nib . . . Ah, but she had seen Robin. The sight of Robin had come like a reward to a good girl, because she had not pushed her way into the kitchen . . . Moonacre
was
showing her things, but in its own time and its own way. She must just be patient.
She smiled, threw the blotted piece of paper in the fire, took a fresh sheet, and began again; and to her surprise, in spite of her rebellious mood, the simple little words came easily, fitting themselves to the tune that had come out of the harpsichord. It didn’t seem to her that she made them up at all. It seemed to her that they flew in from the rose-garden, through the open window, like a lot of butterflies, poised themselves on the point of her pen, and fell off it on to the paper.
SONG
Like a spear, like a sword
Drawn most slenderly fine,
As bright and as tempered,
This lady of mine.
Like the wind, like the waves,
Like winged arrows in flight,
As merry my love,
And as swift in delight.
Like a sigh, like a song,
That is plucked from the strings,
Like the dawn and the dew
And the stirring of wings.
Like a star, like the moon,
In her glimmering pride,
Like the ghost of a dream
To her love denied.
When she had finished she went to the harpsichord, opened it, and played and sang her song right through . . . But no, it wasn’t her song, it was somebody else’s . . . And again she was sure there was someone listening out in the rose-garden. She ran to the window and looked out, and just for a moment she thought she saw a small figure, more like a fairy than a human being, moving out there. But when she looked again there was nothing to be seen except the tangled briars and all the lovely little birds with their rainbow-coloured wings. They were singing gloriously this morning, twittering and chirping and carolling and shouting and fluting and humming in praise of spring, until it was a wonder they did not burst their throats. What was the bird that hummed like that? Maria had heard of humming-birds, but she had not thought that they lived in England. The humming, which had been just a small thread of sound at first, grew louder and louder, until it did not sound like humming at all, but like a powerful kettle on the boil. And it did not come from the rose-garden but from the room behind her. She turned round, and there, seated before the fire, between the sleeping Wiggins and Serena in their respective baskets, staring into the flames and purring loudly, was a black cat.
2
Zachariah.
Maria held her breath and stared. Never in all her born days had she seen such a cat. He was enormous, twice the size of any cat she had ever seen in London. His black fur was short, but so exquisitely glossy that it gleamed like satin. His tail stretched out along the floorbehind him for a good yard and looked like a fat black snake; the tip of it, slightly lifted, was twitching from side to side, suggesting that in spite of that tremendous booming purr Zachariah’s temper was something that had to be reckoned with. He had a noble head, with a great domed forehead, and large but beautifully shaped ears. His chest, as was only to be expected when one considered the volume of sound that came out of it, looked unusually powerful, and so did his broad shoulders and haunches and strong paws.
He was altogether a most imposing-looking animal, and when he turned his head and his great emerald-green eyes blazed out at her, she was almost as scared as she had been when first introduced to Wrolf. He was of a solitary disposition, she remembered Sir Benjamin telling her, and she did not like to approach him without his permission. She just stood where she was and dropped him a curtsy.
This piece of politeness seemed to please him, for he arose and approached her, arranging his tail in the air over his back in three neat coils and stepping forth over the sea-green carpet with a dignity that was almost shattering. When he arrived at Maria, he began walking round her in
was
showing her things, but in its own time and its own way. She must just be patient.
She smiled, threw the blotted piece of paper in the fire, took a fresh sheet, and began again; and to her surprise, in spite of her rebellious mood, the simple little words came easily, fitting themselves to the tune that had come out of the harpsichord. It didn’t seem to her that she made them up at all. It seemed to her that they flew in from the rose-garden, through the open window, like a lot of butterflies, poised themselves on the point of her pen, and fell off it on to the paper.
SONG
Like a spear, like a sword
Drawn most slenderly fine,
As bright and as tempered,
This lady of mine.
Like the wind, like the waves,
Like winged arrows in flight,
As merry my love,
And as swift in delight.
Like a sigh, like a song,
That is plucked from the strings,
Like the dawn and the dew
And the stirring of wings.
Like a star, like the moon,
In her glimmering pride,
Like the ghost of a dream
To her love denied.
When she had finished she went to the harpsichord, opened it, and played and sang her song right through . . . But no, it wasn’t her song, it was somebody else’s . . . And again she was sure there was someone listening out in the rose-garden. She ran to the window and looked out, and just for a moment she thought she saw a small figure, more like a fairy than a human being, moving out there. But when she looked again there was nothing to be seen except the tangled briars and all the lovely little birds with their rainbow-coloured wings. They were singing gloriously this morning, twittering and chirping and carolling and shouting and fluting and humming in praise of spring, until it was a wonder they did not burst their throats. What was the bird that hummed like that? Maria had heard of humming-birds, but she had not thought that they lived in England. The humming, which had been just a small thread of sound at first, grew louder and louder, until it did not sound like humming at all, but like a powerful kettle on the boil. And it did not come from the rose-garden but from the room behind her. She turned round, and there, seated before the fire, between the sleeping Wiggins and Serena in their respective baskets, staring into the flames and purring loudly, was a black cat.
2
Zachariah.
Maria held her breath and stared. Never in all her born days had she seen such a cat. He was enormous, twice the size of any cat she had ever seen in London. His black fur was short, but so exquisitely glossy that it gleamed like satin. His tail stretched out along the floorbehind him for a good yard and looked like a fat black snake; the tip of it, slightly lifted, was twitching from side to side, suggesting that in spite of that tremendous booming purr Zachariah’s temper was something that had to be reckoned with. He had a noble head, with a great domed forehead, and large but beautifully shaped ears. His chest, as was only to be expected when one considered the volume of sound that came out of it, looked unusually powerful, and so did his broad shoulders and haunches and strong paws.
He was altogether a most imposing-looking animal, and when he turned his head and his great emerald-green eyes blazed out at her, she was almost as scared as she had been when first introduced to Wrolf. He was of a solitary disposition, she remembered Sir Benjamin telling her, and she did not like to approach him without his permission. She just stood where she was and dropped him a curtsy.
This piece of politeness seemed to please him, for he arose and approached her, arranging his tail in the air over his back in three neat coils and stepping forth over the sea-green carpet with a dignity that was almost shattering. When he arrived at Maria, he began walking round her in
Similar Books
