During the latter part of the song-talk, they had
formed themselves into a funeral procession, two of them bearing
poor Primrose, whose death Pocket had hastened by biting her
stalk, upon one of her own great leaves. They bore her solemnly
along some distance, and then buried her under a tree. Although
I say HER I saw nothing but the withered primrose-flower on its
long stalk. Pocket, who had been expelled from the company by
common consent, went sulkily away towards her hammock, for she
was the fairy of the calceolaria, and looked rather wicked. When
she reached its stem, she stopped and looked round. I could not
help speaking to her, for I stood near her. I said, "Pocket, how
could you be so naughty?"
"I am never naughty," she said, half-crossly, half-defiantly;
"only if you come near my hammock, I will bite you, and then you
will go away."
"Why did you bite poor Primrose?"
"Because she said we should never see Snowdrop; as if we were not
good enough to look at her, and she was, the proud thing!--served
her right!"
"Oh, Pocket, Pocket," said I; but by this time the party which
had gone towards the house, rushed out again, shouting and
screaming with laughter. Half of them were on the cat's back,
and half held on by her fur and tail, or ran beside her; till,
more coming to their help, the furious cat was held fast; and
they proceeded to pick the sparks out of her with thorns and
pins, which they handled like harpoons.
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