The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle

For
the real little Lucie
of Newlands

Mrs. Tiggy-winkle is wearing a white mobcap with prickles poking through, a yellow skirt, a pink blouse and a white apron. She’s inspecting the bottom of an iron that she’s picked up; another stands on the side.
A girl in a long red coat with a blue hairband stands talking to a brown cat who is sitting on a box. They’re both in front of a white farm on the side of a hill. Chickens are pecking at the ground in the background.

Once upon a time there was a little girl called Lucie, who lived at a farm called Little-town. She was a good little girl⁠—only she was always losing her pocket-handkerchiefs!

One day little Lucie came into the farmyard crying⁠—oh, she did cry so! “I’ve lost my pocket-handkin! Three handkins and a pinny! Have you seen them, Tabby Kitten?”

The Kitten went on washing her white paws; so Lucie asked a speckled hen⁠—

“Sally Henny-penny, have you found three pocket-handkins?”

But the speckled hen ran into a barn, clucking⁠—

“I go barefoot, barefoot, barefoot!”

Lucie bends down in front of the barn door to talk to a brown hen.
Lucie kneels on a stone stile while looking at the hills in the distance. Next to her are some foxgloves and a tree on which is sitting a robin.

And then Lucie asked Cock Robin sitting on a twig.

Cock Robin looked sideways at Lucie with his bright black eye, and he flew over a stile and away.

Lucie climbed upon the stile and looked up at the hill behind Little-town⁠—a hill that goes up⁠—up⁠—into the clouds as though it had no top!

And a great way up the hillside she thought she saw some white things spread upon the grass.

Lucie scrambled up the hill as fast as her stout legs would carry her; she ran along a steep pathway⁠—up and up⁠—until Little-town was right away down below⁠—she could have dropped a pebble down the chimney!

Lucie runs along a path between stands of bracken. Down the hillside can be seen the white farm, and in the distance is a valley between big cliffs.
A little stream is running from a hole in the hillside and cascading down. A tin stands by the first little waterfall. The stream is surrounded by green plants, forget-me-nots, and daisies.

Presently she came to a spring, bubbling out from the hillside.

Someone had stood a tin can upon a stone to catch the water⁠—but the water was already running over, for the can was no bigger than an eggcup! And where the sand upon the path was wet⁠—there were footmarks of a very small person.

Lucie ran on, and on.

The path ended under a big rock. The grass was short and green, and there were clothes⁠—props cut from bracken stems, with lines of plaited rushes, and a heap of tiny clothes pins⁠—but no pocket-handkerchiefs!

But there was something else⁠—a door! straight into the hill; and inside it someone was singing⁠—

“Lily-white and clean, oh!
With little frills between, oh!
Smooth and hot⁠—red rusty spot
Never here be seen, oh!”

Lucie has her hands to her mouth as she looks at a small grey door built into a rock. String is tied between some small bare trees next to her.
Lucie has pushed open the door and stands in a hallway, looking slightly apprehensive. To the left of the door is a wooden chair with a purple cushion, and to the right is a wooden chest of drawers.

Lucie, knocked⁠—once⁠—twice, and interrupted the song. A little frightened voice called out “Who’s that?”

Lucie opened the door: and what do you think there was inside the hill?⁠—a nice clean kitchen with a flagged floor and wooden beams⁠—just like any other farm kitchen. Only the ceiling was so low that Lucie’s head nearly touched it; and the pots and pans were small, and so was everything there.

There was a nice hot singey smell; and at the table, with an iron in her hand stood a very stout short person staring anxiously at Lucie.

Her print gown was tucked up, and she was wearing a large apron over her striped petticoat. Her little black nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle, and her eyes went twinkle, twinkle; and underneath her cap⁠—where Lucie had yellow curls⁠—that little person had prickles!

Mrs. Tiggy-winkle is standing on a step so that she can reach the cloth on the table in front of her with her hot iron. On the other side of the table is Lucie.
Mrs. Tiggy-winkle is wiping her left paw on her apron, and smiling. In her other paw she’s holding a basket of linen. Behind her are shelves displaying her best china: white plates, plates painted with birds, and matched pink cups and saucers.

“Who are you?” said Lucie. “Have you seen my pocket-handkins?”

The little person made a bob-curtsey⁠—“Oh, yes, if you please’m; my name is Mrs. Tiggy-winkle; oh, yes if you please’m, I’m an excellent clear-starcher!” And she took something out of a clothes-basket, and spread it on the ironing-blanket.

“What’s that thing?” said Lucie⁠—“that’s not my pocket-handkin?”

“Oh no, if you please’m; that’s a little scarlet waistcoat belonging to Cock Robin!”

And she ironed it and folded it, and put it on one side.

Mrs. Tiggy-winkle carefully irons Cock Robin’s red waistcoat while Lucie points at it from the other side of the table. Lucie has taken off her coat, and is wearing a pink dress with a white pinafore underneath.
Mrs. Tiggy-winkle gestures at a piece of cloth patterned with flowers that’s hanging from a drying rack.

Then she took something else off a clotheshorse⁠—

“That isn’t my pinny?” said Lucie.

“Oh no, if you please’m; that’s a damask tablecloth belonging to Jenny Wren; look how it’s stained with currant wine! It’s very bad to wash!” said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.

Mrs. Tiggy-winkle’s nose went sniffle, sniffle, snuffle, and her eyes went twinkle, twinkle; and she fetched another hot iron from the fire.

Mrs. Tiggy-winkle bends down to pick up the iron that’s been heating in front of her fire.
Lucie inspects the white pinafore that Mrs. Tiggy-winkle is holding up.

“There’s one of my pocket-handkins!” cried Lucie⁠—“and there’s my pinny!”

Mrs. Tiggy-winkle ironed it, and goffered it, and shook out the frills.

“Oh that is lovely!” said Lucie.

“And what are those long yellow things with fingers like gloves?”

“Oh, that’s a pair of stockings belonging to Sally Henny-penny⁠—look how she’s worn the heels out with scratching in the yard! She’ll very soon go barefoot!” said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.

Mrs. Tiggy-winkle inspects a pair of long yellow stockings that she’s holding up. They’re obviously made for chicken’s feet.
Lucie and Mrs. Tiggy-winkle bend down to look at a light red handkerchief, edged with white lines and covered with white spots.

“Why, there’s another handkersniff⁠—but it isn’t mine; it’s red?”

“Oh no, if you please’m; that one belongs to old Mrs. Rabbit; and it did so smell of onions! I’ve had to wash it separately, I can’t get out the smell.”

“There’s another one of mine,” said Lucie.

“What are those funny little white things?”

“That’s a pair of mittens belonging to Tabby Kitten; I only have to iron them; she washes them herself.”

“There’s my last pocket-handkin!” said Lucie.

Mrs. Tiggy-winkle bends over her washing basket and pulls out two small pieces of white cloth.
Mrs. Tiggy-winkle dips the pieces of white cloth in a blue and white bowl. The hot iron sits next to it on a stand.

“And what are you dipping into the basin of starch?”

“They’re little dicky shirtfronts belonging to Tom Titmouse⁠—most terrible particular!” said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle. “Now I’ve finished my ironing; I’m going to air some clothes.”

“What are these dear soft fluffy things?” said Lucie.

“Oh those are woolly coats belonging to the little lambs at Skelghyl.”

“Will their jackets take off?” asked Lucie.

“Oh yes, if you please’m; look at the sheep-mark on the shoulder. And here’s one marked for Gatesgarth, and three that come from Little-town. They’re always marked at washing!” said Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.

Mrs. Tiggy-winkle, standing on her chair, pulls down a fluffy woollen coat from a washing line for Lucie to look at.
Mrs. Tiggy-winkle stands on a chair on her toes, to pin up some clothes to the lines running across her ceiling.

And she hung up all sorts and sizes of clothes⁠—small brown coats of mice; and one velvety black moleskin waistcoat; and a red tailcoat with no tail belonging to Squirrel Nutkin; and a very much shrunk blue jacket belonging to Peter Rabbit; and a petticoat, not marked, that had gone lost in the washing⁠—and at last the basket was empty!

Then Mrs. Tiggy-winkle made tea⁠—a cup for herself and a cup for Lucie. They sat before the fire on a bench and looked sideways at one another. Mrs. Tiggy-winkle’s hand, holding the teacup, was very very brown, and very very wrinkly with the soapsuds; and all through her gown and her cap, there were hairpins sticking wrong end out; so that Lucie didn’t like to sit too near her.

Mrs. Tiggy-winkle and Lucie sit on a wooden bench in front of the fire, each with a cup of tea. Lucie is holding a small spoon in her left hand and sipping the tea from the cup in her right.
Lucie has gone outside, and is wearing her red coat again and holding a bundle of cloth. Mrs. Tiggy-winkle has a couple of pieces of clothing over her arm, and is bending down to slide the key under the door.

When they had finished tea, they tied up the clothes in bundles; and Lucie’s pocket-handkerchiefs were folded up inside her clean pinny, and fastened with a silver safety-pin.

And then they made up the fire with turf, and came out and locked the door, and hid the key under the doorsill.

Then away down the hill trotted Lucie and Mrs. Tiggy-winkle with the bundles of clothes!

All the way down the path little animals came out of the fern to meet them; the very first that they met were Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny!

Peter and Benjamin peek out of the ferns at Mrs. Tiggy-winkle, who hands them back their clothes. Lucie looks on, holding the bundle.
Mrs. Tiggy-winkle hands out clothes to three mice, a sparrow, a blue tit, and Cock Robin.

And she gave them their nice clean clothes; and all the little animals and birds were so very much obliged to dear Mrs. Tiggy-winkle.

So that at the bottom of the hill when they came to the stile, there was nothing left to carry except Lucie’s one little bundle.

Lucie and Mrs. Tiggy-winkle walk along a path, hand in hand. In the background are hills and a wood.

Lucie scrambled up the stile with the bundle in her hand; and then she turned to say “Good night,” and to thank the washerwoman⁠—But what a very odd thing! Mrs. Tiggy-winkle had not waited either for thanks or for the washing bill!

She was running running running up the hill⁠—and where was her white frilled cap? and her shawl? and her gown⁠—and her petticoat?

Lucie stands on the stile, holding her bundle in one hand with her other hand raised questioningly.
A large brown hedgehog runs between some ferns on all fours. She’s covered in spines.

And how small she had grown⁠—and how brown⁠—and covered with prickles!

Why! Mrs. Tiggy-winkle was nothing but a Hedgehog.

(Now some people say that little Lucie had been asleep upon the stile⁠—but then how could she have found three clean pocket-handkins and a pinny, pinned with a silver safety-pin?

And besides⁠—I have seen that door into the back of the hill called Cat Bells⁠—and besides I am very well acquainted with dear Mrs. Tiggy-winkle!)