Алан Милн - Once on a Time

At breakfast she had three helps of something very nutritious, which the Countess said would make her grow, but only one help of everything else. She sat up nicely all the time, and never pointed to anything or drank with her mouth full. After breakfast she scattered some crumbs on the lawn for the robins, and then got to work again.

First she dusted and dusted and dusted; then she swept and swept and swept; then she sewed and sewed and sewed. When anybody of superior station or age came into the room she rose and curtsied and stood with her hands behind her back, while she was being spoken to. When anybody said, "I wonder where I put my so–and–so," she jumped up and said, "Let me fetch it," even if it was upstairs.

After dinner she made up a basket of provisions and took them to the old women who lived near the castle; to some of them she sang or read aloud, and when at one cottage she was asked, "Now won't you give me a little dance," she smiled bravely and said, "I'm afraid I don't dance very well." I think that was rather sweet of her; if I had been the fairy I should have let her off the rest of the day.

When she got back to the Palace she drank two glasses of warm milk, with the skin on, and then went and weeded the Countess's lawn; and once when she trod by accident on a bed of flowers, she left the footprint there instead of scraping it over hastily, and pretending that she hadn't been near the place, as you would have done.

And at half–past six she kissed everybody good–night (including Udo) and went to bed.

So ended July the Twentieth, perhaps the most memorable day in Euralian history.

Udo and Hyacinth spent the great day peacefully in the library. A gentleman for all his fur, Udo had not told the Princess about Wiggs's refusal to help him. Besides, a man has his dignity. To be turned into a mixture of three animals by a woman of thirty, and to be turned back again by a girl of ten, is to be too much the plaything of the sex. It was time he did something for himself.

"Now then, how did that bit of Sacharino's go? Let me see." He beat time with a paw. "'Blood for something, something, some―' Something like that. 'Blood for—er—blood for—er―' No, it's gone again. I know there was a bit of blood in it."

"I'm sure you'll get it soon," said Hyacinth. "It sounds as thought it's going to be just the sort of thing that's wanted."

"Oh, I shall get it all right. Some of the words have escaped me for the moment, that's all. 'Blood—er—blood.' You must have heard of it, Princess: it's about blood for he who something; you must know the one I mean.

"I know I've heard of it," said the Princess, wrinkling her forehead, "only I can't quite think of it for the moment. It's about a—a―"

"Yes, that's it," said Udo.

Then they both looked up at the ceiling with their heads on one side and murmured to themselves.

But noon came and still they hadn't thought of it.

After a simple meal they returned to the library.

"I think I'd better write to Coronel," said Udo, "and ask him about it."

"I thought you said his name was Sacharino."

"Oh, this is not the poet, it's just a friend of mine, but he's rather good at this sort of thing. The trouble is that it takes such a long time for a letter to get there and back."

At the word "letter," Hyacinth started suddenly.

"Oh, Prince Udo," she cried, "I can never forgive myself. I've just remembered the very thing. Father told me in his letter that a little couplet he once wrote was being very useful for—er—removing things."

"What sort of things?" said Udo, not too hopefully.

"Oh, enchantments and things."

Udo was a little annoyed at the "and things"—as those turning him back into a Prince again was as much in the day's work as removing rust from a helmet.

"It goes like this," said Hyacinth.

"It sounds as though it would remove anything ," she added, with a smile.

Udo sat up rather eagerly.

"I'll try," he said. "Is there any particular action that goes with it?"

"I've never heard of any. I expect you ought to say it as if you meant it."

Udo sat up on his back paws, and, gesticulating freely with his right paw, declaimed:

He fixed his eyes on his paws, waiting for the transformation.

He waited.

And waited.

Nothing happened.

"It must be all right," said Hyacinth anxiously, "because I'm sure Father would know. Try saying it more like this."

She repeated the lines in a voice so melting, yet withal so dignified, that the very chairs might have been expected to get up and walk out.

Udo imitated her as well as he could.

At about the time when Wiggs was just falling asleep, he repeated it in his fiftieth different voice.

"I'm sorry," said Hyacinth; "perhaps it isn't so good as Father thought it was."

"There's just one chance," said Udo. "It's possible it may have to be said on an empty stomach. I'll try it to–morrow before breakfast."

Upstairs Wiggs was dreaming of the dancing that she had given up for ever.

And what Belvane was doing I really don't know.

So the next morning before breakfast Wiggs went up on to the castle walls and wished. She looked over the meadows, and across the peaceful stream that wandered through them, to the forest where she had met her fairy, and she gave a little sigh. "Good–bye, dancing," she said; and then she held the ring up and went on bravely, "Please I was a very good girl all yesterday, and I wish that Prince Udo may be well again."

For a full minute there was silence. Then from the direction of Udo's room below there came these remarkable words:

" Take the beastly stuff away, and bring me a beefsteak and a flagon of sack! "

Between smiles and tears Wiggs murmured, "He sounds all right. I am g—glad."

And then she could bear it no longer. She hurried down and out of the Palace—away, away from Udo and the Princess and the Countess and all their talk, to the cool friendly forest, there to be alone and to think over all that she had lost.

It was very quiet in the forest. At the foot of her own favourite tree, a veteran of many hundred summers who stood sentinel over an open glade that dipped to a gurgling brook and climbed gently away from it, she sat down. On the soft green yonder she might have danced, an enchanted place, and now—never, never, never….

How long had she sat there? It must have been a long time—because the forest had been so quiet, and now it was so full of sound. The trees were murmuring something to her, and the birds were singing it, and the brook was trying to tell it too, but it would keep chuckling over the very idea so that you could hardly hear what it was saying, and there were rustlings in the grass—"Get up, get up," everything was calling to her; "dance, dance."

She got up, a little frightened. Everything seemed so strangely beautiful. She had never felt it like this before. Yes, she would dance. She must say, "Thank you," for all this somehow; perhaps they would excuse her if it was not very well expressed.

"This will just be for 'Thank you'" she said as she got up. "I shall never dance again."

And then she danced….

Where are you, Hyacinth? There is a lover waiting for you somewhere, my dear.

It is the first of Spring. The blackbird opens his yellow beak, and whistles cool and clear. There is blue magic in the morning; the sky, deep–blue above, melts into white where it meets the hills. The wind waits for you up yonder—will you go to meet it? Ah, stay here! The hedges have put on their green coats for you; misty green are the tall elms from which the rooks are chattering. Along the clean white road, between the primrose banks, he comes. Will you be round this corner?―or the next? He is looking for you, Hyacinth.