Dido and Pa by Joan Aiken
Authors: Joan Aiken
Tags: Fiction, General, Action & Adventure, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Fathers and daughters, Adventure and Adventurers, Parents
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Poor man! I must write him a note of sympathy at once."
Leaving his breakfast nearly untouched, Simon went off to the library.
But Sophie remained at the window, watching the ragged children in the courtyard.
Having chosen one of their number to be It for a new game, they were now leading her in solemn procession across the paved yard, chanting as they went:
"
Bonnie Prince Georgie lies over the water,
He don't rule over this land, though he oughter,
Bonnie Prince Georgie lies over in Hanover,
Oh, why won't some well-wisher bring that young man over?
Our swords we will sharpen, our spears we will forge,
And it's up with the banner of Bonnie Prince George!
"
The player chosen to be Prince George was now throned on a mounting block, and all the rest elaborately bowed and curtsied.
Then the actor playing Prince George toppled off the block and lay flat on the ground, while the others chanted, running round and round the fallen one:
"
Bonnie Prince George, your breakfast is made!
He won't come down, he's dead in his bed.
Bonnie Prince George, your dinner is made!
He won't come down, he's dead in his bed.
Bonnie Prince George, your supper is made!
He won't come down, he's stock-stone-dead.
"
Each time they sang this the fallen figure twitched and then lay motionless again.
Finally they sang:
"
Bonnie Prince George, your house is on fire!
"
at which the "dead" one jumped up and chased after the rest of them, shouting:
"
Just wait till I catch you and I'll skin you alive!
"
They all fled away shrieking, and the "prince" caught one of them, and then the game started all over again.
Fidd the porter watched them scowling; he thought it highly undignified that the duke of Battersea's courtyard should be put to such a purpose. But at last the children became bored—or playing had warmed them enough to go back to their usual occupations. They began to drift away in clumps and groups, picking up, as they went, the trappings of their trade: trays of pencils, baskets of oranges or nuts, brooms, laces and ribbons—all the things they sold in the street.
Sophie noticed one of them, a small fair-haired boy, approach the front door of the house. She saw Fidd come charging out of his lodge, and she herself ran down the stairs to the front hall, so as to open the door and get to the child before Fidd reached him. She arrived just in time, as Fidd was about to pounce, growling "
Ho,
no! Not in there you don't go, my young warmint!"
"No, but I got a missidge!" gasped the boy. "I'm on an arrant!"
"A likely tale!"
"Wait a minute, Fidd," said Sophie. "I wish to hear what the boy has to say."
"And what are
you
doing, Lady Sophie, opening the door—that ain't dignified!" the old man scolded.
"Oh, pooh, Fidd! Go mind your lodge."
"I gotta missidge for the dook o' Battersea!" pleaded the boy.
"Have you indeed, my dear?" said Sophie. "Then the
duke shall be fetched. Tarrant!"—she addressed a footman. "Will you please ask his grace to step down here a moment?"
In a moment Simon came down. He was in the middle of his letter of condolence, had an ink blot on his finger, and looked rather put about.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"This boy has a message for you," said his sister.
Instantly Simon became very alert. "Yes? What is the message?" he asked the boy.
"Send them gummies away out o' hearing." The boy jerked his head at Fidd and Tarrant. "Now listen close."
He brought his hand out of his pocket and opened it, disclosing a small, rusty, very chewed-looking apple core.
"See this? It's all there were to bring. There were a Token, but it got took back. And there were a Simon, but it got snabbled. And there were a missidge."
"What did the message say?"
"Her birthday be the fust o' March. Name's Died o' Fright. She be with 'er pa and 'er'll come when 'er can. Got it?"
"With her pa," repeated Simon. "Where is she now?"
"I dunno."
"Where do you come from?"
"Pimlico, I got the missidge. But it come a long way afore
Leaving his breakfast nearly untouched, Simon went off to the library.
But Sophie remained at the window, watching the ragged children in the courtyard.
Having chosen one of their number to be It for a new game, they were now leading her in solemn procession across the paved yard, chanting as they went:
"
Bonnie Prince Georgie lies over the water,
He don't rule over this land, though he oughter,
Bonnie Prince Georgie lies over in Hanover,
Oh, why won't some well-wisher bring that young man over?
Our swords we will sharpen, our spears we will forge,
And it's up with the banner of Bonnie Prince George!
"
The player chosen to be Prince George was now throned on a mounting block, and all the rest elaborately bowed and curtsied.
Then the actor playing Prince George toppled off the block and lay flat on the ground, while the others chanted, running round and round the fallen one:
"
Bonnie Prince George, your breakfast is made!
He won't come down, he's dead in his bed.
Bonnie Prince George, your dinner is made!
He won't come down, he's dead in his bed.
Bonnie Prince George, your supper is made!
He won't come down, he's stock-stone-dead.
"
Each time they sang this the fallen figure twitched and then lay motionless again.
Finally they sang:
"
Bonnie Prince George, your house is on fire!
"
at which the "dead" one jumped up and chased after the rest of them, shouting:
"
Just wait till I catch you and I'll skin you alive!
"
They all fled away shrieking, and the "prince" caught one of them, and then the game started all over again.
Fidd the porter watched them scowling; he thought it highly undignified that the duke of Battersea's courtyard should be put to such a purpose. But at last the children became bored—or playing had warmed them enough to go back to their usual occupations. They began to drift away in clumps and groups, picking up, as they went, the trappings of their trade: trays of pencils, baskets of oranges or nuts, brooms, laces and ribbons—all the things they sold in the street.
Sophie noticed one of them, a small fair-haired boy, approach the front door of the house. She saw Fidd come charging out of his lodge, and she herself ran down the stairs to the front hall, so as to open the door and get to the child before Fidd reached him. She arrived just in time, as Fidd was about to pounce, growling "
Ho,
no! Not in there you don't go, my young warmint!"
"No, but I got a missidge!" gasped the boy. "I'm on an arrant!"
"A likely tale!"
"Wait a minute, Fidd," said Sophie. "I wish to hear what the boy has to say."
"And what are
you
doing, Lady Sophie, opening the door—that ain't dignified!" the old man scolded.
"Oh, pooh, Fidd! Go mind your lodge."
"I gotta missidge for the dook o' Battersea!" pleaded the boy.
"Have you indeed, my dear?" said Sophie. "Then the
duke shall be fetched. Tarrant!"—she addressed a footman. "Will you please ask his grace to step down here a moment?"
In a moment Simon came down. He was in the middle of his letter of condolence, had an ink blot on his finger, and looked rather put about.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"This boy has a message for you," said his sister.
Instantly Simon became very alert. "Yes? What is the message?" he asked the boy.
"Send them gummies away out o' hearing." The boy jerked his head at Fidd and Tarrant. "Now listen close."
He brought his hand out of his pocket and opened it, disclosing a small, rusty, very chewed-looking apple core.
"See this? It's all there were to bring. There were a Token, but it got took back. And there were a Simon, but it got snabbled. And there were a missidge."
"What did the message say?"
"Her birthday be the fust o' March. Name's Died o' Fright. She be with 'er pa and 'er'll come when 'er can. Got it?"
"With her pa," repeated Simon. "Where is she now?"
"I dunno."
"Where do you come from?"
"Pimlico, I got the missidge. But it come a long way afore
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