The Tale of Hill Top Farm by Susan Wittig Albert Page A

understand her position entirely,” Beatrix said, adding, with more confidence than she felt, “but I’m sure we can work something out. Will you speak to Mrs. Jennings about it, or shall I?”
    Jennings puffed on his pipe. “I’d best do’t,” he said at last. “She’s not o’er happy about t’ idea of us stayin’ on here, I’m sorry to say.” He turned, and his serious blue eyes lightened, although he did not quite smile. “I’ll be takin’ t’ pony cart t’ Hawkshead on Saturday, to sell butter and eggs. Would tha like t’ come wi’ me?”
    “I would, very much,” Beatrix said. She looked down at her feet. “Perhaps I could visit the cobbler and have him make me a pair of clogs just like these.”
    Rascal turned to Felicia, who wore a surprised look. “There,” he said, with satisfaction. “She talks like a farmer and walks like a farmer. The lady will make a farmer yet.”

    On her way back to Belle Green for lunch, Beatrix went to the post office, where she said hello to Lucy Skead, the postmistress, and asked for her mail. It proved to be a substantial bundle: two letters from Millie Warne, Norman’s sister; a letter from her mother; a letter and a check from her publisher; and a package labeled as containing six copies of The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle.
    “Welcome to the village, Miss,” Lucy Skead said primly. “Ye’ll be with us long this visit?”
    “Until the end of the month,” Beatrix replied. She glanced at her letters and added, “unless I’m needed at home.” Her mother had a way of developing an ailment or creating a crisis among the household servants the minute Beatrix was out of the house. She hoped this letter wasn’t a summons.
    “I couldn’t help noticin’,” Lucy confided in an innocent tone, “that thi package was full o’ books. Mayhap there’s a new one? Me mum has read all that tha’s written. Her fav’rite is Benjamin Bunny. Reads it over and over to my girls, though they can read fer thersels.” She trilled a light laugh. “She says thi rabbits put her in mind of folks she knows.”
    Beatrix opened the paper package of books and took out a copy. “This is the book that came out last month. There’s another new one, but they haven’t sent it yet.” She smiled at Lucy. “Perhaps your mother would like to have it.”
    Lucy Skead’s eyes grew round. “Tha’d give it to Mum?” she asked in a whisper.
    “I’d be glad to sign it if you like,” Beatrix said diffidently. “What’s her name?” Lucy told her, and Beatrix took up the pen on the counter, dipped it into the glass inkwell, and wrote, with care, “To Mrs. Dolly Dorking, with kind regards, HBP.”
    “Oh, thank you!” Lucy exclaimed. “Mum’ll be that pleased.” She peered at the inscription. “H?” she asked curiously. “What’s that stand for?”
    Beatrix, feeling that Lucy was a busybody, did not want to tell her that she had been named Helen, for her mother. She was relieved when a shadow darkened the doorway. It was a stooped old lady in a gray dress, a black tippet around her shoulders, leaning on a cane.
    “Ooh, look, Mum!” Lucy cried excitedly, holding up The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle . “It’s a new book, and Miss Potter has put her initials in it, and thi name. See? It says ‘To Mrs. Dolly Dorking.’ She wants tha should have it, with her kind regards!”
    The old lady came closer, peering up at Beatrix. She was very short, just above five feet high, with shrewd blue eyes, a face as wrinkled and brown as a scrap of wash-leather, and a strong scent of lavender about her. “Thank’ee,” she said, in a cracked, high-pitched voice. “Thank’ee much. Is this ’un about a rabbit? I did admire that Benjamin Bunny, for all his mischief. Put me in mind of my own brother, when he was young.”
    “Actually, this one is about a hedgehog,” said Beatrix, who was always delighted to find an eager reader. “I used my own pet hedgehog—Mrs. Tiggy—as a