The Man Who Was Magic by Paul Gallico Page B

of widening “V’s” behind them. Scores of chickens pecked in the dirt nearby.
    In another field was a brown mare and her foal, the latter no more than a few weeks old and so enchanted with being alive that it bucked, jumped and rolled in the grass and then, frightened by a leaf, ran and cuddled to its mother.
    Drifting upwards came the most delightful barnyard noises, the gabble of the geese and ducks, clucking of chickens, grunting of pigs and the lowing of the cattle. Distant dogs barked, horses neighed and every so often there was the gentle donkle of a cowbell.
    They had hardly settled themselves in the lush grass when Mopsy nudged Adam and whispered, “Psst! Might I have a word with you?”
    “Yes, what is it?”
    “In private, if you don’t mind. I’ll just take a stroll over to that oak tree and pretend I’ve found something,” Mopsy suggested and suited his action to the words by trotting off and starting to dig at the roots of a huge and ancient oak that grew some thirty or forty yards away.
    “Now what on earth has Mopsy got into?” Adam remarked casually. “I’d better go and see.” And he did.
    “Nice work,” said Mopsy. “Don’t look now, but you see those bushes there behind Ninian, just the other side of the fence? The ones with the little yellow flowers.”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, before you sat down I had a sniff around. He’s in there.”
    “What? Who’s in there?”
    “That nasty bit of work, Peter, her brother. He’s hiding in them. I’ll bet he’s been sent to spy on us. I told you I thought this picnic was peculiar.”
    “Are you sure, Mopsy?”
    “Look,” his dog said in a slightly hurt voice, “I trust your magic, why can’t you trust my nose? It’s never wrong. I smelled him. He doesn’t wash behind his ears. Do you want me to rout him out for you?”
    “No,” Adam replied. “I’ll deal with him. And well done, Mopsy!” Together they sauntered back to where Jane and Ninian were sitting on the knoll, with the picnic basket between them.
    Adam remained standing. “Do you think this is really a good spot?” he asked.
    “Yes,” said Jane.
    “Lovely,” added Ninian.
    “I’m not so sure I enjoy picnicking that close to a hornet’s nest,” Adam said.
    “What? Where?” cried both Ninian and Jane.
    “Right there next to you, on the fence,” Adam pointed out.
    “Goodness!” cried Ninian, jumping up quickly, “I didn’t see that when we sat down.” Which wasn’t surprising, since it hadn’t been there.
    Jane had to look twice to make sure.
    But there it was, a huge, gray globe and just at that moment a large and irritable specimen emerged from it to have a look around.
    “Let’s get out of here,” cried Ninian, “I’m terrified of them!”
    “There, under the oak,” said Adam, striding over to it. “Here’s a splendid spot,” and to mark it he drove the point of his staff firmly into the soft turf. “Set the basket down here, Jane.”
    The tree was many hundreds of years old with its trunk thicker around than Adam, Ninian and Jane might encircle with their arms. It overlooked the same lovely view, and its glossy green foliage offered soothing shade from the hot sun. Mopsy was quivering with eagerness. “Soon?” he said.
    “Hush,” said Adam, “any minute now. I’ve put a few ants and wasps in there too.”
    Nor did it take long. They had hardly smoothed themselves a place to sit on the ground among the clover, buttercups and last year’s acorns, when from the bushes down by the fence came a series of the most appalling shouts and shrieks: “Ouch! Ooh! Ow! Wow! Help!” Then there was a tremendous thrashing about among the shrubbery whose tops waved violently back and forth.
    “Why, whatever can that be?” Ninian queried.
    With a howl of pain, a figure burst from the bushes, his arms flailing and beating about his head and body.
    “Goodness, it’s Peter Robert,” said Ninian. “He must have been in that thicket.”
    “What an