diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 18260-h.zip | bin | 0 -> 58551 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 18260-h/18260-h.htm | 3230 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 18260.txt | 2636 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 18260.zip | bin | 0 -> 56991 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 |
7 files changed, 5882 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/18260-h.zip b/18260-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..802bf74 --- /dev/null +++ b/18260-h.zip diff --git a/18260-h/18260-h.htm b/18260-h/18260-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..404dbba --- /dev/null +++ b/18260-h/18260-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3230 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> +<head> + + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=us-ascii"> + <title>More Tales from the Ridings, by F. W. Moorman</title> + + +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of More Tales of the Ridings, by Frederic Moorman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: More Tales of the Ridings + +Author: Frederic Moorman + +Release Date: May 4, 2006 [EBook #18260] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE TALES OF THE RIDINGS *** + + + + +Produced by David Fawthrop and Alison Bush + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<h1 style="text-align: center;"> More Tales of the Ridings</h1> + +<h3 style="text-align: center;">by</h3> + +<div style="text-align: center;"> +<h2>F.W.Moorman, 1872 - 1919</h2> + +Late Professor of +English Language, Leeds University.<br> + +Editor of "<span style="font-style: italic;">Yorkshire +Dialect Poems</span>"<br> + +<br> + +London, Elkin Mathews, Cork Street 1920<br> + +</div> + +<hr style="width: 65%;"> +<h2><a name="Contents" id="Contents"></a>Contents</h2> + +<p><a href="#Melsh_Dick"><b>Melsh Dick</b></a><br> + +<a href="#Two_Letters"><b>Two Letters</b></a><br> + +<a href="#A_Miracle"><b>A Miracle</b></a><br> + +<a href="#Tales_of_a_grandmother"><b>Tales of a +grandmother</b></a><br> + +<a href="#I._The_Tree_of_Knowledge"> +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">I. The Tree of +Knowledge</span></a><br> + +<a href="#II._Janets_Cove"><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">II. +Janet's Cove</span></a><br> + +<a href="#The_Potato_and_the_Pig"><b>The +Potato and +the Pig</b></a><br> + +<a href="#Coals_of_Fire"><b>Coals of Fire</b></a><br> + +</p> + +<br> + +<hr style="width: 65%;"> +<h2><a name="Melsh_Dick" id="Melsh_Dick"></a>Melsh +Dick</h2> + +<p>Melsh Dick is the last survivor of our woodland divinities. +His pedigree +reaches back to the satyrs and dryads of Greek mythology; he claims +kinship with the fauns that haunted the groves of leafy Tibur, and he +lorded it in the green woods of merry England when</p> + +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">The woodweele sang and +wold not cease,</span><br> + +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Sitting upon the spraye,</span><br> + +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Soe lowde he wakened +Robin Hood</span><br> + +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">In the greenwood where he +lay.</span><br> + +<p>But he has long since fallen upon evil days, and it is only in +the most +secluded regions of the Pennines, where vestiges of primeval forest +still remain and where modern civilisation has scarcely penetrated, +that +he is to be met with to-day. Melsh is a dialect word for unripe, and +the +popular belief is that Melsh Dick keeps guard over unripe nuts; while +"Melsh Dick'll catch thee, lad" was formerly a threat used to frighten +children when they went a-nutting in the hazel-shaws. But we may, +perhaps, take a somewhat wider view of this woodland deity and look +upon +him as the tutelary genius of all the young life of the +forest—the +callow broods of birds, the litters of foxes and squirrels, and the +sapling oaks, hazels, and birches. There was a time when he was looked +upon as a genial fairy, who would bring Yule-logs to the farmers on +Christmas Eve and direct the woodmen in their tasks of planting and +felling; latterly, however, he is said to have grown churlish and +malignant. The reckless felling of young trees for fencing and +pit-props +is supposed to have roused his ill-will, and sinister stories have been +told of children who have gone into the woods for acorns or hazel-nuts +and have never been seen again.</p> + +<p>It was in the Bowland Forest district, which is watered by the +Ribble +and its tributary becks, that I heard the fullest account of Melsh +Dick; +and the following story was communicated to me by an old peasant whose +forefathers had for generations been woodmen in Bowland Forest. The +region where he lived is rich in legend, and not far away is the old +market town of Gisburn, where Guy of that ilk fought with Robin Hood, +and where, until the middle of the nineteenth century, a herd of the +wild cattle of England roamed through the park.</p> + +<p>"Fowks tell a mak o' tales about witches, barguests, an' +sike-like," Owd +Dont began, "but I tak no count o' all their clash; I reckon nowt o' +tales without they belang my awn family. But what I's gannin to tell +you +is what I've heerd my mother say, aye scores o' times; so you'll know +it's true. A gradely lass were my mother, an' noan gien to leein', like +some fowks I could name. There's owd lasses nowadays, gie 'em a sup o' +chatter-watter an' a butter-shive, an' they'll tell you tales that +would +fotch t' devil out o' his den to hark tul 'em."</p> + +<p>After this attack upon the licence of the tea-table, Owd Dont +needed a +long draught of March ale to regain his composure. I knew that it was +worse than useless to attempt to hurry him in his narrative. Leisurely +at the start, the pace of his stories quickened considerably as he +warmed to his work, and it was not without reason that he had acquired +a +reputation of being the best story-teller on the long settle of the +Ring +o' Bells.</p> + +<p>"'Twere back-end o' t' yeer," he continued at last, "an' t' +lads had +gone into t' woods to gether hesel-nuts an' accorns. There were a +two-three big lads amang 'em, but most on 'em were lile uns, an' yan +were lame i' t' leg. They called him Doed o' Billy's o' Claypit Lane. +Well, t' lads had gotten a seet o' nuts, an' then they set off home as +fast as they could gan, for 'twere gettin' a bit dosky i' t' wood. But +lile Doed couldn't keep up wi' t' other lads on account o' his gam leg. +So t' lads kept hollain' out to him to look sharp an' skift hissen, or +he'd get left behind. So Doed lowped alang as fast as he were able, but +he couldn't catch up t' other lads, choose what he did, an' all t' time +t' leet were fadin' out o' t' sky. At lang length he thowt he saw yan +o' +t' lads waitin' for him under an oak, but when he'd gotten alangside o' +him, he fan' it were a lad that he'd niver clapped een on afore. He +were +no bigger nor Doed, but 'twere gey hard to tell how owd he were; and +he'd a fearful queer smell about him; 'twere just as though he'd taen +t' +juices out o' all t' trees o' t' wood an' smeared 'em ower his body. +But +what capped all were t' clothes he was donned in; they were covered wi' +green moss, an' on his heead was a cap o' red fur.</p> + +<p>"Well, when Doed saw him, he was a bit flaid, but t' lad +looked at him +friendly-like and says:</p> + +<p>"'Now then, Doed, wheer ista boun'?'</p> + +<p>"'I's boun' home,' says Doed, an' his teeth started ditherin' +wi' freet.</p> + +<p>"'Well, I's gannin thy ways,' says t' lad, 'so, if thou likes, +thou can +coom alang wi' me. Thou'll happen not have seen me afore, but I can +tell +who thou is by t' way thou favvours thy mother. Thou'll have heerd tell +o' thy uncle, Ned Bowker, that lives ower by Sally Abbey; he's my +father, so I reckon thou an' me's cousins.'</p> + +<p>"Now Doed had heerd his mother tell about his Uncle Ned, an' +when t' lad +said that Ned Bowker were his father, he gat a bit aisier in his mind; +but for all that he didn't altogether like t' looks o' him. Howiver, +they gat agate o' talkin', and Doed let on that he were fearful fain o' +squirrels. You see, he kept all nations o' wild birds an' wild animals +down at his house; he'd linnets an' nanpies i' cages, and an ark full +o' +pricky-back urchins. But he'd niver catched a squirrel; they were ower +wick for him, an' he wanted a squirrel more nor owt else i' t' world.</p> + +<p>"When Melsh Dick heard that—for o' course t' lad was +Melsh Dick +hissen—he said that if Doed would coom wi' him, he'd sooin +gie him what +he wanted. He'd bin climmin' t' trees an' had catched a squirrel an' +putten it i' t' basket he'd browt his dinner in.</p> + +<p>"Well, lile Doed hardlins knew what to do. 'Twere gettin' lat, +an' there +were summat about t' lad that set him agin him. But then he bethowt him +o' t' squirrel, an' t' squirrel were ower mich for him. So he said to +Melsh Dick that he'd gan wi' him an' fotch t' squirrel, but he munnot +stop lang, or fowks would consate that he'd lossen his way i' t' wood +an' would coom seekin' him. When Melsh Dick heerd him say that he'd +coom +wi' him, his een fair glistened, an' he set off through t' wood wi' +lile +Doed followin' efter him. T' wood was full of gert oak-trees, wi' birks +set amang 'em that had just begun to turn colour. Efter a while they +gat +to a dub i' t' middle o' t' wood; 'twere no bigger nor a duck-pond, but +t' watter was deep, an' all around t' dub was a ring o' espin-trees wi' +their boughs hingin' ower t' watter. Eh! 'twas a grand seet, sure enif, +an' Doed had niver seen owt like it afore. T' sky had bin owercussen +wi' +hen-scrattins an' filly-tails, but when they gat to t' dub t' wind had +skifted 'em, an' t' mooin were shinin' ower Pendle Hill way an' leetin' +up t' trees and makkin' t' watter glisten like silver. Lile Doed were +that fain he started clappin' his hands an' well-nigh forgat all about +Melsh Dick an' t' squirrel. Then all on a sudden he gat agate o' +laughin', for when he saw t' mooin' i' t' watter he bethowt him o' a +tale his mother had telled him o' soom daft fowks that had seen t' +mooin +i' t' watter an' thowt it were a cheese an' started to rake it out wi' +a +hay-rake.</p> + +<p>"When Melsh Dick heerd him laughin', he were fair mad. He +thowt Doed +were laughin' at him, an' what maddens fairies more nor owt else is to +think that fowks is girnin' at 'em. Howiver, he said nowt, but set +hissen down anent t' dub an' Doed did t' same. Then they gat agate o' +talkin', an' Doed axed Melsh Dick what for he was covered wi' green +moss.</p> + +<p>"'If thou'd to clim' trees same as I have,' answered Melsh +Dick, 'thou'd +be covered wi' moss too, I'll uphod.'</p> + +<p>"'An' what for doesta wear yon cap o' red fur**??'</p> + +<p>"'Why sudn't I wear a fur cap, I'd like to know. My mother +maks 'em o' +squirrel skins, an' they're fearful warm i' winter-time.'</p> + +<p>"When lile Doed heerd him tell o' squirrels, he bethowt him o' +t' +squirrel i' t' basket an' wanted to set forrard.</p> + +<p>"'Bide a bit,' says Melsh Dick, 'an' I'll show thee more +squirrels nor +iver thou's seen i' all thy life.'</p> + +<p>"With that he taks a whistle out of his pocket; 'twere Just +like a penny +tin whistle, but 'twere made o' t' rind o' a wandy esh, an' Melsh Dick +had shapped it hissen wi' his whittle. Then he put t' whistle to his +mouth an' started to blow. He blew a two-three notes, an' sure enif, +there was a scufflin' i' t' trees an' i' less nor hauf-a-minute there +were fower or five squirrels sittin' on t' boughs o' t' espins. When +Doed saw t' squirrels i' t' mooinleet, he were fair gloppened. He +glowered at 'em, an' they glowered back at him, an' their een were as +breet as glow-worms.</p> + +<p>"All t' while Melsh Dick kept tootlin' wi' his whistle an' t' +squirrels +com lowpin' through t' trees, while t' espins round t' dub were fair +wick wi' 'em. You could hardlins see t' boughs for t' squirrels. 'Twere +same as if all t' squirrels i' Bowland Forest had heerd t' whistle an' +bin foorced to follow t' sound. They didn't mak no babblement, but just +set theirsens down on their huggans, pricked up their lugs, cocked +their +tails ower their rigs, and kept their een fixed on Melsh Dick.</p> + +<p>"Well, when Melsh Dick thowt he'd gethered squirrels enew, he +started to +play a tune, an' 'twere an uncouth tune an' all. Soomtimes 'twere like +t' yowlin' o' t' wind i' t' chimley, an' soomtimes 'twere like t' +yammerin' o' tewits an' curlews on t' moor. But when t' squirrels heerd +t' tune, they gat theirsens into line alang t' boughs, an' there were +happen twelve squirrels on ivery bough. Then they gat agate o' lowpin'; +they lowped frae tree to tree, reet round t' dub, wi' their tails set +straight out behind 'em. They were that close togither, 'twere just +like +a gert coil o' red rope twinin' round t' watter; and all t' time they +kept their faces turned to Melsh Dick, an' their een were blazin' like +coals o' fire. Round an' round they went, as lish as could be, an' lile +Doed just hoddled his breeath an' glowered at 'em. He'd seen horses +lowpin' in a ring at Slaidburn Fair, but 'twere nowt anent squirrels +lowpin' i' t' espins round t' dub.</p> + +<p>"Efter a while Doed thowt that Melsh Dick would sooin give +ower playin' +tunes on t' whistle, but he did nowt o' t' sort. He just played faster +nor iver, an' all t' time he kept yan eye fixed on squirrels an' yan +eye +fixed on lile Doed, to see if owt would happen him. An' t' faster he +played t' faster lowped t' squirrels. You see, they were foorced to +keep +time wi' t' whistle. At lang length t' tune gat to be nobbut a shrike +an' a skreel. Doed had niver heerd sike-like afore; 'twere as though +all +t' devils i' hell had gotten lowse an' were yammerin' through t' sky +wi' +a strang wind drivin' 'em forrard. Eh! 'twere an uncouth sound, and an +uncouth seet, too, an' lile Doed's teeth started ditherin' an' every +limb in his body was tremmlin' like t' espin leaves on t' trees round +t' +dub. An' nows an' thens a gert white ullet would coom fleein' through +t' +boughs, an' all t' time there were lile bats flutterin' about ower t' +watter an' coomin' so close agean Doed they ommost brushed his face wi' +their wings.</p> + +<p>"Doed was wellnigh flaid to deeath, but for all that he +couldn't tak his +een off o' t' squirrels; they'd bewitched him, had t' squirrels. He put +his hand to his heead, and it felt as though 'twere twinin' round an' +round. Now that was just what Melsh Dick wanted, and why he'd set t' +squirrels lowpin' in a ring. He couldn't do nowt to Doed so lang as he +were maister o' his senses, but if he was to get fair giddy an' drop +off +into a dwam, then, sure enif, Melsh Dick would have him i' his power +and +could turn him intul a squirrel as he'd turned other lads an' lasses +afore. Wae's t' heart! but he were in a parlous state, were lile Doed, +but he knew nowt about it for all that. When he felt his heead gettin' +mazy, he consated he were fallin' asleep; his een gat that dazed he +couldn't see t' squirrels no more, an' he thowt he mun be liggin' i' +his +bed at home under t' clothes. Then suddenly he bethowt him that he were +fallin' asleep without sayin' his prayers. You see, his mother had +larnt +him a prayer, an' telled him he mun say it to hissen every neet afore +he +gat into bed. Well, Doed aimed to say his prayer, but t' words had +gotten clean out o' his heead. That made him a bit unaisy, for he were +a +gooid lad an' it hooined him to think that he'd forgotten t' words. All +that he could call to mind was an owd nominy that he'd heerd t' lads +an' +lasses say when they were coomin' home fra schooil. He reckoned 'twere +more like a bit o' fun nor a prayer, but all t' same, when he couldn't +bethink him o' t' words his mother had larnt him, he started sayin' t' +nominy, an' sang out, as loud as he could:</p> + +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Matthew, Mark, Luke, and +John,</span><br> + +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Bless the bed that I lig +on.</span><br> + +<p>"He'd no sooiner said t' words when all on a sudden Melsh Dick +gav ower +playin', t' squirrels gav ower lowpin', t' bats gav ower fleein' across +t' dub, t' mooin gat behind a gert thunner-cloud, an' t' wood an' t' +watter were as black as a booit. Then there com a scufflin' an' a +skrikin' all ower t' wood. T' squirrels started spittin' an' sweerin' +like mad, t' ullets yammered an' t' wind yowled, an' there was all maks +an' manders o' noises owerheead. Then, efter a minute, t' mooin gat +clear o' t' thunner-pack, an' Doed glowered around. But there was nowt +to be seen nowheer. Melsh Dick was no langer sittin' anent him, an' +there was niver a squirrel left i' t' trees; all that he could clap een +on was t' espin leaves ditherin' i' t' wind an' t' lile waves o' t' dub +wappin' agean t' bank.</p> + +<p>"Doed was well-nigh starved to deeath wi' cowd an' hunger, an' +t' poor +lad started roarin' same as if his heart would breek. But he'd sense +enif to shout for help, an' efter a while there com an answer. His +father an' t' lads frae t' village had bin seekin' him all ower t' +wood, +and at last they fan him an' hugged him home an' put him to bed. 'Twere +a lang while afore he were better, an' choose what fowks said, he'd +niver set foot i' t' wood agean without he'd a bit o' witchwood i' his +pocket, cut frae a rowan-tree on St Helen's Day."</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;"> +<h2><a name="Two_Letters" id="Two_Letters"></a>Two +Letters</h2> + +<p>Annie was busy at the washtub, and it was her mother, who had +come to +live with her and her baby while her husband was at the Front, that +answered the postman's knock and brought in the parcel.</p> + +<p>"Annie, here's a parcil thro' France. It'll be thy Jim that's +sent it. I +can tell his writin' onywhere, though his hand do seem a bit shaky +like."</p> + +<p>"What's he sendin' naa, I'd like to know?" asked Annie, in a +tone of +real or feigned indifference. "He's allus wearin' his brass on all maks +o' oddments that he's fun i' them mucky trenches, or bowt off uther +lads. Nay, tha can oppen it thisen, muther; my hands is all covered wi' +suds."</p> + +<p>Annie's mother undid the parcel and took out a large German +helmet, but +it somehow failed to arouse much enthusiasm on the part of either +mother +or daughter. Jim had already gone far towards converting his wife's +kitchen into an arsenal, and, as Annie said, "there was no end o' wark +sidin' things away an' fettlin' up t' place."</p> + +<p>At the bottom of the helmet was an envelope addressed to "Mrs +Annie +Akroyd, 7 Nineveh Lane, Leeds," and the mother handed it to her +daughter.</p> + +<p>"I'm ower thrang to read it naa," said Annie; "it'll hae to +wait while +I've finished weshin'."</p> + +<p>"Eh! but tha'll want to know how thy Jim's gettin' on. Happen +he'll be +havin' short leave sooin. I'll read it to thee misen."</p> + +<p>She opened the envelope and began to read the letter. It ran +as +follows:—</p> + +<p>"Dear Annie,—I hope this finds you well, as it +leaves me at present. +I'm sendin' thee a helmet that I took off a German that I com across i' +one o' them gert sump-hoils that t' Jack Johnsons maks i' t' grund. He +were a fearful big gobslotch, so I reckon t' helmet will do to wesh aar +Jimmy in. When he gets a bit owder, he can laik at sodgers wi' it.</p> + +<p>"I've coom aat o' t' trenches an' am enjoyin' a rest-cure +behind t' +lines; so don't thou worry thisen abaat me. I'm champion, an' I've nowt +to do but eyt an' sleep an' write a two-three letters when I've a mind +to; and what caps all is that I'm paid for doin' on it. There's a lass +here that said shoo'd write this here letter for me; but I'd noan have +her mellin' on t' job, though shoo were a bonny lass an' +all——"</p> + +<p>"What mak o' lass is yon?" interrupted Annie. "If he's bin +takkin' up +wi' one o' them French lasses, he'll get a bit o' my mind when he cooms +back. He've allus bin fearful fain o' t' lasses, has Jim, an' I've +telled him more nor once I'd have no more on't. An' them Frenchies is +nasty good-for-nowts, I'll warrant. They want a few o' their toppins +pulled."</p> + +<p>Here she paused, and the rest of her wrath was vented on the +clothes in +the tub. Her mother continued to read aloud:</p> + +<p>"Mind you let me know if Leeds beats Barnsla i' t' Midland +Section next +Setterday. It'll be a long while afore I clap eyes on a paper aat here, +an' I've putten a bit o' brass on Leeds winnin' t' game. An' tell my +father he mun tak my linnit daan to t' Spotted Duck for t' next singin' +competition. He's a tidy singer is Bobby, if he's nobbut properly +looked +efter. Tha mun mesh up a bit o' white o' egg wi' his linseed; there's +nowt like white o' egg for makkin' linnets sing——"</p> + +<p>Once again Annie broke in upon the perusal of the letter. "Eh! +but t' +lad's fair daft. All he thinks on is fooitball an' linnit matches. +White +o' egg for linnits, is it! I'd have him know that eggs cost brass +nah-a-days. Why don't he 'tend to his feightin' an' get a stripe like +Sarah Worsnop's lad ower t' way?"</p> + +<p>"Whisht a bit!" exclaimed her mother, "while I've gotten to t' +end o' t' +letter. Eh! but he do write bad; t' words is fair tum'lin' ower one +anuther."</p> + +<p>"I was in a bit o' a mullock," Private James Akroyd's letter +went on, +"t' last time we were i' t' trenches; 'twern't mich to tell abaat, but +'twere hot while it lasted. There's lads says I'm baan to get a V.C. +But +don't thou hark tul 'em; V.C.'s are noan for t' likes o' me.</p> + +<p>"Jim."</p> + +<p>"Is that all?" asked Annie, as her mother folded up the +letter. "Don't +he want to know how mony teeth aar Jimmy's gotten, or owt abaat t' +pot-dogs I bowt i' t' markit."</p> + +<p>"Nay, that's all," replied her mother, "without there's summat +else i' +t' helmet." As she spoke she searched the helmet, and soon produced +another letter. It also was addressed to "Mrs Annie Akroyd," but in a +woman's hand. She opened the envelope and proceeded to read it aloud.</p> + +<p>"Dear Mrs Akroyd,—You will have received a telegram +from the War Office +telling you of your husband's death——"</p> + +<p>As she heard the dreadful tidings, Annie turned deadly pale +for a +moment; then the blood rushed streaming back, till face and neck were +crimson.</p> + +<p>"It's a lee," she shouted, "a wicked lee. I ain't gotten no +tillygram, +an' he said he were well an' enjoyin' a rest-cure."</p> + +<p>Then she snatched the letter from her mother's trembling hands +and, with +swimming eyes, read it to herself. It had been written by the hospital +nurse, and continued as follows:—</p> + +<p>"He was terribly wounded when he was brought here, but I +cannot tell you +how splendid he was. All his thoughts were of you and your little boy, +and he would write to you himself, though I wanted him to give me the +pencil and paper. He said that if he didn't write himself, you would +know that something was wrong with him.</p> + +<p>"The Colonel came here specially to see him, and he told me +that he +should certainly recommend him for the V.C. Your husband was a brave +man +and did brave things; he gave his life to save another's. He was +wounded +with shrapnel in the head and spine as he was crossing No Man's Land. +The officer to whom he was attached as orderly had been hit in one of +the shell-holes, and your husband crawled out of his trench in full +view +of the enemy's line, and brought him back. It was on the return journey +that he received his wounds. The officer is safe, and will recover.</p> + +<p>"Great as your sorrow must be, I hope you will be cheered by +the thought +that your husband laid down his life for you and me and all of us. If +the V.C. is granted, you will have to go to Buckingham Palace to +receive +it, and I am sure the King would like you to take your little boy with +you.</p> + +<p>"Yours in truest sympathy,</p> + +<p>"Nurse Goodwin."</p> + +<p>When Annie had finished the letter she let it fall, and, +staggering to a +seat, flung her hands, still wet and bleached with the labours of the +washtub, upon the table; then, burying her face in them she sobbed her +heart out.</p> + +<p>"I don't want no V.C.," she exclaimed at last, between her +sobs. "I want +my Jim!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;"> +<h2><a name="A_Miracle" id="A_Miracle"></a>A +Miracle</h2> + +<p>Sam Ineson and Jerry Coggill were seasoned soldiers long +before the +Palestine campaign began. They had spent two winters in the trenches of +France and Flanders, and when the news reached them that their +battalion +had been chosen to reinforce General Allenby's army in Egypt, they took +it as a compliment. Pestilence, murder, and sudden death might be in +store for them, but they would at any rate escape trench warfare, with +all its attendant horrors and discomforts. Their comrades at divisional +head-quarters gave them a good send-off. "Remember us to Pharaoh," they +said, "and you can send us a few mummies for Christmas; they'll do for +mascots."</p> + +<p>The two soldiers, who were Yorkshire farmers' sons, and knew +every inch +of the Craven country, from Malham Cove to Kilnsey Crag, had joined the +Egyptian army just as it was preparing to cross the desert on its way +to +the Holy Land. They had taken part in the great victory at Beersheba, +and then, driving the Turks before them over the mountains of Judea, +had +finally stormed the fortifications of Hebron. Elated by their success, +their hope was that their battalion would be allowed to press forward +at +once so that they might spend Christmas Day in Jerusalem. In this they +were disappointed. Other battalions were chosen for this proud +undertaking, and when General Allenby entered the Holy City in triumph +Sam and Jerry were still in the neighbourhood of Hebron, engaged in +repairing the fortifications and restoring order.</p> + +<p>At last the command came to advance. They were, however, to +proceed in +small parties, and to share in an enveloping movement among the hills. +Small detachments of Turkish soldiers were known to be lurking among +the +limestone terraces between Hebron and Jerusalem, and their duty was to +break these up by means of guerrilla warfare, and prevent surprise +attacks descending at night from the hills on to the army's +communication lines.</p> + +<p>The two Yorkshiremen, accustomed all their lives to the +shepherding of +Swaledale ewes among their native moors, were well qualified for this +task. The limestone hills of Judea bear a striking resemblance to the +Craven highlands, and Sam and Jerry had a practised eye for +hiding-places among the rocks, as well as for the narrow sheep-tracks +which lead from one limestone terrace to another. In the course of the +next fortnight they rounded up many bands of ragged Turkish soldiers, +and were steadily driving the rest before them in a northerly +direction. +By 24th December they were within five miles of Jerusalem, and the hope +that they might yet reach their goal on Christmas Day came back once +more to their minds.</p> + +<p>But it was not to be. The morning of the 24th found them near +the source +of one of the many wadies which, after the rains of November and +December, rush in torrents through the boulder-strewn valleys, and +empty +themselves into the Dead Sea. The morning broke clear, but, as the day +advanced, a thick mist descended from the hills and made progress +difficult. But the ardour of the men, now that the goal was almost in +sight, was such that it was impossible to hold them back. In small +pickets they climbed the steep hill-sides, penetrated through the +groves +of olive, fig and pomegranate trees which clothe the successive tiers +of +limestone terraces, and reached the high plateau above. But at every +step upwards the hill-mist grew thicker, and, in spite of all attempts +to keep together, the pickets of soldiers became split up. When four +o'clock arrived, Sam and Jerry found themselves alone on the hills and +completely ignorant of their bearings. The short winter day was drawing +to a close, and they were in danger of being benighted among the Judean +uplands on Christmas Eve. They determined to make a descent to the +point +from which they had started in the morning, but, after an hour's +wandering in the mist, found themselves no nearer their goal. Darkness +was now creeping swiftly upon them, and they realised the dangers of a +fall over one of the terraced cliffs.</p> + +<p>"We're fair bet," said Jerry at last. "There'll be nea +Chrissamas dinner +for us to-morn i' Jerusalem, I reckon."</p> + +<p>"Thou's reight," replied Sam; "we sall hae to bide here while +t' mist +lifts, an' do t' best we can for wersels. Bully-beef an' biscuit is +what +we'll git for wer dinners, an' there'll be nea sittin' ower t' fire at +efter, watchin' t' Yule-clog burn, an' eytin' spice-loaf an' cheese."</p> + +<p>"Nivver mind, lad, we've had a cappin' time sin we set out on +t' march +to Jerusalem, an' if we wasn't here we'd happen be up to wer oxters i' +Flanders muck."</p> + +<p>"Aye, we've noan done sae badly," Sam Ineson agreed, "and we +sall hae +summat to crack about when we git back to Wharfedale, choose how. +Thou'll hae to tak a Sunday schooil class at Gerston, Jerry, an' tell +t' +lads all about Solomon's pools, where we catched them Turks, an' t' +tomb +o' t' Prophet Samuel anent Hebron."</p> + +<p>"Nay, I reckon t' lang settle at t' Anglers' Arms will be more +i' my +line. But we're noan through wi' t' job yet awhile."</p> + +<p>After this conversation, uttered in whispers, for fear lest +their +presence should be disclosed to any Turks lurking in the neighbourhood, +the two soldiers took shelter under the lee of a limestone crag, drew +their overcoats tightly around them, and proceeded to eat their +rations. +The prospect of spending a night on the uplands of Judea in a driving +mist did not dismay them. They had fared worse many a night in France +and Flanders, and also knew what it was to be benighted on the +Yorkshire +moors. Moreover, they were tired after their wanderings among the +hills, +and it was not long before they fell fast asleep.</p> + +<p>Jerry was awakened after a while by a familiar sound close to +his ear. +He drew himself up and listened, then burst into a laugh, and roused +his +fellow.</p> + +<p>"Eh! Sam," he said, "thou mun wakken up. We reckon we're +sodgers; we're +nowt o' t' sort; sure enough, we're nobbut shipperd lads."</p> + +<p>Sam sat up and listened. The sound of a sheep's cough close at +hand met +his ear, and, straining his eyes, he saw a whole flock of sheep +browsing +the short grass around him.</p> + +<p>"That caps iverything I've heeard tell on," he exclaimed. +"Chrissamas +Eve an' two shipperd lads frae Wharfedale keepin' watch ower their +flock +by neet i' t' Holy Land. An' accordin' to what Sergeant said, Bethlehem +sud not be sae vara far away frae here."</p> + +<p>The situation in which the two shepherds found themselves +touched their +imaginations, and they ceased to regret that they were in danger of +missing a Christmas Day at Jerusalem. They listened to the sheep for a +time, until the cry of a jackal startled the animals, and the flock +dispersed. Then the two soldiers fell asleep once more.</p> + +<p>Shortly before midnight they awoke with a sudden start. A +strange light +gleamed in their faces, and the mist had almost vanished. The +hill-sides +and the sky above were bathed in a pearly light, while almost +immediately above them they beheld a city, as it were let down from +heaven and suspended in mid-air, beset with domes and minarets that +flashed like jewels in the marvellous radiance that flooded all space.</p> + +<p>"A miracle! A miracle!" Sam Ineson exclaimed, in awe-struck +tones, and +then held his breath, for a familiar song broke upon his ears. From the +sky, or from the battlements of the aerial city, he knew not which, +there rang forth the great Nativity hymn:</p> + +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">While shepherds watched +their flocks by night,</span><br> + +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">All seated on the ground,</span><br> + +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">The Angel of the Lord +came down,</span><br> + +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">And glory shone around.</span><br> + +<p>Jerry Coggill looked into the face of Sam Ineson and saw there +an +expression of trance-like rapture. As though moved by a common impulse, +the two soldiers sprang to attention, saluted, and, when the hymn +ceased, fell on their knees in prayer. Then the mist closed on them +again, the city among the clouds was hidden from view, and the sky lost +its translucence. But sleep was no longer possible for the soldiers. +They were as men who had seen the invisible; it was as though heaven +had +descended upon them and the glory of the new-born King had gleamed in +their eyes, and they were filled with a holy awe.</p> + +<p>Next morning the mist had cleared, and the miracle was +explained. The +spot which they had chosen for their resting-place was at the foot of +the great scarp of limestone upon which stands the city of Bethlehem, +two thousand five hundred feet above the sea. The city had passed, +without the shedding of a drop of blood, into the hands of General +Allenby, and the soldiers stationed there, inspired by the associations +of the place and the Christmas season, had left their barracks shortly +before midnight, and, proceeding to the officers' quarters, had greeted +them with a hymn. And the Christmas moon, rising high above the +mountains of Gilead and Moab, had found for a short space of time an +opening in the curtain of mist and had poured down its light upon the +hills of Judea, making the city of Bethlehem seem to the rapt minds of +the two Yorkshire dalesmen as though it had been the city of the living +God let down from heaven.</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;"> +<h2><a name="Tales_of_a_grandmother" id="Tales_of_a_grandmother"></a>Tales of a grandmother</h2> + +<h3><a name="I._The_Tree_of_Knowledge"></a>I. +The Tree of Knowledge</h3> + +<p>I spent a certain portion of every year in a village of Upper +Wharfedale, where I made many friends among the farm folk. Among these +I +give pride of place to Martha Hessletine.</p> + +<p>Martha Hessletine was always known in the village as Grannie. +She was +everybody's Grannie. Crippled with rheumatism, she had kept to her bed +for years, and there she held levees, with all the dignity of bearing +that one might expect from a French princess in the days of +the <span style="font-style: italic;">grand +monarque</span>. The village children would pay her a visit on +their way home +from afternoon school, and of an evening her kitchen hearth, near to +which her bed was always placed by day, was the Parliament House for +all +the neighbouring farms. What Grannie did not know of the life of the +village and the dale was certainly not worth knowing.</p> + +<p>Grannie's one luxury was a good fire. A fire, she used to say, +gave you +three things in one—warmth, and light, and company. Usually +she burnt +coal, but when the peats, which had been cut and dried on the moors in +June, were brought down to the farms on sledges, her neighbours would +often send her as a present a barrow-load of them. These would last her +for a long time, and the pungent, aromatic smell of the burning turf +would greet one long before her kitchen door was reached.</p> + +<p>I was sitting by her fireside one evening, and it was of the +peat that +she was speaking.</p> + +<p>"We allus used to burn peats on our farm," she said, "and +varra warm +they were of a winter neet. We'd no kitchen range i' yon days, but a +gert oppen fireplace, wheer thou could look up the chimley and see the +stars shining of a frosty neet."</p> + +<p>"But doesn't a peat fire give off a terrible lot of ash?" I +asked.</p> + +<p>"Aye, it does that," she replied, "but we used to like the +ash; we could +roast taties in't, and many's the time we've sat i' the ingle-nook and +made our supper o' taties and buttermilk."</p> + +<p>So her thoughts wandered back to bygone times, while I, not +wishing to +interrupt her, had taken the poker in my hand and with it was tracing +geometrical figures in the peat-ash on the hearthstone. So absorbed was +I in my circles and pentagons that I did not notice that Grannie had +stopped short in her story, and was taking a lively interest in what I +was doing. It was with no little surprise, therefore, that I suddenly +heard her exclaim, in a voice of half-suppressed terror: "What is thou +doing that for?" and turning round, I was startled to see on her +usually +placid face the look of a hunted animal.</p> + +<p>Touched with regret for what I had done, and yet unable to +understand +why it had moved her so deeply, I asked what was troubling her mind. +For +a few moments she was silent, and then, in a more tranquil voice, +replied: "I can't bear to see anybody laiking wi' ashes."</p> + +<p>"Why, what does it matter?" I asked, and, in the hope that I +might help +her to regain her composure I began to make fun of her superstitious +fancies. But Grannie refused to be laughed out of her beliefs.</p> + +<p>"It's not superstition at all," were her words; "it's bitter +truth, and +I've proved it misen, to my cost."</p> + +<p>Seeing how disturbed she was in her mind I tried to change the +subject, +but she would not let me. For about half-a-minute she was silent, lost +in thought, her grey eyes taking on a steeliness which I had not seen +in +them before. Then she turned to me and asked: "Has thou iver heerd tell +o' ash-riddling?"</p> + +<p>"Of course I have," I replied. "Everybody knows what it is to +riddle +ashes."</p> + +<p>"Aye, but ash-riddling on the hearthstone, the neet afore St +Mark's +Day?"</p> + +<p>Here was something unfamiliar, and I readily confessed my +ignorance. It +was evident, too, that Grannie's mind could only find relief by +disburdening itself of the weight which lay upon it, so I no longer +attempted to direct her thoughts into a new channel.</p> + +<p>"It was 1870," she began, "the year o' the Franco-German War, +that I +first heerd tell o' ash-riddling, and it came about this way. My man's +father, Owd Jerry, as fowks called him, were living wi' us then; he was +a widower, and well-nigh eighty year owd. He'd been a despert good +farmer in his time, but he'd gotten owd and rheumatic, and his temper +were noan o' the best. He were as touchous as a sick barn, if aught +went +wrang wi' him. Well, one day i' lambing-time, he were warr nor he'd +iver +been afore; he knew that I were thrang wi' all maks o' wark, but nowt +that I could do for him were reet. So at last, when I'd fmished my +milking i' the mistal, I got him to bed, and then I sat misen down by +the fire and had a reet good roar. I were tired to death, and wished +that I'd niver been born. Iverything had gone agee that day: butter +wouldn't coom, Snowball had kicked ower the pail while I was milking +her, and, atop o' all that, there was grandfather wi' his fratching +ways.</p> + +<p>"I were sat cowered ower the fire, wi' my face buried in my +hands, when +my man came in and axed what were wrang wi' me. At first I wouldn't +tell +him, but enow he dragged it all out o' me, and in the end I was glad on +'t. But he nobbut laughed when I told him about Owd Jerry, and he said +he'd allus been like that wi' women fowks; 'twere his way o' getting +what he wanted. I got my dander up at that, and said he'd have to get +shut o' his fratching if he lived wi' us."</p> + +<p>"'I reckon he'll noan mend his ways,' said Mike, 'now he's +close on +eighty.' So I said if that were the case it would be a good thing for +the peace o' the family when he were putten under grund. Yon were +gaumless words, and bitter did I rue iver having spokken 'em. But Mike +nobbut laughed at what I said. "'Putten under grund!' said he. 'Nay, +father will live while he's ninety, or happen a hunderd; he's as tough +as a yak-stowp.'</p> + +<p>"'He'll do nowt o' the sort,' I answered; 'and he wi' a hoast +in his +thropple like a badly cow. I sudn't be surprised if he were dead by +Chrissamas.'</p> + +<p>"'We can soon tell if there's ony truth in what thou says,' +replied +Mike. 'It will be Ash-Riddling Day come next Friday, and then we can +find out for wersens if Owd Jerry's boun' to dee afore the year's out.'</p> + +<p>"'What does thou mean?' I axed.</p> + +<p>"'Why, lass, wheer has thou been brought up if thou's niver +heerd tell +o' Ash-Riddling Day? What a thing it is to wed a foreigner! If thou'd +been bred and born in Wharfedale thou'd have no need to axe about +Ash-Riddling Day.'</p> + +<p>Well, I set no count on his fleering at fowks that hadn't been +brought +up in his dale, for I was wanting to know what he meant.</p> + +<p>"'What thou's gotten to do,' he said, 'is to tak the peat-rake +afore +thou goes to bed and rake the ashes out o' the fire and spread 'em all +ower the hearthstone. Then thou can go to bed, and next morning, if +there's to be a death in the family in the next twel-month the +foot-step +o' the lad or lass that has to dee will be stamped on the ash.'</p> + +<p>"When he'd finished his tale I gave out that I reckoned it +nobbut +blether, but I minded all the same; and that neet, when I were i' bed, +I +couldn't give ower thinking o' what he'd said, and I made up my mind +that I'd set the peat-ash on the hearthstone come Thorsday neet. Next +morning I thought different, but all the same I couldn't get shut o' +the +temptation. Ay, 'twere a temptation o' the deevil, sure enough; he were +ticing me to eat o' the Tree o' Knowledge, same as he ticed Eve i' the +garden. So I said: 'Get thee behind me, Satan,' and I kept him behind +me +all that day. But when it got dark, and I'd putten the childer to bed, +he came forrad, and the ticing got stronger and stronger. It wasn't +that +I wanted Owd Jerry to dee, but I were mad to see if there was ony truth +in the tale that Mike had told.</p> + +<p>"Well, Tuesday passed, and Wednesday passed, and Thorsday +came. I said +no more about the ash-riddling to Mike, and I reckon he'd forgotten all +about it. But that day Owd Jerry were warr nor iver. He set up his +fratching at breakfast acause his porridge was burnt, and kept at it +all +day. Nowt that I did for him were reet; if I filled his pipe, he said +I'd putten salt in his baccy, and if I went out to feed the cauves, he +told me I left the doors oppen, and wanted to give him his death o' +cowd. Evening came at last, and by nine o'clock I were left alone i' +the +kitchen. Owd Jerry were i' bed, and the childer too, all except Amos, +our eldest barn, and he had set off wi' his father to look after the +lambing yowes, and wouldn't be back while eleven o'clock. He was a good +lad was Amos, and the only one o' the family that favvoured me; the +rest +on 'em took after their father. So I sat misen down on a stool and +glowered into the fire, and wrastled wi' the deevil same as Jacob +wrastled wi' the angel. And the whole fire seemed to be full o' lile +deevils that were shooting out their tongues at me; and the sparks were +the souls of the damned i' hell that tried to lowp up the chimley out +o' +the deevils' road. But the lile deevils would lowp after 'em, and lap +'em up wi' their tongues o' flame and set 'em i' the fire agean.</p> + +<p>"At last I couldn't thole it no longer. Ash-riddling or no +ash-riddling, +I said, I'm boun' to bed, and upstairs I went. Well, I lay i' bed +happen +three-quarters of an hour, and sure enough, the ticement began to wark +i' my head stronger and stronger. At lang length I crept downstairs +agean i' my stocking feet into the kitchen. All was whisht as the +grave, +and the fire was by now nearly out, so that there were no flame-deevils +to freeten me. So I took the riddle that I'd gotten ready afore and +began to riddle the ash all ower the hearthstone. The stone were hot, +but I were cowd as an ice-shackle, and I felt the goose-flesh creeping +all ower my body. When I'd riddled all the ash I made it snod wi' the +peat-rake, and then, more dead nor wick, I crept back into bed and +waited while Mike and Amos came home.</p> + +<p>"They got back about eleven, and then I thought, they'll +happen see what +I've done. But they didn't, for they'd putten out the lantern in the +stable, and I'd brought the can'le up wi' me into the cham'er. I heerd +'em stumbling about i' the kitchen, and then they came up to bed, and +Mike began talking to me about the lambs i' the croft, and I knew he'd +niver set een on the ash-riddling. He soon fell asleep, and after a +while I dozed off too, and dreamt I were murdering Owd Jerry i' the +staggarth. As soon as cockleet came, I wakkened up and crept +downstairs, +quiet-like, so as not to-wakken Mike or the childer. And there on the +hearthstone were the ashes, and reet i' the middle on 'em the prent of +a +man's clog.</p> + +<p>"It were Jerry's clog as plain as life. When I saw it I went +all of a +didder, and thought I sud ha' fainted' for all that I'd dreamt about +murdering Owd Jerry came back into my mind. But I drave a pin into my +arm to rouse misen, and took the besom and swept up the ashes and lit +the fire. After I'd mashed misen a cup o' tea I felt better, and got +agate wi' the housewark. But, by the mass! it was a dree day for me, +was +yon. Ivery time I heerd the owd man hoast I thought he were boun' to +dee. But he was better that day nor he'd been for a long while, and he +kept mending all the time. I couldn't forget, howiver, what I'd done, +and the thought of how I'd yielded to the devil's ticement made me more +patient and gentle wi' Jerry nor iver I'd been afore.</p> + +<p>"Spring set in and the birds came back frae beyont the sea, +swallows and +yallow wagtails and sandpipers; the meadows were breet wi' paigles, and +the childer gethered bluebells and lilies o' the valley i' the woods +for +Whissuntide, and iverything went on same as afore. We had a good +lambing +time, and a good hay harvest at efter. I kept Jerry under my eye all +the +while, and nowt went wrang wi' him. He'd get about the farm wi' the +dogs, a bit waffy on his legs, mebbe, but his appetite kept good, and +he'd ommost lossen his hoast. He fratched and threaped same as usual if +owt went wrang wi' his meals, or if the childer made ower mich racket +i' +the house, but it took a vast o' care off my mind to think that he +could +get about and go down to 'The Craven Heifer' for his forenoon +drinkings, +same as he'd allus done sin first I came into Wharfedale as Mike's +bride. And when back-end set in and we'd salved the sheep wi' butter +and +tar to keep the winter rain out on 'em, still Owd Jerry kept wick and +cobby, and there were days, aye, and weeks too, when I forgot what I'd +done on Ash-Riddling Day. And when I thought about it, it didn't flay +me +like it used to do; for I said to misen, 'I'll keep Owd Jerry alive +ovver next St Mark's Day, choose how.' So I knitted him a muffler for +his throat and lined his weskit wi' flannen; I brewed him hot drinks +made out o' herbs I'd gethered i' the hedgerows i' summertime, and +rubbed his chest wi' a mixture o' saim frae the pig-killing, and honey +frae the bee-skeps. Eh! mon, but it were gey hard to get the owd man to +sup the herb tea and to let me rub him. He reckoned I wanted to puzzum +him same as if he were a ratton, and when I'd putten the saim and honey +on his chest he said I'd lapped him up i' fly-papers. But I set no +count +on his nattering so long as I could keep him alive.</p> + +<p>"Chrissamas came at last, and New Year set in wi' frost and +snow. The +grouse came down frae the moors and the rabbits fair played Hamlet +about +the farms: they were that pined wi' hunger, they began to eat the bark +off the ashes and thorn bushes i' the hedges. I did all I could to keep +Owd Jerry frae the public-house while the storm lasted, but he would +toddle down ivery morning for his glass o' yal, and, of course, he got +his hoast back agean i' his thropple. All the same, I wouldn't give in. +I counted the days while St Mark's Day, and tewed and rived and better +rived to keep him out o' his coffin. But it was weary wark, and I got +no +thanks frae Jerry for all I was doing for him.</p> + +<p>"At lang length St Mark's Eve came round, and a wild day it +was, and no +mistake. There had been deep snow on the moors two days afore, and +after +the snow had come rain. It was a bad lambing time, and Mike and Amos +were about the farm all day and most o' the neet, looking after the +lambs that had lossen their yowes. Owd Jerry had threaped shameful the +day afore; the weather had been that bad he'd not been able to go down +to 'The Craven Heifer.'</p> + +<p>"When I'd gotten out o' bed, and looked out o' the windey it +were still +lashing wi' rain, and I said to misen, I'll keep Jerry i' bed to-day. +If +I can keep him alive to-day I sal have won, and Jerry can do what he +likes wi' hissen to-morrow. So I hugged up his breakfast to his chamer +and told him I'd leet a fire for him there, and I'd get Harry Spink to +come and sit wi' him and keep him company. But Jerry wouldn't bide i' +bed, not for nobody; he'd set his mind on going down to the public, and +a wilful man mun have his way, choose what fowks say. So off he set, +wi' +the rain teeming down all the time, and the beck getting higher and +higher wi' the spate.</p> + +<p>"Eh, deary me! What I had to thole that day! I was flaid that +if he had +a drop too mich he'd happen lose his footing on the plank-bridge at the +town-end, and then the spate would tak him off his feet and drown him. +I +offered to walk wi' him down to the public and bide wi' him while he +wanted to come back; but he said he reckoned he were owd enough to do +wi'out a nuss-maid and told me to mind my own business. Well, twelve +o'clock came, and when I saw Owd Jerry coming back to his dinner I were +that fain I could have kissed him, though he'd a five-days' beard on +his +face.</p> + +<p>"When dinner were ower Mike told our Amos that he mun fetch in +the +stirks that were out on the moors on the far side o' Wharfe. The +weather +were that bad he doubted they'd come to no good if they were out all +neet. So Amos set off about half-past two, and, efter I'd weshed up and +sided away I sat misen down i' the ingle-nook and mended the stockings. +And there was Owd Jerry set on the lang-settle anent me. There was no +sign on his face of a deeing man, but ivery minute the load on my mind +grew heavier. Eh, man, but it were a queer game the deevil played wi' +me +that day, a queer, mocking game that I'll niver forget so lang as +there's breath left i' my body. Leastways that's what I thought at the +time, but I've learnt by now that it weren't the deevil; it was the +Almighty punishin' me for eatin' o' the Tree o' Knowledge.</p> + +<p>"Fower o'clock came, and I got tea ready. The childer came +back frae +school, and then Mike came, and the first thing he axed was if Amos had +gotten back wi' the stirks. So I said: 'No, he's noan gotten back yet +awhile.' My mind were so taen up wi' Owd Jerry and the ash-riddling +that +I'd forgotten that Amos was away on the other side o' Wharfe. So Mike +for all he was weet to the skin, set off to look for Amos. I gave Owd +Jerry and the childer their tea, but I wouldn't sit down wi' 'em misen, +but kept going to the windey to see if Mike and Amos were coming wi' +the +stirks. I looked out, happen six or seven times, and there was nobody +on +the road; but at last I set een on Mike and other lads frae the farms +round about. They were carrying somebody on a hurdle."</p> + +<p>For a moment Grannie interrupted her story to wipe away the +tears that +were now rolling down her cheeks. In a flash I realised what was to be +the tragic close of her tale, and I tried to spare her the details. But +she refused to be spared, and, forcing back the tears, went on to the +bitter end.</p> + +<p>"Aye, aye, thou'll happen have guessed who was on the hurdle. +It was +Amos; he'd lossen his footing on the stepping-stones going across +Wharfe, and the spate had carried him downstream and drowned him. It +wasn't Jerry's clog-print on the ashes, it was Amos's; and the Lord had +taen away my eldest barn frae me because I'd etten o' the Tree o' +Knowledge."</p> + +<h3><a name="II._Janets_Cove"></a>II. Janet's +Cove</h3> + +<p>Grannie's reputation as a story-teller was readily +acknowledged by the +children of our village. When they had trudged back from school which +was held in a village two miles away, tea was always ready for them. +But +tea in their own kitchens was accounted a dull repast. If the weather +was fine they carried their "shives" of bread and dripping, or bread +and +treacle, into the road in front of their houses and ate them in the +intervals between "Here come three dukes a-riding," "Wallflowers, +wallflowers, growing up so high," and "Poor Roger is dead and laid in +his grave." But in winter, or when the weather was bad, they made it +their custom to take their teas to Grannie's fireside and demand a +story +as accompaniment to their frugal meal. The young voices of the children +brightened Grannie's life, and the hour of story-telling round the fire +was for her like a golden sunset following upon a day of gloom.</p> + +<p>The stories which she told to the children were usually +concerned with +her own childhood. She had always been of an imaginative turn of mind +and the doings of her early life, seen through the long-drawn vistas of +the years, had become suffused with iridescent colours. They had +gathered to themselves romance as a wall overhung by trees gathers to +itself moss and fern and lichen.</p> + +<p>"Tell you a tale," she would say. "Ay, but, honey-barns, I +reckon you'll +have heerd all my tales lang sin. No? Well then, did I iver tell you t' +tale o' Janet's Cove?"</p> + +<p>"Ay, thou's telled us yon last week," Kester Laycock, the +spokesman of +the party of listeners, would reply; "but thou mun tell it agean."</p> + +<p>There was diplomacy as well as truth in Kester's words when he +said that +Grannie had told them the story of Janet's Cove the preceding week. The +truth was that she had told them that tale every week since winter set +in, but nothing could stale its freshness for them. Besides, did not +Grannie introduce surprising variations of narrative every time she +told +it, so that it never seemed quite the same story?</p> + +<p>"Janet's Cove" was a story of the birds, and Grannie's +knowledge of the +life and habits of birds seemed wonderful to them. Crippled with +rheumatism as she was, and unable to move from her bed, she +nevertheless +watched for the return of the spring and autumn migrants with all the +eagerness of the born naturalist. She offered the children money if +they +would bring her the first tidings of the arrival of birds in the dale. +There was always a halfpenny underneath the geranium pot in the +window-sill for the child whose eye caught sight of the first swallow, +redstart or sandpiper; or whose ear first recognised the clarion call +of +the cuckoo, or the evening "bleat" of the nightjar on the +bracken-mantled fells at the end of May. Or, if the season were autumn, +the children were told to watch for the arrival of the woodcock and the +earliest flock of Norwegian fieldfares. Under Grannie's tuition more +than one generation in the village had learnt to take an interest in +the +movements of migrants in the dale, and that was why the story of Janet +and the birds never failed to charm the ears of the children gathered +round the kitchen hearth.</p> + +<p>"Now then," Grannie would begin, "if I'm boun' to tell you t' +tale o' +Janet's Cove, you mun set yoursels down an' be whisht. Tak a seat at t' +top o' bag o' provand, Kester; Betty and Will can hug chairs to t' +fire, +and lile Joe Moon mun sit on t' end o' t' bed."</p> + +<p>Such was Grannie's arrangement of the seats, while to me, the +visitor, +was assigned the "lang-settle" on the other side of the fireplace. It +was a coign of vantage which I shared with the ancestral copper +warming-pan, and from it I could see the whole group. Grannie, bent +half-double with rheumatism, was propped up in her bed, with the +children grouped around her. She wore, as usual, her white mutch cap +and +grey shawl. Mittens covered her wrists, and her fingers, painfully +swollen with chalk-stones, plied her knitting-needles. Her face was +sunken in the cheeks and round her mouth, but her large brown eyes, +still full of animation, broad forehead, and high-arched brows gave +dignity and even beauty to her pale countenance. On the fire the +porridge was warming for the calves' supper, while suspended from the +wooden ceiling was the "bread-flake," a hurdle-shaped structure across +the bars of which hung the pieces of oatcake which were eaten with +buttermilk at supper.</p> + +<p>"Well, I've happen telled you afore," Grannie began, "that +when I were a +lile lass I lived up Malham way. My father had a farm close agen +Gordale +Scar. Eh! but it's a fearful queer country is yon! Gert nabs o' rock on +all sides wheer nobbut goats can clim, an' becks flowin' undergrund an' +then bubblin' up i' t' crofts an' meadows. On t' other side frae our +steading were a cove that fowks called Janet's Cove. They telled all +maks an' manders o' tales about t' cove an' reckoned it were plagued +wi' +boggards. But they couldn't keep me out o' t' cove for all that; 'twere +t' bonniest spot i' t' dale, an' I nivver gat stalled o' ramlin' about +by t' watter-side an' amang t' rowans. There were a watterfall i' t' +cove, wi' a dark cave behind it, an' 'twere all owerhung wi' eshes an' +hazels.</p> + +<p>"One neet I were sittin' up for my father while fower o'clock +i' t' +morn. 'Twere t' day afore Easter Sunday an' my father were despert +thrang wi' t' lambin' ewes. He hadn't taen off his shoes an' stockins +for more nor a week. He'd doze a bit i' his chair by t' fire, an' then +he'd wakken up an' leet t' lantern' an' gan out to see if aught ailed +t' +sheep. He let me bide up for company, an' so as I could warm him a sup +o' tea ower t' fire. But when t' gran'father's clock strake fower he +said I mun away to my bed. He'd tak a turn round t' croft, an' then +he'd +set off wi' his budget to t' mistal to milk t' cows. But I didn't want +to gan to bed. I'd bin sleepin' off an' on all t' neet, an' I weren't +feelin' a lile bit tired. So when my father had set off I went to t' +door an' looked out. My song! but 'twere a grand neet. T' mooin were +just turned full, an' were leetin' up all t' scars an' plats o' meadow; +t' becks were just like silver an' t' owd yew-trees that grow on t' +face +o' t' scar had lang shadows as black as pick. I stood theer on t' +door-sill for mebbe five minutes an' then I said to misel, I'll just +run +down as far as Janet's Cove afore I gan to bed.' It were a bit cowd, so +I lapped my shawl around my head an' set off.</p> + +<p>"'Twere nobbut a two-three minutes' walk, an' afore vara lang +I were +sittin' anent t' rocks, an' t' mooin were glisterin' through t' +esh-trees on to t' watter. Efter a while I felt a bit sleepy; 'twere t' +nippy air, an' mebbe t' seet o' t' fallin' watter dazed my een. +Onygates, I fell asleep an' slept for better pairt of an hour. When I +wakkened t' mooin were well-nigh settin', an' I could see that t' +cockleet were coomin' away i' t' east. So I reckoned I'd get back to my +bed. But just then I saw summat movin' about on t' other side o' t' +beck. At first I thowt it were nobbut a sheep, but when I'd keeked at +it +a bit langer I knew it weren't a sheep at all; 'twere a lass o' about +t' +same size as misel."</p> + +<p>At this point in the story alertness of mind was depicted on +the face of +every listener. Joe Moon's tongue, as agile as a lizard's, had up to +now +been revolving like a windmill round the lower half of his face, +questing after treacly crumbs which had adhered to his cheeks; but at +the mention of the girl by the waterfall it ceased from its labours, +and +the tightly closed mouth and straining eyes showed that he was not +losing a word.</p> + +<p>"Queerest thing about t' lass were this," Grannie continued, +"shoo were +nakt, as nakt as ony hen-egg, an' that at five o'clock on a frosty +April +morn. Eh! but it made me dither to see her stannin' theer wi' niver a +shift to her back. Well, I crept close to t' gert stone an' kept my een +on her. First of all shoo crept down to t' watter an' put her feet +intul +it, an' gat agate o' splashin' t' watter all ower her, just like a bird +weshin' itsel i' t' beck. Then shoo climmed up to t' top o' t' nab that +were hingin' ower t' fall an' let t' watter flow all ower her face an' +showders. I could see her lish body shinin' through t' watter an' her +yallow hair streamin' out on both sides of her head. Efter a while shoo +climmed on to a rock i' t' beck below t' fall an' gat howd o' t' bough +of an esh. Shoo brak off t' bough an' shaped it into a sort o' a wand +an' started wavin' it i' t' air.</p> + +<p>"Now I ought to have telled you that up to now iverything i' +t' cove +were as whisht as t' grave. I could hear t' cocks crowin' up at our +house, but all t' wild birds were roostin' i' t' boughs or on t' grund. +But no sooiner did t' lass wave her wand ower her head than t' larks +started singin'. T' meadows an' cow-pasturs were full o' sleepin' +larks, +an' then, all on a sudden, t' sky were fair wick wi' em. I harkened tul +'em, ay, an t' lass harkened an' all, an' kept wavin' t' wand aboon her +head. I doubted 'twere t' lass that had wakkened t' larks an' gotten +'em +to sing so canty. Efter a while shoo lowered t' wand a bit an' pointed +to t' moors, an' then, by t' Mess! curlews gat agate o' singin.' Soom +fowks reckons that t' song o' t' curlew is dreesom an' yonderly, but I +love to harken to it i' t' springtime when t' birds cooms back to t' +moors frae t' sea. An' so did t' lass. When shoo heerd t' curlews shoo +started laughin' an' dashed t' watter about wi' her foot.</p> + +<p>"An' all t' while shoo kept beatin' t' time to t' song o' t' +birds wi' +her wand. Soomtimes shoo pointed to t' curlews aboon t' moor; then, +sudden-like, shoo lowered t' wand, while it were pointin' into t' hazel +shaws an' rowan bushes by t' beck-side; and afore I knew what were +happening t' blackbirds wakkened up an' started whistlin' like mad. I +niver heerd sich a shoutin' afore. It were fair deafenin', just as if +there were a blackbird in ivery bush alang t' beck. They kept at it for +happen fower or five minutes, an' then t' lass made a fresh motion wi' +t' wand. What's coomin' next, I wondered, an' afore I'd done wonderin', +sure enough, t' robins gat agate an' tried to shout down t' blackbirds +an' all. You see I'd niver noticed afore that when t' birds start +singin' i' t' morn they keep to a reg'lar order. It's just like a +procession i' t' church. First cooms t' choir lads i' their supplices, +an' happen a peppermint ball i' their mouths; then t' choir men, tenors +and basses; then t' curate, keekin' alang t' pews to see if squire's +lasses are lookin' at him, an' at lang length cooms t' vicar hissen. +Well, it's just t' same wi' t' birds. Skylarks wakkens up first, then +curlews, then blackbirds, robins, throstles. You'll niver hear a +throstle i' front o' a robin, nor a robin i' front o' a blackbird. They +mind what's menseful same as fowks do. At efter, mebbe cuckoo will +begin +to shout, an' close behind him will coom t' spinks an' pipits an' lile +tits. Eh, deary me! but I've clean forgotten most pairt o' what I've +larnt misel about t' birds. They do iverything as reg'lar as if 'twere +clockwork.</p> + +<p>"I wonder if you childer can tell me what is t' bird that ligs +abed +langest?"</p> + +<p>There was silence for a moment or two, and then Kester Laycock +suggested +rooks.</p> + +<p>"Nay," answered Grannie, "rooks are not what I sud call early +risers, +but they're not t' last birds up, not by a lang way. T' last bird to +wakken up an' t' first bird to gan to bed is t' house-sparrow. An idle +taistrill is t' sparrow, wi' nowther sense nor mense in his head. But +theer, barns, I'm gettin' off t' track o' my story o' Janet an' t' way +shoo wakkened up t' birds wi' her wand.</p> + +<p>"You see shoo allus knew whose turn sud coom next, an' wheer +ivery sort +o' bird was roostin'. One minute shoo pointed t' stick to t' top o' t' +trees, an' then I heerd 'Caw! Caw!' Then shoo'd bring t' jackdaws out +o' +their holes i' t' rocks, an' next minute shoo were pointin' to t' mossy +roots o' t' trees hingin' ower t' beck, while a Jenny wren would hop +out +an' sing as though he were fit to brust hissen. An' all t' time it were +gettin' leeter an' leeter, an' I could see that t' sun were shinin' on' +t' cliffs aboon Malham, though Janet's Cove were still i' t' shade. I +knew my mother would sooin be seekin' me i' my cham'er, an' I started +wonderin' what shoo'd say when shoo fan' t' bed empty. I gat a bit +flaid +when I thowt o' that, but I couldn't tak my een off t' lass wi' t' +wand. +I were fair bewitched wi' her, an' I doubt that if shoo'd pointed at me +I sud hae started singin' 'Here coom three dukes a-rid in'.'</p> + +<p>"Howiver, shoo niver clapped een on me wheer I was sittin' +behind t' +stone. Shoo were thrang wi' t' birds were Janet, an' gettin' more +excited ivery minute. By now t' din were fair deafenin'; I'd niver +heerd +aught like it afore, nor yet sin: without it were when my man took me +down to Keighley, Christmas afore we were wed, an' I heerd t' lads and +t' lasses singin' t' Hallelujah Chorus i' t' Methody chapil. When I saw +t' conductor-lad wi' t' stick in his hand callin' up t' trebles an' +basses an' tother sets o' singers, Marry! I bethowt me o' Janet an' t' +birds i' t' cove, an' I brast out a-laughin' while fowks thowt I were +daft.</p> + +<p>"But theer, barns, I mun get forrad wi' my tale, or your +mothers will be +coomin' seekin' you afore I'm through wi' it. By now ommost all t' +birds +i' t' cove were wakkened up an' were singin' their cantiest. I looked +up, an' t' sun had gotten clean ower t' top o' t' fell, an' were +shinin' +straight down into t' cove. Ay, an' Janet saw t' sun too, an' when it +were like a gert gowden ball at top o' t' hill, shoo pointed her wand +at +t' sun an' started dancin' aboon t' watterfall. I looked at her and +then +I looked at t' sun, an', Honey-fathers! if t' owd sun weren't dancin' +too. I rubbed my een to finnd out if I'd made ony mistak, but, sure +enough, theer were t' lile nakt lass an' t' owd sun aboon t' breast o' +t' fell dancin' togither like mad. Then, all on a sudden, I bethowt me +it were Easter Sunday, and how I'd heerd fowks say that t' sun allus +dances on Easter mornin'."</p> + +<p>At this point I could not forbear interrupting Grannie to ask +her +whether she had ever heard of a poem called <span style="font-style: italic;">A Ballad upon a Wedding</span>. +She said she had not, so I quoted to her Suckling's well-known lines:</p> + +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Her feet beneath her +petticoat,</span><br> + +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">Like little mice, stole +in and out,</span><br> + +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">As if they feared the +light.</span><br> + +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">But O! she dances such a +way,</span><br> + +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">No sun upon an Easter day</span><br> + +<span style="margin-left: 3em;">Is half so fine a sight.</span><br> + +<p>Grannie listened attentively and seemed to think that the +heroine of the +poem was the fairy that wakened the birds in Janet's Cove.</p> + +<p>"T' lad that wrote yon verses has gotten it wrang," she said. +"Shoo +hadn't no petticoat on her. T' lass were nakt frae top to toe. Well, +when shoo'd bin dancin' a while shoo seemed to forget all about t' +birds. Shoo let her wand drop and climmed down t' fall. Then shoo set +hersel on a rock behind t' fall an' clapped her hands an' laughed. I +looked at her an' I saw t' bonniest seet I've iver set een on.</p> + +<p>"You see by now t' sun had getten high up i' t' sky, an' were +shinin' +straight up t' beck on to t' fall. There had bin a bit o' flood t' day +afore, an' t' watter were throwin' up spray wheer it fell on to t' +rocks +below t' fall. An' theer, plain as life, were a rainbow stretched +across +t' fall, an' Janet sittin' on t' rock reet i' t' middle o' t' bow wi' +all t' colours o' t' bowgreen an' yallow an' blue—shinin' on +her hair.</p> + +<p>"Efter that I fair lost count o' t' time. I sat theer, lapped +i' my +shawl, an' glowered at Janet, an' t' sun, an' t' watterfall, while at +lang length I heerd soombody callin' me. 'Twere my father, an' then I +knew that fowks had missed me up at t' farm an' were seekin' me amang +t' +crofts. Wi' that I gat up an' ran same as if I'd bin a rabbit; an' +theer +were my father, stood on t' brig betwixt our house an' t' cove, +shoutin' +'Martha!' as loud as iver he could."</p> + +<p>"Did he give thee a hazelin' for bidin' out so late?" asked +Kester, with +a wealth of personal experience to draw upon.</p> + +<p>Grannie was somewhat taken aback by the pertinent question, +but she was +too clever to give herself away. "What's that thou says about a +hazelin', Kester? Look at t' clock. It's time thou was gettin' alang +home, or mebbe there will be a hazelin' for thee."</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;"> +<h2><a name="The_Potato_and_the_Pig" id="The_Potato_and_the_Pig"></a>The Potato and the Pig</h2> + +<p>A Fable for Allotment-Holders</p> + +<p>Abe Ingham was a Horsforth allotment-holder. He talked +allotments all +day and dreamed of them all night. Before the war cricket had been his +hobby, and he was a familiar figure at County and Council matches for +twelve miles round. Now he never mentioned the game; he had exchanged +old gods for new, and his homage was no longer paid to George Hirst or +Wilfred Rhodes, but to Arran Chief, Yorkshire Hero, and Ailsa Craig. He +took his gardening very seriously, and called it "feightin' t' +Germans." +If you asked him when the war would be won he pleaded ignorance; but if +you asked him where it would be won, his answer invariably was: "On t' +tatie-patches at Horsforth." He still nursed his grievances, for pet +grievances are not yet included in the tax on luxuries, but these were +no longer suffragettes and lawyers, but slugs, "mawks," and +"mowdiewarps." In a word, Ingham was one of the many Englishmen whom +four years of war conditions have re-created. He was slimmer and more +agile than in 1914, and of the "owd Abe" of pre-war times all that +remained was his love of tall stories. I was privileged to listen to +one +of the tallest of these one evening, after he had paid a visit of +inspection to my garden and was smoking a pipe with me under my +lime-tree.</p> + +<p>"Fowks tell queer tales 'bout 'lotments," he began, "but I +reckon +they're nobbut blether anent t' tale that I could tell o' what happened +me last yeer."</p> + +<p>"What was that, Abe?" I asked. "Did you find a magpie's nest +in your +Jerusalem artichokes or half-crowns in the hearts of your pickling +cabbages?"</p> + +<p>"None o' your fleerin'," he replied. "What I'm tellin' you is +t' truth, +or if it isn't' truth it's a parable, and I reckon a parable's Bible +truth. It were gettin' on towards back-end, and I'd bin diggin' +potatoes +while I were in a fair sweat wi' t' heat. So I reckoned I'd just sit +down for a bit on t' bench I'd made an' rest misen. Efter a while I gat +agate once more, an' I'd ommost finished my row of potates when my fork +gat howd o' summat big. At first I thowt it were happen a gert stone +that I'd left i' t' grund, but it were nowt o' sort. 'Twere a potate, +sure enough, but I'd niver set eyes on owt like it afore, nor thee +either. 'Twere bigger nor my heead; nay, 'twere bigger nor a +fooit-ball."</p> + +<p>"Somebody wanted to have a bit of fun with you, Abe," I +interrupted, +"and had buried a vegetable-marrow in your potato-patch."</p> + +<p>"Nay, it were a potate reight enough, an' I were fair capped +when I'd +getten howd on it wi' my two hands. 'I'll show this to Sam Holroyd,' I +said to misen. He were chuff, were Sam, 'cause he'd getten six pund o' +potates off o' one root; I reckoned I'd getten six pund off o' one +potate. Well, I were glowerin' at t' potate when a lad com up that I'd +niver seen afore. He were a young lad by his size, but he'd an owdish +look i' his face, an' he says to me: 'What's yon?'</p> + +<p>"Thou may well axe that,' I answered. 'It's a potate.'</p> + +<p>"'What arta boun to do wi' it?' he axed.</p> + +<p>"'Nay,' I said, 'I reckon I'll take it to t' Flower Show an' +get first +prize.'</p> + +<p>"'Thou mun do nowt o' t' sort,' said t' lad; 'thou mun bury +it.'</p> + +<p>"'Bury it! What for sud I bury it, I'd like to know?'</p> + +<p>"'Thou mon bury it i' t' grund an' see what it grows intul.'</p> + +<p>"Well, I reckoned there might be some sense in what t' lad +said, for if +I could raise a seck o' seed potates like yon I'd sooin' mak my +fortune. +But then I bethowt me o' t' time o' t' yeer, and I said:</p> + +<p>"'But wheer's t' sense o' settin' a potate at t' back-end?'</p> + +<p>"'Thou'll not have to wait so lang to see what cooms on 't,' +he replied, +and then he turned on his heel an' left me standin' theer.</p> + +<p>"Well, I reckoned it were a fooil's trick, but all t' same I +put t' +potate back into t' grund, an' went home. That neet it started rainin' +an' it kept at it off an' on for well-nigh a week, an' I couldn't get +down to my 'lotment nohow. But all t' time I couldn't tak my mind off +o' +t' lad that had made me bury my potate. He'd green eyes, an' I could +niver get shut o' them eyes choose what I were doin'. Well, after a +while it faired up, and I set off for my garden. When I gat nigh I were +fair capped. I'd set t' potate at t' top-side o' t' 'lotment, and +theer, +just wheer I'd set it, were a pig-sty, wi' a pig inside it fit to kill. +I were that flustered you could ha' knocked me down wi' a feather. I +looked at t' sty, and then at t' pig, an' then I felt t' pig, an' he +were reight fat. An' when I'd felt t' pig I turned round to see if t' +'lotment were fairly mine, and theer stood t' lad that had telled me to +bury t' potate.</p> + +<p>"'Well,' he says, 'is owt wrang wi' t' pig?'</p> + +<p>"'Nay, there's nowt wrang wi' t' pig, but how did he get here?'</p> + +<p>"'He'll happen have coom out o' that potate thou set i' t' +grund last +week,' and he looked at me wi' them green eyes an' started girnin'. +'But +thou mun bury t' pig same as thou buried t' potate.'</p> + +<p>"'Bury t' pig!' I said. 'I'd sooiner bury t' missus ony day. +We've bin +short o' ham an' collops o' bacon all t' summer, an' if there's one +thing I like better nor another it's a bit o' fried ham to my tea.'</p> + +<p>"'Nay, thou mun bury t' pig, an' do without thy bit o' bacon,' +he says, +and there was summat i' t' way he gave his orders that fair bet me. I +went all o' a dither, while I hardly knew if I were standin' on my +heels +or my heead. But t' lad were as cool as a cucumber all t' while; he +folded his arms an' looked at me wi' his green eyes, an' just said +nowt. +Eh! but 'twere gey hard to mak' up my mind what to do. I looked at t' +pig, an' if iver I've seen a pig axin' to have his life spared it were +yon; but then I looked at t' lad, an' his eyes were as hard as two +grunstones; there was no gettin' round t' lad, I could see. So at lang +length I gav' in. I killed t' pig and I buried him same as I'd buried +t' +potate.</p> + +<p>"When I gat home I said nowt to t' missus about t' pig, for I +couldn't +let on that I'd buried it; shoo'd have reckoned I were a bigger fooil +nor shoo took me for. Shoo gav me a sup o' poddish for my supper, an' +all t' time I were eytin' it I kept thinkin' o' t' fried ham that I'd +missed, an' I were fair mad wi' misen. I went to bed, but I couldn't +get +to sleep nohow. You see, I'd bin plagued wi' mowdiewarps up i' t' +'lotment; they'd scratted up my spring onions an' played Hamlet wi' my +curly greens. An' then all of a sudden I bethowt me that t' mowdiewarps +would be sure to find t' pig an' mak quick-sticks o' him afore t' +mornin'. Eh! I gat that mad wi' thinkin' on it that I couldn't bide i' +bed no longer. I gat up 'thout wakkin' t' missus, an' I crept +downstairs +i' my stockin' feet, an' went to t' coil-house wheer I kept my spade. I +were boun to dig up t' pig an' bring him home afore t' mowdiewarps sud +find him. But when I'd oppened coil-house door, what sud I see but a +pair o' green eyes glowerin' at me out o' t' darkness. I were that +flaid +I didn't know what to do. I dursn't set hand to t' spade, an' efter a +minute I crept back to bed wi' them green eyes followin' me, an' +burnin' +hoils i' my back same as if they'd bin two red-hot coils. Sooin as +cockleet com, I gat up, dressed misen an' set off for t' 'lotment, 'an +by t' Mess! what does ta reckon was t' first thing I saw?"</p> + +<p>"Had the pig come to life again?" I asked in wonder.</p> + +<p>"Nay, 'twere better nor that," replied Abe. "I' t' spot wheer +I'd buried +t' pig an' buried t' potate afore that, somebody had belt a house, ay, +an' belt it all i' one neet. It had sprung up like a mushroom. So I +went +up to t' house an' looked in at t' windey, an' by Gow! but it were my +house an' all."</p> + +<p>"How did you know that it was your house?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Well, you see," Abe rejoined, "I could tell by t' furnitur +that were in +it. There was our kitchen-table that I'd bowt at t' sale when t' missus +an' me were wed, an' t'owd rockin'-chair set agean t' fire; ay, an' t' +pot-dogs on t' chimley-piece an' my father's an' muther's buryin'-cards +framed on t' walls; 'twere all plain as life."</p> + +<p>"So the lad with the green eyes had carried away your house in +the night +and set it down on your allotment?"</p> + +<p>"Nay, 'twere nowt o' t' sort. T' house wheer I'd bin livin' +were a +back-to-back house, facin' north, so as we niver gat no sun thro' +yeer's +end to yeer's end. But t' new house stood all by itsen, wi' windeys on +all sides, an' a back door oppenin' into t' gardin. If there were one +thing that t' missus an' me had set wer hearts on 'twere a back-door. +We'd never lived i' a house wi' a back door, an' t' missus had to hing +all her weshin' of a Tuesday across t' street. Well, I looked round to +see if I could clap eyes on t' lad that had telled me to bury t' pig, +but he were nowheer to be seen. But just then I heerd a buzzin' sound, +an' I reckoned there mun be a waps somewheer about. An' a waps it were. +He flew round an' round my heead, allus coomin' nearer an' nearer, an' +at lang length he settled hissen reight on t' top o' my neb. An' wi' +that I gav a jump, an' by Gow! there was I sittin' on t' bench in my +'lotment. I'd fallen asleep, an all that I'd seen o' t' potate an' t' +pig an' t' house, ay, an' t' lad wi' green eyes, were nobbut a dream. +But t' waps weren't a dream, for I'd seen him flee away when I wakkened +up."</p> + +<p>"What you've told me, Abe, is like a bit of real life," I +said, after a +pause. "Most of our dreams in this world turn into wasps, with stings +in +their tails."</p> + +<p>"Nay," replied Abe the optimist; "but 'twere not a proper sort +of dream +nawther. I've thowt a vast about it off an' on, an' I reckon 'twere a +dream wi' a meanin' tul it. 'Twere like Pharaoh's dream o' t' fat an' +lean beasts. Happen one day I'll find a Joseph that'll tell me what it +all means!"</p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;"> +<h2><a name="Coals_of_Fire" id="Coals_of_Fire"></a>Coals +of Fire</h2> + +<p>I</p> + +<p>A visitor to Holmton, one of the smaller manufacturing towns +of the West +Riding, on a certain October morning, about the middle of the +nineteenth +century, might have witnessed a strange sight. It was market-day, and a +number of farm people were collected in the market-place, where a brisk +trade in cattle, sheep, and dairy produce was being transacted. +Suddenly +there appeared in their midst a farmer holding the end of a rope, the +noose of which was attached, not to a bull, calf or horse, but to the +neck of a girl of nineteen. At this strange sight loud shouts were +raised on all sides, and a stampede was made to the spot where the man +and the girl were standing.</p> + +<p>The town was originally merely a centre for the farmers in the +neighbouring villages, but within the last fifty years it had seen the +establishment of the cloth trade in its midst, and the population had +considerably increased. Round about the market-place stone-paved +streets +had branched off in all directions, and two-storied stone houses had +been built, in which the rooms on the ground floor served for kitchen +and bedroom, while in the long, low room above hand-looms had been +erected, and wool was spun and woven into cloth.</p> + +<p>The shouts of the farm people in the market-place at once +brought the +weavers to their windows and doors. Ever eager for any excitement which +should relieve the drab monotony of their lives, they rushed into the +streets and elbowed their way to the market-place.</p> + +<p>"What's up?" asked one of them of a farmer's man, as he +followed the +sound of the hubbub.</p> + +<p>"It's Sam Learoyd," the man replied, "and he wants to know if +onybody's +wantin' to buy his dowter."</p> + +<p>"Black Sam o' Fieldhead Farm! By Gow! I reckon he's bin crazed +sin his +missus left him for t' barman. But he hasn't gotten no dowters, nor +sons +nowther. It'll be his stepdowter, Mary Whittaker, that he's browt to +market."</p> + +<p>The speakers were now approaching the spot where the father +and the +haltered stepdaughter were standing. The former, a hard-featured, +sullen +man of about forty-five, was addressing the crowd. The latter, hiding +as +much of her face as she could beneath her grey shawl, stood with her +hands clasped before her and her eyes fixed on the ground. Mute +resignation was written on every line of her face. Whatever indignation +or shame she might feel at the degrading situation in which she was +placed seemed repressed, either by the humility that comes from long +suffering or by a supreme effort of the will, of which the tightly +closed lips gave some indication.</p> + +<p>The spot chosen by Sam Learoyd for his traffic in human flesh +was not +without significance. Behind him, and approached by steps, on which the +farmers' wives exposed for sale their baskets of poultry and eggs, +stood +what was left of the market cross. It was one of those old Saxon +crosses +of Irish design which may still be seen in some of the towns and +villages of England, and are said to mark the spot where the early +Christian missionaries, long before the churches were built, preached +their gospel of peace and good will to a pagan audience. Close at hand +were the stocks, where, until quite recently, the bullies and scolds of +the town had been set by their fellow-citizens and suhjected to the +missiles and taunts of every passer-by. Here, then, between these two +symbols—the one of Divine mercy and the other of the +vindication of +popular justice—Mary Whittaker was exposed for sale.</p> + +<p>It took some time for the crowd to realise that Learoyd was in +earnest. +This sale by public auction of a young woman whom many of the +bystanders +had known for years seemed little better than a grim jest. Yet most +were +aware that sales like this had taken place in the town before, and deep +down in their minds there survived the old primitive idea that the head +of a family had a right to do what he liked with the members of his +household. There were muttered protests from the few women and some of +the older men who were present, but most of the young men, in whom a +sense of chivalry had been blunted by hard lahour and penury, found a +pleasure in goading the farmer on. No magistrate was at hand to put a +stop to the traffic in human life, and the single policeman, realising +that he had no written instructions to deal with such a case as this, +had discreetly withdrawn himself to the remotest quarter of the town. +So +Learoyd was left free to conduct his infamous auction.</p> + +<p>"Shoo's for sale," he cried, "same as if shoo were a cauf; and +shoo goes +to t' highest bidder." A roar of laughter greeted these words, but +nobody had the courage to make a bid. Seeing that purchasers held back, +Learoyd after the manner of an auctioneer, proceeded to announce his +stepdaughter's "points."</p> + +<p>"Shoo's a gradely lass, I tell you, for all shoo looks sae +dowly. Shoo +can bak an' shoo can brew, and I've taen care that shoo'll noan speyk +while shoo's spoken to."</p> + +<p>"If shoo can do all that," asked a bystander, "why doesta want +to sell +her?"</p> + +<p>The farmer eyed the questioner narrowly, and then, in a sullen +voice, +answered: "I'm sellin' her because I want to get shut on her. Happen +that'll be reason enough for the likes o' thee, Timothy."</p> + +<p>After more of this altercation one of the younger men, urged +on by his +comrades, summoned up courage to make a bid.</p> + +<p>"Sithee, I'll gie thee threepence for her, farmer."</p> + +<p>The girl, hearing the insulting offer that was made, raised +her eyes for +a moment to glance at the speaker, then shuddered, and, after a +pleading +look at her stepfather, lowered them again.</p> + +<p>Learoyd, taking no notice of the girl, looked the bidder +steadily in the +face for a moment, in order to discover whether the offer was seriously +made, and, apparently satisfied that such was not the case, replied: +"I'll noan sell her for threepence. Shoo's worth more nor that, let +alone the clothes shoo stands in." But when no further offer was +forthcoming he turned again to the speaker and said: "Well, threepence +is t' price o' a pint o' beer; mak it a quart an' t' lass is thine."</p> + +<p>But the bargainer, seeing that the offer which he made in jest +was taken +in earnest, slunk away to the rear of the crowd, and it seemed as +though +the girl would remain unsold. Then it was that a ragged, out-at-heel +weaver of diminutive size slowly elbowed his way to the front, and, +holding up six pennies, said, with a shamefaced look on his face: +"There's thy brass. I'll tak t' lass."</p> + +<p>The farmer eyed him curiously, while the crowd, realising that +a serious +offer had at last been made, held their breath to see what would follow.</p> + +<p>"Sixpence is it," said Learoyd, "an' what mak o' man art thou +that want +to buy her?"</p> + +<p>The weaver made no reply, but the bystanders, to whom the +bidder was +well known, gave the necessary information.</p> + +<p>"It's Tom Parfitt o' Mill Lane; he's lossen his wife a while +sin and +he'll happen be wantin' a lass to look after t' barns."</p> + +<p>There was something in the shabby dress and down-cast mien of +the little +weaver that appealed to the farmer's saturnine humour. He measured with +his eye first of all the man, and next the girl; then, slapping his +knee +with his right hand, exclaimed: "Well, Tom, t' lass is thine; an' +thou's +gotten her muck-cheap."</p> + +<p>Without more ado he unloosed the halter from the girl's neck, +led her +roughly by the arm to where the weaver was standing, pocketed the six +pennies, and, followed by a crowd of rowdies, made his way to the +nearest inn. Meanwhile the weaver and the girl he had bought were +facing +each other in silence, neither having the courage to utter a word. +Those +of the crowd who had not followed Learoyd began a fire of questions, to +all of which Parfitt made no reply. At last he turned to the girl, and +in as kindly a voice as he could command, said: "Coom thy ways home, +lass," and leading the way, with the girl at his heels, strode through +the crowd and out of the market-place. A number of people proceeded to +follow him, but as they received no answer to all their questions they +gradually fell off, and by the time that Parfitt's cottage was reached +purchaser and purchase were alone.</p> + +<p>Closing the front door behind him the weaver led the girl +through the +kitchen, where his three young children were playing at cat's cradle, +into the adjoining bedroom. Here he left her to herself, and, +re-entering the kitchen, got ready a meal of tea and buttered oat-cake, +which he sent in to Mary Whittaker by the hands of his eldest child, a +girl of seven. Then, without further intrusion on the girl's privacy, +he +climbed the rickety staircase to the upper chamber and set to work at +his loom. Eager to make up for the time he had lost, he worked with +energy, but every sound from the rooms below came up through the cracks +in the raftered floor. He could hear the voices of the children and, +when the loom was silent for a few moments, the half-suppressed sobs of +the outraged girl were distinctly audible. These drew tears to his +eyes, +but he wisely refrained from descending the staircase and attempting to +comfort her.</p> + +<p>After a time the sobbing ceased, and then one by one the +children stole +quietly into the bedroom, and a hum of conversation was heard, in which +Mary Whittaker was taking her part.</p> + +<p>"Arta baan to stop wi' us?" he heard his eldest girl, Annie, +ask.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," Mary replied. "Happen I'll be goin' back home +to-morn."</p> + +<p>"I wish thou'd coom an' live wi' us an' mind Jimmy, so as I +can help +father wi' t' loom," Annie continued.</p> + +<p>"Aye, an' thou can laik at cat's cradle wi' me," interposed +the younger +girl, Ruth.</p> + +<p>Jimmy, aged three, was silent, but he climbed into Mary's lap, +and, with +a grimy finger, made watercourses down her cheeks for the tears that +still filled her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Give ower, Jimmy, or I'll warm thy jacket," exclaimed Annie, +fearful +lest the boy should hurt Mary's feelings.</p> + +<p>"Nay, let him be," replied Mary, and wiping the tears from her +face she +drew Jimmy closer to herself and mothered him.</p> + +<p>A hole in one of the rafters, caused by the dropping out of a +knot in +the wood, enabled Parfitt to see something of what was going on below, +and with a sigh of relief he realised that the worst was now over and +that the children had effected what he himself could not have done. +When +six o'clock came he called to Annie to bring him his tea and light his +benzoline lamp. When she appeared he gave orders that the evening meal +should be got ready in the kitchen, and that when it was over she +should +ask Mary to wash Jimmy and put him to bed. Anxiously the weaver +listened +to the carrying out of his instructions, and when he descended the +staircase at half-past seven he found the kitchen neatly tidied up and +Mary Whittaker seated at the fireside with the two girls on stools at +her feet. Until all the children were in bed he made no attempt to get +the girl to tell him her story, but sought by tactful means to win her +confidence. At first she shrank from him and cast anxious eyes towards +the inner room where the three children were asleep. But the weaver's +gentle voice gradually stilled her fears.</p> + +<p>"Thou'll be tired, lass," he said at length, "and wantin' to +get to bed. +Thou can sleep wi' Jimmy in yonder anent t' wall."</p> + +<p>A frightened look came into Mary's eyes as she answered: "But +that'll be +thy bed."</p> + +<p>"Nay," replied the weaver, "it'll be thy bed so lang as thou +bides wi' +me. I'll mak up a bed for misen i' t' kitchen on t' lang-settle."</p> + +<p>A grateful expression came over the girl's face, but she made +no move in +the direction of the inner room. Silence prevailed for some time until +the weaver asked: "Is there owt I can do for thee, or owt that thou's +gotten to tell me, lass? It's been a dree day for thee, to-day; ay, an' +mony a day afore to-day, I reckon."</p> + +<p>This reference to the happenings of the morning brought tears +to the +girl's eyes, and it was some time before she could summon up courage to +speak.</p> + +<p>"Don't mind me," she said at last; "I'll be better to-morn. +But he +didn't ought to hae browt shame on me i' t' way he's done. It wasn't my +fault mother left him. I'd allus been a gooid lass to him, choose what +fowks say."</p> + +<p>Step by step the weaver led her on to tell him the story of +what had led +up to the shameful transaction in the market-place. It was no mere +curiosity that moved him, but a realisation that there could be no +peace +of mind for Mary Whittaker until she had found relief by unburdening +her +tortured soul. The weaver's gentle ways and tactful bearing were slowly +winning her heart, and, painful though the recital of her past history +was for her, Parfitt knew that it would bring relief. It was a long +story that Mary had to tell. She had little art of narrative, and her +endeavours to shield both her mother and stepfather as far as possible +from blame impeded the flow of her words. Reduced to plain terms, her +story ran as follows:—</p> + +<p>Mary Whittaker was a girl of fourteen when her mother had +married Samuel +Learoyd. Of her father she knew nothing. He had died when she was a +baby. From the first the Learoyds had proved an ill-matched pair. Anne +Learoyd, her mother, had been brought up in Leeds, and having been used +to all the excitements of life in a big town, found the solitary farm +lonesome. Samuel Learoyd, though genial enough at times in the society +of his male friends, was capricious. His temper was often sullen, and +when in one of his gloomy moods he would spend the whole evening in his +farm kitchen in morose silence. This state of mind was in part due to +physical infirmity. As a child he had been subject to epileptic fits, +and though these grew less frequent as he advanced to manhood, he never +entirely shook them off, and during his married life a long spell of +gloomy misanthropy would sometimes end in the return of one of these +attacks. He was, too, a proud man, and his pride bred in him a morbid +sensibility towards any slight, real or fanciful, that was practised on +him. He treated his stepdaughter not unkindly, but never accepted any +parental responsibility towards her.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Anne Learoyd, finding no congenial society in her +own home, +spent much of her time in neighbours' houses. Her chief friend was the +landlady of the Woolpack Inn, a public-house situated midway between +the +farm-house and Holmton. Here whole afternoons and evenings were spent, +and the work of the farm-house was left in the hands of Mary Whittaker, +towards whom her mother had never shown any real affection. Years +passed +away and the relations between husband and wife grew steadily worse, +till at length the crisis came. A new barman was appointed at the +Woolpack, a man whom Anne Learoyd had known during her early life in +Leeds. Rumour was soon busy with the relations which existed between +the +barman and the farmer's wife, and after a time suspicious stories +reached the ears of Samuel Learoyd. A violent scene between husband and +wife took place in the farm kitchen, but, in spite of this, Anne's +visits to the public-house continued as before. One afternoon, when her +husband was attending a cattle-mart in a neighbouring town, Anne +Learoyd, without saying a word to her daughter, left the house and was +still absent when her husband returned for supper. Mary Whittaker was +at +once dispatched to the Woolpack Inn, and, after an hour, returned with +the news that her mother was not there and that the barman was also +missing. With an oath, Learoyd saddled his mare and rode in all haste +to +Holmton. Finding no news of the missing couple in the town he made his +way to the nearest station, where he found that a man and woman +answering to his description had left by train for Liverpool four hours +before. Learoyd, his heart raging with fury and wounded pride, followed +in pursuit. He arrived at Liverpool in the early hours of the next +morning, and, making his way to the docks, discovered that the +fugitives +had sailed at midnight for America. Further pursuit was impossible. He +returned home, and late that same evening was found lying dead drunk on +the road-side within a hundred yards of the local railway station. He +was brought home and put to bed, and next day was seized with a severe +fit of epilepsy. For weeks his life was in danger, and when at last he +recovered strength of body, his mind remained in a state of moroseness +that at times bordered on insanity. He became a fierce hater of women, +and the chief victim of his frenzy was his stepdaughter, Mary Whittaker.</p> + +<p>She bore his harshness with a Griselda patience, but this +seemed only to +add provocation to his anger. In her he saw the daughter of the woman +who had trodden his pride in the dust, and he marked her out as the +object of his vengeance. Finding that bitter words and deeds of cruelty +left her seemingly unmoved, his morose and wounded spirit devised other +and darker plans of revenge. At first he conceived the idea of driving +her penniless from his doors, but, realising that the girl would find +no +difficulty in obtaining a place as servant on one of the neighbouring +farms, he abandoned it as furnishing insufficient satisfaction for his +tortured heart. One day he heard how a farmer had some years before +ignominiously sold by public auction the wife of whom he had grown +tired, and Learoyd gloated over the story with malicious glee. Here was +a means of satisfying his vengeance to the full. To his warped +imagination it mattered little that Mary Whittaker was entirely +innocent +of her mother's desertion of him, or that Anne Learoyd, far away in +America, would probably never hear of her daughter's shame. Inasmuch as +the guilty wife was out of his clutch, he was content with the +vicarious +sacrifice that he could demand from her daughter.</p> + +<p>For some days he brooded over his cruel purpose, and it found +ever more +favour in his eyes. Market day came and the time was ripe for action. +Roughly informing his stepdaughter that she must go with him to market, +he left the house with her on foot, carrying a halter in his hand. On +the road he brutally informed her of his purpose. A chill of horror +seized the girl when she heard the news, but her tears and entreaties, +so far from melting his heart, filled him with an unholy joy. As they +passed a farm-house on the road Mary screamed out for help, but Learoyd +silenced her with a blow on the mouth, and then, leaving the high road, +took the path through the fields in order to avoid company. Arriving at +the outskirts of the town, he slipped the halter over her head and +dragged her through the by-streets to the market-place.</p> + +<p>Such was Mary's story as told to the weaver that evening in +his cottage. +Tom Parfitt was a man of few words, but the tears that rolled down his +cheek showed his sympathy. "Poor lass, poor lass" was his frequent +comment as he listened to the harrowing details and thought of the +agony +of the market-place; and when she had ended her tale his voice was +broken with sobs.</p> + +<p>"Thou sal niver want for a home, lass, so lang as I can addle +a bite an' +a sup wi' my weyvin'."</p> + +<p>"Happen Learoyd will be wantin' me back agean when he's gotten +ower +things a bit."</p> + +<p>"Then he'll noan get thee," and the weaver struck his fist on +the table +with unusual vehemence. "A wilful man mun have his way, fowks say; an' +I +reckon Sam Learoyd has had it; but he'll noan have it twice ower, if I +know owt about justice."</p> + +<p>"But he's bin sadly tewed wi' mother leavin' him an' all," +replied Mary, +"and there's them fits that he has to contend wi'. If he wants me I mun +go. There's nobody left on t' farm to fend for him."</p> + +<p>"If he cooms here he'll find t' door sparred agean him," +exclaimed +Parfitt, in his indignation.</p> + +<p>Mary shook her head sadly, but made no reply.</p> + +<p>They sat awhile in silence, gazing into the dying fire, and +then the +girl, with a timid "I thank thee for what thou's done for me," withdrew +to the inner room and cried herself to sleep. The weaver lit his clay +pipe and, bending forwards over the grey ashes of his peat-fire, buried +himself in his thoughts till the clock, striking eleven, roused him +from +his reverie. He slowly rose, placed a cushion on the settle, and +without +undressing, flung himself on the hard boards and fell asleep.</p> + +<p>Days and weeks passed and Mary Whittaker still remained in the +weaver's +cottage. The cowed look in her eyes passed gradually away, though it +would come back whenever a man's footfall was heard in the street +outside, and a cold fear seized her at the thought that Learoyd was at +hand to demand her return to the farm. But he never came, and Mary grew +more and more at ease in her new surroundings. The change from the +roomy +farmstead, with its wide horizons of moors and woods, to the narrow +cottage in the sunless back street was a strange one for her. She +missed, too, the farm work: the churning of the butter and the feeding +of the calves and poultry. But youth was on her side and she soon +learnt +to adapt herself to her new life. Soon after six in the morning she +would mount with Parfitt to the upper room and spin the wool, which he +would then weave into cloth. The work was hard, and some of the +processes of cleaning the wool were repulsive to her nature at first, +but in time she accustomed herself to this as to so much else. It was +easy for her gentle nature to win the hearts of the three children; she +quickly learnt the duties of a mother, nursed them in their childish +ailments, and when the loom was still, joined with them in their games. +Six months Tom Parfitt waited to see whether Learoyd would make any +attempt to recover the stepdaughter whom he had wronged, and then, as +the farmer made no move, he quietly married Mary Whittaker at the +Primitive Methodist Chapel.</p> + +<p>II</p> + +<p>Years passed away and a gradual change came over the character +of the +social and economic life of Holmton. The town became linked up by rail +with Leeds and Bradford, and in this way it lost its isolation and +caught an echo of the ideas and views of life of the people in the big +towns. Elementary education was introduced, and the printed book slowly +found its way into the weavers' cottages. Most important change of all, +the hand-loom gave place to the power-loom. Factories were built by the +side of the beck, and while a certain amount of weaving continued to be +done by the old people in their cottages, the younger generation sought +employment in the mills, and payment for piecework gave way to +time-wages. Most of the younger weavers welcomed this change when it +was +fully understood. They found that the hours of work, though still +terribly long, were shorter than those spent by their parents over +their +hand-looms, and the social intercourse of the mill, where the youths +and +girls met their equals in age, was deemed preferable to the family +labours in the upper story of the cottages. Moreover, if the overseers +and foremen in the mills were often brutal, the workers could, at any +rate, get away from the atmosphere of the weaving-shed when the hooters +sounded at six o'clock in the evening.</p> + +<p>When this revolution in industrial life took place Tom Parfitt +found +himself too old to adapt himself to the change.</p> + +<p>"T' hand-loom's gooid enough for me," were his words. "If I +went to work +i' t' mill I'd feel like givin' up an owd friend, just because he'd +grown owd-feshioned. I'll stick to cottage wark, choose-what other +fowks +may do."</p> + +<p>Hearing this decision, his wife at once decided to remain with +him; but +the three children of Parfitt's former marriage, the youngest of whom +was now seventeen, determined to seek work in the factories. The family +was thus split up, and the younger generation brought back into the +house at night new ideas gained amid the social intercourse of the mill.</p> + +<p>Mary Whittaker's position in the town after her marriage to +Parfitt was +quietly accepted by the community of weavers. They still called her by +her maiden name, but there was nothing unusual in that. Often, too, she +was referred to as "Mary that was selled for sixpence," but here again, +at least as far as the older generation was concerned, no stigma was +implied. It was simply a frank statement of fact. With the younger +generation, however, who were quicker than their elders in absorbing +new +ideas and new codes of social convention, "Mary that was selled for +sixpence" was a name that aroused curiosity, and sometimes derision. +Occasionally Mary's stepdaughters would be twitted about the name at +the +mill, and their faces would burn as they realised that a dark shadow +hung over the woman whom they had been taught to call mother, and who +had won their hearts from the day on which she first set foot in their +father's house. Once they spoke of the matter to their father, anxious +to learn the exact truth from his lips.</p> + +<p>"Aye, I bowt her for sixpence afore I wed her," he said, +looking them +steadily in the face, "an' t' man that selled her to me said I'd gotten +her muck-cheap. Them was t' truest words he iver spak, an' shoo would +hae been muck-cheap if I'd gien a million pund for her."</p> + +<p>During all the years that Mary Whittaker had spent at Holmton +she had +not once caught sight of Samuel Learoyd. Fieldhead Farm was only four +miles away, but she had never had the courage to go near it. The farmer +visited Holmton only on market days, and notlung could ever induce his +stepdaughter to go near the scene of her deep humiliation. But though +she did not see Learoyd he was never long out of her mind, and through +her husband and children she kept herself informed of what was going on +at the farm.</p> + +<p>After his shameless traffic in the Holmton market-place +Learoyd had for +some months lived alone. Never a sociable man, he shunned the society +of +the neighbouring farmers, and they, on their side, resenting his +outrageous conduct to his stepdaughter, studiously kept out of his way. +Doggedly he set himself to do both the labours of the house and farm, +and sought to stifle in hard work the memory of his wife's desertion of +him, together with whatever twinges of remorse may have come to him +when +he thought of the revenge which he had taken upon her daughter. But as +time went on he found it impossible to attend to all his duties. +Nothing +could induce him to enlist the services of a housekeeper, but he +engaged +a man, who occupied a two-roomed cottage a hundred yards away from the +farm, and helped him in stable and field. But the sullen humour of +Learoyd was hard to put up with, and the men who came to him soon +sought +employment elsewhere. He would engage a servant for the year at the +Martinmas hiring, but as soon as the year was up the man would leave, +and it became increasingly difficult for the farmer to find a +substitute.</p> + +<p>"What mak o' a gaffer is Learoyd?" one labourer would ask of +another as +they stood together in the Holmton market-place waiting to be hired.</p> + +<p>"A dowly, harden-faced mon, an' gey hard to bide wi', +accordin' to what +all t' day-tale men is sayin'," replied the other.</p> + +<p>"He looks it," answered the first. "He's gotten a face that's +like beer +when t' thunder has turned it to allicker. If I was to live wi' him I'd +want a clothes-horse set betwix' me an' him at dinner, or he'd turn my +vittles sour i' my belly."</p> + +<p>"He twilted his wife, did Learoyd, while she ran away wi' Sam +Woodhead +at t' Woolpack, an' then he selled his dowter for sixpence. He can't +bide women-fowks i' t' house."</p> + +<p>"Then he'll not git me to coom an' live wi' him. I've +swallowed t' +church i' my last place, but I'm noan baan to swallow t' steeple at +efter."</p> + +<p>Such were the opinions passed on Learoyd by the farm labourers +round +about Holmton, and it was little wonder that, as the years went by, the +condition of his farm grew steadily worse.</p> + +<p>When the Parfitts had been married fifteen years, a strange +rumour +reached their cottage of a spiritual change that had been wrought in +the +soul of Samuel Learoyd. It was reported that the farmer had been +attending the revival services held in the little Primitive Methodist +chapel about a mile away from his farm, that his flinty heart had been +melted, and that he had "found the Lord." The weaver's family was slow +to credit this change, though Mary prayed fervently night and morning +that it might be true. Their doubts, however, were set at rest by the +circuit steward of the Holmton chapel where they attended service. He +had taken part in the revival meetings and related what he had seen.</p> + +<p>"Aye, it's true, sure enough," he said. "Sam Learoyd's a +changed man. It +were t' local preacher that done it. He gat him on to his knees anent +t' +penitential forms at after t' sarvice, an' there were a two-three more +wi' him; an' t' preacher an' me wrastled wi' t' devil for their souls. +I've niver seen sich tewin' o' t' spirit sin I becom a Methody. 'Twere +a +hot neight, and what wi' t' heat an' t' spiritual exercises, t' +penitents were fair reekin' an' sweatin'. We went thro' one to t' other +and kept pleadin' wi' 'em. 'Tread t' owd devil under fooit,' says we; +'think on t' blooid o' t' Lamb that weshes us thro' all sin.' An' t' +penitents would holla out: 'I can't, I can't: he's ower strang for me; +I'm baan to smoor i' hell fires.' But t' local were stranger nor t' +devil for all that, an' first one an' then another on 'em would shout +out: 'I'm saved; I've fun' Him, I've fun' the Lord!' Then they'd git up +an' walk out o' t' room that weak you could hae knocked 'em down wi' a +feather.</p> + +<p>"At lang length there was nobbut Sam Learoyd left. He was +quieter nor t' +others, but t' load o' sins about his heart was as tough as Whangby +cheese. So me an' t' preacher gat on either side o' him an' we prayed +an' better prayed, but all for nowt. So at last Sam got up off his +knees, an' wi' a despert look on his face, says: 'Let me be. If I'm +baan +to find salvation I'll find it misen.'</p> + +<p>"At that we gav ower prayin', but kept kneelin' by his side +an' waited +for the Lord to sattle t' job. An' outside t' wind were yowlin' as if +it +would blow down t' walls and chimleys. But warr nor t' yowlin' o' t' +wind were t' groans o' Sam Learoyd.</p> + +<p>"After a while t' groans gat easier, and then t' local started +singin' +in a low voice, 'Rock of Ages.' But Sam would have noan o' his singin'. +So we just waited to see what would happen. Well, after a while t' +groans stopped, an' Sam lifted up his heead an' looked round. 'Arta +saved?' asked t' local, and Sam answered: 'I'm convicted o' sin.' +'Praise be to God,' sang out t' local, and we gat Sam off his knees and +out o' t' chapil an' away home. An' ivver sin that time Sam's coom +reg'lar to chapil twice on Sundays an' to t' weeknight sarvice too."</p> + +<p>"But will it last?" asked Tom Parfitt, whose long experience +as a chapel +member had taught him the snares of backsliding.</p> + +<p>"Aye, 'twill last," replied the circuit steward. "Sam's a +changed man: +he has gien ower sweerin', goes no more to t' public, but bides at home +o' neight an' sits cowerin' ower t' fire readin' t' Book."</p> + +<p>The account which the circuit steward gave of the farmer's +conversion +was substantially correct, but it did not furnish the whole truth. The +character of his life had changed, but his conversion was only half +accomplished. In the process known as religious conversion there are +usually three well-marked stages: first of all comes conviction of sin, +then repentance, and finally a sense of forgiveness and peace. Learoyd +attained the first stage in the process that stormy night in the little +Methodist chapel. In a dull, blurred way he arrived too at a state of +repentance for the evil he had done. But the final stage of pardon and +peace remained strange to him, and the chief spiritual effect of his +conversion upon him was the attainment of an exquisite agony of soul. +His conscience, long dormant, was roused to feverish activity. His +sins, +which were many, haunted him like demons, and chief among these he +accounted, not without reason, the wrong he had done to Mary Whittaker. +She came to him in his dreams, and always under the same form. What he +saw was a girl, with downcast eyes and supplicating hands, standing at +the foot of the Holmton market-cross, with a halter round her neck. Nor +was it only in his dreams that he saw her. Sometimes as he led home his +horses at nightfall after a day's ploughmg, the same form, patient and +unreproachful, would be seen standing at the open door of the farm +waiting to receive him. With a cowed look on his face he would turn +away +from the house and pass the night in the hayloft.</p> + +<p>The effect of all this upon his constitution was what might +have been +expected. One evening, after a night and day of acutest torment, he +fell +in an epileptic fit upon the kitchen floor, and was found there next +morning by a child from the village who had come to the farm for milk. +A +doctor was summoned, who brought with him a nurse, and for some days +Learoyd's life hung in the balance. Recovery came at last but the +doctor +insisted that he must no longer live alone, but must secure the +services +of an experienced house-keeper. In vain did Learoyd protest against +this +plan. The medical man remained firm. The nurse would have to leave in a +few days and someone else must take her place. The farmer would not +stir +a finger to find such a person, so that the responsibility rested with +the doctor. But all his inquiries availed little. There was no lack of +women suitable for the post, but not one of them would undertake it. +The +memory of the scene in the market-place held them back.</p> + +<p>Then it was that the call came to Mary Whittaker. She must go +back to +the man that had wronged her. At first the thought struck terror to her +heart; all the horror of her ignominy in the market-place came back to +her mind and filled her with a loathing sickness. For two days she +fought against the promptings of her better nature, but it was a losing +battle. At last she broached the subject to her husband. "I mun go back +to Learoyd," she said, speaking in those quiet, measured tones which +Tom +Parfitt had learnt to associate with an inflexible will. Her husband +gave her a look in which admiration for her courage was at odds with +bitter opposition to the proposal.</p> + +<p>"Thou sal do nowt o' t' sort," he said, after a moment's +pause. "There's +no call for thee to go nigh him after all he's done to thee."</p> + +<p>"Nay, but he wants me; t' doctor says he mun have somebody to +live wi' +him."</p> + +<p>"If he wanted thee he'd coom an' seek thee, stubbornly +answered Parfitt.</p> + +<p>"He'll noan do that. I know Learoyd. He's ower proud to axe a +favour +thro' anybody, let alone thro' me."</p> + +<p>"Then he can dee in his pride. He's gotten shut o' thee for +good an' +all, an' trodden thee i' t' muck, t' owd Jezebel."</p> + +<p>"Nay, don't call him, Tom. Didn't chapel steward say that he +was a +changed man sin' he took to goin' to t' chapil?"</p> + +<p>This was almost the only serious dispute that had disturbed +the even +tenor of their married life, and it ended in compromise. Mary was to go +to the farm, and if Learoyd needed her she was to stay for a month; at +the end of that time she would return home. Her husband's offer to +accompany her was declined. Instead, she asked him to pay a visit to +the +doctor and inform him of her plan. The doctor heartily approved of all +that Mary Whittaker had taken upon herself to do; he said he would +visit +his patient in the morning, and if all were going on well would take +away the nurse with him in his brougham. Then, as soon as possible +after +their departure, Mary was to come to the farm and see Learoyd when he +was alone.</p> + +<p>It was a bright April morning when Mary Whittaker set out on +foot for +Fieldhead Farm. There had been rain the night before and the whole sky +was full of fleecy cumulus clouds, some of which enclosed large patches +of blue sky that looked like tranquil polar seas surrounded by hummocks +of frozen snow. Now and again a small cloud, at a lower elevation than +the rest, would sail gaily across these blue pools, and then be lost to +view against the white clouds on the other side. Larks and chaffinches +were everywhere in full song, and the sunshine had brought the +honey-bees to the palm-willows which, during the last ten days, had +changed their flower-buds from silver to gold. As Mary approached the +farm she saw the first swallows of the season darting in tremulous +flight across the meadows, and their presence cheered her. They had +come +back to the farm, like herself, after a period of absence, and a +feeling +of comradeship with them penetrated to her heart.</p> + +<p>She needed all the cheering that the sights and sounds of +nature could +give her. As she climbed the hill-side and saw the seventeenth-century +farm-house, with its mullioned windows and hood-mouldings, her heart +sank within her. The cruel memory of the morning when she had last left +it came back to her mind, and the hard look of Learoyd, as he disclosed +his purpose to her, made her flinch. She closed her eyes for a moment, +as though to shut out the past, and then braced herself for the coming +interview. Arrived at the front door, which opened directly into the +kitchen, she paused for a moment to summon up her courage, then +knocked, +and, without waiting, lifted the latch. Learoyd, still too weak to +attend to farm duties, was seated in the arm-chair by the fire; in his +hands was the family Bible, but he was not reading. Mary was shocked at +the change which fifteen years had wrought in him. He was not more than +sixty, but he looked at least ten years older, and in his eyes there +was +the look of a hunted animal. The sullen pride, which was the habitual +expression of his face in the old days, had given way to a look of +morbid irritability. The farmer looked up from his book as she entered, +but, failing to recognise her, asked who she was.</p> + +<p>"It's Mary," she answered, and advanced towards him.</p> + +<p>"Mary!" he exclaimed, and then, realising who Mary was, he +shrank from +her as though she had been an avenging spirit. The Mary of his dreams, +the girl standing in the market-place with a halter round her neck, +came +back to his mind and deepened the look of terror in his eyes.</p> + +<p>"What doesta want wi' me?" he exclaimed, in a harsh whisper.</p> + +<p>"I've coom to tak care o' thee," Mary replied.</p> + +<p>"Thou's coom to plague me, that's what thou's coom for. I know +thee. +I've seen thee o' neights, aye, an' i' t' daytime too; an' if it's +revenge thou wants, I tell thee thou's gotten it already, capital an' +interest, interest an' capital."</p> + +<p>Mary's swift intuition afforded her an insight into Learoyd's +mind. She +realised that the fangs of remorse were buried in his heart and she +determined to remove them at all costs.</p> + +<p>"Father," she said—and it was hard for her to utter +the word which even +when she was a child had seemed unnatural to her—"let us +forget all +that's gone afore. Sufferin' has coom to both on us, but it has bin +warr +for thee nor ever it was for me. Let us start agean."</p> + +<p>As she said this she knelt down by the side of his chair and +gently +stroked his hands and smoothed back the iron-grey locks that had fallen +over his eyes. At first he shrank from her touch, but in a little time +it soothed his agitation. After all, this was not the Mary Whittaker +that he had seen in his dreams, and the soft grey eyes that looked +steadily into his face were different from those downcast eyes in the +figure of the haltered girl that haunted him.</p> + +<p>For some minutes Mary and her stepfather remained in this +position, and +then the former, after imprinting a kiss on Learoyd's forehead, rose +softly to her feet and set to work to prepare the dinner. They partook +of their meal almost in silence, and then Mary, fetching his hat and +stick, led him out of doors into the spring sunshine, encouraged him to +pay a visit to the stables, and talked to him about the labours of the +farm. His voice was now more natural when he answered her questions, +and +the frightened look disappeared from his eyes. That night, when she +came +into his bedroom, in order to smooth his pillow after he had gone to +bed, he held her hand for a moment and said: "Thou's a gooid lass, +Mary; +if I'd wed a lass like thee I'd hae been a different man."</p> + +<p>Mary made no answer, but there were tears in her voice when +she wished +him good-night.</p> + +<p>In the days which followed, Mary Whittaker made new advances +in the task +of winning Learoyd's confidence and stifling the furies of remorse that +had gripped his heart. All her quiet patience was needed, for although +her progress was sure, there were times when he lapsed, apparently +without reason, into his old mood of suspicion and hostility towards +her. The doctor, when he came to the farm, was full of hope. He found +the farmer's pulse steadier, and saw in him a greater composure of +mind. +Learoyd spent long hours over his Bible, and it seemed at last as +though +his religious conversion was to be fully accomplished. Conviction of +sin +had been followed by contrite repentance, and soon, Mary hoped, he +would +attain that peace of mind which the sinner experiences when he knows +that his sins have been forgiven him.</p> + +<p>But when Mary had been a fortnight at the farm a sudden change +took +place in his demeanour. It was early evening and Learoyd was, as usual, +reading his Bible. The chapter before him was the twelfth of Romans, +and +he read the verses quietly to himself until he came to the last but +one: +"Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him +drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head." As +he +finished the verse he cast a troubled look at his stepdaughter, who was +quietly sewing on the other side of the fire. "Coals o' fire," he +muttered under his breath, and the old look of terror came back into +his +eyes. Mary had never learnt to read, but she saw that the Bible, which +before had brought him peace of mind, was now driving a sword into his +heart. She tried to comfort him, but the farmer shrank from her, as he +had done when she first entered his house, and when she came into his +bedroom to say good-night, he screamed out in terror and would not let +her come near him. That night the vision of the girl with downcast eyes +and supplicating hands, standing in the Holmton market-place, came back +to him with all its old haunting power. From the adjoining bedroom Mary +heard him groaning and tossing on his pillow, and she felt herself +powerless to comfort him. Pity for this tortured soul filled her +breast, +but it seemed as though all her resources of solace had failed her, and +that her mere presence in the house aggravated his suffering.</p> + +<p>Next morning, with tears in her eyes, she told the doctor of +the change +that had come over his patient. The doctor tried his pulse and looked +puzzled. He ordered Learoyd a soothing draught, but it had no effect. +All through the day his agony was frightful to witness. He sat with +glowering eyes gazing at the verse which had destroyed his peace of +mind. Mary tried to take the Bible from him but, with an oath, he +refused to give it up. The day was a busy one for her. Learoyd's +man-servant had gone with a flock of sheep and lambs to a distant moor, +and the duties of feeding the stock and milking the cows fell to her. +The farmer preserved a sullen silence while she was in the house, but +no +sooner was she outside than his muttering began.</p> + +<p>"Coals o' fire, aye, that's what shoo's heapin' on me, coals +o' hell +fire; they're burnin' my heart to a cinder. It's vengeance shoo's +after; +shoo favours her mother. All women are just t' same. She-devils, that's +what they are. Shoo sal have her vengeance, sure enough, an' then mebbe +t' coals o' fire will burn her as they're burnin' me." A red-hot cinder +fell into the grate as he spoke, and Learoyd gazed at it with curious +intentness until it had lost all its glow.</p> + +<p>"I'll fotch t' halter out o' t' kist, an' I'll do it," he +began once +more. "Shoo san't torment me no longer: t' coals o' fire sal be upon +her +own heead."</p> + +<p>Here he lapsed into morose silence, and Mary, re-entering the +farm +kitchen shortly afterwards, found him, as she had left him, gazing +intently into the fire with the Bible open on his knees. She got tea +ready, but Learoyd stubbornly refused to eat or drink anything, and +when +at last ten o'clock came the farmer roused himself from his lethargy +and +stole off to bed, casting furtive glances at Mary as he passed through +the door. She wisely refrained from intruding herself upon him that +night, but, climbing the stairs to her bedroom, listened for sounds in +the adjoining chamber. She could hear Learoyd muttering to himself, and +she noticed that he was quicker in getting into bed than usual. A +suspicion crossed her mind that he had not undressed, and this +confirmed +the idea which she had formed earlier in the evening that some secret +purpose was maturing in his mind. Sleep was not to be thought of, and +so, without taking off her clothes, she got into bed and listened.</p> + +<p>Two hours passed, and all the time she heard Learoyd groaning +in his +bed. Then he got up, struck a light, and remained still for a moment as +though he were listening for any sound that might come from her room. +Then she heard him open the door of his bedroom and creep, candle in +hand, along the passage. As he passed her door he stopped, and Mary +held +her breath lest he should discover that she was awake and listening for +every sound. Apparently satisfied that she was asleep, the farmer +descended the stairs to the kitchen. Mary noiselessly crept out of bed +and, lifting the latch of her bedroom door, stood in the shadow of the +passage and watched every movement of her stepfather in the kitchen +below. He had opened the old oak chest by the wall and was fumbling +among its contents. At last he found what he was looking for and drew +it +forth. It was a long rope, and, with a shudder, Mary recognised the +halter which had once been round her neck. Her head swam as the thought +came to her that Samuel Learoyd was going to sell her again, and +groping +her way back to her room she locked the door and threw herself on her +bed. Anxiously she listened for the farmer's step on the staircase, but +it did not come. Instead, she heard him moving about in the kitchen, +and +then came the sound of the bolts being withdrawn from the front door. A +moment later his footsteps were heard on the gravel path. Rousing +herself with an effort, she once more unlocked the door and crept to +the +head of the stairs. Come what may, she resolved to follow her +stepfather +and discover what were his plans. She made her way down into the +kitchen +and, without striking a light, moved towards the front door. It was +ajar, and, opening it, she stared out into the starry night. All was +still, and no sound of Learoyd's footsteps came to her from the +farmyard.</p> + +<p>Drawing her shawl tightly round her, she stepped out into the +darkness. +Once she fancied that she heard the farmer muttering to himself in the +croft below and the harrowing thought crossed her mind that this was +all +some cunning plan on his part to lure her out of the house and slip the +halter round her neck under cover of night. Her fears counselled her to +return to the house and seek shelter from his mad frenzy behind lock +and +key, but the thought that Learoyd, if seized with a fit while exposed +to +the chill night air, would certainly meet his death overcame her fears +and urged her on.</p> + +<p>After more than two hours of fruitless search she returned to +the farm, +cherishing the hope that her stepfather might have returned too. But +the +house was empty and the door still stood ajar. Realising that further +search in the darkness was unavailing, she waited for the dawn and +determined that, as soon as the clock struck four, she would wake up +the +farm labourer at his cottage and get him to search the moors while she +made her way down to Holmton to engage her husband and his son in the +task of tracking the fugitive. The dreary night passed at last, the +larks burst into song above her head, and the cry of the curlew was +heard on the moors. She closed the farm door behind her, roused the +hind, and then made her way as swiftly as possible to the town. Here +everybody was still asleep, and her footfalls waked echoes in the +stone-paved streets. Her nearest way to the weaver's cottage lay +through +the market-place, and for a moment she hesitated whether she should +pass +that way or take the more circuitous route by the beck-side. Realising +that there was no time to lose, she summoned up all her courage, and, +making her way past the church, entered the market-place. Her eyes were +fixed on the ground, as though to avoid beholding the scene of her +humiliation; but the market-cross and the stocks, now that she was +within a few yards of them, exerted a strange fascination over her. Do +what she might, she could not refrain from gazing upon them once more, +and as she did so a cry of horror escaped her. In front of the cross +hung the lifeless figure of a man. About his neck was a halter, the +other end of which was securely fastened to the broken arms of the +cross.</p> + +<p>It was Learoyd. The wretched man, tortured by a sense of +guilt, and +obsessed with the idea that Mary Whittaker's act of sacrifice was a +cold-blooded device to shame him and aggravate his misery, had hanged +himself, choosing as the scene of his death the spot where, fifteen +years before, he had exposed his stepdaughter for sale. In so doing, +his +warped imagination assured him that the coals of fire which seared his +brain would henceforth be poured upon the head of Mary Whittaker.</p> + +<p>Such was the end of Samuel Learoyd. If there was stern +retribution in +his death so was there also malign mockery. The chalice of pardon and +peace was filled for him, but before he could raise the cup to his lips +a fiendish hand had dashed it to the ground and substituted in its +place +a draught of venomous hemlock.</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's More Tales of the Ridings, by Frederic Moorman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE TALES OF THE RIDINGS *** + +***** This file should be named 18260-h.htm or 18260-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/2/6/18260/ + +Produced by David Fawthrop and Alison Bush + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + +</body> +</html> diff --git a/18260.txt b/18260.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5355f68 --- /dev/null +++ b/18260.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2636 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of More Tales of the Ridings, by Frederic Moorman + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: More Tales of the Ridings + +Author: Frederic Moorman + +Release Date: April 26, 2006 [EBook #18260] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE TALES OF THE RIDINGS *** + + + + +Produced by David Fawthrop and Alison Bush + + + + + + More Tales of the Ridings + + by + + F.W.Moorman, 1872 - 1919 + + + + Late Professor of English Language, Leeds University. + + Editor of "_Yorkshire Dialect Poems_" + + + + +London, Elkin Mathews, Cork Street 1920 + + + + +Contents + + Melsh Dick + Two Letters + A Miracle + Tales of a grandmother + I. The Tree of Knowledge + II. Janet's Cove + The Potato and the Pig + Coals of Fire + + + + +Melsh Dick + + +Melsh Dick is the last survivor of our woodland divinities. His pedigree +reaches back to the satyrs and dryads of Greek mythology; he claims +kinship with the fauns that haunted the groves of leafy Tibur, and he +lorded it in the green woods of merry England when + + The woodweele sang and wold not cease, + Sitting upon the spraye, + Soe lowde he wakened Robin Hood + In the greenwood where he lay. + +But he has long since fallen upon evil days, and it is only in the most +secluded regions of the Pennines, where vestiges of primeval forest +still remain and where modern civilisation has scarcely penetrated, that +he is to be met with to-day. Melsh is a dialect word for unripe, and the +popular belief is that Melsh Dick keeps guard over unripe nuts; while +"Melsh Dick'll catch thee, lad" was formerly a threat used to frighten +children when they went a-nutting in the hazel-shaws. But we may, +perhaps, take a somewhat wider view of this woodland deity and look upon +him as the tutelary genius of all the young life of the forest--the +callow broods of birds, the litters of foxes and squirrels, and the +sapling oaks, hazels, and birches. There was a time when he was looked +upon as a genial fairy, who would bring Yule-logs to the farmers on +Christmas Eve and direct the woodmen in their tasks of planting and +felling; latterly, however, he is said to have grown churlish and +malignant. The reckless felling of young trees for fencing and pit-props +is supposed to have roused his ill-will, and sinister stories have been +told of children who have gone into the woods for acorns or hazel-nuts +and have never been seen again. + +It was in the Bowland Forest district, which is watered by the Ribble +and its tributary becks, that I heard the fullest account of Melsh Dick; +and the following story was communicated to me by an old peasant whose +forefathers had for generations been woodmen in Bowland Forest. The +region where he lived is rich in legend, and not far away is the old +market town of Gisburn, where Guy of that ilk fought with Robin Hood, +and where, until the middle of the nineteenth century, a herd of the +wild cattle of England roamed through the park. + +"Fowks tell a mak o' tales about witches, barguests, an' sike-like," Owd +Dont began, "but I tak no count o' all their clash; I reckon nowt o' +tales without they belang my awn family. But what I's gannin to tell you +is what I've heerd my mother say, aye scores o' times; so you'll know +it's true. A gradely lass were my mother, an' noan gien to leein', like +some fowks I could name. There's owd lasses nowadays, gie 'em a sup o' +chatter-watter an' a butter-shive, an' they'll tell you tales that would +fotch t' devil out o' his den to hark tul 'em." + +After this attack upon the licence of the tea-table, Owd Dont needed a +long draught of March ale to regain his composure. I knew that it was +worse than useless to attempt to hurry him in his narrative. Leisurely +at the start, the pace of his stories quickened considerably as he +warmed to his work, and it was not without reason that he had acquired a +reputation of being the best story-teller on the long settle of the Ring +o' Bells. + +"'Twere back-end o' t' yeer," he continued at last, "an' t' lads had +gone into t' woods to gether hesel-nuts an' accorns. There were a +two-three big lads amang 'em, but most on 'em were lile uns, an' yan +were lame i' t' leg. They called him Doed o' Billy's o' Claypit Lane. +Well, t' lads had gotten a seet o' nuts, an' then they set off home as +fast as they could gan, for 'twere gettin' a bit dosky i' t' wood. But +lile Doed couldn't keep up wi' t' other lads on account o' his gam leg. +So t' lads kept hollain' out to him to look sharp an' skift hissen, or +he'd get left behind. So Doed lowped alang as fast as he were able, but +he couldn't catch up t' other lads, choose what he did, an' all t' time +t' leet were fadin' out o' t' sky. At lang length he thowt he saw yan o' +t' lads waitin' for him under an oak, but when he'd gotten alangside o' +him, he fan' it were a lad that he'd niver clapped een on afore. He were +no bigger nor Doed, but 'twere gey hard to tell how owd he were; and +he'd a fearful queer smell about him; 'twere just as though he'd taen t' +juices out o' all t' trees o' t' wood an' smeared 'em ower his body. But +what capped all were t' clothes he was donned in; they were covered wi' +green moss, an' on his heead was a cap o' red fur. + +"Well, when Doed saw him, he was a bit flaid, but t' lad looked at him +friendly-like and says: + +"'Now then, Doed, wheer ista boun'?' + +"'I's boun' home,' says Doed, an' his teeth started ditherin' wi' freet. + +"'Well, I's gannin thy ways,' says t' lad, 'so, if thou likes, thou can +coom alang wi' me. Thou'll happen not have seen me afore, but I can tell +who thou is by t' way thou favvours thy mother. Thou'll have heerd tell +o' thy uncle, Ned Bowker, that lives ower by Sally Abbey; he's my +father, so I reckon thou an' me's cousins.' + +"Now Doed had heerd his mother tell about his Uncle Ned, an' when t' lad +said that Ned Bowker were his father, he gat a bit aisier in his mind; +but for all that he didn't altogether like t' looks o' him. Howiver, +they gat agate o' talkin', and Doed let on that he were fearful fain o' +squirrels. You see, he kept all nations o' wild birds an' wild animals +down at his house; he'd linnets an' nanpies i' cages, and an ark full o' +pricky-back urchins. But he'd niver catched a squirrel; they were ower +wick for him, an' he wanted a squirrel more nor owt else i' t' world. + +"When Melsh Dick heard that--for o' course t' lad was Melsh Dick +hissen--he said that if Doed would coom wi' him, he'd sooin gie him what +he wanted. He'd bin climmin' t' trees an' had catched a squirrel an' +putten it i' t' basket he'd browt his dinner in. + +"Well, lile Doed hardlins knew what to do. 'Twere gettin' lat, an' there +were summat about t' lad that set him agin him. But then he bethowt him +o' t' squirrel, an' t' squirrel were ower mich for him. So he said to +Melsh Dick that he'd gan wi' him an' fotch t' squirrel, but he munnot +stop lang, or fowks would consate that he'd lossen his way i' t' wood +an' would coom seekin' him. When Melsh Dick heerd him say that he'd coom +wi' him, his een fair glistened, an' he set off through t' wood wi' lile +Doed followin' efter him. T' wood was full of gert oak-trees, wi' birks +set amang 'em that had just begun to turn colour. Efter a while they gat +to a dub i' t' middle o' t' wood; 'twere no bigger nor a duck-pond, but +t' watter was deep, an' all around t' dub was a ring o' espin-trees wi' +their boughs hingin' ower t' watter. Eh! 'twas a grand seet, sure enif, +an' Doed had niver seen owt like it afore. T' sky had bin owercussen wi' +hen-scrattins an' filly-tails, but when they gat to t' dub t' wind had +skifted 'em, an' t' mooin were shinin' ower Pendle Hill way an' leetin' +up t' trees and makkin' t' watter glisten like silver. Lile Doed were +that fain he started clappin' his hands an' well-nigh forgat all about +Melsh Dick an' t' squirrel. Then all on a sudden he gat agate o' +laughin', for when he saw t' mooin' i' t' watter he bethowt him o' a +tale his mother had telled him o' soom daft fowks that had seen t' mooin +i' t' watter an' thowt it were a cheese an' started to rake it out wi' a +hay-rake. + +"When Melsh Dick heerd him laughin', he were fair mad. He thowt Doed +were laughin' at him, an' what maddens fairies more nor owt else is to +think that fowks is girnin' at 'em. Howiver, he said nowt, but set +hissen down anent t' dub an' Doed did t' same. Then they gat agate o' +talkin', an' Doed axed Melsh Dick what for he was covered wi' green +moss. + +"'If thou'd to clim' trees same as I have,' answered Melsh Dick, 'thou'd +be covered wi' moss too, I'll uphod.' + +"'An' what for doesta wear yon cap o' red fur**??' + +"'Why sudn't I wear a fur cap, I'd like to know. My mother maks 'em o' +squirrel skins, an' they're fearful warm i' winter-time.' + +"When lile Doed heerd him tell o' squirrels, he bethowt him o' t' +squirrel i' t' basket an' wanted to set forrard. + +"'Bide a bit,' says Melsh Dick, 'an' I'll show thee more squirrels nor +iver thou's seen i' all thy life.' + +"With that he taks a whistle out of his pocket; 'twere Just like a penny +tin whistle, but 'twere made o' t' rind o' a wandy esh, an' Melsh Dick +had shapped it hissen wi' his whittle. Then he put t' whistle to his +mouth an' started to blow. He blew a two-three notes, an' sure enif, +there was a scufflin' i' t' trees an' i' less nor hauf-a-minute there +were fower or five squirrels sittin' on t' boughs o' t' espins. When +Doed saw t' squirrels i' t' mooinleet, he were fair gloppened. He +glowered at 'em, an' they glowered back at him, an' their een were as +breet as glow-worms. + +"All t' while Melsh Dick kept tootlin' wi' his whistle an' t' squirrels +com lowpin' through t' trees, while t' espins round t' dub were fair +wick wi' 'em. You could hardlins see t' boughs for t' squirrels. 'Twere +same as if all t' squirrels i' Bowland Forest had heerd t' whistle an' +bin foorced to follow t' sound. They didn't mak no babblement, but just +set theirsens down on their huggans, pricked up their lugs, cocked their +tails ower their rigs, and kept their een fixed on Melsh Dick. + +"Well, when Melsh Dick thowt he'd gethered squirrels enew, he started to +play a tune, an' 'twere an uncouth tune an' all. Soomtimes 'twere like +t' yowlin' o' t' wind i' t' chimley, an' soomtimes 'twere like t' +yammerin' o' tewits an' curlews on t' moor. But when t' squirrels heerd +t' tune, they gat theirsens into line alang t' boughs, an' there were +happen twelve squirrels on ivery bough. Then they gat agate o' lowpin'; +they lowped frae tree to tree, reet round t' dub, wi' their tails set +straight out behind 'em. They were that close togither, 'twere just like +a gert coil o' red rope twinin' round t' watter; and all t' time they +kept their faces turned to Melsh Dick, an' their een were blazin' like +coals o' fire. Round an' round they went, as lish as could be, an' lile +Doed just hoddled his breeath an' glowered at 'em. He'd seen horses +lowpin' in a ring at Slaidburn Fair, but 'twere nowt anent squirrels +lowpin' i' t' espins round t' dub. + +"Efter a while Doed thowt that Melsh Dick would sooin give ower playin' +tunes on t' whistle, but he did nowt o' t' sort. He just played faster +nor iver, an' all t' time he kept yan eye fixed on squirrels an' yan eye +fixed on lile Doed, to see if owt would happen him. An' t' faster he +played t' faster lowped t' squirrels. You see, they were foorced to keep +time wi' t' whistle. At lang length t' tune gat to be nobbut a shrike +an' a skreel. Doed had niver heerd sike-like afore; 'twere as though all +t' devils i' hell had gotten lowse an' were yammerin' through t' sky wi' +a strang wind drivin' 'em forrard. Eh! 'twere an uncouth sound, and an +uncouth seet, too, an' lile Doed's teeth started ditherin' an' every +limb in his body was tremmlin' like t' espin leaves on t' trees round t' +dub. An' nows an' thens a gert white ullet would coom fleein' through t' +boughs, an' all t' time there were lile bats flutterin' about ower t' +watter an' coomin' so close agean Doed they ommost brushed his face wi' +their wings. + +"Doed was wellnigh flaid to deeath, but for all that he couldn't tak his +een off o' t' squirrels; they'd bewitched him, had t' squirrels. He put +his hand to his heead, and it felt as though 'twere twinin' round an' +round. Now that was just what Melsh Dick wanted, and why he'd set t' +squirrels lowpin' in a ring. He couldn't do nowt to Doed so lang as he +were maister o' his senses, but if he was to get fair giddy an' drop off +into a dwam, then, sure enif, Melsh Dick would have him i' his power and +could turn him intul a squirrel as he'd turned other lads an' lasses +afore. Wae's t' heart! but he were in a parlous state, were lile Doed, +but he knew nowt about it for all that. When he felt his heead gettin' +mazy, he consated he were fallin' asleep; his een gat that dazed he +couldn't see t' squirrels no more, an' he thowt he mun be liggin' i' his +bed at home under t' clothes. Then suddenly he bethowt him that he were +fallin' asleep without sayin' his prayers. You see, his mother had larnt +him a prayer, an' telled him he mun say it to hissen every neet afore he +gat into bed. Well, Doed aimed to say his prayer, but t' words had +gotten clean out o' his heead. That made him a bit unaisy, for he were a +gooid lad an' it hooined him to think that he'd forgotten t' words. All +that he could call to mind was an owd nominy that he'd heerd t' lads an' +lasses say when they were coomin' home fra schooil. He reckoned 'twere +more like a bit o' fun nor a prayer, but all t' same, when he couldn't +bethink him o' t' words his mother had larnt him, he started sayin' t' +nominy, an' sang out, as loud as he could: + + Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, + Bless the bed that I lig on. + +"He'd no sooiner said t' words when all on a sudden Melsh Dick gav ower +playin', t' squirrels gav ower lowpin', t' bats gav ower fleein' across +t' dub, t' mooin gat behind a gert thunner-cloud, an' t' wood an' t' +watter were as black as a booit. Then there com a scufflin' an' a +skrikin' all ower t' wood. T' squirrels started spittin' an' sweerin' +like mad, t' ullets yammered an' t' wind yowled, an' there was all maks +an' manders o' noises owerheead. Then, efter a minute, t' mooin gat +clear o' t' thunner-pack, an' Doed glowered around. But there was nowt +to be seen nowheer. Melsh Dick was no langer sittin' anent him, an' +there was niver a squirrel left i' t' trees; all that he could clap een +on was t' espin leaves ditherin' i' t' wind an' t' lile waves o' t' dub +wappin' agean t' bank. + +"Doed was well-nigh starved to deeath wi' cowd an' hunger, an' t' poor +lad started roarin' same as if his heart would breek. But he'd sense +enif to shout for help, an' efter a while there com an answer. His +father an' t' lads frae t' village had bin seekin' him all ower t' wood, +and at last they fan him an' hugged him home an' put him to bed. 'Twere +a lang while afore he were better, an' choose what fowks said, he'd +niver set foot i' t' wood agean without he'd a bit o' witchwood i' his +pocket, cut frae a rowan-tree on St Helen's Day." + + + + +Two Letters + + +Annie was busy at the washtub, and it was her mother, who had come to +live with her and her baby while her husband was at the Front, that +answered the postman's knock and brought in the parcel. + +"Annie, here's a parcil thro' France. It'll be thy Jim that's sent it. I +can tell his writin' onywhere, though his hand do seem a bit shaky +like." + +"What's he sendin' naa, I'd like to know?" asked Annie, in a tone of +real or feigned indifference. "He's allus wearin' his brass on all maks +o' oddments that he's fun i' them mucky trenches, or bowt off uther +lads. Nay, tha can oppen it thisen, muther; my hands is all covered wi' +suds." + +Annie's mother undid the parcel and took out a large German helmet, but +it somehow failed to arouse much enthusiasm on the part of either mother +or daughter. Jim had already gone far towards converting his wife's +kitchen into an arsenal, and, as Annie said, "there was no end o' wark +sidin' things away an' fettlin' up t' place." + +At the bottom of the helmet was an envelope addressed to "Mrs Annie +Akroyd, 7 Nineveh Lane, Leeds," and the mother handed it to her +daughter. + +"I'm ower thrang to read it naa," said Annie; "it'll hae to wait while +I've finished weshin'." + +"Eh! but tha'll want to know how thy Jim's gettin' on. Happen he'll be +havin' short leave sooin. I'll read it to thee misen." + +She opened the envelope and began to read the letter. It ran as +follows:-- + +"Dear Annie,--I hope this finds you well, as it leaves me at present. +I'm sendin' thee a helmet that I took off a German that I com across i' +one o' them gert sump-hoils that t' Jack Johnsons maks i' t' grund. He +were a fearful big gobslotch, so I reckon t' helmet will do to wesh aar +Jimmy in. When he gets a bit owder, he can laik at sodgers wi' it. + +"I've coom aat o' t' trenches an' am enjoyin' a rest-cure behind t' +lines; so don't thou worry thisen abaat me. I'm champion, an' I've nowt +to do but eyt an' sleep an' write a two-three letters when I've a mind +to; and what caps all is that I'm paid for doin' on it. There's a lass +here that said shoo'd write this here letter for me; but I'd noan have +her mellin' on t' job, though shoo were a bonny lass an' all----" + +"What mak o' lass is yon?" interrupted Annie. "If he's bin takkin' up +wi' one o' them French lasses, he'll get a bit o' my mind when he cooms +back. He've allus bin fearful fain o' t' lasses, has Jim, an' I've +telled him more nor once I'd have no more on't. An' them Frenchies is +nasty good-for-nowts, I'll warrant. They want a few o' their toppins +pulled." + +Here she paused, and the rest of her wrath was vented on the clothes in +the tub. Her mother continued to read aloud: + +"Mind you let me know if Leeds beats Barnsla i' t' Midland Section next +Setterday. It'll be a long while afore I clap eyes on a paper aat here, +an' I've putten a bit o' brass on Leeds winnin' t' game. An' tell my +father he mun tak my linnit daan to t' Spotted Duck for t' next singin' +competition. He's a tidy singer is Bobby, if he's nobbut properly looked +efter. Tha mun mesh up a bit o' white o' egg wi' his linseed; there's +nowt like white o' egg for makkin' linnets sing----" + +Once again Annie broke in upon the perusal of the letter. "Eh! but t' +lad's fair daft. All he thinks on is fooitball an' linnit matches. White +o' egg for linnits, is it! I'd have him know that eggs cost brass +nah-a-days. Why don't he 'tend to his feightin' an' get a stripe like +Sarah Worsnop's lad ower t' way?" + +"Whisht a bit!" exclaimed her mother, "while I've gotten to t' end o' t' +letter. Eh! but he do write bad; t' words is fair tum'lin' ower one +anuther." + +"I was in a bit o' a mullock," Private James Akroyd's letter went on, +"t' last time we were i' t' trenches; 'twern't mich to tell abaat, but +'twere hot while it lasted. There's lads says I'm baan to get a V.C. But +don't thou hark tul 'em; V.C.'s are noan for t' likes o' me. + +"Jim." + +"Is that all?" asked Annie, as her mother folded up the letter. "Don't +he want to know how mony teeth aar Jimmy's gotten, or owt abaat t' +pot-dogs I bowt i' t' markit." + +"Nay, that's all," replied her mother, "without there's summat else i' +t' helmet." As she spoke she searched the helmet, and soon produced +another letter. It also was addressed to "Mrs Annie Akroyd," but in a +woman's hand. She opened the envelope and proceeded to read it aloud. + +"Dear Mrs Akroyd,--You will have received a telegram from the War Office +telling you of your husband's death----" + +As she heard the dreadful tidings, Annie turned deadly pale for a +moment; then the blood rushed streaming back, till face and neck were +crimson. + +"It's a lee," she shouted, "a wicked lee. I ain't gotten no tillygram, +an' he said he were well an' enjoyin' a rest-cure." + +Then she snatched the letter from her mother's trembling hands and, with +swimming eyes, read it to herself. It had been written by the hospital +nurse, and continued as follows:-- + +"He was terribly wounded when he was brought here, but I cannot tell you +how splendid he was. All his thoughts were of you and your little boy, +and he would write to you himself, though I wanted him to give me the +pencil and paper. He said that if he didn't write himself, you would +know that something was wrong with him. + +"The Colonel came here specially to see him, and he told me that he +should certainly recommend him for the V.C. Your husband was a brave man +and did brave things; he gave his life to save another's. He was wounded +with shrapnel in the head and spine as he was crossing No Man's Land. +The officer to whom he was attached as orderly had been hit in one of +the shell-holes, and your husband crawled out of his trench in full view +of the enemy's line, and brought him back. It was on the return journey +that he received his wounds. The officer is safe, and will recover. + +"Great as your sorrow must be, I hope you will be cheered by the thought +that your husband laid down his life for you and me and all of us. If +the V.C. is granted, you will have to go to Buckingham Palace to receive +it, and I am sure the King would like you to take your little boy with +you. + +"Yours in truest sympathy, + +"Nurse Goodwin." + +When Annie had finished the letter she let it fall, and, staggering to a +seat, flung her hands, still wet and bleached with the labours of the +washtub, upon the table; then, burying her face in them she sobbed her +heart out. + +"I don't want no V.C.," she exclaimed at last, between her sobs. "I want +my Jim!" + + + + +A Miracle + + +Sam Ineson and Jerry Coggill were seasoned soldiers long before the +Palestine campaign began. They had spent two winters in the trenches of +France and Flanders, and when the news reached them that their battalion +had been chosen to reinforce General Allenby's army in Egypt, they took +it as a compliment. Pestilence, murder, and sudden death might be in +store for them, but they would at any rate escape trench warfare, with +all its attendant horrors and discomforts. Their comrades at divisional +head-quarters gave them a good send-off. "Remember us to Pharaoh," they +said, "and you can send us a few mummies for Christmas; they'll do for +mascots." + +The two soldiers, who were Yorkshire farmers' sons, and knew every inch +of the Craven country, from Malham Cove to Kilnsey Crag, had joined the +Egyptian army just as it was preparing to cross the desert on its way to +the Holy Land. They had taken part in the great victory at Beersheba, +and then, driving the Turks before them over the mountains of Judea, had +finally stormed the fortifications of Hebron. Elated by their success, +their hope was that their battalion would be allowed to press forward at +once so that they might spend Christmas Day in Jerusalem. In this they +were disappointed. Other battalions were chosen for this proud +undertaking, and when General Allenby entered the Holy City in triumph +Sam and Jerry were still in the neighbourhood of Hebron, engaged in +repairing the fortifications and restoring order. + +At last the command came to advance. They were, however, to proceed in +small parties, and to share in an enveloping movement among the hills. +Small detachments of Turkish soldiers were known to be lurking among the +limestone terraces between Hebron and Jerusalem, and their duty was to +break these up by means of guerrilla warfare, and prevent surprise +attacks descending at night from the hills on to the army's +communication lines. + +The two Yorkshiremen, accustomed all their lives to the shepherding of +Swaledale ewes among their native moors, were well qualified for this +task. The limestone hills of Judea bear a striking resemblance to the +Craven highlands, and Sam and Jerry had a practised eye for +hiding-places among the rocks, as well as for the narrow sheep-tracks +which lead from one limestone terrace to another. In the course of the +next fortnight they rounded up many bands of ragged Turkish soldiers, +and were steadily driving the rest before them in a northerly direction. +By 24th December they were within five miles of Jerusalem, and the hope +that they might yet reach their goal on Christmas Day came back once +more to their minds. + +But it was not to be. The morning of the 24th found them near the source +of one of the many wadies which, after the rains of November and +December, rush in torrents through the boulder-strewn valleys, and empty +themselves into the Dead Sea. The morning broke clear, but, as the day +advanced, a thick mist descended from the hills and made progress +difficult. But the ardour of the men, now that the goal was almost in +sight, was such that it was impossible to hold them back. In small +pickets they climbed the steep hill-sides, penetrated through the groves +of olive, fig and pomegranate trees which clothe the successive tiers of +limestone terraces, and reached the high plateau above. But at every +step upwards the hill-mist grew thicker, and, in spite of all attempts +to keep together, the pickets of soldiers became split up. When four +o'clock arrived, Sam and Jerry found themselves alone on the hills and +completely ignorant of their bearings. The short winter day was drawing +to a close, and they were in danger of being benighted among the Judean +uplands on Christmas Eve. They determined to make a descent to the point +from which they had started in the morning, but, after an hour's +wandering in the mist, found themselves no nearer their goal. Darkness +was now creeping swiftly upon them, and they realised the dangers of a +fall over one of the terraced cliffs. + +"We're fair bet," said Jerry at last. "There'll be nea Chrissamas dinner +for us to-morn i' Jerusalem, I reckon." + +"Thou's reight," replied Sam; "we sall hae to bide here while t' mist +lifts, an' do t' best we can for wersels. Bully-beef an' biscuit is what +we'll git for wer dinners, an' there'll be nea sittin' ower t' fire at +efter, watchin' t' Yule-clog burn, an' eytin' spice-loaf an' cheese." + +"Nivver mind, lad, we've had a cappin' time sin we set out on t' march +to Jerusalem, an' if we wasn't here we'd happen be up to wer oxters i' +Flanders muck." + +"Aye, we've noan done sae badly," Sam Ineson agreed, "and we sall hae +summat to crack about when we git back to Wharfedale, choose how. +Thou'll hae to tak a Sunday schooil class at Gerston, Jerry, an' tell t' +lads all about Solomon's pools, where we catched them Turks, an' t' tomb +o' t' Prophet Samuel anent Hebron." + +"Nay, I reckon t' lang settle at t' Anglers' Arms will be more i' my +line. But we're noan through wi' t' job yet awhile." + +After this conversation, uttered in whispers, for fear lest their +presence should be disclosed to any Turks lurking in the neighbourhood, +the two soldiers took shelter under the lee of a limestone crag, drew +their overcoats tightly around them, and proceeded to eat their rations. +The prospect of spending a night on the uplands of Judea in a driving +mist did not dismay them. They had fared worse many a night in France +and Flanders, and also knew what it was to be benighted on the Yorkshire +moors. Moreover, they were tired after their wanderings among the hills, +and it was not long before they fell fast asleep. + +Jerry was awakened after a while by a familiar sound close to his ear. +He drew himself up and listened, then burst into a laugh, and roused his +fellow. + +"Eh! Sam," he said, "thou mun wakken up. We reckon we're sodgers; we're +nowt o' t' sort; sure enough, we're nobbut shipperd lads." + +Sam sat up and listened. The sound of a sheep's cough close at hand met +his ear, and, straining his eyes, he saw a whole flock of sheep browsing +the short grass around him. + +"That caps iverything I've heeard tell on," he exclaimed. "Chrissamas +Eve an' two shipperd lads frae Wharfedale keepin' watch ower their flock +by neet i' t' Holy Land. An' accordin' to what Sergeant said, Bethlehem +sud not be sae vara far away frae here." + +The situation in which the two shepherds found themselves touched their +imaginations, and they ceased to regret that they were in danger of +missing a Christmas Day at Jerusalem. They listened to the sheep for a +time, until the cry of a jackal startled the animals, and the flock +dispersed. Then the two soldiers fell asleep once more. + +Shortly before midnight they awoke with a sudden start. A strange light +gleamed in their faces, and the mist had almost vanished. The hill-sides +and the sky above were bathed in a pearly light, while almost +immediately above them they beheld a city, as it were let down from +heaven and suspended in mid-air, beset with domes and minarets that +flashed like jewels in the marvellous radiance that flooded all space. + +"A miracle! A miracle!" Sam Ineson exclaimed, in awe-struck tones, and +then held his breath, for a familiar song broke upon his ears. From the +sky, or from the battlements of the aerial city, he knew not which, +there rang forth the great Nativity hymn: + + While shepherds watched their flocks by night, + All seated on the ground, + The Angel of the Lord came down, + And glory shone around. + +Jerry Coggill looked into the face of Sam Ineson and saw there an +expression of trance-like rapture. As though moved by a common impulse, +the two soldiers sprang to attention, saluted, and, when the hymn +ceased, fell on their knees in prayer. Then the mist closed on them +again, the city among the clouds was hidden from view, and the sky lost +its translucence. But sleep was no longer possible for the soldiers. +They were as men who had seen the invisible; it was as though heaven had +descended upon them and the glory of the new-born King had gleamed in +their eyes, and they were filled with a holy awe. + +Next morning the mist had cleared, and the miracle was explained. The +spot which they had chosen for their resting-place was at the foot of +the great scarp of limestone upon which stands the city of Bethlehem, +two thousand five hundred feet above the sea. The city had passed, +without the shedding of a drop of blood, into the hands of General +Allenby, and the soldiers stationed there, inspired by the associations +of the place and the Christmas season, had left their barracks shortly +before midnight, and, proceeding to the officers' quarters, had greeted +them with a hymn. And the Christmas moon, rising high above the +mountains of Gilead and Moab, had found for a short space of time an +opening in the curtain of mist and had poured down its light upon the +hills of Judea, making the city of Bethlehem seem to the rapt minds of +the two Yorkshire dalesmen as though it had been the city of the living +God let down from heaven. + + + + +Tales of a grandmother + + +I. The Tree of Knowledge + + +I spent a certain portion of every year in a village of Upper +Wharfedale, where I made many friends among the farm folk. Among these I +give pride of place to Martha Hessletine. + +Martha Hessletine was always known in the village as Grannie. She was +everybody's Grannie. Crippled with rheumatism, she had kept to her bed +for years, and there she held levees, with all the dignity of bearing +that one might expect from a French princess in the days of the _grand +monarque_. The village children would pay her a visit on their way home +from afternoon school, and of an evening her kitchen hearth, near to +which her bed was always placed by day, was the Parliament House for all +the neighbouring farms. What Grannie did not know of the life of the +village and the dale was certainly not worth knowing. + +Grannie's one luxury was a good fire. A fire, she used to say, gave you +three things in one--warmth, and light, and company. Usually she burnt +coal, but when the peats, which had been cut and dried on the moors in +June, were brought down to the farms on sledges, her neighbours would +often send her as a present a barrow-load of them. These would last her +for a long time, and the pungent, aromatic smell of the burning turf +would greet one long before her kitchen door was reached. + +I was sitting by her fireside one evening, and it was of the peat that +she was speaking. + +"We allus used to burn peats on our farm," she said, "and varra warm +they were of a winter neet. We'd no kitchen range i' yon days, but a +gert oppen fireplace, wheer thou could look up the chimley and see the +stars shining of a frosty neet." + +"But doesn't a peat fire give off a terrible lot of ash?" I asked. + +"Aye, it does that," she replied, "but we used to like the ash; we could +roast taties in't, and many's the time we've sat i' the ingle-nook and +made our supper o' taties and buttermilk." + +So her thoughts wandered back to bygone times, while I, not wishing to +interrupt her, had taken the poker in my hand and with it was tracing +geometrical figures in the peat-ash on the hearthstone. So absorbed was +I in my circles and pentagons that I did not notice that Grannie had +stopped short in her story, and was taking a lively interest in what I +was doing. It was with no little surprise, therefore, that I suddenly +heard her exclaim, in a voice of half-suppressed terror: "What is thou +doing that for?" and turning round, I was startled to see on her usually +placid face the look of a hunted animal. + +Touched with regret for what I had done, and yet unable to understand +why it had moved her so deeply, I asked what was troubling her mind. For +a few moments she was silent, and then, in a more tranquil voice, +replied: "I can't bear to see anybody laiking wi' ashes." + +"Why, what does it matter?" I asked, and, in the hope that I might help +her to regain her composure I began to make fun of her superstitious +fancies. But Grannie refused to be laughed out of her beliefs. + +"It's not superstition at all," were her words; "it's bitter truth, and +I've proved it misen, to my cost." + +Seeing how disturbed she was in her mind I tried to change the subject, +but she would not let me. For about half-a-minute she was silent, lost +in thought, her grey eyes taking on a steeliness which I had not seen in +them before. Then she turned to me and asked: "Has thou iver heerd tell +o' ash-riddling?" + +"Of course I have," I replied. "Everybody knows what it is to riddle +ashes." + +"Aye, but ash-riddling on the hearthstone, the neet afore St Mark's +Day?" + +Here was something unfamiliar, and I readily confessed my ignorance. It +was evident, too, that Grannie's mind could only find relief by +disburdening itself of the weight which lay upon it, so I no longer +attempted to direct her thoughts into a new channel. + +"It was 1870," she began, "the year o' the Franco-German War, that I +first heerd tell o' ash-riddling, and it came about this way. My man's +father, Owd Jerry, as fowks called him, were living wi' us then; he was +a widower, and well-nigh eighty year owd. He'd been a despert good +farmer in his time, but he'd gotten owd and rheumatic, and his temper +were noan o' the best. He were as touchous as a sick barn, if aught went +wrang wi' him. Well, one day i' lambing-time, he were warr nor he'd iver +been afore; he knew that I were thrang wi' all maks o' wark, but nowt +that I could do for him were reet. So at last, when I'd fmished my +milking i' the mistal, I got him to bed, and then I sat misen down by +the fire and had a reet good roar. I were tired to death, and wished +that I'd niver been born. Iverything had gone agee that day: butter +wouldn't coom, Snowball had kicked ower the pail while I was milking +her, and, atop o' all that, there was grandfather wi' his fratching +ways. + +"I were sat cowered ower the fire, wi' my face buried in my hands, when +my man came in and axed what were wrang wi' me. At first I wouldn't tell +him, but enow he dragged it all out o' me, and in the end I was glad on +'t. But he nobbut laughed when I told him about Owd Jerry, and he said +he'd allus been like that wi' women fowks; 'twere his way o' getting +what he wanted. I got my dander up at that, and said he'd have to get +shut o' his fratching if he lived wi' us." + +"'I reckon he'll noan mend his ways,' said Mike, 'now he's close on +eighty.' So I said if that were the case it would be a good thing for +the peace o' the family when he were putten under grund. Yon were +gaumless words, and bitter did I rue iver having spokken 'em. But Mike +nobbut laughed at what I said. "'Putten under grund!' said he. 'Nay, +father will live while he's ninety, or happen a hunderd; he's as tough +as a yak-stowp.' + +"'He'll do nowt o' the sort,' I answered; 'and he wi' a hoast in his +thropple like a badly cow. I sudn't be surprised if he were dead by +Chrissamas.' + +"'We can soon tell if there's ony truth in what thou says,' replied +Mike. 'It will be Ash-Riddling Day come next Friday, and then we can +find out for wersens if Owd Jerry's boun' to dee afore the year's out.' + +"'What does thou mean?' I axed. + +"'Why, lass, wheer has thou been brought up if thou's niver heerd tell +o' Ash-Riddling Day? What a thing it is to wed a foreigner! If thou'd +been bred and born in Wharfedale thou'd have no need to axe about +Ash-Riddling Day.' + +Well, I set no count on his fleering at fowks that hadn't been brought +up in his dale, for I was wanting to know what he meant. + +"'What thou's gotten to do,' he said, 'is to tak the peat-rake afore +thou goes to bed and rake the ashes out o' the fire and spread 'em all +ower the hearthstone. Then thou can go to bed, and next morning, if +there's to be a death in the family in the next twel-month the foot-step +o' the lad or lass that has to dee will be stamped on the ash.' + +"When he'd finished his tale I gave out that I reckoned it nobbut +blether, but I minded all the same; and that neet, when I were i' bed, I +couldn't give ower thinking o' what he'd said, and I made up my mind +that I'd set the peat-ash on the hearthstone come Thorsday neet. Next +morning I thought different, but all the same I couldn't get shut o' the +temptation. Ay, 'twere a temptation o' the deevil, sure enough; he were +ticing me to eat o' the Tree o' Knowledge, same as he ticed Eve i' the +garden. So I said: 'Get thee behind me, Satan,' and I kept him behind me +all that day. But when it got dark, and I'd putten the childer to bed, +he came forrad, and the ticing got stronger and stronger. It wasn't that +I wanted Owd Jerry to dee, but I were mad to see if there was ony truth +in the tale that Mike had told. + +"Well, Tuesday passed, and Wednesday passed, and Thorsday came. I said +no more about the ash-riddling to Mike, and I reckon he'd forgotten all +about it. But that day Owd Jerry were warr nor iver. He set up his +fratching at breakfast acause his porridge was burnt, and kept at it all +day. Nowt that I did for him were reet; if I filled his pipe, he said +I'd putten salt in his baccy, and if I went out to feed the cauves, he +told me I left the doors oppen, and wanted to give him his death o' +cowd. Evening came at last, and by nine o'clock I were left alone i' the +kitchen. Owd Jerry were i' bed, and the childer too, all except Amos, +our eldest barn, and he had set off wi' his father to look after the +lambing yowes, and wouldn't be back while eleven o'clock. He was a good +lad was Amos, and the only one o' the family that favvoured me; the rest +on 'em took after their father. So I sat misen down on a stool and +glowered into the fire, and wrastled wi' the deevil same as Jacob +wrastled wi' the angel. And the whole fire seemed to be full o' lile +deevils that were shooting out their tongues at me; and the sparks were +the souls of the damned i' hell that tried to lowp up the chimley out o' +the deevils' road. But the lile deevils would lowp after 'em, and lap +'em up wi' their tongues o' flame and set 'em i' the fire agean. + +"At last I couldn't thole it no longer. Ash-riddling or no ash-riddling, +I said, I'm boun' to bed, and upstairs I went. Well, I lay i' bed happen +three-quarters of an hour, and sure enough, the ticement began to wark +i' my head stronger and stronger. At lang length I crept downstairs +agean i' my stocking feet into the kitchen. All was whisht as the grave, +and the fire was by now nearly out, so that there were no flame-deevils +to freeten me. So I took the riddle that I'd gotten ready afore and +began to riddle the ash all ower the hearthstone. The stone were hot, +but I were cowd as an ice-shackle, and I felt the goose-flesh creeping +all ower my body. When I'd riddled all the ash I made it snod wi' the +peat-rake, and then, more dead nor wick, I crept back into bed and +waited while Mike and Amos came home. + +"They got back about eleven, and then I thought, they'll happen see what +I've done. But they didn't, for they'd putten out the lantern in the +stable, and I'd brought the can'le up wi' me into the cham'er. I heerd +'em stumbling about i' the kitchen, and then they came up to bed, and +Mike began talking to me about the lambs i' the croft, and I knew he'd +niver set een on the ash-riddling. He soon fell asleep, and after a +while I dozed off too, and dreamt I were murdering Owd Jerry i' the +staggarth. As soon as cockleet came, I wakkened up and crept downstairs, +quiet-like, so as not to-wakken Mike or the childer. And there on the +hearthstone were the ashes, and reet i' the middle on 'em the prent of a +man's clog. + +"It were Jerry's clog as plain as life. When I saw it I went all of a +didder, and thought I sud ha' fainted' for all that I'd dreamt about +murdering Owd Jerry came back into my mind. But I drave a pin into my +arm to rouse misen, and took the besom and swept up the ashes and lit +the fire. After I'd mashed misen a cup o' tea I felt better, and got +agate wi' the housewark. But, by the mass! it was a dree day for me, was +yon. Ivery time I heerd the owd man hoast I thought he were boun' to +dee. But he was better that day nor he'd been for a long while, and he +kept mending all the time. I couldn't forget, howiver, what I'd done, +and the thought of how I'd yielded to the devil's ticement made me more +patient and gentle wi' Jerry nor iver I'd been afore. + +"Spring set in and the birds came back frae beyont the sea, swallows and +yallow wagtails and sandpipers; the meadows were breet wi' paigles, and +the childer gethered bluebells and lilies o' the valley i' the woods for +Whissuntide, and iverything went on same as afore. We had a good lambing +time, and a good hay harvest at efter. I kept Jerry under my eye all the +while, and nowt went wrang wi' him. He'd get about the farm wi' the +dogs, a bit waffy on his legs, mebbe, but his appetite kept good, and +he'd ommost lossen his hoast. He fratched and threaped same as usual if +owt went wrang wi' his meals, or if the childer made ower mich racket i' +the house, but it took a vast o' care off my mind to think that he could +get about and go down to 'The Craven Heifer' for his forenoon drinkings, +same as he'd allus done sin first I came into Wharfedale as Mike's +bride. And when back-end set in and we'd salved the sheep wi' butter and +tar to keep the winter rain out on 'em, still Owd Jerry kept wick and +cobby, and there were days, aye, and weeks too, when I forgot what I'd +done on Ash-Riddling Day. And when I thought about it, it didn't flay me +like it used to do; for I said to misen, 'I'll keep Owd Jerry alive +ovver next St Mark's Day, choose how.' So I knitted him a muffler for +his throat and lined his weskit wi' flannen; I brewed him hot drinks +made out o' herbs I'd gethered i' the hedgerows i' summertime, and +rubbed his chest wi' a mixture o' saim frae the pig-killing, and honey +frae the bee-skeps. Eh! mon, but it were gey hard to get the owd man to +sup the herb tea and to let me rub him. He reckoned I wanted to puzzum +him same as if he were a ratton, and when I'd putten the saim and honey +on his chest he said I'd lapped him up i' fly-papers. But I set no count +on his nattering so long as I could keep him alive. + +"Chrissamas came at last, and New Year set in wi' frost and snow. The +grouse came down frae the moors and the rabbits fair played Hamlet about +the farms: they were that pined wi' hunger, they began to eat the bark +off the ashes and thorn bushes i' the hedges. I did all I could to keep +Owd Jerry frae the public-house while the storm lasted, but he would +toddle down ivery morning for his glass o' yal, and, of course, he got +his hoast back agean i' his thropple. All the same, I wouldn't give in. +I counted the days while St Mark's Day, and tewed and rived and better +rived to keep him out o' his coffin. But it was weary wark, and I got no +thanks frae Jerry for all I was doing for him. + +"At lang length St Mark's Eve came round, and a wild day it was, and no +mistake. There had been deep snow on the moors two days afore, and after +the snow had come rain. It was a bad lambing time, and Mike and Amos +were about the farm all day and most o' the neet, looking after the +lambs that had lossen their yowes. Owd Jerry had threaped shameful the +day afore; the weather had been that bad he'd not been able to go down +to 'The Craven Heifer.' + +"When I'd gotten out o' bed, and looked out o' the windey it were still +lashing wi' rain, and I said to misen, I'll keep Jerry i' bed to-day. If +I can keep him alive to-day I sal have won, and Jerry can do what he +likes wi' hissen to-morrow. So I hugged up his breakfast to his chamer +and told him I'd leet a fire for him there, and I'd get Harry Spink to +come and sit wi' him and keep him company. But Jerry wouldn't bide i' +bed, not for nobody; he'd set his mind on going down to the public, and +a wilful man mun have his way, choose what fowks say. So off he set, wi' +the rain teeming down all the time, and the beck getting higher and +higher wi' the spate. + +"Eh, deary me! What I had to thole that day! I was flaid that if he had +a drop too mich he'd happen lose his footing on the plank-bridge at the +town-end, and then the spate would tak him off his feet and drown him. I +offered to walk wi' him down to the public and bide wi' him while he +wanted to come back; but he said he reckoned he were owd enough to do +wi'out a nuss-maid and told me to mind my own business. Well, twelve +o'clock came, and when I saw Owd Jerry coming back to his dinner I were +that fain I could have kissed him, though he'd a five-days' beard on his +face. + +"When dinner were ower Mike told our Amos that he mun fetch in the +stirks that were out on the moors on the far side o' Wharfe. The weather +were that bad he doubted they'd come to no good if they were out all +neet. So Amos set off about half-past two, and, efter I'd weshed up and +sided away I sat misen down i' the ingle-nook and mended the stockings. +And there was Owd Jerry set on the lang-settle anent me. There was no +sign on his face of a deeing man, but ivery minute the load on my mind +grew heavier. Eh, man, but it were a queer game the deevil played wi' me +that day, a queer, mocking game that I'll niver forget so lang as +there's breath left i' my body. Leastways that's what I thought at the +time, but I've learnt by now that it weren't the deevil; it was the +Almighty punishin' me for eatin' o' the Tree o' Knowledge. + +"Fower o'clock came, and I got tea ready. The childer came back frae +school, and then Mike came, and the first thing he axed was if Amos had +gotten back wi' the stirks. So I said: 'No, he's noan gotten back yet +awhile.' My mind were so taen up wi' Owd Jerry and the ash-riddling that +I'd forgotten that Amos was away on the other side o' Wharfe. So Mike +for all he was weet to the skin, set off to look for Amos. I gave Owd +Jerry and the childer their tea, but I wouldn't sit down wi' 'em misen, +but kept going to the windey to see if Mike and Amos were coming wi' the +stirks. I looked out, happen six or seven times, and there was nobody on +the road; but at last I set een on Mike and other lads frae the farms +round about. They were carrying somebody on a hurdle." + +For a moment Grannie interrupted her story to wipe away the tears that +were now rolling down her cheeks. In a flash I realised what was to be +the tragic close of her tale, and I tried to spare her the details. But +she refused to be spared, and, forcing back the tears, went on to the +bitter end. + +"Aye, aye, thou'll happen have guessed who was on the hurdle. It was +Amos; he'd lossen his footing on the stepping-stones going across +Wharfe, and the spate had carried him downstream and drowned him. It +wasn't Jerry's clog-print on the ashes, it was Amos's; and the Lord had +taen away my eldest barn frae me because I'd etten o' the Tree o' +Knowledge." + + +II. Janet's Cove + + +Grannie's reputation as a story-teller was readily acknowledged by the +children of our village. When they had trudged back from school which +was held in a village two miles away, tea was always ready for them. But +tea in their own kitchens was accounted a dull repast. If the weather +was fine they carried their "shives" of bread and dripping, or bread and +treacle, into the road in front of their houses and ate them in the +intervals between "Here come three dukes a-riding," "Wallflowers, +wallflowers, growing up so high," and "Poor Roger is dead and laid in +his grave." But in winter, or when the weather was bad, they made it +their custom to take their teas to Grannie's fireside and demand a story +as accompaniment to their frugal meal. The young voices of the children +brightened Grannie's life, and the hour of story-telling round the fire +was for her like a golden sunset following upon a day of gloom. + +The stories which she told to the children were usually concerned with +her own childhood. She had always been of an imaginative turn of mind +and the doings of her early life, seen through the long-drawn vistas of +the years, had become suffused with iridescent colours. They had +gathered to themselves romance as a wall overhung by trees gathers to +itself moss and fern and lichen. + +"Tell you a tale," she would say. "Ay, but, honey-barns, I reckon you'll +have heerd all my tales lang sin. No? Well then, did I iver tell you t' +tale o' Janet's Cove?" + +"Ay, thou's telled us yon last week," Kester Laycock, the spokesman of +the party of listeners, would reply; "but thou mun tell it agean." + +There was diplomacy as well as truth in Kester's words when he said that +Grannie had told them the story of Janet's Cove the preceding week. The +truth was that she had told them that tale every week since winter set +in, but nothing could stale its freshness for them. Besides, did not +Grannie introduce surprising variations of narrative every time she told +it, so that it never seemed quite the same story? + +"Janet's Cove" was a story of the birds, and Grannie's knowledge of the +life and habits of birds seemed wonderful to them. Crippled with +rheumatism as she was, and unable to move from her bed, she nevertheless +watched for the return of the spring and autumn migrants with all the +eagerness of the born naturalist. She offered the children money if they +would bring her the first tidings of the arrival of birds in the dale. +There was always a halfpenny underneath the geranium pot in the +window-sill for the child whose eye caught sight of the first swallow, +redstart or sandpiper; or whose ear first recognised the clarion call of +the cuckoo, or the evening "bleat" of the nightjar on the +bracken-mantled fells at the end of May. Or, if the season were autumn, +the children were told to watch for the arrival of the woodcock and the +earliest flock of Norwegian fieldfares. Under Grannie's tuition more +than one generation in the village had learnt to take an interest in the +movements of migrants in the dale, and that was why the story of Janet +and the birds never failed to charm the ears of the children gathered +round the kitchen hearth. + +"Now then," Grannie would begin, "if I'm boun' to tell you t' tale o' +Janet's Cove, you mun set yoursels down an' be whisht. Tak a seat at t' +top o' bag o' provand, Kester; Betty and Will can hug chairs to t' fire, +and lile Joe Moon mun sit on t' end o' t' bed." + +Such was Grannie's arrangement of the seats, while to me, the visitor, +was assigned the "lang-settle" on the other side of the fireplace. It +was a coign of vantage which I shared with the ancestral copper +warming-pan, and from it I could see the whole group. Grannie, bent +half-double with rheumatism, was propped up in her bed, with the +children grouped around her. She wore, as usual, her white mutch cap and +grey shawl. Mittens covered her wrists, and her fingers, painfully +swollen with chalk-stones, plied her knitting-needles. Her face was +sunken in the cheeks and round her mouth, but her large brown eyes, +still full of animation, broad forehead, and high-arched brows gave +dignity and even beauty to her pale countenance. On the fire the +porridge was warming for the calves' supper, while suspended from the +wooden ceiling was the "bread-flake," a hurdle-shaped structure across +the bars of which hung the pieces of oatcake which were eaten with +buttermilk at supper. + +"Well, I've happen telled you afore," Grannie began, "that when I were a +lile lass I lived up Malham way. My father had a farm close agen Gordale +Scar. Eh! but it's a fearful queer country is yon! Gert nabs o' rock on +all sides wheer nobbut goats can clim, an' becks flowin' undergrund an' +then bubblin' up i' t' crofts an' meadows. On t' other side frae our +steading were a cove that fowks called Janet's Cove. They telled all +maks an' manders o' tales about t' cove an' reckoned it were plagued wi' +boggards. But they couldn't keep me out o' t' cove for all that; 'twere +t' bonniest spot i' t' dale, an' I nivver gat stalled o' ramlin' about +by t' watter-side an' amang t' rowans. There were a watterfall i' t' +cove, wi' a dark cave behind it, an' 'twere all owerhung wi' eshes an' +hazels. + +"One neet I were sittin' up for my father while fower o'clock i' t' +morn. 'Twere t' day afore Easter Sunday an' my father were despert +thrang wi' t' lambin' ewes. He hadn't taen off his shoes an' stockins +for more nor a week. He'd doze a bit i' his chair by t' fire, an' then +he'd wakken up an' leet t' lantern' an' gan out to see if aught ailed t' +sheep. He let me bide up for company, an' so as I could warm him a sup +o' tea ower t' fire. But when t' gran'father's clock strake fower he +said I mun away to my bed. He'd tak a turn round t' croft, an' then he'd +set off wi' his budget to t' mistal to milk t' cows. But I didn't want +to gan to bed. I'd bin sleepin' off an' on all t' neet, an' I weren't +feelin' a lile bit tired. So when my father had set off I went to t' +door an' looked out. My song! but 'twere a grand neet. T' mooin were +just turned full, an' were leetin' up all t' scars an' plats o' meadow; +t' becks were just like silver an' t' owd yew-trees that grow on t' face +o' t' scar had lang shadows as black as pick. I stood theer on t' +door-sill for mebbe five minutes an' then I said to misel, I'll just run +down as far as Janet's Cove afore I gan to bed.' It were a bit cowd, so +I lapped my shawl around my head an' set off. + +"'Twere nobbut a two-three minutes' walk, an' afore vara lang I were +sittin' anent t' rocks, an' t' mooin were glisterin' through t' +esh-trees on to t' watter. Efter a while I felt a bit sleepy; 'twere t' +nippy air, an' mebbe t' seet o' t' fallin' watter dazed my een. +Onygates, I fell asleep an' slept for better pairt of an hour. When I +wakkened t' mooin were well-nigh settin', an' I could see that t' +cockleet were coomin' away i' t' east. So I reckoned I'd get back to my +bed. But just then I saw summat movin' about on t' other side o' t' +beck. At first I thowt it were nobbut a sheep, but when I'd keeked at it +a bit langer I knew it weren't a sheep at all; 'twere a lass o' about t' +same size as misel." + +At this point in the story alertness of mind was depicted on the face of +every listener. Joe Moon's tongue, as agile as a lizard's, had up to now +been revolving like a windmill round the lower half of his face, +questing after treacly crumbs which had adhered to his cheeks; but at +the mention of the girl by the waterfall it ceased from its labours, and +the tightly closed mouth and straining eyes showed that he was not +losing a word. + +"Queerest thing about t' lass were this," Grannie continued, "shoo were +nakt, as nakt as ony hen-egg, an' that at five o'clock on a frosty April +morn. Eh! but it made me dither to see her stannin' theer wi' niver a +shift to her back. Well, I crept close to t' gert stone an' kept my een +on her. First of all shoo crept down to t' watter an' put her feet intul +it, an' gat agate o' splashin' t' watter all ower her, just like a bird +weshin' itsel i' t' beck. Then shoo climmed up to t' top o' t' nab that +were hingin' ower t' fall an' let t' watter flow all ower her face an' +showders. I could see her lish body shinin' through t' watter an' her +yallow hair streamin' out on both sides of her head. Efter a while shoo +climmed on to a rock i' t' beck below t' fall an' gat howd o' t' bough +of an esh. Shoo brak off t' bough an' shaped it into a sort o' a wand +an' started wavin' it i' t' air. + +"Now I ought to have telled you that up to now iverything i' t' cove +were as whisht as t' grave. I could hear t' cocks crowin' up at our +house, but all t' wild birds were roostin' i' t' boughs or on t' grund. +But no sooiner did t' lass wave her wand ower her head than t' larks +started singin'. T' meadows an' cow-pasturs were full o' sleepin' larks, +an' then, all on a sudden, t' sky were fair wick wi' em. I harkened tul +'em, ay, an t' lass harkened an' all, an' kept wavin' t' wand aboon her +head. I doubted 'twere t' lass that had wakkened t' larks an' gotten 'em +to sing so canty. Efter a while shoo lowered t' wand a bit an' pointed +to t' moors, an' then, by t' Mess! curlews gat agate o' singin.' Soom +fowks reckons that t' song o' t' curlew is dreesom an' yonderly, but I +love to harken to it i' t' springtime when t' birds cooms back to t' +moors frae t' sea. An' so did t' lass. When shoo heerd t' curlews shoo +started laughin' an' dashed t' watter about wi' her foot. + +"An' all t' while shoo kept beatin' t' time to t' song o' t' birds wi' +her wand. Soomtimes shoo pointed to t' curlews aboon t' moor; then, +sudden-like, shoo lowered t' wand, while it were pointin' into t' hazel +shaws an' rowan bushes by t' beck-side; and afore I knew what were +happening t' blackbirds wakkened up an' started whistlin' like mad. I +niver heerd sich a shoutin' afore. It were fair deafenin', just as if +there were a blackbird in ivery bush alang t' beck. They kept at it for +happen fower or five minutes, an' then t' lass made a fresh motion wi' +t' wand. What's coomin' next, I wondered, an' afore I'd done wonderin', +sure enough, t' robins gat agate an' tried to shout down t' blackbirds +an' all. You see I'd niver noticed afore that when t' birds start +singin' i' t' morn they keep to a reg'lar order. It's just like a +procession i' t' church. First cooms t' choir lads i' their supplices, +an' happen a peppermint ball i' their mouths; then t' choir men, tenors +and basses; then t' curate, keekin' alang t' pews to see if squire's +lasses are lookin' at him, an' at lang length cooms t' vicar hissen. +Well, it's just t' same wi' t' birds. Skylarks wakkens up first, then +curlews, then blackbirds, robins, throstles. You'll niver hear a +throstle i' front o' a robin, nor a robin i' front o' a blackbird. They +mind what's menseful same as fowks do. At efter, mebbe cuckoo will begin +to shout, an' close behind him will coom t' spinks an' pipits an' lile +tits. Eh, deary me! but I've clean forgotten most pairt o' what I've +larnt misel about t' birds. They do iverything as reg'lar as if 'twere +clockwork. + +"I wonder if you childer can tell me what is t' bird that ligs abed +langest?" + +There was silence for a moment or two, and then Kester Laycock suggested +rooks. + +"Nay," answered Grannie, "rooks are not what I sud call early risers, +but they're not t' last birds up, not by a lang way. T' last bird to +wakken up an' t' first bird to gan to bed is t' house-sparrow. An idle +taistrill is t' sparrow, wi' nowther sense nor mense in his head. But +theer, barns, I'm gettin' off t' track o' my story o' Janet an' t' way +shoo wakkened up t' birds wi' her wand. + +"You see shoo allus knew whose turn sud coom next, an' wheer ivery sort +o' bird was roostin'. One minute shoo pointed t' stick to t' top o' t' +trees, an' then I heerd 'Caw! Caw!' Then shoo'd bring t' jackdaws out o' +their holes i' t' rocks, an' next minute shoo were pointin' to t' mossy +roots o' t' trees hingin' ower t' beck, while a Jenny wren would hop out +an' sing as though he were fit to brust hissen. An' all t' time it were +gettin' leeter an' leeter, an' I could see that t' sun were shinin' on' +t' cliffs aboon Malham, though Janet's Cove were still i' t' shade. I +knew my mother would sooin be seekin' me i' my cham'er, an' I started +wonderin' what shoo'd say when shoo fan' t' bed empty. I gat a bit flaid +when I thowt o' that, but I couldn't tak my een off t' lass wi' t' wand. +I were fair bewitched wi' her, an' I doubt that if shoo'd pointed at me +I sud hae started singin' 'Here coom three dukes a-rid in'.' + +"Howiver, shoo niver clapped een on me wheer I was sittin' behind t' +stone. Shoo were thrang wi' t' birds were Janet, an' gettin' more +excited ivery minute. By now t' din were fair deafenin'; I'd niver heerd +aught like it afore, nor yet sin: without it were when my man took me +down to Keighley, Christmas afore we were wed, an' I heerd t' lads and +t' lasses singin' t' Hallelujah Chorus i' t' Methody chapil. When I saw +t' conductor-lad wi' t' stick in his hand callin' up t' trebles an' +basses an' tother sets o' singers, Marry! I bethowt me o' Janet an' t' +birds i' t' cove, an' I brast out a-laughin' while fowks thowt I were +daft. + +"But theer, barns, I mun get forrad wi' my tale, or your mothers will be +coomin' seekin' you afore I'm through wi' it. By now ommost all t' birds +i' t' cove were wakkened up an' were singin' their cantiest. I looked +up, an' t' sun had gotten clean ower t' top o' t' fell, an' were shinin' +straight down into t' cove. Ay, an' Janet saw t' sun too, an' when it +were like a gert gowden ball at top o' t' hill, shoo pointed her wand at +t' sun an' started dancin' aboon t' watterfall. I looked at her and then +I looked at t' sun, an', Honey-fathers! if t' owd sun weren't dancin' +too. I rubbed my een to finnd out if I'd made ony mistak, but, sure +enough, theer were t' lile nakt lass an' t' owd sun aboon t' breast o' +t' fell dancin' togither like mad. Then, all on a sudden, I bethowt me +it were Easter Sunday, and how I'd heerd fowks say that t' sun allus +dances on Easter mornin'." + +At this point I could not forbear interrupting Grannie to ask her +whether she had ever heard of a poem called _A Ballad upon a Wedding_. +She said she had not, so I quoted to her Suckling's well-known lines: + + Her feet beneath her petticoat, + Like little mice, stole in and out, + As if they feared the light. + But O! she dances such a way, + No sun upon an Easter day + Is half so fine a sight. + +Grannie listened attentively and seemed to think that the heroine of the +poem was the fairy that wakened the birds in Janet's Cove. + +"T' lad that wrote yon verses has gotten it wrang," she said. "Shoo +hadn't no petticoat on her. T' lass were nakt frae top to toe. Well, +when shoo'd bin dancin' a while shoo seemed to forget all about t' +birds. Shoo let her wand drop and climmed down t' fall. Then shoo set +hersel on a rock behind t' fall an' clapped her hands an' laughed. I +looked at her an' I saw t' bonniest seet I've iver set een on. + +"You see by now t' sun had getten high up i' t' sky, an' were shinin' +straight up t' beck on to t' fall. There had bin a bit o' flood t' day +afore, an' t' watter were throwin' up spray wheer it fell on to t' rocks +below t' fall. An' theer, plain as life, were a rainbow stretched across +t' fall, an' Janet sittin' on t' rock reet i' t' middle o' t' bow wi' +all t' colours o' t' bowgreen an' yallow an' blue--shinin' on her hair. + +"Efter that I fair lost count o' t' time. I sat theer, lapped i' my +shawl, an' glowered at Janet, an' t' sun, an' t' watterfall, while at +lang length I heerd soombody callin' me. 'Twere my father, an' then I +knew that fowks had missed me up at t' farm an' were seekin' me amang t' +crofts. Wi' that I gat up an' ran same as if I'd bin a rabbit; an' theer +were my father, stood on t' brig betwixt our house an' t' cove, shoutin' +'Martha!' as loud as iver he could." + +"Did he give thee a hazelin' for bidin' out so late?" asked Kester, with +a wealth of personal experience to draw upon. + +Grannie was somewhat taken aback by the pertinent question, but she was +too clever to give herself away. "What's that thou says about a +hazelin', Kester? Look at t' clock. It's time thou was gettin' alang +home, or mebbe there will be a hazelin' for thee." + + + + +The Potato and the Pig + + +A Fable for Allotment-Holders + + +Abe Ingham was a Horsforth allotment-holder. He talked allotments all +day and dreamed of them all night. Before the war cricket had been his +hobby, and he was a familiar figure at County and Council matches for +twelve miles round. Now he never mentioned the game; he had exchanged +old gods for new, and his homage was no longer paid to George Hirst or +Wilfred Rhodes, but to Arran Chief, Yorkshire Hero, and Ailsa Craig. He +took his gardening very seriously, and called it "feightin' t' Germans." +If you asked him when the war would be won he pleaded ignorance; but if +you asked him where it would be won, his answer invariably was: "On t' +tatie-patches at Horsforth." He still nursed his grievances, for pet +grievances are not yet included in the tax on luxuries, but these were +no longer suffragettes and lawyers, but slugs, "mawks," and +"mowdiewarps." In a word, Ingham was one of the many Englishmen whom +four years of war conditions have re-created. He was slimmer and more +agile than in 1914, and of the "owd Abe" of pre-war times all that +remained was his love of tall stories. I was privileged to listen to one +of the tallest of these one evening, after he had paid a visit of +inspection to my garden and was smoking a pipe with me under my +lime-tree. + +"Fowks tell queer tales 'bout 'lotments," he began, "but I reckon +they're nobbut blether anent t' tale that I could tell o' what happened +me last yeer." + +"What was that, Abe?" I asked. "Did you find a magpie's nest in your +Jerusalem artichokes or half-crowns in the hearts of your pickling +cabbages?" + +"None o' your fleerin'," he replied. "What I'm tellin' you is t' truth, +or if it isn't' truth it's a parable, and I reckon a parable's Bible +truth. It were gettin' on towards back-end, and I'd bin diggin' potatoes +while I were in a fair sweat wi' t' heat. So I reckoned I'd just sit +down for a bit on t' bench I'd made an' rest misen. Efter a while I gat +agate once more, an' I'd ommost finished my row of potates when my fork +gat howd o' summat big. At first I thowt it were happen a gert stone +that I'd left i' t' grund, but it were nowt o' sort. 'Twere a potate, +sure enough, but I'd niver set eyes on owt like it afore, nor thee +either. 'Twere bigger nor my heead; nay, 'twere bigger nor a +fooit-ball." + +"Somebody wanted to have a bit of fun with you, Abe," I interrupted, +"and had buried a vegetable-marrow in your potato-patch." + +"Nay, it were a potate reight enough, an' I were fair capped when I'd +getten howd on it wi' my two hands. 'I'll show this to Sam Holroyd,' I +said to misen. He were chuff, were Sam, 'cause he'd getten six pund o' +potates off o' one root; I reckoned I'd getten six pund off o' one +potate. Well, I were glowerin' at t' potate when a lad com up that I'd +niver seen afore. He were a young lad by his size, but he'd an owdish +look i' his face, an' he says to me: 'What's yon?' + +"Thou may well axe that,' I answered. 'It's a potate.' + +"'What arta boun to do wi' it?' he axed. + +"'Nay,' I said, 'I reckon I'll take it to t' Flower Show an' get first +prize.' + +"'Thou mun do nowt o' t' sort,' said t' lad; 'thou mun bury it.' + +"'Bury it! What for sud I bury it, I'd like to know?' + +"'Thou mon bury it i' t' grund an' see what it grows intul.' + +"Well, I reckoned there might be some sense in what t' lad said, for if +I could raise a seck o' seed potates like yon I'd sooin' mak my fortune. +But then I bethowt me o' t' time o' t' yeer, and I said: + +"'But wheer's t' sense o' settin' a potate at t' back-end?' + +"'Thou'll not have to wait so lang to see what cooms on 't,' he replied, +and then he turned on his heel an' left me standin' theer. + +"Well, I reckoned it were a fooil's trick, but all t' same I put t' +potate back into t' grund, an' went home. That neet it started rainin' +an' it kept at it off an' on for well-nigh a week, an' I couldn't get +down to my 'lotment nohow. But all t' time I couldn't tak my mind off o' +t' lad that had made me bury my potate. He'd green eyes, an' I could +niver get shut o' them eyes choose what I were doin'. Well, after a +while it faired up, and I set off for my garden. When I gat nigh I were +fair capped. I'd set t' potate at t' top-side o' t' 'lotment, and theer, +just wheer I'd set it, were a pig-sty, wi' a pig inside it fit to kill. +I were that flustered you could ha' knocked me down wi' a feather. I +looked at t' sty, and then at t' pig, an' then I felt t' pig, an' he +were reight fat. An' when I'd felt t' pig I turned round to see if t' +'lotment were fairly mine, and theer stood t' lad that had telled me to +bury t' potate. + +"'Well,' he says, 'is owt wrang wi' t' pig?' + +"'Nay, there's nowt wrang wi' t' pig, but how did he get here?' + +"'He'll happen have coom out o' that potate thou set i' t' grund last +week,' and he looked at me wi' them green eyes an' started girnin'. 'But +thou mun bury t' pig same as thou buried t' potate.' + +"'Bury t' pig!' I said. 'I'd sooiner bury t' missus ony day. We've bin +short o' ham an' collops o' bacon all t' summer, an' if there's one +thing I like better nor another it's a bit o' fried ham to my tea.' + +"'Nay, thou mun bury t' pig, an' do without thy bit o' bacon,' he says, +and there was summat i' t' way he gave his orders that fair bet me. I +went all o' a dither, while I hardly knew if I were standin' on my heels +or my heead. But t' lad were as cool as a cucumber all t' while; he +folded his arms an' looked at me wi' his green eyes, an' just said nowt. +Eh! but 'twere gey hard to mak' up my mind what to do. I looked at t' +pig, an' if iver I've seen a pig axin' to have his life spared it were +yon; but then I looked at t' lad, an' his eyes were as hard as two +grunstones; there was no gettin' round t' lad, I could see. So at lang +length I gav' in. I killed t' pig and I buried him same as I'd buried t' +potate. + +"When I gat home I said nowt to t' missus about t' pig, for I couldn't +let on that I'd buried it; shoo'd have reckoned I were a bigger fooil +nor shoo took me for. Shoo gav me a sup o' poddish for my supper, an' +all t' time I were eytin' it I kept thinkin' o' t' fried ham that I'd +missed, an' I were fair mad wi' misen. I went to bed, but I couldn't get +to sleep nohow. You see, I'd bin plagued wi' mowdiewarps up i' t' +'lotment; they'd scratted up my spring onions an' played Hamlet wi' my +curly greens. An' then all of a sudden I bethowt me that t' mowdiewarps +would be sure to find t' pig an' mak quick-sticks o' him afore t' +mornin'. Eh! I gat that mad wi' thinkin' on it that I couldn't bide i' +bed no longer. I gat up 'thout wakkin' t' missus, an' I crept downstairs +i' my stockin' feet, an' went to t' coil-house wheer I kept my spade. I +were boun to dig up t' pig an' bring him home afore t' mowdiewarps sud +find him. But when I'd oppened coil-house door, what sud I see but a +pair o' green eyes glowerin' at me out o' t' darkness. I were that flaid +I didn't know what to do. I dursn't set hand to t' spade, an' efter a +minute I crept back to bed wi' them green eyes followin' me, an' burnin' +hoils i' my back same as if they'd bin two red-hot coils. Sooin as +cockleet com, I gat up, dressed misen an' set off for t' 'lotment, 'an +by t' Mess! what does ta reckon was t' first thing I saw?" + +"Had the pig come to life again?" I asked in wonder. + +"Nay, 'twere better nor that," replied Abe. "I' t' spot wheer I'd buried +t' pig an' buried t' potate afore that, somebody had belt a house, ay, +an' belt it all i' one neet. It had sprung up like a mushroom. So I went +up to t' house an' looked in at t' windey, an' by Gow! but it were my +house an' all." + +"How did you know that it was your house?" I asked. + +"Well, you see," Abe rejoined, "I could tell by t' furnitur that were in +it. There was our kitchen-table that I'd bowt at t' sale when t' missus +an' me were wed, an' t'owd rockin'-chair set agean t' fire; ay, an' t' +pot-dogs on t' chimley-piece an' my father's an' muther's buryin'-cards +framed on t' walls; 'twere all plain as life." + +"So the lad with the green eyes had carried away your house in the night +and set it down on your allotment?" + +"Nay, 'twere nowt o' t' sort. T' house wheer I'd bin livin' were a +back-to-back house, facin' north, so as we niver gat no sun thro' yeer's +end to yeer's end. But t' new house stood all by itsen, wi' windeys on +all sides, an' a back door oppenin' into t' gardin. If there were one +thing that t' missus an' me had set wer hearts on 'twere a back-door. +We'd never lived i' a house wi' a back door, an' t' missus had to hing +all her weshin' of a Tuesday across t' street. Well, I looked round to +see if I could clap eyes on t' lad that had telled me to bury t' pig, +but he were nowheer to be seen. But just then I heerd a buzzin' sound, +an' I reckoned there mun be a waps somewheer about. An' a waps it were. +He flew round an' round my heead, allus coomin' nearer an' nearer, an' +at lang length he settled hissen reight on t' top o' my neb. An' wi' +that I gav a jump, an' by Gow! there was I sittin' on t' bench in my +'lotment. I'd fallen asleep, an all that I'd seen o' t' potate an' t' +pig an' t' house, ay, an' t' lad wi' green eyes, were nobbut a dream. +But t' waps weren't a dream, for I'd seen him flee away when I wakkened +up." + +"What you've told me, Abe, is like a bit of real life," I said, after a +pause. "Most of our dreams in this world turn into wasps, with stings in +their tails." + +"Nay," replied Abe the optimist; "but 'twere not a proper sort of dream +nawther. I've thowt a vast about it off an' on, an' I reckon 'twere a +dream wi' a meanin' tul it. 'Twere like Pharaoh's dream o' t' fat an' +lean beasts. Happen one day I'll find a Joseph that'll tell me what it +all means!" + + + + +Coals of Fire + + +I + + +A visitor to Holmton, one of the smaller manufacturing towns of the West +Riding, on a certain October morning, about the middle of the nineteenth +century, might have witnessed a strange sight. It was market-day, and a +number of farm people were collected in the market-place, where a brisk +trade in cattle, sheep, and dairy produce was being transacted. Suddenly +there appeared in their midst a farmer holding the end of a rope, the +noose of which was attached, not to a bull, calf or horse, but to the +neck of a girl of nineteen. At this strange sight loud shouts were +raised on all sides, and a stampede was made to the spot where the man +and the girl were standing. + +The town was originally merely a centre for the farmers in the +neighbouring villages, but within the last fifty years it had seen the +establishment of the cloth trade in its midst, and the population had +considerably increased. Round about the market-place stone-paved streets +had branched off in all directions, and two-storied stone houses had +been built, in which the rooms on the ground floor served for kitchen +and bedroom, while in the long, low room above hand-looms had been +erected, and wool was spun and woven into cloth. + +The shouts of the farm people in the market-place at once brought the +weavers to their windows and doors. Ever eager for any excitement which +should relieve the drab monotony of their lives, they rushed into the +streets and elbowed their way to the market-place. + +"What's up?" asked one of them of a farmer's man, as he followed the +sound of the hubbub. + +"It's Sam Learoyd," the man replied, "and he wants to know if onybody's +wantin' to buy his dowter." + +"Black Sam o' Fieldhead Farm! By Gow! I reckon he's bin crazed sin his +missus left him for t' barman. But he hasn't gotten no dowters, nor sons +nowther. It'll be his stepdowter, Mary Whittaker, that he's browt to +market." + +The speakers were now approaching the spot where the father and the +haltered stepdaughter were standing. The former, a hard-featured, sullen +man of about forty-five, was addressing the crowd. The latter, hiding as +much of her face as she could beneath her grey shawl, stood with her +hands clasped before her and her eyes fixed on the ground. Mute +resignation was written on every line of her face. Whatever indignation +or shame she might feel at the degrading situation in which she was +placed seemed repressed, either by the humility that comes from long +suffering or by a supreme effort of the will, of which the tightly +closed lips gave some indication. + +The spot chosen by Sam Learoyd for his traffic in human flesh was not +without significance. Behind him, and approached by steps, on which the +farmers' wives exposed for sale their baskets of poultry and eggs, stood +what was left of the market cross. It was one of those old Saxon crosses +of Irish design which may still be seen in some of the towns and +villages of England, and are said to mark the spot where the early +Christian missionaries, long before the churches were built, preached +their gospel of peace and good will to a pagan audience. Close at hand +were the stocks, where, until quite recently, the bullies and scolds of +the town had been set by their fellow-citizens and suhjected to the +missiles and taunts of every passer-by. Here, then, between these two +symbols--the one of Divine mercy and the other of the vindication of +popular justice--Mary Whittaker was exposed for sale. + +It took some time for the crowd to realise that Learoyd was in earnest. +This sale by public auction of a young woman whom many of the bystanders +had known for years seemed little better than a grim jest. Yet most were +aware that sales like this had taken place in the town before, and deep +down in their minds there survived the old primitive idea that the head +of a family had a right to do what he liked with the members of his +household. There were muttered protests from the few women and some of +the older men who were present, but most of the young men, in whom a +sense of chivalry had been blunted by hard lahour and penury, found a +pleasure in goading the farmer on. No magistrate was at hand to put a +stop to the traffic in human life, and the single policeman, realising +that he had no written instructions to deal with such a case as this, +had discreetly withdrawn himself to the remotest quarter of the town. So +Learoyd was left free to conduct his infamous auction. + +"Shoo's for sale," he cried, "same as if shoo were a cauf; and shoo goes +to t' highest bidder." A roar of laughter greeted these words, but +nobody had the courage to make a bid. Seeing that purchasers held back, +Learoyd after the manner of an auctioneer, proceeded to announce his +stepdaughter's "points." + +"Shoo's a gradely lass, I tell you, for all shoo looks sae dowly. Shoo +can bak an' shoo can brew, and I've taen care that shoo'll noan speyk +while shoo's spoken to." + +"If shoo can do all that," asked a bystander, "why doesta want to sell +her?" + +The farmer eyed the questioner narrowly, and then, in a sullen voice, +answered: "I'm sellin' her because I want to get shut on her. Happen +that'll be reason enough for the likes o' thee, Timothy." + +After more of this altercation one of the younger men, urged on by his +comrades, summoned up courage to make a bid. + +"Sithee, I'll gie thee threepence for her, farmer." + +The girl, hearing the insulting offer that was made, raised her eyes for +a moment to glance at the speaker, then shuddered, and, after a pleading +look at her stepfather, lowered them again. + +Learoyd, taking no notice of the girl, looked the bidder steadily in the +face for a moment, in order to discover whether the offer was seriously +made, and, apparently satisfied that such was not the case, replied: +"I'll noan sell her for threepence. Shoo's worth more nor that, let +alone the clothes shoo stands in." But when no further offer was +forthcoming he turned again to the speaker and said: "Well, threepence +is t' price o' a pint o' beer; mak it a quart an' t' lass is thine." + +But the bargainer, seeing that the offer which he made in jest was taken +in earnest, slunk away to the rear of the crowd, and it seemed as though +the girl would remain unsold. Then it was that a ragged, out-at-heel +weaver of diminutive size slowly elbowed his way to the front, and, +holding up six pennies, said, with a shamefaced look on his face: +"There's thy brass. I'll tak t' lass." + +The farmer eyed him curiously, while the crowd, realising that a serious +offer had at last been made, held their breath to see what would follow. + +"Sixpence is it," said Learoyd, "an' what mak o' man art thou that want +to buy her?" + +The weaver made no reply, but the bystanders, to whom the bidder was +well known, gave the necessary information. + +"It's Tom Parfitt o' Mill Lane; he's lossen his wife a while sin and +he'll happen be wantin' a lass to look after t' barns." + +There was something in the shabby dress and down-cast mien of the little +weaver that appealed to the farmer's saturnine humour. He measured with +his eye first of all the man, and next the girl; then, slapping his knee +with his right hand, exclaimed: "Well, Tom, t' lass is thine; an' thou's +gotten her muck-cheap." + +Without more ado he unloosed the halter from the girl's neck, led her +roughly by the arm to where the weaver was standing, pocketed the six +pennies, and, followed by a crowd of rowdies, made his way to the +nearest inn. Meanwhile the weaver and the girl he had bought were facing +each other in silence, neither having the courage to utter a word. Those +of the crowd who had not followed Learoyd began a fire of questions, to +all of which Parfitt made no reply. At last he turned to the girl, and +in as kindly a voice as he could command, said: "Coom thy ways home, +lass," and leading the way, with the girl at his heels, strode through +the crowd and out of the market-place. A number of people proceeded to +follow him, but as they received no answer to all their questions they +gradually fell off, and by the time that Parfitt's cottage was reached +purchaser and purchase were alone. + +Closing the front door behind him the weaver led the girl through the +kitchen, where his three young children were playing at cat's cradle, +into the adjoining bedroom. Here he left her to herself, and, +re-entering the kitchen, got ready a meal of tea and buttered oat-cake, +which he sent in to Mary Whittaker by the hands of his eldest child, a +girl of seven. Then, without further intrusion on the girl's privacy, he +climbed the rickety staircase to the upper chamber and set to work at +his loom. Eager to make up for the time he had lost, he worked with +energy, but every sound from the rooms below came up through the cracks +in the raftered floor. He could hear the voices of the children and, +when the loom was silent for a few moments, the half-suppressed sobs of +the outraged girl were distinctly audible. These drew tears to his eyes, +but he wisely refrained from descending the staircase and attempting to +comfort her. + +After a time the sobbing ceased, and then one by one the children stole +quietly into the bedroom, and a hum of conversation was heard, in which +Mary Whittaker was taking her part. + +"Arta baan to stop wi' us?" he heard his eldest girl, Annie, ask. + +"I don't know," Mary replied. "Happen I'll be goin' back home to-morn." + +"I wish thou'd coom an' live wi' us an' mind Jimmy, so as I can help +father wi' t' loom," Annie continued. + +"Aye, an' thou can laik at cat's cradle wi' me," interposed the younger +girl, Ruth. + +Jimmy, aged three, was silent, but he climbed into Mary's lap, and, with +a grimy finger, made watercourses down her cheeks for the tears that +still filled her eyes. + +"Give ower, Jimmy, or I'll warm thy jacket," exclaimed Annie, fearful +lest the boy should hurt Mary's feelings. + +"Nay, let him be," replied Mary, and wiping the tears from her face she +drew Jimmy closer to herself and mothered him. + +A hole in one of the rafters, caused by the dropping out of a knot in +the wood, enabled Parfitt to see something of what was going on below, +and with a sigh of relief he realised that the worst was now over and +that the children had effected what he himself could not have done. When +six o'clock came he called to Annie to bring him his tea and light his +benzoline lamp. When she appeared he gave orders that the evening meal +should be got ready in the kitchen, and that when it was over she should +ask Mary to wash Jimmy and put him to bed. Anxiously the weaver listened +to the carrying out of his instructions, and when he descended the +staircase at half-past seven he found the kitchen neatly tidied up and +Mary Whittaker seated at the fireside with the two girls on stools at +her feet. Until all the children were in bed he made no attempt to get +the girl to tell him her story, but sought by tactful means to win her +confidence. At first she shrank from him and cast anxious eyes towards +the inner room where the three children were asleep. But the weaver's +gentle voice gradually stilled her fears. + +"Thou'll be tired, lass," he said at length, "and wantin' to get to bed. +Thou can sleep wi' Jimmy in yonder anent t' wall." + +A frightened look came into Mary's eyes as she answered: "But that'll be +thy bed." + +"Nay," replied the weaver, "it'll be thy bed so lang as thou bides wi' +me. I'll mak up a bed for misen i' t' kitchen on t' lang-settle." + +A grateful expression came over the girl's face, but she made no move in +the direction of the inner room. Silence prevailed for some time until +the weaver asked: "Is there owt I can do for thee, or owt that thou's +gotten to tell me, lass? It's been a dree day for thee, to-day; ay, an' +mony a day afore to-day, I reckon." + +This reference to the happenings of the morning brought tears to the +girl's eyes, and it was some time before she could summon up courage to +speak. + +"Don't mind me," she said at last; "I'll be better to-morn. But he +didn't ought to hae browt shame on me i' t' way he's done. It wasn't my +fault mother left him. I'd allus been a gooid lass to him, choose what +fowks say." + +Step by step the weaver led her on to tell him the story of what had led +up to the shameful transaction in the market-place. It was no mere +curiosity that moved him, but a realisation that there could be no peace +of mind for Mary Whittaker until she had found relief by unburdening her +tortured soul. The weaver's gentle ways and tactful bearing were slowly +winning her heart, and, painful though the recital of her past history +was for her, Parfitt knew that it would bring relief. It was a long +story that Mary had to tell. She had little art of narrative, and her +endeavours to shield both her mother and stepfather as far as possible +from blame impeded the flow of her words. Reduced to plain terms, her +story ran as follows:-- + +Mary Whittaker was a girl of fourteen when her mother had married Samuel +Learoyd. Of her father she knew nothing. He had died when she was a +baby. From the first the Learoyds had proved an ill-matched pair. Anne +Learoyd, her mother, had been brought up in Leeds, and having been used +to all the excitements of life in a big town, found the solitary farm +lonesome. Samuel Learoyd, though genial enough at times in the society +of his male friends, was capricious. His temper was often sullen, and +when in one of his gloomy moods he would spend the whole evening in his +farm kitchen in morose silence. This state of mind was in part due to +physical infirmity. As a child he had been subject to epileptic fits, +and though these grew less frequent as he advanced to manhood, he never +entirely shook them off, and during his married life a long spell of +gloomy misanthropy would sometimes end in the return of one of these +attacks. He was, too, a proud man, and his pride bred in him a morbid +sensibility towards any slight, real or fanciful, that was practised on +him. He treated his stepdaughter not unkindly, but never accepted any +parental responsibility towards her. + +Meanwhile Anne Learoyd, finding no congenial society in her own home, +spent much of her time in neighbours' houses. Her chief friend was the +landlady of the Woolpack Inn, a public-house situated midway between the +farm-house and Holmton. Here whole afternoons and evenings were spent, +and the work of the farm-house was left in the hands of Mary Whittaker, +towards whom her mother had never shown any real affection. Years passed +away and the relations between husband and wife grew steadily worse, +till at length the crisis came. A new barman was appointed at the +Woolpack, a man whom Anne Learoyd had known during her early life in +Leeds. Rumour was soon busy with the relations which existed between the +barman and the farmer's wife, and after a time suspicious stories +reached the ears of Samuel Learoyd. A violent scene between husband and +wife took place in the farm kitchen, but, in spite of this, Anne's +visits to the public-house continued as before. One afternoon, when her +husband was attending a cattle-mart in a neighbouring town, Anne +Learoyd, without saying a word to her daughter, left the house and was +still absent when her husband returned for supper. Mary Whittaker was at +once dispatched to the Woolpack Inn, and, after an hour, returned with +the news that her mother was not there and that the barman was also +missing. With an oath, Learoyd saddled his mare and rode in all haste to +Holmton. Finding no news of the missing couple in the town he made his +way to the nearest station, where he found that a man and woman +answering to his description had left by train for Liverpool four hours +before. Learoyd, his heart raging with fury and wounded pride, followed +in pursuit. He arrived at Liverpool in the early hours of the next +morning, and, making his way to the docks, discovered that the fugitives +had sailed at midnight for America. Further pursuit was impossible. He +returned home, and late that same evening was found lying dead drunk on +the road-side within a hundred yards of the local railway station. He +was brought home and put to bed, and next day was seized with a severe +fit of epilepsy. For weeks his life was in danger, and when at last he +recovered strength of body, his mind remained in a state of moroseness +that at times bordered on insanity. He became a fierce hater of women, +and the chief victim of his frenzy was his stepdaughter, Mary Whittaker. + +She bore his harshness with a Griselda patience, but this seemed only to +add provocation to his anger. In her he saw the daughter of the woman +who had trodden his pride in the dust, and he marked her out as the +object of his vengeance. Finding that bitter words and deeds of cruelty +left her seemingly unmoved, his morose and wounded spirit devised other +and darker plans of revenge. At first he conceived the idea of driving +her penniless from his doors, but, realising that the girl would find no +difficulty in obtaining a place as servant on one of the neighbouring +farms, he abandoned it as furnishing insufficient satisfaction for his +tortured heart. One day he heard how a farmer had some years before +ignominiously sold by public auction the wife of whom he had grown +tired, and Learoyd gloated over the story with malicious glee. Here was +a means of satisfying his vengeance to the full. To his warped +imagination it mattered little that Mary Whittaker was entirely innocent +of her mother's desertion of him, or that Anne Learoyd, far away in +America, would probably never hear of her daughter's shame. Inasmuch as +the guilty wife was out of his clutch, he was content with the vicarious +sacrifice that he could demand from her daughter. + +For some days he brooded over his cruel purpose, and it found ever more +favour in his eyes. Market day came and the time was ripe for action. +Roughly informing his stepdaughter that she must go with him to market, +he left the house with her on foot, carrying a halter in his hand. On +the road he brutally informed her of his purpose. A chill of horror +seized the girl when she heard the news, but her tears and entreaties, +so far from melting his heart, filled him with an unholy joy. As they +passed a farm-house on the road Mary screamed out for help, but Learoyd +silenced her with a blow on the mouth, and then, leaving the high road, +took the path through the fields in order to avoid company. Arriving at +the outskirts of the town, he slipped the halter over her head and +dragged her through the by-streets to the market-place. + +Such was Mary's story as told to the weaver that evening in his cottage. +Tom Parfitt was a man of few words, but the tears that rolled down his +cheek showed his sympathy. "Poor lass, poor lass" was his frequent +comment as he listened to the harrowing details and thought of the agony +of the market-place; and when she had ended her tale his voice was +broken with sobs. + +"Thou sal niver want for a home, lass, so lang as I can addle a bite an' +a sup wi' my weyvin'." + +"Happen Learoyd will be wantin' me back agean when he's gotten ower +things a bit." + +"Then he'll noan get thee," and the weaver struck his fist on the table +with unusual vehemence. "A wilful man mun have his way, fowks say; an' I +reckon Sam Learoyd has had it; but he'll noan have it twice ower, if I +know owt about justice." + +"But he's bin sadly tewed wi' mother leavin' him an' all," replied Mary, +"and there's them fits that he has to contend wi'. If he wants me I mun +go. There's nobody left on t' farm to fend for him." + +"If he cooms here he'll find t' door sparred agean him," exclaimed +Parfitt, in his indignation. + +Mary shook her head sadly, but made no reply. + +They sat awhile in silence, gazing into the dying fire, and then the +girl, with a timid "I thank thee for what thou's done for me," withdrew +to the inner room and cried herself to sleep. The weaver lit his clay +pipe and, bending forwards over the grey ashes of his peat-fire, buried +himself in his thoughts till the clock, striking eleven, roused him from +his reverie. He slowly rose, placed a cushion on the settle, and without +undressing, flung himself on the hard boards and fell asleep. + +Days and weeks passed and Mary Whittaker still remained in the weaver's +cottage. The cowed look in her eyes passed gradually away, though it +would come back whenever a man's footfall was heard in the street +outside, and a cold fear seized her at the thought that Learoyd was at +hand to demand her return to the farm. But he never came, and Mary grew +more and more at ease in her new surroundings. The change from the roomy +farmstead, with its wide horizons of moors and woods, to the narrow +cottage in the sunless back street was a strange one for her. She +missed, too, the farm work: the churning of the butter and the feeding +of the calves and poultry. But youth was on her side and she soon learnt +to adapt herself to her new life. Soon after six in the morning she +would mount with Parfitt to the upper room and spin the wool, which he +would then weave into cloth. The work was hard, and some of the +processes of cleaning the wool were repulsive to her nature at first, +but in time she accustomed herself to this as to so much else. It was +easy for her gentle nature to win the hearts of the three children; she +quickly learnt the duties of a mother, nursed them in their childish +ailments, and when the loom was still, joined with them in their games. +Six months Tom Parfitt waited to see whether Learoyd would make any +attempt to recover the stepdaughter whom he had wronged, and then, as +the farmer made no move, he quietly married Mary Whittaker at the +Primitive Methodist Chapel. + + +II + + +Years passed away and a gradual change came over the character of the +social and economic life of Holmton. The town became linked up by rail +with Leeds and Bradford, and in this way it lost its isolation and +caught an echo of the ideas and views of life of the people in the big +towns. Elementary education was introduced, and the printed book slowly +found its way into the weavers' cottages. Most important change of all, +the hand-loom gave place to the power-loom. Factories were built by the +side of the beck, and while a certain amount of weaving continued to be +done by the old people in their cottages, the younger generation sought +employment in the mills, and payment for piecework gave way to +time-wages. Most of the younger weavers welcomed this change when it was +fully understood. They found that the hours of work, though still +terribly long, were shorter than those spent by their parents over their +hand-looms, and the social intercourse of the mill, where the youths and +girls met their equals in age, was deemed preferable to the family +labours in the upper story of the cottages. Moreover, if the overseers +and foremen in the mills were often brutal, the workers could, at any +rate, get away from the atmosphere of the weaving-shed when the hooters +sounded at six o'clock in the evening. + +When this revolution in industrial life took place Tom Parfitt found +himself too old to adapt himself to the change. + +"T' hand-loom's gooid enough for me," were his words. "If I went to work +i' t' mill I'd feel like givin' up an owd friend, just because he'd +grown owd-feshioned. I'll stick to cottage wark, choose-what other fowks +may do." + +Hearing this decision, his wife at once decided to remain with him; but +the three children of Parfitt's former marriage, the youngest of whom +was now seventeen, determined to seek work in the factories. The family +was thus split up, and the younger generation brought back into the +house at night new ideas gained amid the social intercourse of the mill. + +Mary Whittaker's position in the town after her marriage to Parfitt was +quietly accepted by the community of weavers. They still called her by +her maiden name, but there was nothing unusual in that. Often, too, she +was referred to as "Mary that was selled for sixpence," but here again, +at least as far as the older generation was concerned, no stigma was +implied. It was simply a frank statement of fact. With the younger +generation, however, who were quicker than their elders in absorbing new +ideas and new codes of social convention, "Mary that was selled for +sixpence" was a name that aroused curiosity, and sometimes derision. +Occasionally Mary's stepdaughters would be twitted about the name at the +mill, and their faces would burn as they realised that a dark shadow +hung over the woman whom they had been taught to call mother, and who +had won their hearts from the day on which she first set foot in their +father's house. Once they spoke of the matter to their father, anxious +to learn the exact truth from his lips. + +"Aye, I bowt her for sixpence afore I wed her," he said, looking them +steadily in the face, "an' t' man that selled her to me said I'd gotten +her muck-cheap. Them was t' truest words he iver spak, an' shoo would +hae been muck-cheap if I'd gien a million pund for her." + +During all the years that Mary Whittaker had spent at Holmton she had +not once caught sight of Samuel Learoyd. Fieldhead Farm was only four +miles away, but she had never had the courage to go near it. The farmer +visited Holmton only on market days, and notlung could ever induce his +stepdaughter to go near the scene of her deep humiliation. But though +she did not see Learoyd he was never long out of her mind, and through +her husband and children she kept herself informed of what was going on +at the farm. + +After his shameless traffic in the Holmton market-place Learoyd had for +some months lived alone. Never a sociable man, he shunned the society of +the neighbouring farmers, and they, on their side, resenting his +outrageous conduct to his stepdaughter, studiously kept out of his way. +Doggedly he set himself to do both the labours of the house and farm, +and sought to stifle in hard work the memory of his wife's desertion of +him, together with whatever twinges of remorse may have come to him when +he thought of the revenge which he had taken upon her daughter. But as +time went on he found it impossible to attend to all his duties. Nothing +could induce him to enlist the services of a housekeeper, but he engaged +a man, who occupied a two-roomed cottage a hundred yards away from the +farm, and helped him in stable and field. But the sullen humour of +Learoyd was hard to put up with, and the men who came to him soon sought +employment elsewhere. He would engage a servant for the year at the +Martinmas hiring, but as soon as the year was up the man would leave, +and it became increasingly difficult for the farmer to find a +substitute. + +"What mak o' a gaffer is Learoyd?" one labourer would ask of another as +they stood together in the Holmton market-place waiting to be hired. + +"A dowly, harden-faced mon, an' gey hard to bide wi', accordin' to what +all t' day-tale men is sayin'," replied the other. + +"He looks it," answered the first. "He's gotten a face that's like beer +when t' thunder has turned it to allicker. If I was to live wi' him I'd +want a clothes-horse set betwix' me an' him at dinner, or he'd turn my +vittles sour i' my belly." + +"He twilted his wife, did Learoyd, while she ran away wi' Sam Woodhead +at t' Woolpack, an' then he selled his dowter for sixpence. He can't +bide women-fowks i' t' house." + +"Then he'll not git me to coom an' live wi' him. I've swallowed t' +church i' my last place, but I'm noan baan to swallow t' steeple at +efter." + +Such were the opinions passed on Learoyd by the farm labourers round +about Holmton, and it was little wonder that, as the years went by, the +condition of his farm grew steadily worse. + +When the Parfitts had been married fifteen years, a strange rumour +reached their cottage of a spiritual change that had been wrought in the +soul of Samuel Learoyd. It was reported that the farmer had been +attending the revival services held in the little Primitive Methodist +chapel about a mile away from his farm, that his flinty heart had been +melted, and that he had "found the Lord." The weaver's family was slow +to credit this change, though Mary prayed fervently night and morning +that it might be true. Their doubts, however, were set at rest by the +circuit steward of the Holmton chapel where they attended service. He +had taken part in the revival meetings and related what he had seen. + +"Aye, it's true, sure enough," he said. "Sam Learoyd's a changed man. It +were t' local preacher that done it. He gat him on to his knees anent t' +penitential forms at after t' sarvice, an' there were a two-three more +wi' him; an' t' preacher an' me wrastled wi' t' devil for their souls. +I've niver seen sich tewin' o' t' spirit sin I becom a Methody. 'Twere a +hot neight, and what wi' t' heat an' t' spiritual exercises, t' +penitents were fair reekin' an' sweatin'. We went thro' one to t' other +and kept pleadin' wi' 'em. 'Tread t' owd devil under fooit,' says we; +'think on t' blooid o' t' Lamb that weshes us thro' all sin.' An' t' +penitents would holla out: 'I can't, I can't: he's ower strang for me; +I'm baan to smoor i' hell fires.' But t' local were stranger nor t' +devil for all that, an' first one an' then another on 'em would shout +out: 'I'm saved; I've fun' Him, I've fun' the Lord!' Then they'd git up +an' walk out o' t' room that weak you could hae knocked 'em down wi' a +feather. + +"At lang length there was nobbut Sam Learoyd left. He was quieter nor t' +others, but t' load o' sins about his heart was as tough as Whangby +cheese. So me an' t' preacher gat on either side o' him an' we prayed +an' better prayed, but all for nowt. So at last Sam got up off his +knees, an' wi' a despert look on his face, says: 'Let me be. If I'm baan +to find salvation I'll find it misen.' + +"At that we gav ower prayin', but kept kneelin' by his side an' waited +for the Lord to sattle t' job. An' outside t' wind were yowlin' as if it +would blow down t' walls and chimleys. But warr nor t' yowlin' o' t' +wind were t' groans o' Sam Learoyd. + +"After a while t' groans gat easier, and then t' local started singin' +in a low voice, 'Rock of Ages.' But Sam would have noan o' his singin'. +So we just waited to see what would happen. Well, after a while t' +groans stopped, an' Sam lifted up his heead an' looked round. 'Arta +saved?' asked t' local, and Sam answered: 'I'm convicted o' sin.' +'Praise be to God,' sang out t' local, and we gat Sam off his knees and +out o' t' chapil an' away home. An' ivver sin that time Sam's coom +reg'lar to chapil twice on Sundays an' to t' weeknight sarvice too." + +"But will it last?" asked Tom Parfitt, whose long experience as a chapel +member had taught him the snares of backsliding. + +"Aye, 'twill last," replied the circuit steward. "Sam's a changed man: +he has gien ower sweerin', goes no more to t' public, but bides at home +o' neight an' sits cowerin' ower t' fire readin' t' Book." + +The account which the circuit steward gave of the farmer's conversion +was substantially correct, but it did not furnish the whole truth. The +character of his life had changed, but his conversion was only half +accomplished. In the process known as religious conversion there are +usually three well-marked stages: first of all comes conviction of sin, +then repentance, and finally a sense of forgiveness and peace. Learoyd +attained the first stage in the process that stormy night in the little +Methodist chapel. In a dull, blurred way he arrived too at a state of +repentance for the evil he had done. But the final stage of pardon and +peace remained strange to him, and the chief spiritual effect of his +conversion upon him was the attainment of an exquisite agony of soul. +His conscience, long dormant, was roused to feverish activity. His sins, +which were many, haunted him like demons, and chief among these he +accounted, not without reason, the wrong he had done to Mary Whittaker. +She came to him in his dreams, and always under the same form. What he +saw was a girl, with downcast eyes and supplicating hands, standing at +the foot of the Holmton market-cross, with a halter round her neck. Nor +was it only in his dreams that he saw her. Sometimes as he led home his +horses at nightfall after a day's ploughmg, the same form, patient and +unreproachful, would be seen standing at the open door of the farm +waiting to receive him. With a cowed look on his face he would turn away +from the house and pass the night in the hayloft. + +The effect of all this upon his constitution was what might have been +expected. One evening, after a night and day of acutest torment, he fell +in an epileptic fit upon the kitchen floor, and was found there next +morning by a child from the village who had come to the farm for milk. A +doctor was summoned, who brought with him a nurse, and for some days +Learoyd's life hung in the balance. Recovery came at last but the doctor +insisted that he must no longer live alone, but must secure the services +of an experienced house-keeper. In vain did Learoyd protest against this +plan. The medical man remained firm. The nurse would have to leave in a +few days and someone else must take her place. The farmer would not stir +a finger to find such a person, so that the responsibility rested with +the doctor. But all his inquiries availed little. There was no lack of +women suitable for the post, but not one of them would undertake it. The +memory of the scene in the market-place held them back. + +Then it was that the call came to Mary Whittaker. She must go back to +the man that had wronged her. At first the thought struck terror to her +heart; all the horror of her ignominy in the market-place came back to +her mind and filled her with a loathing sickness. For two days she +fought against the promptings of her better nature, but it was a losing +battle. At last she broached the subject to her husband. "I mun go back +to Learoyd," she said, speaking in those quiet, measured tones which Tom +Parfitt had learnt to associate with an inflexible will. Her husband +gave her a look in which admiration for her courage was at odds with +bitter opposition to the proposal. + +"Thou sal do nowt o' t' sort," he said, after a moment's pause. "There's +no call for thee to go nigh him after all he's done to thee." + +"Nay, but he wants me; t' doctor says he mun have somebody to live wi' +him." + +"If he wanted thee he'd coom an' seek thee, stubbornly answered Parfitt. + +"He'll noan do that. I know Learoyd. He's ower proud to axe a favour +thro' anybody, let alone thro' me." + +"Then he can dee in his pride. He's gotten shut o' thee for good an' +all, an' trodden thee i' t' muck, t' owd Jezebel." + +"Nay, don't call him, Tom. Didn't chapel steward say that he was a +changed man sin' he took to goin' to t' chapil?" + +This was almost the only serious dispute that had disturbed the even +tenor of their married life, and it ended in compromise. Mary was to go +to the farm, and if Learoyd needed her she was to stay for a month; at +the end of that time she would return home. Her husband's offer to +accompany her was declined. Instead, she asked him to pay a visit to the +doctor and inform him of her plan. The doctor heartily approved of all +that Mary Whittaker had taken upon herself to do; he said he would visit +his patient in the morning, and if all were going on well would take +away the nurse with him in his brougham. Then, as soon as possible after +their departure, Mary was to come to the farm and see Learoyd when he +was alone. + +It was a bright April morning when Mary Whittaker set out on foot for +Fieldhead Farm. There had been rain the night before and the whole sky +was full of fleecy cumulus clouds, some of which enclosed large patches +of blue sky that looked like tranquil polar seas surrounded by hummocks +of frozen snow. Now and again a small cloud, at a lower elevation than +the rest, would sail gaily across these blue pools, and then be lost to +view against the white clouds on the other side. Larks and chaffinches +were everywhere in full song, and the sunshine had brought the +honey-bees to the palm-willows which, during the last ten days, had +changed their flower-buds from silver to gold. As Mary approached the +farm she saw the first swallows of the season darting in tremulous +flight across the meadows, and their presence cheered her. They had come +back to the farm, like herself, after a period of absence, and a feeling +of comradeship with them penetrated to her heart. + +She needed all the cheering that the sights and sounds of nature could +give her. As she climbed the hill-side and saw the seventeenth-century +farm-house, with its mullioned windows and hood-mouldings, her heart +sank within her. The cruel memory of the morning when she had last left +it came back to her mind, and the hard look of Learoyd, as he disclosed +his purpose to her, made her flinch. She closed her eyes for a moment, +as though to shut out the past, and then braced herself for the coming +interview. Arrived at the front door, which opened directly into the +kitchen, she paused for a moment to summon up her courage, then knocked, +and, without waiting, lifted the latch. Learoyd, still too weak to +attend to farm duties, was seated in the arm-chair by the fire; in his +hands was the family Bible, but he was not reading. Mary was shocked at +the change which fifteen years had wrought in him. He was not more than +sixty, but he looked at least ten years older, and in his eyes there was +the look of a hunted animal. The sullen pride, which was the habitual +expression of his face in the old days, had given way to a look of +morbid irritability. The farmer looked up from his book as she entered, +but, failing to recognise her, asked who she was. + +"It's Mary," she answered, and advanced towards him. + +"Mary!" he exclaimed, and then, realising who Mary was, he shrank from +her as though she had been an avenging spirit. The Mary of his dreams, +the girl standing in the market-place with a halter round her neck, came +back to his mind and deepened the look of terror in his eyes. + +"What doesta want wi' me?" he exclaimed, in a harsh whisper. + +"I've coom to tak care o' thee," Mary replied. + +"Thou's coom to plague me, that's what thou's coom for. I know thee. +I've seen thee o' neights, aye, an' i' t' daytime too; an' if it's +revenge thou wants, I tell thee thou's gotten it already, capital an' +interest, interest an' capital." + +Mary's swift intuition afforded her an insight into Learoyd's mind. She +realised that the fangs of remorse were buried in his heart and she +determined to remove them at all costs. + +"Father," she said--and it was hard for her to utter the word which even +when she was a child had seemed unnatural to her--"let us forget all +that's gone afore. Sufferin' has coom to both on us, but it has bin warr +for thee nor ever it was for me. Let us start agean." + +As she said this she knelt down by the side of his chair and gently +stroked his hands and smoothed back the iron-grey locks that had fallen +over his eyes. At first he shrank from her touch, but in a little time +it soothed his agitation. After all, this was not the Mary Whittaker +that he had seen in his dreams, and the soft grey eyes that looked +steadily into his face were different from those downcast eyes in the +figure of the haltered girl that haunted him. + +For some minutes Mary and her stepfather remained in this position, and +then the former, after imprinting a kiss on Learoyd's forehead, rose +softly to her feet and set to work to prepare the dinner. They partook +of their meal almost in silence, and then Mary, fetching his hat and +stick, led him out of doors into the spring sunshine, encouraged him to +pay a visit to the stables, and talked to him about the labours of the +farm. His voice was now more natural when he answered her questions, and +the frightened look disappeared from his eyes. That night, when she came +into his bedroom, in order to smooth his pillow after he had gone to +bed, he held her hand for a moment and said: "Thou's a gooid lass, Mary; +if I'd wed a lass like thee I'd hae been a different man." + +Mary made no answer, but there were tears in her voice when she wished +him good-night. + +In the days which followed, Mary Whittaker made new advances in the task +of winning Learoyd's confidence and stifling the furies of remorse that +had gripped his heart. All her quiet patience was needed, for although +her progress was sure, there were times when he lapsed, apparently +without reason, into his old mood of suspicion and hostility towards +her. The doctor, when he came to the farm, was full of hope. He found +the farmer's pulse steadier, and saw in him a greater composure of mind. +Learoyd spent long hours over his Bible, and it seemed at last as though +his religious conversion was to be fully accomplished. Conviction of sin +had been followed by contrite repentance, and soon, Mary hoped, he would +attain that peace of mind which the sinner experiences when he knows +that his sins have been forgiven him. + +But when Mary had been a fortnight at the farm a sudden change took +place in his demeanour. It was early evening and Learoyd was, as usual, +reading his Bible. The chapter before him was the twelfth of Romans, and +he read the verses quietly to himself until he came to the last but one: +"Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him +drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head." As he +finished the verse he cast a troubled look at his stepdaughter, who was +quietly sewing on the other side of the fire. "Coals o' fire," he +muttered under his breath, and the old look of terror came back into his +eyes. Mary had never learnt to read, but she saw that the Bible, which +before had brought him peace of mind, was now driving a sword into his +heart. She tried to comfort him, but the farmer shrank from her, as he +had done when she first entered his house, and when she came into his +bedroom to say good-night, he screamed out in terror and would not let +her come near him. That night the vision of the girl with downcast eyes +and supplicating hands, standing in the Holmton market-place, came back +to him with all its old haunting power. From the adjoining bedroom Mary +heard him groaning and tossing on his pillow, and she felt herself +powerless to comfort him. Pity for this tortured soul filled her breast, +but it seemed as though all her resources of solace had failed her, and +that her mere presence in the house aggravated his suffering. + +Next morning, with tears in her eyes, she told the doctor of the change +that had come over his patient. The doctor tried his pulse and looked +puzzled. He ordered Learoyd a soothing draught, but it had no effect. +All through the day his agony was frightful to witness. He sat with +glowering eyes gazing at the verse which had destroyed his peace of +mind. Mary tried to take the Bible from him but, with an oath, he +refused to give it up. The day was a busy one for her. Learoyd's +man-servant had gone with a flock of sheep and lambs to a distant moor, +and the duties of feeding the stock and milking the cows fell to her. +The farmer preserved a sullen silence while she was in the house, but no +sooner was she outside than his muttering began. + +"Coals o' fire, aye, that's what shoo's heapin' on me, coals o' hell +fire; they're burnin' my heart to a cinder. It's vengeance shoo's after; +shoo favours her mother. All women are just t' same. She-devils, that's +what they are. Shoo sal have her vengeance, sure enough, an' then mebbe +t' coals o' fire will burn her as they're burnin' me." A red-hot cinder +fell into the grate as he spoke, and Learoyd gazed at it with curious +intentness until it had lost all its glow. + +"I'll fotch t' halter out o' t' kist, an' I'll do it," he began once +more. "Shoo san't torment me no longer: t' coals o' fire sal be upon her +own heead." + +Here he lapsed into morose silence, and Mary, re-entering the farm +kitchen shortly afterwards, found him, as she had left him, gazing +intently into the fire with the Bible open on his knees. She got tea +ready, but Learoyd stubbornly refused to eat or drink anything, and when +at last ten o'clock came the farmer roused himself from his lethargy and +stole off to bed, casting furtive glances at Mary as he passed through +the door. She wisely refrained from intruding herself upon him that +night, but, climbing the stairs to her bedroom, listened for sounds in +the adjoining chamber. She could hear Learoyd muttering to himself, and +she noticed that he was quicker in getting into bed than usual. A +suspicion crossed her mind that he had not undressed, and this confirmed +the idea which she had formed earlier in the evening that some secret +purpose was maturing in his mind. Sleep was not to be thought of, and +so, without taking off her clothes, she got into bed and listened. + +Two hours passed, and all the time she heard Learoyd groaning in his +bed. Then he got up, struck a light, and remained still for a moment as +though he were listening for any sound that might come from her room. +Then she heard him open the door of his bedroom and creep, candle in +hand, along the passage. As he passed her door he stopped, and Mary held +her breath lest he should discover that she was awake and listening for +every sound. Apparently satisfied that she was asleep, the farmer +descended the stairs to the kitchen. Mary noiselessly crept out of bed +and, lifting the latch of her bedroom door, stood in the shadow of the +passage and watched every movement of her stepfather in the kitchen +below. He had opened the old oak chest by the wall and was fumbling +among its contents. At last he found what he was looking for and drew it +forth. It was a long rope, and, with a shudder, Mary recognised the +halter which had once been round her neck. Her head swam as the thought +came to her that Samuel Learoyd was going to sell her again, and groping +her way back to her room she locked the door and threw herself on her +bed. Anxiously she listened for the farmer's step on the staircase, but +it did not come. Instead, she heard him moving about in the kitchen, and +then came the sound of the bolts being withdrawn from the front door. A +moment later his footsteps were heard on the gravel path. Rousing +herself with an effort, she once more unlocked the door and crept to the +head of the stairs. Come what may, she resolved to follow her stepfather +and discover what were his plans. She made her way down into the kitchen +and, without striking a light, moved towards the front door. It was +ajar, and, opening it, she stared out into the starry night. All was +still, and no sound of Learoyd's footsteps came to her from the +farmyard. + +Drawing her shawl tightly round her, she stepped out into the darkness. +Once she fancied that she heard the farmer muttering to himself in the +croft below and the harrowing thought crossed her mind that this was all +some cunning plan on his part to lure her out of the house and slip the +halter round her neck under cover of night. Her fears counselled her to +return to the house and seek shelter from his mad frenzy behind lock and +key, but the thought that Learoyd, if seized with a fit while exposed to +the chill night air, would certainly meet his death overcame her fears +and urged her on. + +After more than two hours of fruitless search she returned to the farm, +cherishing the hope that her stepfather might have returned too. But the +house was empty and the door still stood ajar. Realising that further +search in the darkness was unavailing, she waited for the dawn and +determined that, as soon as the clock struck four, she would wake up the +farm labourer at his cottage and get him to search the moors while she +made her way down to Holmton to engage her husband and his son in the +task of tracking the fugitive. The dreary night passed at last, the +larks burst into song above her head, and the cry of the curlew was +heard on the moors. She closed the farm door behind her, roused the +hind, and then made her way as swiftly as possible to the town. Here +everybody was still asleep, and her footfalls waked echoes in the +stone-paved streets. Her nearest way to the weaver's cottage lay through +the market-place, and for a moment she hesitated whether she should pass +that way or take the more circuitous route by the beck-side. Realising +that there was no time to lose, she summoned up all her courage, and, +making her way past the church, entered the market-place. Her eyes were +fixed on the ground, as though to avoid beholding the scene of her +humiliation; but the market-cross and the stocks, now that she was +within a few yards of them, exerted a strange fascination over her. Do +what she might, she could not refrain from gazing upon them once more, +and as she did so a cry of horror escaped her. In front of the cross +hung the lifeless figure of a man. About his neck was a halter, the +other end of which was securely fastened to the broken arms of the +cross. + +It was Learoyd. The wretched man, tortured by a sense of guilt, and +obsessed with the idea that Mary Whittaker's act of sacrifice was a +cold-blooded device to shame him and aggravate his misery, had hanged +himself, choosing as the scene of his death the spot where, fifteen +years before, he had exposed his stepdaughter for sale. In so doing, his +warped imagination assured him that the coals of fire which seared his +brain would henceforth be poured upon the head of Mary Whittaker. + +Such was the end of Samuel Learoyd. If there was stern retribution in +his death so was there also malign mockery. The chalice of pardon and +peace was filled for him, but before he could raise the cup to his lips +a fiendish hand had dashed it to the ground and substituted in its place +a draught of venomous hemlock. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's More Tales of the Ridings, by Frederic Moorman + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MORE TALES OF THE RIDINGS *** + +***** This file should be named 18260.txt or 18260.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/2/6/18260/ + +Produced by David Fawthrop and Alison Bush + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/18260.zip b/18260.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a4ae645 --- /dev/null +++ b/18260.zip diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..73ebb12 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #18260 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/18260) |