"They may be pic-nic-ers--people who bring salt twisted up in a bit of
paper with them, and leave it behind when they go away. Don't let the
children touch it!"

"They may be--and this is the worst that could happen--men collecting
frogs, toads, newts, snails, _and hedgehogs_ for the London markets. We
must keep very quiet. They will go away at sunset."

I was quite wrong, and when I heard the slow wheels of a cart I knew
it. They were none of these things, and they did not go away. They were
travelling tinkers, and they settled down and made themselves at home
within fifty yards of mine.

My nerves have never been strong since that day under the furze bush. My
first impulse was to roll myself up so tightly that I got the cramp,
whilst every spine on my back stood stiff with fright. But after a time
I recovered myself, and took counsel with Mrs. Hedgehog.

"Two things," said she, "are most important. We must keep the children
from gadding, and we must make them hold their tongues."

"They never can be so foolish as to wish to quit your side, my dear, in
the circumstances," said I. But I was mistaken.

I know nothing more annoying to a father who has learned the danger of
indiscreet curiosity in his youth, than to find his sons apparently
quite uninfluenced by his valuable experience.

"What are tinkers like?" was the first thing said by each one of the
seven on the subject.