins, pushing through the crowd, followed by
two little girls. “Well, I never! Are they quite new laid, sonny? Won’t go off pop and spoil my Sunday dress
like the eggs Mrs. Wyandotte took first prize with at five flower shows, till they popped and spoiled the
judge’s black silk dress? Not duck eggs, stained with coffee? That’s another trick of flower shows! New
laid, guaranteed? Only you say one is cracked? Now I call that real honest; it’s no worse for frying. I’ll
have the dozen eggs and a cauliflower, please. Look, Sarah Polly! Look at his silver nose-ring.”

Sarah Polly and her little girl friend went into fits of giggling, so that
Robinson blushed. He was so confused that he did not notice a lady
who wanted to buy his last cauliflower, till she touched him. There was nothing else left to sell, but a
bunch of primroses. After more giggling and some whispering the two little girls came back, and bought the
primroses. They gave him a peppermint, as well as the penny, which Robinson accepted; but without enthusiasm
and with a preoccupied manner.

The trouble was that no sooner had he parted with the bunch of primroses than he
realised that he had also sold Aunt Dorcas’s pattern of darning wool. He wondered if he ought to ask for it
back; but Mrs. Perkins and Sarah Polly and her little girl friend had disappeared.

Robinson, having sold everything, came out of the market hall, sucking the peppermint.
There were still numbers of people coming in. As Robinson came out upon the steps his basket got caught in
the shawl of an elderly sheep, who was pushing her way up. While Robinson was disentangling it, Stumpy came
out. He had finished his marketing. His basket was full of heavy purchases. A responsible, trustworthy,
obliging dog was Stumpy, glad to do a kindness to anybody.

When Robinson asked him the way to Mr. Mumby’s, Stumpy said: “I am going home by Broad
Street. Come with me, and I will show you.”

“Wee, wee, wee! Oh, thank you, Stumpy!” said Robinson.

O
ld
Mr.
Mumby was a deaf old man in spectacles, who kept a general store. He sold almost anything you can imagine,
except ham — a circumstance much approved by Aunt Dorcas. It was the only general store in Stymouth where
you would not find displayed upon the counter a large dish, containing strings of thin, pale-coloured,
repulsively uncooked sausages, and rolled bacon hanging from the ceiling.

“What pleasure,” said Aunt Dorcas feelingly — “what possible pleasure can there be in
entering a shop where you knock your head against a ham? A ham that may have belonged to a dear second
cousin?”

Therefore the aunts bought their sugar and tea, their blue bag, their soap, their
frying pans, matches, and mugs from old Mr. Mumby.

All these things he sold, and many more besides, and what he did not keep in stock he
would obtain to order. But yeast requires to be quite fresh, he did not sell it; he advised Robinson to ask
for yeast at a baker’s shop. Also he said it was too late in the season to buy cabbage seed; everybody had
finished sowing vegetable seeds this year. Worsted for darning he did sell; but Robinson had forgotten the
colour.

Robinson bought six sticks of delightfully sticky barley sugar with his pennies, and
listened carefully to Mr. Mumby’s messages for Aunt Dorcas and Aunt Porcas — how they were to send some
cabbages next week when the donkey cart would be mended; and how the kettle was not repaired yet, and there
was a new patent box-iron he would like to recommend to Aunt Porcas.

Robinson said “Wee, wee, wee?” and listened, and little dog Tipkins who stood on a
stool behind the counter, tying up grocery parcels in blue paper bags — little dog Tipkins whispered to
Robinson — “Were there any rats this spring in the barn at Piggery Porcombe? And what would Robinson be
doing on Saturday afternoon?”

“Wee, wee, wee!” answered Robinson.

Robinson came out of Mr. Mumby’s, heavily laden. The barley sugar was comforting; but
he was troubled about the darning wool, the yeast, and the cabbage seed. He was looking about rather
anxiously, when again he met old Betsy, who exclaimed:

“Bless the little piggy! Not gone home yet? Now it must not stop in Stymouth till it
gets its pocket picked!”

Robinson explained his difficulty about the darning wool.

Kind old Betsy was ready with help.

“Why, I noticed the wool round the little primrose posy; it was blue-grey colour like the last pair of socks that I knitted for
Sam. Come with me to the wool shop — Fleecy Flock’s wool shop. I remember the colour; well I do!” said
Betsy.

Mrs. Flock was the sheep that had run against Robinson; she had bought herself three
turnips and come straight home from market, for fear of missing customers while her shop was locked
up.

Such a shop! Such a jumble! Wool all sorts of colours, thick wool, thin wool,
fingering wool, and rug wool, bundles and bundles all jumbled up; and she could not put her hoof on
anything. She was so confused and slow at finding things that Betsy got impatient.

“No, I don’t want wool for slippers;
darning wool
,
Fleecy; darning wool, same colour as I bought for my Sam’s socks.
Bless me,
no
, not knitting
needles! Darning wool.”

“Baa, baa! Did you say white or black, m’m? Three ply, was it?”

“Oh, dear me,
grey
darning wool on cards; not
heather mixture.”

“I know I have it somewhere,” said Fleecy Flock helplessly, jumbling up the skeins and
bundles. “Sim Ram came in this morning with part of the Ewehampton clip; my shop is completely cluttered up
 —”

It took half an hour to find the wool. If Betsy had not been with him, Robinson never
would have got it.

“It’s that late, I must go home,” said Betsy. “My Sam is on shore today for dinner. If
you take my advice you will leave that big heavy basket with the Miss Goldfinches, and hurry with your
shopping. It’s a long uphill walk home to Piggery Porcombe.”

Robinson, anxious to follow old Betsy’s advice, walked towards the Miss Goldfinches’.
On the way he came to a baker’s, and he remembered the yeast.

It was not the right sort of baker’s, unfortunately. There was a nice bakery smell,
and pastry in the window; but it was an eating house or cook shop.

When he pushed the swing door open, a man in an apron and a square white cap turned
round and said, “Hullo! Is this a pork pie walking on its hind legs?” — and four rude men at a dining table
burst out laughing.

Robinson left the shop in a hurry. He felt afraid to go into any other baker’s shop.
He was looking wistfully into another window in Fore Street when
Stumpy saw him again. He had taken his own basket home, and come out
on another errand. He carried Robinson’s basket in his mouth and took him to a very safe baker’s, where he
was accustomed to buy dog biscuits for himself. There Robinson purchased Aunt Dorcas’s yeast at last.

They searched in vain for cabbage seed; they were told that the only likely place was
a little store on the quay, kept by a pair of wagtails.

“It is a pity I cannot go with you,” said Stumpy. “My Miss Rose has sprained her
ankle; she sent me to fetch twelve postage stamps, and I must take them home to her, before the post goes
out. Do not try to carry this heavy basket down and up the steps; leave it with the Miss
Goldfinches.”

Robinson was very grateful to Stumpy. The two Miss Goldfinches kept a tea and coffee
tavern which was patronized by Aunt Dorcas and the quieter market people. Over the door was a sign board
upon which was painted a fat little green bird called “The Contented Siskin”, which was the name of their
coffee tavern. They had a stable where the carrier’s donkey rested when it came into Stymouth with the
washing on Saturdays.

Robinson looked so tired that the elder Miss Goldfinch gave him a cup of tea; but they
both told him to drink it up quickly.

“Wee, wee, wee! Yock yock!” said Robinson, scalding his nose.

In spite of their respect for Aunt Dorcas, the Miss Goldfinches disapproved
of his solitary shopping; and they said that the basket was far too
heavy for him.

“Neither of us could lift it,” said the elder Miss Goldfinch, holding out a tiny claw.
“Get your cabbage seed and hurry back. Sim Ram’s pony gig is still waiting in our stable. If you come back
before he starts I feel sure he will give you a lift; at all events he will make room for your basket under
the seat — and he passes Piggery Porcombe. Run away now!”

“Wee, wee, wee!” said Robinson.

“Whatever were they thinking of to let him come alone? He will never get home before
dark,” said the elder Miss Goldfinch. “Fly to the stable, Clara; tell Sim Ram’s pony not to start without
the basket.”

The younger Miss Goldfinch flew across the yard. They were industrious, sprightly
little lady birds, who kept lump sugar and thistle seed as well as tea in their tea-caddies. Their tables
and china were spotlessly clean.