had they been duck eggs.
“Thank you,” said the dog respectfully, recognizing how difficult it had been for the duck to show him her treasures. He waited until she had rearranged her feathers and was settled back on her nest. “Now, if you will be so kind as to tell me where you got them—”
“Must I?” she whispered.
“I fear so,” he replied softly. “Otherwise, how can I investigate?”
Another silence. Then, in an even lower voice, she said, “I don’t fancy QUACK all the other duCKs knowing. They’ll want some for themselves, you see.”
“I promise not to say a word to anyone.” He held up his right paw. “Collie’s honor, Jemima.”
Persuaded at last, Jemima leaned forward and whispered her secret into Kep’s ear. But because she did not mean anyone else to hear, you and I will retire a discreet few paces and turn our backs. And I hope, as our story continues, that you will not think too unkindly of Jemima. For even though she has perhaps been too eager, and has rushed too quickly into a situation she did not understand, she intended neither malice nor harm, which is a good deal more than can be said of every human in this unhappy world.
Our Jemima may be a very foolish duck, even (by some standards) a criminal duck. But at bottom, I think we must agree that she is a duck with a very good heart.
9
In Which Miss Potter Learns a Shocking Truth
Beatrix had hoped her brother might arrive on Sunday afternoon, but Sunday came and went and he did not appear. This was not altogether a surprise, unfortunately. He was at Stock Park, with their parents, and once you were in their clutches, it was difficult to get away. It wasn’t that they meant ill, of course. But Mama kept finding tiresome little chores for one to do, and Papa simply kept talking, so that one could not even leave the room.
It was not until midday on Monday that Beatrix finally opened the door to Bertram’s knock. She saw on the porch a thin-faced, dark-haired man, dressed in a gray tweed suit and vest, with a blue tie, an umbrella hung over his arm. He set down his bag and took off his tweed cap.
“Hullo, Bea. Had you given me up? I meant to come yesterday, but Mama and Papa put up a devil of a fuss.” He sighed wearily. “You know how it is.”
“No matter, Bertram,” Beatrix said happily, stepping back to let him in. “I’m just glad you could get away.” She would have liked to fling her arms around him, but the Potter family preferred handshakes and brief brushes of the cheek to warm embraces. It was one of the many differences she always noticed when she visited Norman’s boisterously affectionate family. The contrast made her own parents seem cold and distant. “Did you leave them well at Stock Park?”
“Leave them well?” Bertram raised one dark eyebrow and his mouth took on a cynical slant. He was taller than she, with a full, dark mustache and delicate good looks. “Of course not. They were just as unhappy as usual. Nothing I do suits them.” He chuckled. “But I’m in good company. You don’t suit them much, either, Bea.”
“We’re a pair,” Beatrix agreed with a rueful laugh. “They’re disappointed in both of us.”
Beatrix, who was almost six when Bertram was born, had grown up loving to play Big Sister to Bertram’s Little Brother. The two lived together in the third-floor nursery, and when Bertram was old enough, he joined Beatrix for lessons with her governess, Miss Hammond. In those days, the Potters spent the long holiday—August, September, and most of October—at Dalguise House, in Perthshire, in the Scottish highlands, where sister and brother shared a deep, delighted interest in the out-of-doors. Together, the children went on expeditions through the magical woodlands along the River Tay, catching rabbits and hedgehogs and voles and bats to take back to London, identifying wild birds and searching out their nests, and sketching everything they saw. Both youngsters were seldom
“Thank you,” said the dog respectfully, recognizing how difficult it had been for the duck to show him her treasures. He waited until she had rearranged her feathers and was settled back on her nest. “Now, if you will be so kind as to tell me where you got them—”
“Must I?” she whispered.
“I fear so,” he replied softly. “Otherwise, how can I investigate?”
Another silence. Then, in an even lower voice, she said, “I don’t fancy QUACK all the other duCKs knowing. They’ll want some for themselves, you see.”
“I promise not to say a word to anyone.” He held up his right paw. “Collie’s honor, Jemima.”
Persuaded at last, Jemima leaned forward and whispered her secret into Kep’s ear. But because she did not mean anyone else to hear, you and I will retire a discreet few paces and turn our backs. And I hope, as our story continues, that you will not think too unkindly of Jemima. For even though she has perhaps been too eager, and has rushed too quickly into a situation she did not understand, she intended neither malice nor harm, which is a good deal more than can be said of every human in this unhappy world.
Our Jemima may be a very foolish duck, even (by some standards) a criminal duck. But at bottom, I think we must agree that she is a duck with a very good heart.
9
In Which Miss Potter Learns a Shocking Truth
Beatrix had hoped her brother might arrive on Sunday afternoon, but Sunday came and went and he did not appear. This was not altogether a surprise, unfortunately. He was at Stock Park, with their parents, and once you were in their clutches, it was difficult to get away. It wasn’t that they meant ill, of course. But Mama kept finding tiresome little chores for one to do, and Papa simply kept talking, so that one could not even leave the room.
It was not until midday on Monday that Beatrix finally opened the door to Bertram’s knock. She saw on the porch a thin-faced, dark-haired man, dressed in a gray tweed suit and vest, with a blue tie, an umbrella hung over his arm. He set down his bag and took off his tweed cap.
“Hullo, Bea. Had you given me up? I meant to come yesterday, but Mama and Papa put up a devil of a fuss.” He sighed wearily. “You know how it is.”
“No matter, Bertram,” Beatrix said happily, stepping back to let him in. “I’m just glad you could get away.” She would have liked to fling her arms around him, but the Potter family preferred handshakes and brief brushes of the cheek to warm embraces. It was one of the many differences she always noticed when she visited Norman’s boisterously affectionate family. The contrast made her own parents seem cold and distant. “Did you leave them well at Stock Park?”
“Leave them well?” Bertram raised one dark eyebrow and his mouth took on a cynical slant. He was taller than she, with a full, dark mustache and delicate good looks. “Of course not. They were just as unhappy as usual. Nothing I do suits them.” He chuckled. “But I’m in good company. You don’t suit them much, either, Bea.”
“We’re a pair,” Beatrix agreed with a rueful laugh. “They’re disappointed in both of us.”
Beatrix, who was almost six when Bertram was born, had grown up loving to play Big Sister to Bertram’s Little Brother. The two lived together in the third-floor nursery, and when Bertram was old enough, he joined Beatrix for lessons with her governess, Miss Hammond. In those days, the Potters spent the long holiday—August, September, and most of October—at Dalguise House, in Perthshire, in the Scottish highlands, where sister and brother shared a deep, delighted interest in the out-of-doors. Together, the children went on expeditions through the magical woodlands along the River Tay, catching rabbits and hedgehogs and voles and bats to take back to London, identifying wild birds and searching out their nests, and sketching everything they saw. Both youngsters were seldom
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