and they wouldn't say wee, wee, wee! "For somehow they couldn't say--
Pig-wig's head bobbed lower and lower, until she rolled over, a little round ball, fast asleep on the hearth-rug.
Pigling Bland, on tip-toe, covered her up with an antimacassar.
He was afraid to go to sleep himself; for the rest of the night he sat listening to the chirping of the crickets and to the snores of Mr. Piperson overhead.
Early in the morning, between dark and daylight, Pigling tied up his little bundle and woke up Pig- wig. She was excited and half-frightened. "But it's dark! How can we find our way?"
"The cock has crowed; we must start before the hens come out; they might shout to Mr. Piperson."
Pig-wig sat down again, and commenced to cry.
"Come away Pig-wig; we can see when we get used to it. Come! I can hear them clucking!"
Pigling had never said shuh! to a hen in his life, being peaceable; also he remembered the hamper.
He opened the house door quietly and shut it after them. There was no garden; the neighbourhood of Mr. Piperson's was all scratched up by fowls. They slipped away hand in hand across an untidy field to the road.
The sun rose while they were crossing the moor, a dazzle of light over the tops of the hills. The sunshine crept down the slopes into the peaceful green valleys, where little white cottages nestled in gardens and orchards.
"That's Westmorland," said Pig-wig. She dropped Pigling's hand and commenced to dance, singing--
"Tom, Tom, the piper's son, stole a pig and away he ran!
"But all the tune that he could play, was 'Over the hills and far away!'"