# The Book of Betty Barber/Chapter 5

CHAPTER V
“A FAIR LITTLE GIRL SAT UNDER A TREE”
The tree was there—a very large, beautiful tree, too—and the work was there; but Lucy was neither sitting under the tree nor “sewing as long as her eyes could see.” She was walking up and down the garden, looking very serious and very solemn.
“Caw, caw,” called the Rooks, who lived up in the tree.
Lucy made no answer.
“Caw, caw, caw!” called the Rooks very loudly.
Lucy looked up at them.
“I don’t think I can cut you out,” she said, “I love to see you fly over my head.”
“Cut us out! What is she talking about?” said the Rooks.
“She said something to us about cutting,” said the tall pink Foxglove.
“Oh, I’ve been cut out,” said the Work, “it’s quite all right!”
“Excuse me,” said Lucy, waking up from her dream, “it isn’t all right, it’s all wrong.”
“What is all wrong? Tell us all about it,” said the Violets, curtseying.
Lucy frowned. For the first time in her life she wished the Violets would not curtsey; she wished they would dance a hornpipe or jump, do anything but curtsey. She felt quite sick and tired of seeing the Violets curtsey, and she could not help thinking that if she were sick of her own Violets it was not very surprising that Betty Barber was sick of her.
​“I must cut some of them out,” she said, “but I cannot make up my mind which it shall be.”
“You won’t cut me,” shouted the Foxglove.
“Or us,” called the Violets.
Lucy ran across to the tree, picked up her work, rolled it up into a tight, tight ball, and threw it on the ground.
“Well, I never did,” said a girl who was peeping over the garden gate. “Here is quite a new story:
“A queer little girl stood under a tree, Spoiling her work, so silly was she; She rolled it up small, and squeezed it up tight, And said, ‘Stupid work, good-night, good-night.’”
Lucy stamped her foot. “Be quiet, Mary,” she said, “it is easy for you to laugh, you have only three verses.”
“And quite enough, too,” said Mary, walking through the gate, “quite as many as most children can get into their heads. I can’t think how you manage with six, and you’ve so many things to look after, too—foxgloves, violets, rooks, horses and oxen. Why, I find it takes me all my time to keep one lamb in order.”
“But I don’t get on,” said Lucy. “I don’t get on at all with the children. They say that I am too long, and that they are sick of me.”
“Too long, too long! What rubbish,” grumbled an old Spider, who was very busy close by Lucy’s tree, making a most superior parlour for silly flies to walk into. “They'll say I’m too long next, I suppose. You haven’t enough verses, that’s what’s the matter with you. You want more verses and more lines. It takes a great many lines to make a really good web.”
“Cut out two or three verses,” said Mary, taking no notice or the Spider.
“I’ve been trying to do it all the morning,” said Lucy, “and I can’t manage it. I love my flowers, and birds, and beasts, I can’t leave one of them out.”
“I won't leave a single verse out,” growled the Spider.
​ “Well, then, in my humble opinion you are in a pretty fix,” said Mary. “Now, if I were you I would make up my mind to cut three verses out, and do it too. You would certainly be more popular. I haven’t said so before, because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings; but do you think you are quite as popular as you were? Have you noticed that our friends on the other side of the road, the Owl and the Pussy Cat, the Walrus.———”
“I know nobody who lives on the other side of the road,” said Lucy, quickly. “I have nothing to do with nonsense.”
“But, my dear,” said Mary, “what if the children prefer nonsense?””
“My love,” said Lucy, very crossly, “you'll say next they prefer nursery rhymes.”
“Well, don’t shout,” said Mary, “there are Jill and Bopeep outside the gate this minute. Don’t lose your temper, good little Lucy.”
“Good little Lucy losing her temper?” shouted Jill. “What can be the matter?”
“She says the children are sick of her because she has too many verses,” said Mary quickly.
“I think she might do with fewer,” said Jill, “Jack and I find three plenty.”
“If you will take my advice,” said Bopeep, “you'll get rid of some of those verses. If you don’t, you will find you will gradually lose them. How many children, do you suppose, really know all my verses? I shudder to say it; but most of them I find know only my first verse, and some of them never even take the trouble to find out what happens to my sheep’s tails. I’m getting quite out of patience with the children.”
“Don’t do that,” said Lucy.
“You must not do that,” said Jill.
“Take a nap, and you’ll feel better,” said Mary.
“Really,” said Bopeep, “you seem to think I am always wanting to sleep in the day-time,” and she walked past the gate and up the road. The other three looked at one another, and Mary shrugged her shoulders,
​ “There, my dear,” she said, “take warning. You see what will happen to you.”
“She is nearly always cross,” said Jill, sighing. ‘I must talk to her and try to soothe her,” and Jill followed Bopeep up the road.
“I was cross, too, just now,” said Lucy. “I can’t bear to think the children are getting tired of me. What am I to do? Can’t you help me?” She held out her hands beseechingly to Mary.
“It seems to me,” said Mary, “that you have too much of the ‘Good-night, good-night,’ business. Couldn’t you cut outsome of that?”
“I might, of course,” said Lucy doubtfully. ‘Anything would be better than leaving out my dear animals, or birds, or flowers.”
“Caw, caw, caw,” called the Rooks.
“Moo, moo,” said the Oxen.
And the Horses neighed.
“I shouldn’t be very sorry to leave out the Violets,” said Lucy.
“Then, really, I don’t see any reason why you should not be able to do it,” said Mary.
“Beware, beware! In my youth———” called a voice.
The two girls looked up quickly.
A stout old gentleman was running up the road, calling as he ran.
“Who is it?” whispered Lucy.
“Hush!” said Mary. “Wait a minute, you will see. He will tell us about his youth, and ask us the way to the Land of Poetry.”
The old gentleman was stopping at the gate.
“Good afternoon,” he said, “I am sorry to trouble you, but do you happen to know if I am in Rhyme Land? I never can find out where I am. I used to live always in the beautiful Land of Poetry. Then one day I found myself in Nonsense Land, and since then I cannot find my way back home.”
Jill and Bopeep (p. 49)
​ “We are in Rhyme Land,” said Lucy. “Come through the gate and you-will be in Rhyme Land, too.”
The old gentleman sighed.
“There’s my son, you know. He won’t come, he prefers Nonsense Land. Beware of Nonsense Land. But I’ll go and tell him about this gate. In my youth———”
And the old gentleman hurried up the lane, sighing and groaning and muttering.
“You are old Father William,” said Mary. “Poor Father William! He is always trying to find his way to the Land of Poetry; but he always, somehow, gets back to Nonsense Land.”
“Then I must be careful not to get into Nonsense Land,” said Lucy.
“Yes, you had better be very careful,” growled the Spider, who had finished his fine parlour. “I only wish I had a few more lines.”
“But the children,” said Lucy.
“Moo—moo—moo,” said a Cow, poking its nose over the gate.
“Thank you, pretty Cow,” said Mary. “Now, the pretty Cow manages quite well with only three verses. Lucy, you must cut something out.”
“I will,” said Lucy, and she ran to the gate to stroke the Cow’s forehead.
“Silly things, silly things,” growled the Spider. “Nearly as silly as flies.”
Mary followed Lucy to the gate.
“Cut out the last two lines of the first verse,” said Mary, “and three lines of the second verse.”
“Yes,” said Lucy, as she opened the gate and stepped into the road.
“Beware, beware! In my youth——” shouted the voice of Father William, far away in the distance.
“Then leave out the Violets, and tuck in the Foxglove,” said Mary.
​ “Let me see,” said Lucy, walking slowly down hill:
“A fair little girl sat under a tree, Sewing as long as her eyes could see; A number of rooks flew over her head, The tall pink foxglove bowed his head.”
I seem to be getting on very well. I’m sure Betty Barber will be pleased.”
“Who is Betty Barber, might I politely inquire?” demanded a very queer-looking brown Lobster, who was leaning over a stile on the other side of the lane.
Mary jumped and looked decidedly frightened.
“Lucy, my dear,” she said, “we must be careful not to go too far.”
“We must go on now,” said Lucy. “Who is this gentleman?”
“If you will excuse me,” said Mary, “I think I will go back. ’Tis the voice of the Lobster.”
“How interesting!” said Lucy.
“Who is Betty Barber?” demanded the Lobster.
“I’ll tell you all about her,” said Lucy, and without waiting to see if Mary were following her, she climbed over the stile.
“Betty Barber wrote a book, you know,” she explained, “and in it she said that no piece of poetry ought to have more than three verses.”
“Don’t see the use of verses myself,” said the Lobster. “Come and talk to the Walrus about it, he has a good many verses.”
“The Walrus?” said Lucy, “I never talked to a Walrus.”
“Oh, he’s quite all right,” said the Lobster, “and we’ll call on the Owl and the Pussy Cat, and a few others.”
Lucy looked rather bewildered.
“The Owl and the Pussy Cat!” she said. “Am I in the Land of Poetry?”
“Ah, here comes the Walrus,” said the Lobster. “I say, old friend,” he went on, “there’s one Betty Barber, who says that no piece of poetry ought to have more than three verses.” ​ “I’ve been trying to get into three verses all the morning,” said Lucy, “and, do you know, I believe I’ve done it, too.”
“Three verses! Absurd!” cried the Walrus. “I have eighteen very useful verses. Of course I might———” and he looked round cautiously and lowered his voice, “I might leave out the Carpenter. He’s rather a bore is the Carpenter, and he is too fond of oysters.”
“The Walrus, the Carpenter, the Lobster!” said Lucy. “Oh, am I? Oh, I’m not——— Oh, don’t say———”
“What is the matter?” asked the Walrus.
“Am I in Rhyme Land?” asked Lucy.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said the Walrus, “but you come along. I want to talk to you about cutting out the Carpenter.”
Lucy followed him sadly.
“I must be in Nonsense Land,” she said. “Dear, dear! What shall I do? If only I hadn’t tried to get into three verses. It’s all Betty Barber’s fault. But I’ll get out somehow or other. I must and will, and then I’ll go to the tree, find the book, and tear——— Oh, what am I saying?”
“What are you mumbling and! grumbling about?” said the Walrus. “Come along. You see the Carpenter is only on in six verses. I suppose—but you are not attending.”
“I’m sorry,” said Lucy, “but the fact of the matter is, I must go back. I’ve come too far.”
“Rubbish!” said the Walrus. “Here, some of you, come and help.”
“What it the matter?” asked the Lobster.
“Hullo, here’s a new arrival,” cried an Owl, hastening to meet them.
“Let me go,” said Lucy. “I must go.”
“Not until we’ve seen something of you,” cried the Clanglewangle, who was a very wonderful person.
“Are you in rhyme, my dear?” asked the Pussy Cat. “I’m sure I hope so.”
​“I’m poetry,” said Lucy faintly, for she was beginning to feel rather frightened.
“Of course,” said the Lobster, “so are we all.”
“Ah, you did get here then,” said a Young Man. “Father William was talking about you. I must tell him you’ve come. It’s capital fun, you know.”
Lucy was almost crying.
“What shall I do? What shall I do?” she said.
“Let us hear something about you, now you are here,” said the Walrus. “Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m good little Lucy,” said Lucy. “Don’t you know my piece, ‘Good-night and Good-morning’? It begins—
‘A number of rooks sat under a tree, Sewing as long as their eyes could see.’
No, that isn’t right. I was going to cut that line out. No, I wasn’t. Oh dear, oh dear! I must go back. Let me go, let me go.”
“There, then, there!” said the Clanglewangle.
“But we won’t let you go,” said the Lobster.
“You must stay with us,” said the Walrus.
“I won’t,” said Lucy, and she began to run.
But the Pussy Cat caught hold of her, the Owl jumped on her shoulder; the Walrus, the Lobster, and a number of queer beasts and fishes seized her and held her fast.
Lucy began to sob and cry aloud, and struggled to get free. The animals seemed rather scared.
“I’m going for a sail in my pea-green boat,” said the Pussy Cat, as the Owl jumped down from Lucy’s shoulder, and one after another the animals moved away.
Lucy, left alone, sat down on the ground, feeling as miserable as a good little girl can be. She was so full of her troubles that she did not notice that someone had come close to her, and was standing by her, looking down at her; and when she felt herself lightly touched on the shoulder she stopped crying instantly and jumped up from the ground.
“The Pussy Cat Caught Hold of Her, the Owl Jumped on Her Shoulder” p. 56)
​ “What is the matter?” asked a very kind voice. “ Have you, too, been trying to make apple pies out of cabbage leaves?”
Lucy examined the new-comer carefully, beginning with his boots and ending with the little button on top of his head, and Lucy bowed low. “You must be the Grand Panjandrum himself,” she said, and she bowed again and began to walk backwards.
“Let me help you, don’t go,” said the Grand Panjandrum, “I know she very imprudently married the barber, but don’t go.”
Lucy still continued to walk backwards. She knew that people always walked backwards before Royalty, and she felt sure that the Grand Panjandrum himself must be a person of very very great importance.
“What, no soap!” cried the Grand Panjandrum, and then quite suddenly he began to dance.
Lucy watched him a minute, then she called out, “Oh, the gunpowder!” and began to run as fast as ever she could, for she knew gunpowder was a thing with which no good little girl should play.
Though she soon began to puff and pant, she did not stop running until she found herself in front of a hedge, and she threw herself down beneath it.
“There’s no doubt about it,” she said sadly. “I’m in Nonsense Land. Well, I must get out. I must find that stile.” Then she stopped talking, and stared hard at a wood not very far away in the distance.
Something was happening at the top of one of the big trees. Something on it was moving, something white, or was it grey? It could not be a bird, it was too big. It was a signal. Lucy jumped to her feet, and looked about her for something to wave back. Someone up the tree was waving to her. Perhaps the tree was the one in the trunk of which the Book of Betty Barber was hidden. Perhaps it was Half-term or Thirteen-fourteenths signalling.
Lucy took off her pinafore and waved it in the air wildly.
Then she shouted, “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” and began to feel quite happy once more.
​ Someone knew where she was, someone would send help; but first she would try very, very hard to help herself.
She waved once more; then she put on her pinafore, pushed her hair out of her eyes, and began to search the hedge very carefully for some sign of a gap or stile.