constantly.
“O’ course they mean it,” Deirdre retorted. She pulled her strong, thick brows together and stuck her balled fists into the pockets of her gray pinafore. “It’s ’cause I have red hair an’ my eyes’re green an’ I’m as freckled as a red pig. It’s also ’cause I have an Irish name they can’t get their fat tongues around. And,” she added astutely, “it’s ’cause everybody’s talkin’ about that red-headed witch at Raven Hall. Or maybe she’s a ghost.”
Caroline nodded, having heard about the mysterious Mrs. Kittredge.
Deirdre tossed her head. “But they’re all a lot of ign’rant heathens. They c’n eat worms, ’spesh’ly Harold Beechman. I’m even with him, though.” She grinned slyly. “Told him I’d spell him into a frog if he di’n’t leave off.”
“So that’s what you said to him,” Caroline exclaimed, with a horrified delight. Harold Beechman was a notorious bully who loved to pull hair and tweak noses. Everyone longed to see him get his comeuppance.
Deirdre’s mischievous grin widened. “An’ then I yelled out some gibberish an’ waved my arms an’ the cowardy custard ran away, he did.” The grin again. “He di’n’t look where he was runnin’ an’ stumbled over the water bucket an’ whacked his nose proper an’ smeared blood all over his shirt.” The grin became a chuckle, and then a hearty laugh. “Which pleased me ever’ bit as much as if he’d turned into a frog, it did. If he likes t’ think I’m a witch, that’s just jolly good.”
Deirdre’s Irish laughter was infectious, and Caroline found herself joining in without reservation. “Maybe,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you could catch a frog and bring it to school and—”
“—An’ tell everybody he used t’ be a lad that called me a witch an’ I turned him into a frog!” Deirdre finished, with a giggle. “Aye, that’s grand, that is. Do y’know whereabouts I c’n find one?”
“Ask Jeremy Crosfield,” Caroline replied. “He’ll show you lots of frogs, down at Cunsey Beck.”
“Jeremy’s nice,” Deirdre replied thoughtfully. “He doesn’t tease.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Caroline said. Jeremy and his aunt had moved into the cottage at Holly How farm, one of the Tidmarsh Manor farms, and they often walked to school together. He always surprised her with what he knew, for he seemed to have a personal acquaintance with almost every animal in the Land between the Lakes, and he was an accomplished artist. But for all that, Jeremy never made a show of what he’d learnt, or made her feel that he was smarter than she, the way the others did.
“He’s clever, Jeremy is,” Deirdre added in a respectful tone. “I’ll wager he’s the clev’rest lad in the village.”
“Oh, yes,” Caroline said, and sighed. “This is his last year at Sawrey School, you know. He passed the exams for the grammar school in Ambleside with high marks. But he can’t go.”
Deirdre turned a surprised glance on her. “He can’t? Whyever not?”
“It costs too much. His aunt can’t afford it.”
“Well, I call that a shame, I do,” Deirdre said definitively. “Them that wants t’ go t’ school should have their chance. If I could really do spells, I’d spell it so Jeremy could go.” Leaning over the nettles at the foot of the stone wall, she broke off a twig of delicate white hawthorn blossoms and tucked it over her ear. “I ain’t a real witch,” she added over her shoulder, picking another sprig. “But I c’n see fairies. I don’t tell that t’ just anybody, an’ it’s not for spreadin’ around. But it’s true. Or it used to be, anyway.”
Caroline eyed her. “See fairies?” She herself had never seen one, although she had read enough stories about them to know that quite a few people thought they were real. For Christmas, Miss Potter had sent her a book called Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens, by Mr. J. M. Barrie, who had also written
“O’ course they mean it,” Deirdre retorted. She pulled her strong, thick brows together and stuck her balled fists into the pockets of her gray pinafore. “It’s ’cause I have red hair an’ my eyes’re green an’ I’m as freckled as a red pig. It’s also ’cause I have an Irish name they can’t get their fat tongues around. And,” she added astutely, “it’s ’cause everybody’s talkin’ about that red-headed witch at Raven Hall. Or maybe she’s a ghost.”
Caroline nodded, having heard about the mysterious Mrs. Kittredge.
Deirdre tossed her head. “But they’re all a lot of ign’rant heathens. They c’n eat worms, ’spesh’ly Harold Beechman. I’m even with him, though.” She grinned slyly. “Told him I’d spell him into a frog if he di’n’t leave off.”
“So that’s what you said to him,” Caroline exclaimed, with a horrified delight. Harold Beechman was a notorious bully who loved to pull hair and tweak noses. Everyone longed to see him get his comeuppance.
Deirdre’s mischievous grin widened. “An’ then I yelled out some gibberish an’ waved my arms an’ the cowardy custard ran away, he did.” The grin again. “He di’n’t look where he was runnin’ an’ stumbled over the water bucket an’ whacked his nose proper an’ smeared blood all over his shirt.” The grin became a chuckle, and then a hearty laugh. “Which pleased me ever’ bit as much as if he’d turned into a frog, it did. If he likes t’ think I’m a witch, that’s just jolly good.”
Deirdre’s Irish laughter was infectious, and Caroline found herself joining in without reservation. “Maybe,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you could catch a frog and bring it to school and—”
“—An’ tell everybody he used t’ be a lad that called me a witch an’ I turned him into a frog!” Deirdre finished, with a giggle. “Aye, that’s grand, that is. Do y’know whereabouts I c’n find one?”
“Ask Jeremy Crosfield,” Caroline replied. “He’ll show you lots of frogs, down at Cunsey Beck.”
“Jeremy’s nice,” Deirdre replied thoughtfully. “He doesn’t tease.”
“No, he doesn’t,” Caroline said. Jeremy and his aunt had moved into the cottage at Holly How farm, one of the Tidmarsh Manor farms, and they often walked to school together. He always surprised her with what he knew, for he seemed to have a personal acquaintance with almost every animal in the Land between the Lakes, and he was an accomplished artist. But for all that, Jeremy never made a show of what he’d learnt, or made her feel that he was smarter than she, the way the others did.
“He’s clever, Jeremy is,” Deirdre added in a respectful tone. “I’ll wager he’s the clev’rest lad in the village.”
“Oh, yes,” Caroline said, and sighed. “This is his last year at Sawrey School, you know. He passed the exams for the grammar school in Ambleside with high marks. But he can’t go.”
Deirdre turned a surprised glance on her. “He can’t? Whyever not?”
“It costs too much. His aunt can’t afford it.”
“Well, I call that a shame, I do,” Deirdre said definitively. “Them that wants t’ go t’ school should have their chance. If I could really do spells, I’d spell it so Jeremy could go.” Leaning over the nettles at the foot of the stone wall, she broke off a twig of delicate white hawthorn blossoms and tucked it over her ear. “I ain’t a real witch,” she added over her shoulder, picking another sprig. “But I c’n see fairies. I don’t tell that t’ just anybody, an’ it’s not for spreadin’ around. But it’s true. Or it used to be, anyway.”
Caroline eyed her. “See fairies?” She herself had never seen one, although she had read enough stories about them to know that quite a few people thought they were real. For Christmas, Miss Potter had sent her a book called Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens, by Mr. J. M. Barrie, who had also written
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