The Tree that Sat Down. Beverley Nichols

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СКАЧАТЬ rate by making ’em think we’re giving them something new. That’s the reason for the telephone.’

      ‘We ain’t got a telephone,’ muttered Old Sam.

      ‘No. Nor has anyone else in the wood. So they can’t prove it, see? All we have to do is to say to an animal, “Call us up”, and we know quite well he can’t call us up ’cos he’s not got anything to call with.’

      ‘That seems fair enough,’ admitted Old Sam.

      ‘It’s the same with “Goods Delivered to your Door”.’

      ‘If you think I’m going round with a basket at my age, climbing trees and ferreting into burrows, you’re very much mistaken,’ proclaimed Old Sam.

      ‘You don’t have to. Read the notice. It says … “To your Door”. Well, none of the animals have got a door. They’ve got nests and holes and hideouts, but there’s not a darned door in the wood. So if we say we deliver to the door, we don’t because there ain’t no doors to deliver to. Got that?’

      ‘’Pon my word,’ admitted Old Sam, ‘that’s a bright idea.’

      Together they carried the board over to the stump of a blasted oak. A few bangs with a hammer and it was firmly in position.

      ‘And now,’ said Sam. ‘we’d better have breakfast, so’s to be ready for the customers.’

      *

      News travelled fast in the wood. Long before the shop was open, processions of animals were to be seen coming from all quarters of the wood, and by nine o’clock there was a long queue outside the Ford. Sam had put up a lot of shelves, and on these shelves were a great number of boxes, tied up with attractive ribbons.

      ‘What was inside the boxes?’ you may ask.

      We will tell you, because it will help to show you what a really horrible little boy Sam was.

      There was nothing in the boxes.

      Nothing at all.

      ‘But how could he get the animals to buy nothing?’ you may enquire. ‘Wouldn’t the animals call in PC Monkey and have the law on him?’

      No, they couldn’t. Because, you see, Sam was very clever. He knew that ‘nothing’ has many names; in German it is nichts, in French it is rien. All over the world men make different sounds when they want to describe that which is without sound or shape or weight or life.

      So Sam was going to sell the animals ‘Nichts’ and ‘Rien’ and if any of them made a fuss about it, he’d say that it wasn’t his fault that they were so ignorant. Anyway, he had a shrewd idea that they wouldn’t complain; he knew that an animal hates to be made to look a fool. If you had ever seen the look of pain in the eyes of a circus dog you would know what I mean. He was meant to run on all fours, free as the wind, through the long grass, through sunlight and shadow, but men force him to spend half his life staggering over the sawdust on two legs, blinking in the glare of arc-lights.

      *

      At nine o’clock precisely Sam’s grandfather came out of his cave, beating a big drum. That was the signal that the shop was open, and immediately all the animals began to swarm around, twittering, and purring, and squeaking, and sniffing.

      Of course, there were lots of things besides the boxes full of Nothing … real things, I mean. Most of them – though the animals did not know it – were quite useless. There were heaps of brightly coloured glass, which Sam described as rubies and diamonds and emeralds, though they only came from Woolworth’s; there were all sorts of things like that. But it was the boxes full of Nothing which interested the animals most; they longed to know what was inside them; and soon there was quite a queue in front of the counter.

      ‘What is in these boxes?’ enquired Mrs Rabbit.

      ‘Nichts,’ replied Sam, with a grin.

      ‘Nichts?’ Mrs Rabbit looked puzzled. She had no idea what ‘nichts’ were, but she did not like to show her ignorance, because Mrs Hare was standing beside her. And Mrs Hare always put on superior airs, simply because she could run so fast.

      ‘Ah, nichts!’ repeated Mrs Rabbit, nodding and trying to look wise. ‘Nichts,’ she said again, wondering if they were anything like nuts. Probably that was what they were – a new sort of nut. But then again they might be nothing of the sort. They might be nightdresses or they might be nail-scissors. She tried to find out a little more.

      ‘What quality nichts?’ she asked.

      ‘Medium,’ observed Sam.

      ‘Medium,’ repeated Mrs Rabbit. That told her nothing at all, though it seemed to suggest that they were not nuts. You would not describe nuts as ‘medium’. Perhaps it was nightdresses after all, in which case she did not want to buy them; she had no use for medium nightdresses, being a very fat rabbit.

      She turned to Mrs Hare. Maybe she would be able to learn something from her, without revealing that she did not know what ‘nichts’ were.

      ‘Ah, good afternoon, Mrs Hare!’

      Mrs Hare gave one of her superior bows.

      ‘I was just thinking of buying some nichts,’ said Mrs Rabbit, fumbling with her shopping-basket.

      ‘Then why don’t you buy some and have done with it?’ snapped Mrs Hare. ‘You’re holding up the queue.’

      Mrs Rabbit gave a nervous giggle. ‘It’s just a question of whether you think the medium variety is the best?’

      She looked Mrs Hare straight in the eyes as she said this.

      Now between you and me, Mrs Hare was just as ignorant as Mrs Rabbit about nichts, but being so superior she did not betray her ignorance. Without batting an eyelid, she returned Mrs Rabbit’s stare, and drawled:

      ‘Well, it depends on what you are going to use the nichts for.’

      ‘Yes, of course. It would depend on that.’

      ‘What were you going to use the nichts for?’ demanded Mrs Hare.

      This was too much for Mrs Rabbit. She could not say, ‘I am going to eat them,’ because they might be nightdresses, and no lady would eat a nightdress – only shady girls like Miss Moth ever indulged in such a peculiar diet. On the other hand, she could not say ‘I am going to wear them,’ because they might be nuts, and you could not possibly wear a nut unless you balanced it on the top of your head, which would look ridiculous. Nor could she run the risk of saying, ‘I am going to cut my nails with them.’ They might be nail-scissors, it is true, but again they might not. And you could not possibly cut your nails with a nut or with a nightdress. Out of the question.

      So she gave no direct reply; she merely lowered her eyes, fumbled in her bag, and asked:

      ‘How much?’

      ‘Five shillings,’ snapped Sam.

      ‘Five shillings!’ gasped Mrs Rabbit. It was far more than she could afford. СКАЧАТЬ