The Goat Who Had to Sit Down
Tuck was the fastest goat in the valley, and the proudest, and he had never once sat down on a walk. He did not see the point. Sitting down was for when you had got there.
This year he was also the youngest goat in the valley, and that mattered. At the top of the tall green mountain hung the Summer Bell. Once a year the youngest goat climbed up and rang it, and by the next morning summer came up the valley, ford by ford and mill by mill, all the way to the top.
Tuck meant to run straight up the steep side, ring the bell before sundown, and do the whole thing by himself. He had drawn himself a map, to be on the safe side. It was a triangle with a dot at the top and one straight line up the front, and beside the line he had written UP. Round his neck he wore the green scarf his grandma had knitted for the bell rope. It was much too warm for running.
At the first stile he met Mrs. Bundle, an old sheep on her way to her sister’s. Mrs. Bundle set her bag down so she could climb the stile properly, one leg at a time. Tuck set his bag down so he could jump the stile there and back, to show her how high he could go.
“Very nice,” said Mrs. Bundle, who was halfway over.
Tuck picked up a bag and was gone. Both bags were brown, with the same strap. You can see what is coming. Tuck could not.
At the foot of the steep side he stopped to look at his map, because he was proud of it. It was not his map. It was a long, careful map that Mrs. Bundle’s sister had drawn for an old sheep. It went the long way round, by the gentle back path, and it bent and bent and bent. At every third bend, in big letters beside a little drawing of a teacup, it said SIT DOWN HERE.
Tuck looked back down the lane. Mrs. Bundle was nowhere to be seen. He looked up the steep side, which was straight and green and his.
Then he had a proud idea. Any goat could run straight up the steep side. Only a very fast goat could go all the long way round, sit down everywhere it said, and still ring the bell by sundown.
“Right,” said Tuck to the map. “I will do exactly what you say. And I will do it faster than anyone ever has.”
He ran. One bend, two bends, three bends, and there was the ford, and there on the map was a teacup and SIT DOWN HERE.
Tuck sat down on the bank. He sat down crossly, with his legs stuck out in front of him, and began to count to ten.
At four, he heard somebody else counting.
“Five, six, seven,” said Mrs. Paddle, from the middle of the stream. “Eight? There aren’t eight. One, two…”
Mrs. Paddle was a duck trying to count her seven ducklings across the ford. But ducklings do not cross a ford in a line. They cross it in a sort of stir. Every time she got to five, the first one paddled back to see what the last one was doing, and she had to start again.
Tuck stood up. Then he remembered the map and nearly sat down again. Then he went and stood in the middle of the stream instead, so the ducklings had to go past him one at a time.
“One,” said Tuck. “Two. Three.” The water was very cold. “Four, five, six, seven.”
“Seven!” said Mrs. Paddle. “All seven, on the far side, at once. I haven’t seen that since they hatched.”
Tuck’s legs were numb to the knees, and the sun had moved a good deal. He ran.
Four bends, five bends, six, and there was the mill. The map said SIT DOWN HERE, and beside the teacup, in smaller writing, it said the nice bench (not the other one).
There were two benches by the mill. One was beside the mill wheel and always wet. The other was dry and in the sun. Tuck sat on the dry one, crossly, and began to count to ten.
Next to the nice bench stood a cart with three wheels, leaning over like a table with a short leg. Next to the cart stood Old Clover, a pony, looking at the fourth wheel, which lay in the lane.
“Good afternoon,” said Old Clover. “I don’t suppose you’re busy.”
Tuck looked at the sun. Then he looked at the map. The map said he was sitting down, so strictly speaking he was not busy at all.
“Somebody has to hold it up,” said Clover, “while somebody knocks it on.”
So Tuck got under the corner of the cart and pushed up with his back. Clover lined up the wheel and knocked it on with a hoof, thump, thump, thump, and Tuck held on and held on until his legs shook.
“There,” said Clover. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
Tuck told Clover about the bell, and the map, and sundown. Clover looked at the sun, which was low and orange now, and then at Tuck’s shaking legs.
“This cart goes up the back path very nicely,” said Clover. “And I believe the next bend on that map says sit down. You may as well sit down in here.”
Tuck had meant to go all by himself. He thought about that for one whole moment. Then he climbed into the cart.
“Wait for us!” said Mrs. Paddle. She was hurrying up the lane with all seven ducklings, who had never seen the Summer Bell rung. She counted them into the cart and got seven the first time.
Old Clover pulled the cart up the back path, round and round, and they reached the top just as the sun touched the hills.
The Summer Bell hung under a little wooden roof between two posts. Its rope was made of old knitted scarves, knotted end to end, one from every goat who had ever rung it. There were striped ones and spotty ones, one with boats on, and a red one that had been Tuck’s grandpa’s.
But in the night a gale had wound the whole rope round and round the beam. Only the very end hung down, and it hung far too high for any goat.
Tuck jumped. He was a very good jumper. He did not get anywhere near it.
“Stand on me,” said Clover.
So Tuck climbed onto Clover’s back and stood up very carefully. Now he was close. But the sun was right in his eyes, and the end of the rope had got itself tucked behind the beam.
“I’ll look,” said Mrs. Paddle, and she flapped up and stood on Tuck’s head.
“Left,” said Mrs. Paddle. “Up a bit. Your other left. There!”
Tuck caught the end of the rope in his teeth and pulled. The scarves came unwinding off the beam, round and round and down, and the Summer Bell rang out over the whole valley, once, twice, three times. The seven ducklings cheered from the cart, and for once they all cheered at the same time.
Then Tuck took off his green scarf and tied it to the very end of the rope, so it hung a little lower, ready for next year’s goat.
Beside the bell was a flat stone. On the map, beside the stone, was a teacup and SIT DOWN HERE. Tuck sat down on it, gladly, because now he had got there. A little way down the far side stood a white house with a lit window, and in the doorway stood Mrs. Bundle, waving a teapot.
Mrs. Bundle’s sister had tea for everybody, room in the kitchen for ducks, room in the shed for a pony, and a rug by the stove for a goat who had worked hard. They all stayed the night.
In the morning they stood at the door and watched summer come up the valley. It came the way warm water comes up a bath. The fords went gold. The mill wheels turned faster. Washing came out on the lines, and the whole mountain got greener until summer reached the top and was warm on all their backs.
Mrs. Bundle held out Tuck’s bag. “I believe this is yours,” she said. “I carried your map the whole way, to be polite. It said UP. I came the way I always come.”
Tuck gave her back her sister’s map, which was creased now, with a wet corner from the ford. “It made me sit down,” he said. “Every single time it said to.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bundle. “It does that.” She looked at the pony, and the duck, and the seven ducklings. “Sit down where it says,” she said, “and somebody always turns up who needs a hand.”
And from that day on, Tuck sat down on every walk, at every third bend, and he was glad to. He drew himself a new map, too. It was still a triangle with a dot at the top. But now the line went round and round instead of straight up, and at every third bend there was a teacup.