pocket, and blew her nose. “Oysters might be another possibility, or sweetbreads, but I’d be hard put to find any fresh oysters hereabouts, unless I should go down to the Sawrey Hotel and meet the fish man who comes over from Kendal. But one has to order ahead for oysters, which in any event should only be eaten in months which contain the letter R, and July doesn’t, of course. And as to sweetbreads, I hardly think—”
“Stop, Parsley!” roared the badger, but in a kindly way, for he knew that it was Parsley’s habit to talk all the way around a story two or three times before she could manage to open the front door and step into it properly. He softened his tone. “My dear girl, I have not one iota of interest in the presence or absence of sweetbreads, or what one must do to have oysters, or whether there is an R in July. What is this terrible thing you’ve come to tell me about? I do hope nothing has happened to any of our friends.”
“Well, not to say a friend, sir, but rather a neighbor.” Recalled to her narrative, Parsley began to weep again. “Oh, sir, it was dreadful, really it was—just too dreadful for words!” She gulped down one or two sobs, which appeared to stick like dry biscuit in her throat and render her speechless.
Bosworth sighed. With a grizzled forepaw, he patted her gently on the shoulder and said, in a coaxing tone, “I’m sorry, Parsley, but there’s no getting around it. It may be too dreadful for words, but you shall simply have to reach down inside yourself and pull them out. Now, be a reasonable animal and give it a go, please.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll try, sir.” Parsley took a deep breath and hung her bonnet over her arm. “Well, then, I decided on mushrooms, instead of oysters or sweetbreads. I thought a pint of them might do very well, and there are usually some rather fine Chanterelles growing near the stream at the foot of that little rocky bluff not far from the sheep fold on Holly How. So I put on my bonnet and shawl and took a basket and went out to look for them, and instead I found—” She screwed her eyes shut as recollection overtook her. “Oh, indeed, sir, it was such an awful sight that I hardly know how to—” She began to cry again, big, gulping, noisy sobs.
“There, there, dear,” Bosworth said, scarcely knowing himself what to say, for a female’s tears always made him feel helpless. “Pull yourself together and finish your story. It’s only words, you know, just one after the other, skipping and plodding, as it were, all the way to the end.”
Thus encouraged, Parsley began to tell her tale, with a great many parenthetical asides and explanatory footnotes, but finally it was all out. She had gone to the gully to find the mushrooms, and had been distracted by a pair of dippers, bickering over a choice water bug that one of them had fished out from under a stone, and then by a chatty red squirrel who wanted her to know that his cousin’s nest at the back of Oatmeal Crag had been raided by a pine marten, who (happily) had been frightened off before any of the babies could be hurt—the usual sort of woodland gossip that animals share when they are out and about.
At last, Parsley had got close to the spot where she had seen the Chanterelles growing. But not a stone’s throw away, she saw a person sitting on a rock with a dog at her feet. The person was the lady from London who had bought Hill Top Farm the previous autumn—Miss Potter, her name was—and the dog was one of the village dogs, a Jack Russell terrier called Rascal, with whom Parsley had a nodding acquaintance. And beside the lady, on the ground, as still as a stick, lay old Ben Hornby.
Bosworth gaped, taken aback. “On the ground? He was having a nap?”
“Oh, no, sir,” Parsley said sadly. “Mr. Hornby was . . . he was dead, sir.”
“Dead!” Bosworth exclaimed, horrified. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes, sir. He didn’t move and didn’t move, and Miss Potter
“Stop, Parsley!” roared the badger, but in a kindly way, for he knew that it was Parsley’s habit to talk all the way around a story two or three times before she could manage to open the front door and step into it properly. He softened his tone. “My dear girl, I have not one iota of interest in the presence or absence of sweetbreads, or what one must do to have oysters, or whether there is an R in July. What is this terrible thing you’ve come to tell me about? I do hope nothing has happened to any of our friends.”
“Well, not to say a friend, sir, but rather a neighbor.” Recalled to her narrative, Parsley began to weep again. “Oh, sir, it was dreadful, really it was—just too dreadful for words!” She gulped down one or two sobs, which appeared to stick like dry biscuit in her throat and render her speechless.
Bosworth sighed. With a grizzled forepaw, he patted her gently on the shoulder and said, in a coaxing tone, “I’m sorry, Parsley, but there’s no getting around it. It may be too dreadful for words, but you shall simply have to reach down inside yourself and pull them out. Now, be a reasonable animal and give it a go, please.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll try, sir.” Parsley took a deep breath and hung her bonnet over her arm. “Well, then, I decided on mushrooms, instead of oysters or sweetbreads. I thought a pint of them might do very well, and there are usually some rather fine Chanterelles growing near the stream at the foot of that little rocky bluff not far from the sheep fold on Holly How. So I put on my bonnet and shawl and took a basket and went out to look for them, and instead I found—” She screwed her eyes shut as recollection overtook her. “Oh, indeed, sir, it was such an awful sight that I hardly know how to—” She began to cry again, big, gulping, noisy sobs.
“There, there, dear,” Bosworth said, scarcely knowing himself what to say, for a female’s tears always made him feel helpless. “Pull yourself together and finish your story. It’s only words, you know, just one after the other, skipping and plodding, as it were, all the way to the end.”
Thus encouraged, Parsley began to tell her tale, with a great many parenthetical asides and explanatory footnotes, but finally it was all out. She had gone to the gully to find the mushrooms, and had been distracted by a pair of dippers, bickering over a choice water bug that one of them had fished out from under a stone, and then by a chatty red squirrel who wanted her to know that his cousin’s nest at the back of Oatmeal Crag had been raided by a pine marten, who (happily) had been frightened off before any of the babies could be hurt—the usual sort of woodland gossip that animals share when they are out and about.
At last, Parsley had got close to the spot where she had seen the Chanterelles growing. But not a stone’s throw away, she saw a person sitting on a rock with a dog at her feet. The person was the lady from London who had bought Hill Top Farm the previous autumn—Miss Potter, her name was—and the dog was one of the village dogs, a Jack Russell terrier called Rascal, with whom Parsley had a nodding acquaintance. And beside the lady, on the ground, as still as a stick, lay old Ben Hornby.
Bosworth gaped, taken aback. “On the ground? He was having a nap?”
“Oh, no, sir,” Parsley said sadly. “Mr. Hornby was . . . he was dead, sir.”
“Dead!” Bosworth exclaimed, horrified. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes, sir. He didn’t move and didn’t move, and Miss Potter
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