The little grey men go d.., p.1
The Little Grey Men Go Down the Bright Stream, page 1
THE LITTLE GREY MEN GO
DOWN THE BRIGHT STREAM
by B.B.
New York Review Books
New York
For my daughter Angela June
THIS IS A NEW YORK REVIEW BOOK
PUBLISHED BY THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS
435 Hudson St., New York, NY 10014
www.nyrb.com
Text and illustrations © 1948 and 1977 by the Estate of D. J. Watkins-Pitchford
All rights reserved.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: B B, 1905–1990, author.
Title: The little grey men go down the bright stream / by BB.
Description: New York: New York Review Books, [2022] |
Series: New York Review Books kids | Summary: When the three gnomes realize Warwickshire and the rest of their beloved country has been despoiled by men, they set out on a dangerous journey to find another place as wild and wet as their home once was.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021029328 (print) | LCCN 2021029329 (ebook) | ISBN 9781681376547 (paperback) | ISBN 9781681376554 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Fairy tales. | Gnomes—Fiction. | Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. | Nature—Fiction. | Warwickshire (England)—Fiction. | England—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ8.B011 Lit 2022 (print) | LCC PZ8.B011 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]— dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021029328
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021029329
ISBN 978-1-68137-655-4
v.1.0
Cover design: Leone Design, Tony Leone and Cara Ciardelli
Cover illustration © The Ardizzone Trust
For a complete list of titles, visit www.nyrb.com.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright and More Information
1. A RUDE AWAKENING
2. THE EXODUS
3. THE DEATH OF THE FOLLY
4. PLANS
5. MR. SHOEBOTTOM’S BOY
6. MR. SHOEBOTTOM’S SHOP
7. CONVERSATION PIECE
8. AT BANTLEY WEIR
9. RUMBLING MILL
10. SQUIRREL
11. THE SALVAGE GANG
12. CLOUDBERRY TAKES A WALK
13. THE RAISING OF THE ‘JEANIE DEANS’
14. HOLIDAYS
15. THE ANCHOR WEIGHS
16. EXIT ‘JEANIE DEANS’
17. BALDMONEY GETS TO WORK
18. WONDERBIRD
19. THE FIRE AT MR BROCKETT’S
20. WONDERBIRD TRIES HER WINGS
21. AIRBORNE
22. AT THE KNOCKGOBBIN LIGHT
23. WOODCOCK’S ISLAND
Biographical Note
The wonder of the world, the beauty and the power,
the shapes of things, their colours,
lights and shades; these I saw.
Look ye also while life lasts.
Chapter 1
A RUDE AWAKENING
T WAS THE BEGINNING OF SPRING. Buds were appearing on the willow trees and the Tits, Blue Button, Bottle Button (the Long-tailed tit), Black Bonnet (the Marsh tit) and Spink the Chaffinch, began to get busy in the hedges and woods. The watervoles came out of their holes and sat in the sun, warming themselves, and the red-gartered moorhens began to think about nest building.
Big winds came roaring over the greening water meadows, weeding out every rotten tree and pulling them out of the ground. The March wind is Nature’s dentist, it pulls out every decayed stump and rotten branch and makes the trees sound and well again.
And how busy the peewits were over the ploughlands, tumbling about in the pale windy sunlight crying ‘A week, a week, two bullocks a week!’ It was good to think the bitter winter had passed.
The Folly brook was singing its old sweet song as it wound through Lucking’s meadow. At a spot where the Folly turned at a right angle there was an ancient oak tree and inside the oak tree the four last gnomes in England — Dodder, Baldmoney, Sneezewort and Cloudberry — were sleeping peacefully as they had done all through the winter, snuggled into a warm bed of bracken with their friend Squirrel.
And then, one windy day, when the Folly flashed and the first celandines gleamed on the warm bank, newly painted with yellow varnish, there came a scrabbling on the door of Oak Tree House. ‘Scratch! Scratch! Scratch!’
Dodder was the first to stir. And how stiff he was! He pushed away the bracken and stuck his big nose out like a sleepy dormouse.
Sure enough, someone was scratching very loudly on their front door! Now this was a great breach of animal etiquette. Never before had the Stream People dared to disturb them from their winter sleep. Dodder was so puzzled and annoyed he awoke the others.
‘Hi! Baldmoney. Ho! Cloudberry! Hey! Sneezewort! Wake up! Wake up! There’s someone scratching on the door!’
Baldmoney turned over with a grunt and sat up, his beard full of bracken bits. ‘Someone at the door?’
‘Yes, listen!’
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
‘Disgustin’. What are the Stream People thinkin’ of?’
‘Go and see who it is,’ commanded Dodder, rummaging about among the bracken for his leg. ‘Tell ’em to go away, give ’em a piece of your mind.’
Baldmoney grunted. Particles of bracken had got down his neck and he felt all tickly and irritable.
He felt his way to the door and undid the bolts and bars. When he opened it, the flood of brilliant light and rush of cold sweet air blinded him. He passed his hand over his face and then he sneezed so violently he fell over.
‘Who’s there? What do you want?’
‘It’s me, Watervole,’ came a squeaky voice. ‘We thought you ought to wake up because something dreadful’s happening.’
Baldmoney opened his left eye a tiny way and slowly he became used to the blaze of light.
Soon he could make out the familiar form of Watervole appearing extremely agitated.
The poor animal was so upset he could hardly speak or make himself clear. ‘Oh dear, it’s awful, it’s awful!’
‘What’s awful?’ asked Baldmoney irritably, for he was not yet quite awake.
‘Why, the Folly — it’s getting so low and we don’t know what’s the matter. All our galleries and holes are high and dry and there’s only just a trickle of water coming down!’
‘Well, I expect it’s because of the dry weather,’ said Baldmoney, rubbing his eyes. ‘Don’t get so flustered, Watervole, it isn’t like you.’
‘But there’s been plenty of rain, it can’t be that. We’re afraid the Miller’s been playing some tricks up at Moss Mill and he’s stopped the water. All the Stream People are worried about it. Some of the voles from Lucking’s meadows are moving house because they think there’ll be more water down this way.’
By now Baldmoney’s eyes had become accustomed to the light. He stood there with bracken and dried grass in his beard and gazed at the Folly. And I must say he had a nasty shock. On the oak root was a pale bleached band quite a foot in width which showed the usual height of the water. Normally they could almost launch their fishing-boats from the very doorstep of Oak Tree House but now the level was far below and in place of the brown pool there was a wide expanse of wet green shingle.
‘All right, Watervole, I’ll fetch the others. Dodder’ll be here in a minute.’
‘What’s the trouble?’ Dodder was at his elbow. He had put on his bone leg and like Baldmoney was rubbing his eyes in the unaccustomed glare of day.
‘The Folly — look at it!’ exclaimed Baldmoney, now thoroughly alarmed. ‘Looks as if it was running dry or something.’
By now Sneezewort and Cloudberry had appeared and Squirrel too. They all staggered sleepily down the wet shingle to have a look.
‘This is serious,’ said Dodder. ‘Looks as if we’re all going to be left high and dry, and see who’s coming down the stream!’
Round the bend above the Oak Tree came a party of water voles and seven or eight distracted moorhens. ‘Looks as if they were in a hurry, let’s ask them what’s the matter.’
In a few moments the frightened birds and animals came up to them. ‘It’s awful,’ gasped a mother vole. ‘The stream isn’t running at all now up by Lucking’s meadows, only the pools hold water and the fish! — you should see them kicking about on the shingle!’
Dodder, who had been looking at the stream with a keen eye suddenly gasped, ‘Pan save us! Look at the fish in the pool — they’re all going downstream.’
The others followed his gaze and, sure enough, it was as Dodder had said. The amber depths were alive with fleeing fish. They were passing in cloudy shadows, hundreds and hundreds of fish: perch, roach and minnows, all jostling each other, pushing and darting, with fear writ large in their jewelled eyes.
‘That’s bad,’ said Dodder. ‘They know something’s up too.’
One of the watervoles began to snivel. ‘What’s to become of us all if the Folly dries up?’ she wailed. ‘Where shall we go?’
‘It’s a nice how d’you do I must say,’ said Dodder gruffly. ‘Just when we’re still half-awake like this and all set for the summer fishing. But it’s no good panicking . . . . Hullo, here comes the King of Fishers, now we shall know something!’
The kingfisher came direct like a big brilliant blue bee up to his favourite perch on the oak and all the animals crowded round.
‘Hey! King of Fishers,’ called Dodder, ‘what’s up?’
But truth to say, the Kingfisher was so crammed with fish he couldn’t get a word out.
‘Disgustin’,’ growled Dodder. ‘Perfectly disgustin’. Look, he’s eaten so much he’s nearly bursting!’
If the bird had not been sitting out of reach, I believe Dodder would have shaken him.
‘It’s no good,’ piped up Sneezewort. ‘We shall have to wait now till he’s digested his meal.’
The Kingfisher seemed to be trying to say something. He made several attempts but no sound would come and after a minute the gorged bird relaxed into a stupor. Baldmoney, shaking with rage, picked up a pebble and threw it up with deadly accuracy. It struck the Kingfisher on the beak and it so surprised him he immediately coughed up five sticklebacks, which fell on the shingle at Dodder’s feet. One hit Watervole on the nose, which made everybody laugh.
‘Now perhaps you’ll tell, King of Fishers,’ said Dodder icily.
‘Marvellous!’ said the Kingfisher dreamily. ‘Never had such fishing in all my life! Why, every pool and stickle is simply stiff with fish. Glorious!’ he exclaimed again. ‘Wonderful!’
‘Never mind about the fishing,’ shouted Dodder, almost beside himself with rage. He had quite forgotten to treat the Kingfisher with respect; there was no time for ceremony. ‘Tell us what’s the trouble, why is the Folly drying up?’
All the answer they got, however, was a splash. Kingfisher had dived straight down over their heads into the pool. He emerged a second later with a minnow in his beak, which he carried up to the oak twig and beat insensible before turning it round and gulping it down.
‘Marvellous fishin’,’ said the Kingfisher again, in a dreamy sort of way.
Dodder was now so incensed he could hardly contain himself. He turned to Squirrel. ‘Can’t you do something, Squirrel. Climb up the tree and shake some sense into him?’
‘All right, gnomes,’ said the Kingfisher, as Squirrel began to advance towards the oak. ‘I can’t tell you much. All I know is the water’s dropping and the fish . . . .’
‘Never mind the fish,’ interrupted Dodder, ‘can’t you go up to Moss Mill and find out what’s happening?’
‘Oh well, I’ll do that, Dodder, if you want me to, but personally I don’t see why you’re all getting so excited.’
‘Well, anything might have happened,’ said Squirrel indignantly. ‘The miller must have done something.’
‘All right, I’ll go,’ replied the Kingfisher. ‘One more minnow first though, watch me catch this one!’
Down he went again into the pool, sending the spray right and left. The others could only sigh and sadly shake their heads at one another.
When the greedy bird had eaten this last fish he darted off away up the Folly. They watched the speck of vivid blue speeding round the bend until it was lost to sight. After the maddening bird had departed, Baldmoney went under the bank and cut a willow stick. This he pushed into the sand just on the edge of the water and made a little notch with his hunting knife where the ripples wetted the wand. Then everyone sat down on the stones and watched it. The level of the stream must have been falling very slowly because at first there was no noticeable drop. But after a quarter of an hour had passed the notch was the minutest fraction above the water. Yes, there was no doubt about it, the Folly was getting lower, very soon it would be dry!
Picture the pathetic plight of all those little people gathered there upon the sandy shores of the oak tree pool! The sun was shining so brightly, the water meadows were such a vivid green and a gentle breeze was silvering the slender willow thickets. Overhead white clouds, like soft pillows, were drifting slowly before the West wind, blackbirds and thrushes were singing, and away over Collinson Church a kestrel hovered just like a small red paper kite.
It was a shame that such a bright Spring morning should be so heavy with impending disaster. For the Folly meant everything to the gnomes. It had been their loved companion for generations, it had provided them with fish, it had sung them to sleep, it had borne them safely in their boat. It was quite unthinkable that this bright and happy stream should ever go.
With horror-stricken eyes they gazed at the willow stick, hoping against hope that their fears were groundless. The only one who appeared unconcerned was Cloudberry. He had never been the same since he had gone off on his own the year before. The other three gnomes had finally set off up the Folly to find him and it was then that they had met Squirrel in Crow Wood and found their beautiful ship, the Jeanie Deans. They hadn’t found Cloudberry though; he had gone to Spitzbergen with the wild geese.
Now he swaggered up and down the beach with his thumbs stuck in his belt whistling through his teeth. The truth was, that ever since the journey with the wild geese, he thought himself no end of a gnome and the possibility of leaving the Oak Tree and the Folly didn’t worry him a bit.
‘I wish you’d stop whistling, Cloudberry,’ said Dodder irritably. ‘Come and see if you think the water’s dropped any more.’
‘Pooh! Why worry anyway? If we’ve got to move downstream, who cares? Who wants to stay in the same place all their lives, anyway? I like seeing new country. If only I had wings like the King of Fishers! That’s a fine bird for you, he’s the one to get about! The beastly old Folly can go on dropping for all I care, I’m all for the open road and high adventure. What’s the good of looking like a lot of gravedigger beetles? Anyone might think that the end of the world had come,’ and he turned a somersault on the shingle.
Dodder did not deign to reply. He got up and hobbled along to where they had moored the Jeanie Deans.
Alas! she was no longer the bright spick-and-span ship they had left tied up under the bank four months before.
She lay half on her side in the shallow water, red rust covered her keel and green slime draped her stern. Even her name, Jeanie Deans had been half-washed out by the rigorous winter weather. Baldmoney and Sneezewort scrambled up on to her sloping decks. Rainwater had collected in the hold and several snails had taken up their abode in the wheelhouse. Baldmoney indignantly wrenched them off and threw them on to the bank, where a big spotted thrush speedily pounced upon them and carried them off. Song thrushes love snails, they prefer them to worms. He took them one by one and smashed them on a large white stone by the stream side and then came back and begged for more, but he never offered to help. Meanwhile Baldmoney was rummaging about in the cabin. Old oak leaves had half-filled it, the whole place smelt damp and musty and the bunks were full of wood-lice.
‘Disgustin’ mess,’ muttered Baldmoney as he looked about him. ‘It’ll need a whole day to spring-clean her.’
‘Let’s start in on her now,’ said Sneezewort. ‘We won’t ask Cloudberry, he won’t help. I’ll bet he thinks she’s a rotten old hulk anyway.’
He kicked a lot of leaves into a corner and gathered them up in his arms. Baldmoney climbed down the side and went back to the oak for the frog-skin bucket and a scrubbing brush.
Gnomes are cleanly little folk and the sight of their lovely ship in such a state was a grievous thing.
Very soon that tiny strip of wet sand behind the oak tree presented a very busy scene indeed. There’s nothing like a job on hand for banishing depression and worry. The Jeanie Deans had to be spring-cleaned anyway, whether she would be wanted at once or next week, and at last even Cloudberry condescended to lend a hand. Back came Baldmoney with the bucket of water and a scrubbing brush. The latter was not of his own making.
It was really the head of a toothbrush and had once belonged to none other than the miller at Moss Mill! He had bought it three years before in the local Woolworth’s and it had seen good service. When the bristles began to come out the miller used it for cleaning the spokes and hubs of a new bicycle which he was very proud of. He had a puppy and one day the puppy stole the toothbrush and took it down to the riverside to play with it. It fell over the mill dam and the puppy watched it splash into the water with his little head cocked right on one side. The current bore it to the tail of the pool and there it lay among the rushes for some time until the winter floods rolled it on down. Baldmoney had found it under a willow root. That was the history of the scrubbing brush, though of course the gnomes knew nothing of its story nor why the Mortals used such a brush.
