{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_18260/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_18260","id":"gutenberg_18260","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/18260","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Yorkshire (England) -- Social life and customs -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by David Fawthrop and Alison Bush\n\n\n\n\n\n                       More Tales of the Ridings\n\n                                  by\n\n                       F.W.Moorman, 1872 - 1919\n\n\n\n         Late Professor of English Language, Leeds University.\n\n                 Editor of \"_Yorkshire Dialect Poems_\"\n\n\n\n\nLondon, Elkin Mathews, Cork Street 1920\n\n\n\n\nContents\n\n     Melsh Dick\n     Two Letters\n     A Miracle\n     Tales of a grandmother\n        I.  The Tree of Knowledge\n        II. Janet's Cove\n     The Potato and the Pig\n     Coals of Fire\n\n\n\n\nMelsh Dick\n\n\nMelsh Dick is the last survivor of our woodland divinities. His pedigree\nreaches back to the satyrs and dryads of Greek mythology; he claims\nkinship with the fauns that haunted the groves of leafy Tibur, and he\nlorded it in the green woods of merry England when\n\n   The woodweele sang and wold not cease,\n      Sitting upon the spraye,\n   Soe lowde he wakened Robin Hood\n      In the greenwood where he lay.\n\nBut he has long since fallen upon evil days, and it is only in the most\nsecluded regions of the Pennines, where vestiges of primeval forest\nstill remain and where modern civilisation has scarcely penetrated, that\nhe is to be met with to-day. Melsh is a dialect word for unripe, and the\npopular belief is that Melsh Dick keeps guard over unripe nuts; while\n\"Melsh Dick'll catch thee, lad\" was formerly a threat used to frighten\nchildren when they went a-nutting in the hazel-shaws. But we may,\nperhaps, take a somewhat wider view of this woodland deity and look upon\nhim as the tutelary genius of all the young life of the forest--the\ncallow broods of birds, the litters of foxes and squirrels, and the\nsapling oaks, hazels, and birches. There was a time when he was looked\nupon as a genial fairy, who would bring Yule-logs to the farmers on\nChristmas Eve and direct the woodmen in their tasks of planting and\nfelling; latterly, however, he is said to have grown churlish and\nmalignant. The reckless felling of young trees for fencing and pit-props\nis supposed to have roused his ill-will, and sinister stories have been\ntold of children who have gone into the woods for acorns or hazel-nuts\nand have never been seen again.\n\nIt was in the Bowland Forest district, which is watered by the Ribble\nand its tributary becks, that I heard the fullest account of Melsh Dick;\nand the following story was communicated to me by an old peasant whose\nforefathers had for generations been woodmen in Bowland Forest. The\nregion where he lived is rich in legend, and not far away is the old\nmarket town of Gisburn, where Guy of that ilk fought with Robin Hood,\nand where, until the middle of the nineteenth century, a herd of the\nwild cattle of England roamed through the park.\n\n\"Fowks tell a mak o' tales about witches, barguests, an' sike-like,\" Owd\nDont began, \"but I tak no count o' all their clash; I reckon nowt o'\ntales without they belang my awn family. But what I's gannin to tell you\nis what I've heerd my mother say, aye scores o' times; so you'll know\nit's true. A gradely lass were my mother, an' noan gien to leein', like\nsome fowks I could name. There's owd lasses nowadays, gie 'em a sup o'\nchatter-watter an' a butter-shive, an' they'll tell you tales that would\nfotch t' devil out o' his den to hark tul 'em.\"\n\nAfter this attack upon the licence of the tea-table, Owd Dont needed a\nlong draught of March ale to regain his composure. I knew that it was\nworse than useless to attempt to hurry him in his narrative. Leisurely\nat the start, the pace of his stories quickened considerably as he\nwarmed to his work, and it was not without reason that he had acquired a\nreputation of being the best story-teller on the long settle of the Ring\no' Bells.\n\n\"'Twere back-end o' t' yeer,\" he continued at last, \"an' t' lads had\ngone into t' woods to gether hesel-nuts an' accorns. There were a\ntwo-three big lads amang 'em, but most on 'em were lile uns, an' yan\nwere lame i' t' leg. They called him Doed o' Billy's o' Claypit Lane.\nWell, t' lads had gotten a seet o' nuts, an' then they set off home as\nfast as they could gan, for 'twere gettin' a bit dosky i' t' wood. But\nlile Doed couldn't keep up wi' t' other lads on account o' his gam leg.\nSo t' lads kept hollain' out to him to look sharp an' skift hissen, or\nhe'd get left behind. So Doed lowped alang as fast as he were able, but\nhe couldn't catch up t' other lads, choose what he did, an' all t' time\nt' leet were fadin' out o' t' sky. At lang length he thowt he saw yan o'\nt' lads waitin' for him under an oak, but when he'd gotten alangside o'\nhim, he fan' it were a lad that he'd niver clapped een on afore. He were\nno bigger nor Doed, but 'twere gey hard to tell how owd he were; and\nhe'd a fearful queer smell about him; 'twere just as though he'd taen t'\njuices out o' all t' trees o' t' wood an' smeared 'em ower his body. But\nwhat capped all were t' clothes he was donned in; they were covered wi'\ngreen moss, an' on his heead was a cap o' red fur.\n\n\"Well, when Doed saw him, he was a bit flaid, but t' lad looked at him\nfriendly-like and says:\n\n\"'Now then, Doed, wheer ista boun'?'\n\n\"'I's boun' home,' says Doed, an' his teeth started ditherin' wi' freet.\n\n\"'Well, I's gannin thy ways,' says t' lad, 'so, if thou likes, thou can\ncoom alang wi' me. Thou'll happen not have seen me afore, but I can tell\nwho thou is by t' way thou favvours thy mother. Thou'll have heerd tell\no' thy uncle, Ned Bowker, that lives ower by Sally Abbey; he's my\nfather, so I reckon thou an' me's cousins.'\n\n\"Now Doed had heerd his mother tell about his Uncle Ned, an' when t' lad\nsaid that Ned Bowker were his father, he gat a bit aisier in his mind;\nbut for all that he didn't altogether like t' looks o' him. Howiver,\nthey gat agate o' talkin', and Doed let on that he were fearful fain o'\nsquirrels. You see, he kept all nations o' wild birds an' wild animals\ndown at his house; he'd linnets an' nanpies i' cages, and an ark full o'\npricky-back urchins. But he'd niver catched a squirrel; they were ower\nwick for him, an' he wanted a squirrel more nor owt else i' t' world.\n\n\"When Melsh Dick heard that--for o' course t' lad was Melsh Dick\nhissen--he said that if Doed would coom wi' him, he'd sooin gie him what\nhe wanted. He'd bin climmin' t' trees an' had catched a squirrel an'\nputten it i' t' basket he'd browt his dinner in.\n\n\"Well, lile Doed hardlins knew what to do. 'Twere gettin' lat, an' there\nwere summat about t' lad that set him agin him. But then he bethowt him\no' t' squirrel, an' t' squirrel were ower mich for him. So he said to\nMelsh Dick that he'd gan wi' him an' fotch t' squirrel, but he munnot\nstop lang, or fowks would consate that he'd lossen his way i' t' wood\nan' would coom seekin' him. When Melsh Dick heerd him say that he'd coom\nwi' him, his een fair glistened, an' he set off through t' wood wi' lile\nDoed followin' efter him. T' wood was full of gert oak-trees, wi' birks\nset amang 'em that had just begun to turn colour. Efter a while they gat\nto a dub i' t' middle o' t' wood; 'twere no bigger nor a duck-pond, but\nt' watter was deep, an' all around t' dub was a ring o' espin-trees wi'\ntheir boughs hingin' ower t' watter. Eh! 'twas a grand seet, sure enif,\nan' Doed had niver seen owt like it afore. T' sky had bin owercussen wi'\nhen-scrattins an' filly-tails, but when they gat to t' dub t' wind had\nskifted 'em, an' t' mooin were shinin' ower Pendle Hill way an' leetin'\nup t' trees and makkin' t' watter glisten like silver. Lile Doed were\nthat fain he started clappin' his hands an' well-nigh forgat all about\nMelsh Dick an' t' squirrel. Then all on a sudden he gat agate o'\nlaughin', for when he saw t' mooin' i' t' watter he bethowt him o' a\ntale his mother had telled him o' soom daft fowks that had seen t' mooin\ni' t' watter an' thowt it were a cheese an' started to rake it out wi' a\nhay-rake.\n\n\"When Melsh Dick heerd him laughin', he were fair mad. He thowt Doed\nwere laughin' at him, an' what maddens fairies more nor owt else is to\nthink that fowks is girnin' at 'em. Howiver, he said nowt, but set\nhissen down anent t' dub an' Doed did t' same. Then they gat agate o'\ntalkin', an' Doed axed Melsh Dick what for he was covered wi' green\nmoss.\n\n\"'If thou'd to clim' trees same as I have,' answered Melsh Dick, 'thou'd\nbe covered wi' moss too, I'll uphod.'\n\n\"'An' what for doesta wear yon cap o' red fur**??'\n\n\"'Why sudn't I wear a fur cap, I'd like to know. My mother maks 'em o'\nsquirrel skins, an' they're fearful warm i' winter-time.'\n\n\"When lile Doed heerd him tell o' squirrels, he bethowt him o' t'\nsquirrel i' t' basket an' wanted to set forrard.\n\n\"'Bide a bit,' says Melsh Dick, 'an' I'll show thee more squirrels nor\niver thou's seen i' all thy life.'\n\n\"With that he taks a whistle out of his pocket; 'twere Just like a penny\ntin whistle, but 'twere made o' t' rind o' a wandy esh, an' Melsh Dick\nhad shapped it hissen wi' his whittle. Then he put t' whistle to his\nmouth an' started to blow. He blew a two-three notes, an' sure enif,\nthere was a scufflin' i' t' trees an' i' less nor hauf-a-minute there\nwere fower or five squirrels sittin' on t' boughs o' t' espins. When\nDoed saw t' squirrels i' t' mooinleet, he were fair gloppened. He\nglowered at 'em, an' they glowered back at him, an' their een were as\nbreet as glow-worms.\n\n\"All t' while Melsh Dick kept tootlin' wi' his whistle an' t' squirrels\ncom lowpin' through t' trees, while t' espins round t' dub were fair\nwick wi' 'em. You could hardlins see t' boughs for t' squirrels. 'Twere\nsame as if all t' squirrels i' Bowland Forest had heerd t' whistle an'\nbin foorced to follow t' sound. They didn't mak no babblement, but just\nset theirsens down on their huggans, pricked up their lugs, cocked their\ntails ower their rigs, and kept their een fixed on Melsh Dick.\n\n\"Well, when Melsh Dick thowt he'd gethered squirrels enew, he started to\nplay a tune, an' 'twere an uncouth tune an' all. Soomtimes 'twere like\nt' yowlin' o' t' wind i' t' chimley, an' soomtimes 'twere like t'\nyammerin' o' tewits an' curlews on t' moor. But when t' squirrels heerd\nt' tune, they gat theirsens into line alang t' boughs, an' there were\nhappen twelve squirrels on ivery bough. Then they gat agate o' lowpin';\nthey lowped frae tree to tree, reet round t' dub, wi' their tails set\nstraight out behind 'em. They were that close togither, 'twere just like\na gert coil o' red rope twinin' round t' watter; and all t' time they\nkept their faces turned to Melsh Dick, an' their een were blazin' like\ncoals o' fire. Round an' round they went, as lish as could be, an' lile\nDoed just hoddled his breeath an' glowered at 'em. He'd seen horses\nlowpin' in a ring at Slaidburn Fair, but 'twere nowt anent squirrels\nlowpin' i' t' espins round t' dub.\n\n\"Efter a while Doed thowt that Melsh Dick would sooin give ower playin'\ntunes on t' whistle, but he did nowt o' t' sort. He just played faster\nnor iver, an' all t' time he kept yan eye fixed on squirrels an' yan eye\nfixed on lile Doed, to see if owt would happen him. An' t' faster he\nplayed t' faster lowped t' squirrels. You see, they were foorced to keep\ntime wi' t' whistle. At lang length t' tune gat to be nobbut a shrike\nan' a skreel. Doed had niver heerd sike-like afore; 'twere as though all\nt' devils i' hell had gotten lowse an' were yammerin' through t' sky wi'\na strang wind drivin' 'em forrard. Eh! 'twere an uncouth sound, and an\nuncouth seet, too, an' lile Doed's teeth started ditherin' an' every\nlimb in his body was tremmlin' like t' espin leaves on t' trees round t'\ndub. An' nows an' thens a gert white ullet would coom fleein' through t'\nboughs, an' all t' time there were lile bats flutterin' about ower t'\nwatter an' coomin' so close agean Doed they ommost brushed his face wi'\ntheir wings.\n\n\"Doed was wellnigh flaid to deeath, but for all that he couldn't tak his\neen off o' t' squirrels; they'd bewitched him, had t' squirrels. He put\nhis hand to his heead, and it felt as though 'twere twinin' round an'\nround. Now that was just what Melsh Dick wanted, and why he'd set t'\nsquirrels lowpin' in a ring. He couldn't do nowt to Doed so lang as he\nwere maister o' his senses, but if he was to get fair giddy an' drop off\ninto a dwam, then, sure enif, Melsh Dick would have him i' his power and\ncould turn him intul a squirrel as he'd turned other lads an' lasses\nafore. Wae's t' heart! but he were in a parlous state, were lile Doed,\nbut he knew nowt about it for all that. When he felt his heead gettin'\nmazy, he consated he were fallin' asleep; his een gat that dazed he\ncouldn't see t' squirrels no more, an' he thowt he mun be liggin' i' his\nbed at home under t' clothes. Then suddenly he bethowt him that he were\nfallin' asleep without sayin' his prayers. You see, his mother had larnt\nhim a prayer, an' telled him he mun say it to hissen every neet afore he\ngat into bed. Well, Doed aimed to say his prayer, but t' words had\ngotten clean out o' his heead. That made him a bit unaisy, for he were a\ngooid lad an' it hooined him to think that he'd forgotten t' words. All\nthat he could call to mind was an owd nominy that he'd heerd t' lads an'\nlasses say when they were coomin' home fra schooil. He reckoned 'twere\nmore like a bit o' fun nor a prayer, but all t' same, when he couldn't\nbethink him o' t' words his mother had larnt him, he started sayin' t'\nnominy, an' sang out, as loud as he could:\n\n   Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,\n   Bless the bed that I lig on.\n\n\"He'd no sooiner said t' words when all on a sudden Melsh Dick gav ower\nplayin', t' squirrels gav ower lowpin', t' bats gav ower fleein' across\nt' dub, t' mooin gat behind a gert thunner-cloud, an' t' wood an' t'\nwatter were as black as a booit. Then there com a scufflin' an' a\nskrikin' all ower t' wood. T' squirrels started spittin' an' sweerin'\nlike mad, t' ullets yammered an' t' wind yowled, an' there was all maks\nan' manders o' noises owerheead. Then, efter a minute, t' mooin gat\nclear o' t' thunner-pack, an' Doed glowered around. But there was nowt\nto be seen nowheer. Melsh Dick was no langer sittin' anent him, an'\nthere was niver a squirrel left i' t' trees; all that he could clap een\non was t' espin leaves ditherin' i' t' wind an' t' lile waves o' t' dub\nwappin' agean t' bank.\n\n\"Doed was well-nigh starved to deeath wi' cowd an' hunger, an' t' poor\nlad started roarin' same as if his heart would breek. But he'd sense\nenif to shout for help, an' efter a while there com an answer. His\nfather an' t' lads frae t' village had bin seekin' him all ower t' wood,\nand at last they fan him an' hugged him home an' put him to bed. 'Twere\na lang while afore he were better, an' choose what fowks said, he'd\nniver set foot i' t' wood agean without he'd a bit o' witchwood i' his\npocket, cut frae a rowan-tree on St Helen's Day.\"\n\n\n\n\nTwo Letters\n\n\nAnnie was busy at the washtub, and it was her mother, who had come to\nlive with her and her baby while her husband was at the Front, that\nanswered the postman's knock and brought in the parcel.\n\n\"Annie, here's a parcil thro' France. It'll be thy Jim that's sent it. I\ncan tell his writin' onywhere, though his hand do seem a bit shaky\nlike.\"\n\n\"What's he sendin' naa, I'd like to know?\" asked Annie, in a tone of\nreal or feigned indifference. \"He's allus wearin' his brass on all maks\no' oddments that he's fun i' them mucky trenches, or bowt off uther\nlads. Nay, tha can oppen it thisen, muther; my hands is all covered wi'\nsuds.\"\n\nAnnie's mother undid the parcel and took out a large German helmet, but\nit somehow failed to arouse much enthusiasm on the part of either mother\nor daughter. Jim had already gone far towards converting his wife's\nkitchen into an arsenal, and, as Annie said, \"there was no end o' wark\nsidin' things away an' fettlin' up t' place.\"\n\nAt the bottom of the helmet was an envelope addressed to \"Mrs Annie\nAkroyd, 7 Nineveh Lane, Leeds,\" and the mother handed it to her\ndaughter.\n\n\"I'm ower thrang to read it naa,\" said Annie; \"it'll hae to wait while\nI've finished weshin'.\"\n\n\"Eh! but tha'll want to know how thy Jim's gettin' on. Happen he'll be\nhavin' short leave sooin. I'll read it to thee misen.\"\n\nShe opened the envelope and began to read the letter. It ran as\nfollows:--\n\n\"Dear Annie,--I hope this finds you well, as it leaves me at present.\nI'm sendin' thee a helmet that I took off a German that I com across i'\none o' them gert sump-hoils that t' Jack Johnsons maks i' t' grund. He\nwere a fearful big gobslotch, so I reckon t' helmet will do to wesh aar\nJimmy in. When he gets a bit owder, he can laik at sodgers wi' it.\n\n\"I've coom aat o' t' trenches an' am enjoyin' a rest-cure behind t'\nlines; so don't thou worry thisen abaat me. I'm champion, an' I've nowt\nto do but eyt an' sleep an' write a two-three letters when I've a mind\nto; and what caps all is that I'm paid for doin' on it. There's a lass\nhere that said shoo'd write this here letter for me; but I'd noan have\nher mellin' on t' job, though shoo were a bonny lass an' all----\"\n\n\"What mak o' lass is yon?\" interrupted Annie. \"If he's bin takkin' up\nwi' one o' them French lasses, he'll get a bit o' my mind when he cooms\nback. He've allus bin fearful fain o' t' lasses, has Jim, an' I've\ntelled him more nor once I'd have no more on't. An' them Frenchies is\nnasty good-for-nowts, I'll warrant. They want a few o' their toppins\npulled.\"\n\nHere she paused, and the rest of her wrath was vented on the clothes in\nthe tub. Her mother continued to read aloud:\n\n\"Mind you let me know if Leeds beats Barnsla i' t' Midland Section next\nSetterday. It'll be a long while afore I clap eyes on a paper aat here,\nan' I've putten a bit o' brass on Leeds winnin' t' game. An' tell my\nfather he mun tak my linnit daan to t' Spotted Duck for t' next singin'\ncompetition. He's a tidy singer is Bobby, if he's nobbut properly looked\nefter. Tha mun mesh up a bit o' white o' egg wi' his linseed; there's\nnowt like white o' egg for makkin' linnets sing----\"\n\nOnce again Annie broke in upon the perusal of the letter. \"Eh! but t'\nlad's fair daft. All he thinks on is fooitball an' linnit matches. White\no' egg for linnits, is it! I'd have him know that eggs cost brass\nnah-a-days. Why don't he 'tend to his feightin' an' get a stripe like\nSarah Worsnop's lad ower t' way?\"\n\n\"Whisht a bit!\" exclaimed her mother, \"while I've gotten to t' end o' t'\nletter. Eh! but he do write bad; t' words is fair tum'lin' ower one\nanuther.\"\n\n\"I was in a bit o' a mullock,\" Private James Akroyd's letter went on,\n\"t' last time we were i' t' trenches; 'twern't mich to tell abaat, but\n'twere hot while it lasted. There's lads says I'm baan to get a V.C. But\ndon't thou hark tul 'em; V.C.'s are noan for t' likes o' me.\n\n\"Jim.\"\n\n\"Is that all?\" asked Annie, as her mother folded up the letter. \"Don't\nhe want to know how mony teeth aar Jimmy's gotten, or owt abaat t'\npot-dogs I bowt i' t' markit.\"\n\n\"Nay, that's all,\" replied her mother, \"without there's summat else i'\nt' helmet.\" As she spoke she searched the helmet, and soon produced\nanother letter. It also was addressed to \"Mrs Annie Akroyd,\" but in a\nwoman's hand. She opened the envelope and proceeded to read it aloud.\n\n\"Dear Mrs Akroyd,--You will have received a telegram from the War Office\ntelling you of your husband's death----\"\n\nAs she heard the dreadful tidings, Annie turned deadly pale for a\nmoment; then the blood rushed streaming back, till face and neck were\ncrimson.\n\n\"It's a lee,\" she shouted, \"a wicked lee. I ain't gotten no tillygram,\nan' he said he were well an' enjoyin' a rest-cure.\"\n\nThen she snatched the letter from her mother's trembling hands and, with\nswimming eyes, read it to herself. It had been written by the hospital\nnurse, and continued as follows:--\n\n\"He was terribly wounded when he was brought here, but I cannot tell you\nhow splendid he was. All his thoughts were of you and your little boy,\nand he would write to you himself, though I wanted him to give me the\npencil and paper. He said that if he didn't write himself, you would\nknow that something was wrong with him.\n\n\"The Colonel came here specially to see him, and he told me that he\nshould certainly recommend him for the V.C. Your husband was a brave man\nand did brave things; he gave his life to save another's. He was wounded\nwith shrapnel in the head and spine as he was crossing No Man's Land.\nThe officer to whom he was attached as orderly had been hit in one of\nthe shell-holes, and your husband crawled out of his trench in full view\nof the enemy's line, and brought him back. It was on the return journey\nthat he received his wounds. The officer is safe, and will recover.\n\n\"Great as your sorrow must be, I hope you will be cheered by the thought\nthat your husband laid down his life for you and me and all of us. If\nthe V.C. is granted, you will have to go to Buckingham Palace to receive\nit, and I am sure the King would like you to take your little boy with\nyou.\n\n\"Yours in truest sympathy,\n\n\"Nurse Goodwin.\"\n\nWhen Annie had finished the letter she let it fall, and, staggering to a\nseat, flung her hands, still wet and bleached with the labours of the\nwashtub, upon the table; then, burying her face in them she sobbed her\nheart out.\n\n\"I don't want no V.C.,\" she exclaimed at last, between her sobs. \"I want\nmy Jim!\"\n\n\n\n\nA Miracle\n\n\nSam Ineson and Jerry Coggill were seasoned soldiers long before the\nPalestine campaign began. They had spent two winters in the trenches of\nFrance and Flanders, and when the news reached them that their battalion\nhad been chosen to reinforce General Allenby's army in Egypt, they took\nit as a compliment. Pestilence, murder, and sudden death might be in\nstore for them, but they would at any rate escape trench warfare, with\nall its attendant horrors and discomforts. Their comrades at divisional\nhead-quarters gave them a good send-off. \"Remember us to Pharaoh,\" they\nsaid, \"and you can send us a few mummies for Christmas; they'll do for\nmascots.\"\n\nThe two soldiers, who were Yorkshire farmers' sons, and knew every inch\nof the Craven country, from Malham Cove to Kilnsey Crag, had joined the\nEgyptian army just as it was preparing to cross the desert on its way to\nthe Holy Land. They had taken part in the great victory at Beersheba,\nand then, driving the Turks before them over the mountains of Judea, had\nfinally stormed the fortifications of Hebron. Elated by their success,\ntheir hope was that their battalion would be allowed to press forward at\nonce so that they might spend Christmas Day in Jerusalem. In this they\nwere disappointed. Other battalions were chosen for this proud\nundertaking, and when General Allenby entered the Holy City in triumph\nSam and Jerry were still in the neighbourhood of Hebron, engaged in\nrepairing the fortifications and restoring order.\n\nAt last the command came to advance. They were, however, to proceed in\nsmall parties, and to share in an enveloping movement among the hills.\nSmall detachments of Turkish soldiers were known to be lurking among the\nlimestone terraces between Hebron and Jerusalem, and their duty was to\nbreak these up by means of guerrilla warfare, and prevent surprise\nattacks descending at night from the hills on to the army's\ncommunication lines.\n\nThe two Yorkshiremen, accustomed all their lives to the shepherding of\nSwaledale ewes among their native moors, were well qualified for this\ntask. The limestone hills of Judea bear a striking resemblance to the\nCraven highlands, and Sam and Jerry had a practised eye for\nhiding-places among the rocks, as well as for the narrow sheep-tracks\nwhich lead from one limestone terrace to another. In the course of the\nnext fortnight they rounded up many bands of ragged Turkish soldiers,\nand were steadily driving the rest before them in a northerly direction.\nBy 24th December they were within five miles of Jerusalem, and the hope\nthat they might yet reach their goal on Christmas Day came back once\nmore to their minds.\n\nBut it was not to be. The morning of the 24th found them near the source\nof one of the many wadies which, after the rains of November and\nDecember, rush in torrents through the boulder-strewn valleys, and empty\nthemselves into the Dead Sea. The morning broke clear, but, as the day\nadvanced, a thick mist descended from the hills and made progress\ndifficult. But the ardour of the men, now that the goal was almost in\nsight, was such that it was impossible to hold them back. In small\npickets they climbed the steep hill-sides, penetrated through the groves\nof olive, fig and pomegranate trees which clothe the successive tiers of\nlimestone terraces, and reached the high plateau above. But at every\nstep upwards the hill-mist grew thicker, and, in spite of all attempts\nto keep together, the pickets of soldiers became split up. When four\no'clock arrived, Sam and Jerry found themselves alone on the hills and\ncompletely ignorant of their bearings. The short winter day was drawing\nto a close, and they were in danger of being benighted among the Judean\nuplands on Christmas Eve. They determined to make a descent to the point\nfrom which they had started in the morning, but, after an hour's\nwandering in the mist, found themselves no nearer their goal. Darkness\nwas now creeping swiftly upon them, and they realised the dangers of a\nfall over one of the terraced cliffs.\n\n\"We're fair bet,\" said Jerry at last. \"There'll be nea Chrissamas dinner\nfor us to-morn i' Jerusalem, I reckon.\"\n\n\"Thou's reight,\" replied Sam; \"we sall hae to bide here while t' mist\nlifts, an' do t' best we can for wersels. Bully-beef an' biscuit is what\nwe'll git for wer dinners, an' there'll be nea sittin' ower t' fire at\nefter, watchin' t' Yule-clog burn, an' eytin' spice-loaf an' cheese.\"\n\n\"Nivver mind, lad, we've had a cappin' time sin we set out on t' march\nto Jerusalem, an' if we wasn't here we'd happen be up to wer oxters i'\nFlanders muck.\"\n\n\"Aye, we've noan done sae badly,\" Sam Ineson agreed, \"and we sall hae\nsummat to crack about when we git back to Wharfedale, choose how.\nThou'll hae to tak a Sunday schooil class at Gerston, Jerry, an' tell t'\nlads all about Solomon's pools, where we catched them Turks, an' t' tomb\no' t' Prophet Samuel anent Hebron.\"\n\n\"Nay, I reckon t' lang settle at t' Anglers' Arms will be more i' my\nline. But we're noan through wi' t' job yet awhile.\"\n\nAfter this conversation, uttered in whispers, for fear lest their\npresence should be disclosed to any Turks lurking in the neighbourhood,\nthe two soldiers took shelter under the lee of a limestone crag, drew\ntheir overcoats tightly around them, and proceeded to eat their rations.\nThe prospect of spending a night on the uplands of Judea in a driving\nmist did not dismay them. They had fared worse many a night in France\nand Flanders, and also knew what it was to be benighted on the Yorkshire\nmoors. Moreover, they were tired after their wanderings among the hills,\nand it was not long before they fell fast asleep.\n\nJerry was awakened after a while by a familiar sound close to his ear.\nHe drew himself up and listened, then burst into a laugh, and roused his\nfellow.\n\n\"Eh! Sam,\" he said, \"thou mun wakken up. We reckon we're sodgers; we're\nnowt o' t' sort; sure enough, we're nobbut shipperd lads.\"\n\nSam sat up and listened. The sound of a sheep's cough close at hand met\nhis ear, and, straining his eyes, he saw a whole flock of sheep browsing\nthe short grass around him.\n\n\"That caps iverything I've heeard tell on,\" he exclaimed. \"Chrissamas\nEve an' two shipperd lads frae Wharfedale keepin' watch ower their flock\nby neet i' t' Holy Land. An' accordin' to what Sergeant said, Bethlehem\nsud not be sae vara far away frae here.\"\n\nThe situation in which the two shepherds found themselves touched their\nimaginations, and they ceased to regret that they were in danger of\nmissing a Christmas Day at Jerusalem. They listened to the sheep for a\ntime, until the cry of a jackal startled the animals, and the flock\ndispersed. Then the two soldiers fell asleep once more.\n\nShortly before midnight they awoke with a sudden start. A strange light\ngleamed in their faces, and the mist had almost vanished. The hill-sides\nand the sky above were bathed in a pearly light, while almost\nimmediately above them they beheld a city, as it were let down from\nheaven and suspended in mid-air, beset with domes and minarets that\nflashed like jewels in the marvellous radiance that flooded all space.\n\n\"A miracle! A miracle!\" Sam Ineson exclaimed, in awe-struck tones, and\nthen held his breath, for a familiar song broke upon his ears. From the\nsky, or from the battlements of the aerial city, he knew not which,\nthere rang forth the great Nativity hymn:\n\n   While shepherds watched their flocks by night,\n      All seated on the ground,\n   The Angel of the Lord came down,\n      And glory shone around.\n\nJerry Coggill looked into the face of Sam Ineson and saw there an\nexpression of trance-like rapture. As though moved by a common impulse,\nthe two soldiers sprang to attention, saluted, and, when the hymn\nceased, fell on their knees in prayer. Then the mist closed on them\nagain, the city among the clouds was hidden from view, and the sky lost\nits translucence. But sleep was no longer possible for the soldiers.\nThey were as men who had seen the invisible; it was as though heaven had\ndescended upon them and the glory of the new-born King had gleamed in\ntheir eyes, and they were filled with a holy awe.\n\nNext morning the mist had cleared, and the miracle was explained. The\nspot which they had chosen for their resting-place was at the foot of\nthe great scarp of limestone upon which stands the city of Bethlehem,\ntwo thousand five hundred feet above the sea. The city had passed,\nwithout the shedding of a drop of blood, into the hands of General\nAllenby, and the soldiers stationed there, inspired by the associations\nof the place and the Christmas season, had left their barracks shortly\nbefore midnight, and, proceeding to the officers' quarters, had greeted\nthem with a hymn. And the Christmas moon, rising high above the\nmountains of Gilead and Moab, had found for a short space of time an\nopening in the curtain of mist and had poured down its light upon the\nhills of Judea, making the city of Bethlehem seem to the rapt minds of\nthe two Yorkshire dalesmen as though it had been the city of the living\nGod let down from heaven.\n\n\n\n\nTales of a grandmother\n\n\nI. The Tree of Knowledge\n\n\nI spent a certain portion of every year in a village of Upper\nWharfedale, where I made many friends among the farm folk. Among these I\ngive pride of place to Martha Hessletine.\n\nMartha Hessletine was always known in the village as Grannie. She was\neverybody's Grannie. Crippled with rheumatism, she had kept to her bed\nfor years, and there she held levees, with all the dignity of bearing\nthat one might expect from a French princess in the days of the _grand\nmonarque_. The village children would pay her a visit on their way home\nfrom afternoon school, and of an evening her kitchen hearth, near to\nwhich her bed was always placed by day, was the Parliament House for all\nthe neighbouring farms. What Grannie did not know of the life of the\nvillage and the dale was certainly not worth knowing.\n\nGrannie's one luxury was a good fire. A fire, she used to say, gave you\nthree things in one--warmth, and light, and company. Usually she burnt\ncoal, but when the peats, which had been cut and dried on the moors in\nJune, were brought down to the farms on sledges, her neighbours would\noften send her as a present a barrow-load of them. These would last her\nfor a long time, and the pungent, aromatic smell of the burning turf\nwould greet one long before her kitchen door was reached.\n\nI was sitting by her fireside one evening, and it was of the peat that\nshe was speaking.\n\n\"We allus used to burn peats on our farm,\" she said, \"and varra warm\nthey were of a winter neet. We'd no kitchen range i' yon days, but a\ngert oppen fireplace, wheer thou could look up the chimley and see the\nstars shining of a frosty neet.\"\n\n\"But doesn't a peat fire give off a terrible lot of ash?\" I asked.\n\n\"Aye, it does that,\" she replied, \"but we used to like the ash; we could\nroast taties in't, and many's the time we've sat i' the ingle-nook and\nmade our supper o' taties and buttermilk.\"\n\nSo her thoughts wandered back to bygone times, while I, not wishing to\ninterrupt her, had taken the poker in my hand and with it was tracing\ngeometrical figures in the peat-ash on the hearthstone. So absorbed was\nI in my circles and pentagons that I did not notice that Grannie had\nstopped short in her story, and was taking a lively interest in what I\nwas doing. It was with no little surprise, therefore, that I suddenly\nheard her exclaim, in a voice of half-suppressed terror: \"What is thou\ndoing that for?\" and turning round, I was startled to see on her usually\nplacid face the look of a hunted animal.\n\nTouched with regret for what I had done, and yet unable to understand\nwhy it had moved her so deeply, I asked what was troubling her mind. For\na few moments she was silent, and then, in a more tranquil voice,\nreplied: \"I can't bear to see anybody laiking wi' ashes.\"\n\n\"Why, what does it matter?\" I asked, and, in the hope that I might help\nher to regain her composure I began to make fun of her superstitious\nfancies. But Grannie refused to be laughed out of her beliefs.\n\n\"It's not superstition at all,\" were her words; \"it's bitter truth, and\nI've proved it misen, to my cost.\"\n\nSeeing how disturbed she was in her mind I tried to change the subject,\nbut she would not let me. For about half-a-minute she was silent, lost\nin thought, her grey eyes taking on a steeliness which I had not seen in\nthem before. Then she turned to me and asked: \"Has thou iver heerd tell\no' ash-riddling?\"\n\n\"Of course I have,\" I replied. \"Everybody knows what it is to riddle\nashes.\"\n\n\"Aye, but ash-riddling on the hearthstone, the neet afore St Mark's\nDay?\"\n\nHere was something unfamiliar, and I readily confessed my ignorance. It\nwas evident, too, that Grannie's mind could only find relief by\ndisburdening itself of the weight which lay upon it, so I no longer\nattempted to direct her thoughts into a new channel.\n\n\"It was 1870,\" she began, \"the year o' the Franco-German War, that I\nfirst heerd tell o' ash-riddling, and it came about this way. My man's\nfather, Owd Jerry, as fowks called him, were living wi' us then; he was\na widower, and well-nigh eighty year owd. He'd been a despert good\nfarmer in his time, but he'd gotten owd and rheumatic, and his temper\nwere noan o' the best. He were as touchous as a sick barn, if aught went\nwrang wi' him. Well, one day i' lambing-time, he were warr nor he'd iver\nbeen afore; he knew that I were thrang wi' all maks o' wark, but nowt\nthat I could do for him were reet. So at last, when I'd fmished my\nmilking i' the mistal, I got him to bed, and then I sat misen down by\nthe fire and had a reet good roar. I were tired to death, and wished\nthat I'd niver been born. Iverything had gone agee that day: butter\nwouldn't coom, Snowball had kicked ower the pail while I was milking\nher, and, atop o' all that, there was grandfather wi' his fratching\nways.\n\n\"I were sat cowered ower the fire, wi' my face buried in my hands, when\nmy man came in and axed what were wrang wi' me. At first I wouldn't tell\nhim, but enow he dragged it all out o' me, and in the end I was glad on\n't. But he nobbut laughed when I told him about Owd Jerry, and he said\nhe'd allus been like that wi' women fowks; 'twere his way o' getting\nwhat he wanted. I got my dander up at that, and said he'd have to get\nshut o' his fratching if he lived wi' us.\"\n\n\"'I reckon he'll noan mend his ways,' said Mike, 'now he's close on\neighty.' So I said if that were the case it would be a good thing for\nthe peace o' the family when he were putten under grund. Yon were\ngaumless words, and bitter did I rue iver having spokken 'em. But Mike\nnobbut laughed at what I said. \"'Putten under grund!' said he. 'Nay,\nfather will live while he's ninety, or happen a hunderd; he's as tough\nas a yak-stowp.'\n\n\"'He'll do nowt o' the sort,' I answered; 'and he wi' a hoast in his\nthropple like a badly cow. I sudn't be surprised if he were dead by\nChrissamas.'\n\n\"'We can soon tell if there's ony truth in what thou says,' replied\nMike. 'It will be Ash-Riddling Day come next Friday, and then we can\nfind out for wersens if Owd Jerry's boun' to dee afore the year's out.'\n\n\"'What does thou mean?' I axed.\n\n\"'Why, lass, wheer has thou been brought up if thou's niver heerd tell\no' Ash-Riddling Day? What a thing it is to wed a foreigner! If thou'd\nbeen bred and born in Wharfedale thou'd have no need to axe about\nAsh-Riddling Day.'\n\nWell, I set no count on his fleering at fowks that hadn't been brought\nup in his dale, for I was wanting to know what he meant.\n\n\"'What thou's gotten to do,' he said, 'is to tak the peat-rake afore\nthou goes to bed and rake the ashes out o' the fire and spread 'em all\nower the hearthstone. Then thou can go to bed, and next morning, if\nthere's to be a death in the family in the next twel-month the foot-step\no' the lad or lass that has to dee will be stamped on the ash.'\n\n\"When he'd finished his tale I gave out that I reckoned it nobbut\nblether, but I minded all the same; and that neet, when I were i' bed, I\ncouldn't give ower thinking o' what he'd said, and I made up my mind\nthat I'd set the peat-ash on the hearthstone come Thorsday neet. Next\nmorning I thought different, but all the same I couldn't get shut o' the\ntemptation. Ay, 'twere a temptation o' the deevil, sure enough; he were\nticing me to eat o' the Tree o' Knowledge, same as he ticed Eve i' the\ngarden. So I said: 'Get thee behind me, Satan,' and I kept him behind me\nall that day. But when it got dark, and I'd putten the childer to bed,\nhe came forrad, and the ticing got stronger and stronger. It wasn't that\nI wanted Owd Jerry to dee, but I were mad to see if there was ony truth\nin the tale that Mike had told.\n\n\"Well, Tuesday passed, and Wednesday passed, and Thorsday came. I said\nno more about the ash-riddling to Mike, and I reckon he'd forgotten all\nabout it. But that day Owd Jerry were warr nor iver. He set up his\nfratching at breakfast acause his porridge was burnt, and kept at it all\nday. Nowt that I did for him were reet; if I filled his pipe, he said\nI'd putten salt in his baccy, and if I went out to feed the cauves, he\ntold me I left the doors oppen, and wanted to give him his death o'\ncowd. Evening came at last, and by nine o'clock I were left alone i' the\nkitchen. Owd Jerry were i' bed, and the childer too, all except Amos,\nour eldest barn, and he had set off wi' his father to look after the\nlambing yowes, and wouldn't be back while eleven o'clock. He was a good\nlad was Amos, and the only one o' the family that favvoured me; the rest\non 'em took after their father. So I sat misen down on a stool and\nglowered into the fire, and wrastled wi' the deevil same as Jacob\nwrastled wi' the angel. And the whole fire seemed to be full o' lile\ndeevils that were shooting out their tongues at me; and the sparks were\nthe souls of the damned i' hell that tried to lowp up the chimley out o'\nthe deevils' road. But the lile deevils would lowp after 'em, and lap\n'em up wi' their tongues o' flame and set 'em i' the fire agean.\n\n\"At last I couldn't thole it no longer. Ash-riddling or no ash-riddling,\nI said, I'm boun' to bed, and upstairs I went. Well, I lay i' bed happen\nthree-quarters of an hour, and sure enough, the ticement began to wark\ni' my head stronger and stronger. At lang length I crept downstairs\nagean i' my stocking feet into the kitchen. All was whisht as the grave,\nand the fire was by now nearly out, so that there were no flame-deevils\nto freeten me. So I took the riddle that I'd gotten ready afore and\nbegan to riddle the ash all ower the hearthstone. The stone were hot,\nbut I were cowd as an ice-shackle, and I felt the goose-flesh creeping\nall ower my body. When I'd riddled all the ash I made it snod wi' the\npeat-rake, and then, more dead nor wick, I crept back into bed and\nwaited while Mike and Amos came home.\n\n\"They got back about eleven, and then I thought, they'll happen see what\nI've done. But they didn't, for they'd putten out the lantern in the\nstable, and I'd brought the can'le up wi' me into the cham'er. I heerd\n'em stumbling about i' the kitchen, and then they came up to bed, and\nMike began talking to me about the lambs i' the croft, and I knew he'd\nniver set een on the ash-riddling. He soon fell asleep, and after a\nwhile I dozed off too, and dreamt I were murdering Owd Jerry i' the\nstaggarth. As soon as cockleet came, I wakkened up and crept downstairs,\nquiet-like, so as not to-wakken Mike or the childer. And there on the\nhearthstone were the ashes, and reet i' the middle on 'em the prent of a\nman's clog.\n\n\"It were Jerry's clog as plain as life. When I saw it I went all of a\ndidder, and thought I sud ha' fainted' for all that I'd dreamt about\nmurdering Owd Jerry came back into my mind. But I drave a pin into my\narm to rouse misen, and took the besom and swept up the ashes and lit\nthe fire. After I'd mashed misen a cup o' tea I felt better, and got\nagate wi' the housewark. But, by the mass! it was a dree day for me, was\nyon. Ivery time I heerd the owd man hoast I thought he were boun' to\ndee. But he was better that day nor he'd been for a long while, and he\nkept mending all the time. I couldn't forget, howiver, what I'd done,\nand the thought of how I'd yielded to the devil's ticement made me more\npatient and gentle wi' Jerry nor iver I'd been afore.\n\n\"Spring set in and the birds came back frae beyont the sea, swallows and\nyallow wagtails and sandpipers; the meadows were breet wi' paigles, and\nthe childer gethered bluebells and lilies o' the valley i' the woods for\nWhissuntide, and iverything went on same as afore. We had a good lambing\ntime, and a good hay harvest at efter. I kept Jerry under my eye all the\nwhile, and nowt went wrang wi' him. He'd get about the farm wi' the\ndogs, a bit waffy on his legs, mebbe, but his appetite kept good, and\nhe'd ommost lossen his hoast. He fratched and threaped same as usual if\nowt went wrang wi' his meals, or if the childer made ower mich racket i'\nthe house, but it took a vast o' care off my mind to think that he could\nget about and go down to 'The Craven Heifer' for his forenoon drinkings,\nsame as he'd allus done sin first I came into Wharfedale as Mike's\nbride. And when back-end set in and we'd salved the sheep wi' butter and\ntar to keep the winter rain out on 'em, still Owd Jerry kept wick and\ncobby, and there were days, aye, and weeks too, when I forgot what I'd\ndone on Ash-Riddling Day. And when I thought about it, it didn't flay me\nlike it used to do; for I said to misen, 'I'll keep Owd Jerry alive\novver next St Mark's Day, choose how.' So I knitted him a muffler for\nhis throat and lined his weskit wi' flannen; I brewed him hot drinks\nmade out o' herbs I'd gethered i' the hedgerows i' summertime, and\nrubbed his chest wi' a mixture o' saim frae the pig-killing, and honey\nfrae the bee-skeps. Eh! mon, but it were gey hard to get the owd man to\nsup the herb tea and to let me rub him. He reckoned I wanted to puzzum\nhim same as if he were a ratton, and when I'd putten the saim and honey\non his chest he said I'd lapped him up i' fly-papers. But I set no count\non his nattering so long as I could keep him alive.\n\n\"Chrissamas came at last, and New Year set in wi' frost and snow. The\ngrouse came down frae the moors and the rabbits fair played Hamlet about\nthe farms: they were that pined wi' hunger, they began to eat the bark\noff the ashes and thorn bushes i' the hedges. I did all I could to keep\nOwd Jerry frae the public-house while the storm lasted, but he would\ntoddle down ivery morning for his glass o' yal, and, of course, he got\nhis hoast back agean i' his thropple. All the same, I wouldn't give in.\nI counted the days while St Mark's Day, and tewed and rived and better\nrived to keep him out o' his coffin. But it was weary wark, and I got no\nthanks frae Jerry for all I was doing for him.\n\n\"At lang length St Mark's Eve came round, and a wild day it was, and no\nmistake. There had been deep snow on the moors two days afore, and after\nthe snow had come rain. It was a bad lambing time, and Mike and Amos\nwere about the farm all day and most o' the neet, looking after the\nlambs that had lossen their yowes. Owd Jerry had threaped shameful the\nday afore; the weather had been that bad he'd not been able to go down\nto 'The Craven Heifer.'\n\n\"When I'd gotten out o' bed, and looked out o' the windey it were still\nlashing wi' rain, and I said to misen, I'll keep Jerry i' bed to-day. If\nI can keep him alive to-day I sal have won, and Jerry can do what he\nlikes wi' hissen to-morrow. So I hugged up his breakfast to his chamer\nand told him I'd leet a fire for him there, and I'd get Harry Spink to\ncome and sit wi' him and keep him company. But Jerry wouldn't bide i'\nbed, not for nobody; he'd set his mind on going down to the public, and\na wilful man mun have his way, choose what fowks say. So off he set, wi'\nthe rain teeming down all the time, and the beck getting higher and\nhigher wi' the spate.\n\n\"Eh, deary me! What I had to thole that day! I was flaid that if he had\na drop too mich he'd happen lose his footing on the plank-bridge at the\ntown-end, and then the spate would tak him off his feet and drown him. I\noffered to walk wi' him down to the public and bide wi' him while he\nwanted to come back; but he said he reckoned he were owd enough to do\nwi'out a nuss-maid and told me to mind my own business. Well, twelve\no'clock came, and when I saw Owd Jerry coming back to his dinner I were\nthat fain I could have kissed him, though he'd a five-days' beard on his\nface.\n\n\"When dinner were ower Mike told our Amos that he mun fetch in the\nstirks that were out on the moors on the far side o' Wharfe. The weather\nwere that bad he doubted they'd come to no good if they were out all\nneet. So Amos set off about half-past two, and, efter I'd weshed up and\nsided away I sat misen down i' the ingle-nook and mended the stockings.\nAnd there was Owd Jerry set on the lang-settle anent me. There was no\nsign on his face of a deeing man, but ivery minute the load on my mind\ngrew heavier. Eh, man, but it were a queer game the deevil played wi' me\nthat day, a queer, mocking game that I'll niver forget so lang as\nthere's breath left i' my body. Leastways that's what I thought at the\ntime, but I've learnt by now that it weren't the deevil; it was the\nAlmighty punishin' me for eatin' o' the Tree o' Knowledge.\n\n\"Fower o'clock came, and I got tea ready. The childer came back frae\nschool, and then Mike came, and the first thing he axed was if Amos had\ngotten back wi' the stirks. So I said: 'No, he's noan gotten back yet\nawhile.' My mind were so taen up wi' Owd Jerry and the ash-riddling that\nI'd forgotten that Amos was away on the other side o' Wharfe. So Mike\nfor all he was weet to the skin, set off to look for Amos. I gave Owd\nJerry and the childer their tea, but I wouldn't sit down wi' 'em misen,\nbut kept going to the windey to see if Mike and Amos were coming wi' the\nstirks. I looked out, happen six or seven times, and there was nobody on\nthe road; but at last I set een on Mike and other lads frae the farms\nround about. They were carrying somebody on a hurdle.\"\n\nFor a moment Grannie interrupted her story to wipe away the tears that\nwere now rolling down her cheeks. In a flash I realised what was to be\nthe tragic close of her tale, and I tried to spare her the details. But\nshe refused to be spared, and, forcing back the tears, went on to the\nbitter end.\n\n\"Aye, aye, thou'll happen have guessed who was on the hurdle. It was\nAmos; he'd lossen his footing on the stepping-stones going across\nWharfe, and the spate had carried him downstream and drowned him. It\nwasn't Jerry's clog-print on the ashes, it was Amos's; and the Lord had\ntaen away my eldest barn frae me because I'd etten o' the Tree o'\nKnowledge.\"\n\n\nII. Janet's Cove\n\n\nGrannie's reputation as a story-teller was readily acknowledged by the\nchildren of our village. When they had trudged back from school which\nwas held in a village two miles away, tea was always ready for them. But\ntea in their own kitchens was accounted a dull repast. If the weather\nwas fine they carried their \"shives\" of bread and dripping, or bread and\ntreacle, into the road in front of their houses and ate them in the\nintervals between \"Here come three dukes a-riding,\" \"Wallflowers,\nwallflowers, growing up so high,\" and \"Poor Roger is dead and laid in\nhis grave.\" But in winter, or when the weather was bad, they made it\ntheir custom to take their teas to Grannie's fireside and demand a story\nas accompaniment to their frugal meal. The young voices of the children\nbrightened Grannie's life, and the hour of story-telling round the fire\nwas for her like a golden sunset following upon a day of gloom.\n\nThe stories which she told to the children were usually concerned with\nher own childhood. She had always been of an imaginative turn of mind\nand the doings of her early life, seen through the long-drawn vistas of\nthe years, had become suffused with iridescent colours. They had\ngathered to themselves romance as a wall overhung by trees gathers to\nitself moss and fern and lichen.\n\n\"Tell you a tale,\" she would say. \"Ay, but, honey-barns, I reckon you'll\nhave heerd all my tales lang sin. No? Well then, did I iver tell you t'\ntale o' Janet's Cove?\"\n\n\"Ay, thou's telled us yon last week,\" Kester Laycock, the spokesman of\nthe party of listeners, would reply; \"but thou mun tell it agean.\"\n\nThere was diplomacy as well as truth in Kester's words when he said that\nGrannie had told them the story of Janet's Cove the preceding week. The\ntruth was that she had told them that tale every week since winter set\nin, but nothing could stale its freshness for them. Besides, did not\nGrannie introduce surprising variations of narrative every time she told\nit, so that it never seemed quite the same story?\n\n\"Janet's Cove\" was a story of the birds, and Grannie's knowledge of the\nlife and habits of birds seemed wonderful to them. Crippled with\nrheumatism as she was, and unable to move from her bed, she nevertheless\nwatched for the return of the spring and autumn migrants with all the\neagerness of the born naturalist. She offered the children money if they\nwould bring her the first tidings of the arrival of birds in the dale.\nThere was always a halfpenny underneath the geranium pot in the\nwindow-sill for the child whose eye caught sight of the first swallow,\nredstart or sandpiper; or whose ear first recognised the clarion call of\nthe cuckoo, or the evening \"bleat\" of the nightjar on the\nbracken-mantled fells at the end of May. Or, if the season were autumn,\nthe children were told to watch for the arrival of the woodcock and the\nearliest flock of Norwegian fieldfares. Under Grannie's tuition more\nthan one generation in the village had learnt to take an interest in the\nmovements of migrants in the dale, and that was why the story of Janet\nand the birds never failed to charm the ears of the children gathered\nround the kitchen hearth.\n\n\"Now then,\" Grannie would begin, \"if I'm boun' to tell you t' tale o'\nJanet's Cove, you mun set yoursels down an' be whisht. Tak a seat at t'\ntop o' bag o' provand, Kester; Betty and Will can hug chairs to t' fire,\nand lile Joe Moon mun sit on t' end o' t' bed.\"\n\nSuch was Grannie's arrangement of the seats, while to me, the visitor,\nwas assigned the \"lang-settle\" on the other side of the fireplace. It\nwas a coign of vantage which I shared with the ancestral copper\nwarming-pan, and from it I could see the whole group. Grannie, bent\nhalf-double with rheumatism, was propped up in her bed, with the\nchildren grouped around her. She wore, as usual, her white mutch cap and\ngrey shawl. Mittens covered her wrists, and her fingers, painfully\nswollen with chalk-stones, plied her knitting-needles. Her face was\nsunken in the cheeks and round her mouth, but her large brown eyes,\nstill full of animation, broad forehead, and high-arched brows gave\ndignity and even beauty to her pale countenance. On the fire the\nporridge was warming for the calves' supper, while suspended from the\nwooden ceiling was the \"bread-flake,\" a hurdle-shaped structure across\nthe bars of which hung the pieces of oatcake which were eaten with\nbuttermilk at supper.\n\n\"Well, I've happen telled you afore,\" Grannie began, \"that when I were a\nlile lass I lived up Malham way. My father had a farm close agen Gordale\nScar. Eh! but it's a fearful queer country is yon! Gert nabs o' rock on\nall sides wheer nobbut goats can clim, an' becks flowin' undergrund an'\nthen bubblin' up i' t' crofts an' meadows. On t' other side frae our\nsteading were a cove that fowks called Janet's Cove. They telled all\nmaks an' manders o' tales about t' cove an' reckoned it were plagued wi'\nboggards. But they couldn't keep me out o' t' cove for all that; 'twere\nt' bonniest spot i' t' dale, an' I nivver gat stalled o' ramlin' about\nby t' watter-side an' amang t' rowans. There were a watterfall i' t'\ncove, wi' a dark cave behind it, an' 'twere all owerhung wi' eshes an'\nhazels.\n\n\"One neet I were sittin' up for my father while fower o'clock i' t'\nmorn. 'Twere t' day afore Easter Sunday an' my father were despert\nthrang wi' t' lambin' ewes. He hadn't taen off his shoes an' stockins\nfor more nor a week. He'd doze a bit i' his chair by t' fire, an' then\nhe'd wakken up an' leet t' lantern' an' gan out to see if aught ailed t'\nsheep. He let me bide up for company, an' so as I could warm him a sup\no' tea ower t' fire. But when t' gran'father's clock strake fower he\nsaid I mun away to my bed. He'd tak a turn round t' croft, an' then he'd\nset off wi' his budget to t' mistal to milk t' cows. But I didn't want\nto gan to bed. I'd bin sleepin' off an' on all t' neet, an' I weren't\nfeelin' a lile bit tired. So when my father had set off I went to t'\ndoor an' looked out. My song! but 'twere a grand neet. T' mooin were\njust turned full, an' were leetin' up all t' scars an' plats o' meadow;\nt' becks were just like silver an' t' owd yew-trees that grow on t' face\no' t' scar had lang shadows as black as pick. I stood theer on t'\ndoor-sill for mebbe five minutes an' then I said to misel, I'll just run\ndown as far as Janet's Cove afore I gan to bed.' It were a bit cowd, so\nI lapped my shawl around my head an' set off.\n\n\"'Twere nobbut a two-three minutes' walk, an' afore vara lang I were\nsittin' anent t' rocks, an' t' mooin were glisterin' through t'\nesh-trees on to t' watter. Efter a while I felt a bit sleepy; 'twere t'\nnippy air, an' mebbe t' seet o' t' fallin' watter dazed my een.\nOnygates, I fell asleep an' slept for better pairt of an hour. When I\nwakkened t' mooin were well-nigh settin', an' I could see that t'\ncockleet were coomin' away i' t' east. So I reckoned I'd get back to my\nbed. But just then I saw summat movin' about on t' other side o' t'\nbeck. At first I thowt it were nobbut a sheep, but when I'd keeked at it\na bit langer I knew it weren't a sheep at all; 'twere a lass o' about t'\nsame size as misel.\"\n\nAt this point in the story alertness of mind was depicted on the face of\nevery listener. Joe Moon's tongue, as agile as a lizard's, had up to now\nbeen revolving like a windmill round the lower half of his face,\nquesting after treacly crumbs which had adhered to his cheeks; but at\nthe mention of the girl by the waterfall it ceased from its labours, and\nthe tightly closed mouth and straining eyes showed that he was not\nlosing a word.\n\n\"Queerest thing about t' lass were this,\" Grannie continued, \"shoo were\nnakt, as nakt as ony hen-egg, an' that at five o'clock on a frosty April\nmorn. Eh! but it made me dither to see her stannin' theer wi' niver a\nshift to her back. Well, I crept close to t' gert stone an' kept my een\non her. First of all shoo crept down to t' watter an' put her feet intul\nit, an' gat agate o' splashin' t' watter all ower her, just like a bird\nweshin' itsel i' t' beck. Then shoo climmed up to t' top o' t' nab that\nwere hingin' ower t' fall an' let t' watter flow all ower her face an'\nshowders. I could see her lish body shinin' through t' watter an' her\nyallow hair streamin' out on both sides of her head. Efter a while shoo\nclimmed on to a rock i' t' beck below t' fall an' gat howd o' t' bough\nof an esh. Shoo brak off t' bough an' shaped it into a sort o' a wand\nan' started wavin' it i' t' air.\n\n\"Now I ought to have telled you that up to now iverything i' t' cove\nwere as whisht as t' grave. I could hear t' cocks crowin' up at our\nhouse, but all t' wild birds were roostin' i' t' boughs or on t' grund.\nBut no sooiner did t' lass wave her wand ower her head than t' larks\nstarted singin'. T' meadows an' cow-pasturs were full o' sleepin' larks,\nan' then, all on a sudden, t' sky were fair wick wi' em. I harkened tul\n'em, ay, an t' lass harkened an' all, an' kept wavin' t' wand aboon her\nhead. I doubted 'twere t' lass that had wakkened t' larks an' gotten 'em\nto sing so canty. Efter a while shoo lowered t' wand a bit an' pointed\nto t' moors, an' then, by t' Mess! curlews gat agate o' singin.' Soom\nfowks reckons that t' song o' t' curlew is dreesom an' yonderly, but I\nlove to harken to it i' t' springtime when t' birds cooms back to t'\nmoors frae t' sea. An' so did t' lass. When shoo heerd t' curlews shoo\nstarted laughin' an' dashed t' watter about wi' her foot.\n\n\"An' all t' while shoo kept beatin' t' time to t' song o' t' birds wi'\nher wand. Soomtimes shoo pointed to t' curlews aboon t' moor; then,\nsudden-like, shoo lowered t' wand, while it were pointin' into t' hazel\nshaws an' rowan bushes by t' beck-side; and afore I knew what were\nhappening t' blackbirds wakkened up an' started whistlin' like mad. I\nniver heerd sich a shoutin' afore. It were fair deafenin', just as if\nthere were a blackbird in ivery bush alang t' beck. They kept at it for\nhappen fower or five minutes, an' then t' lass made a fresh motion wi'\nt' wand. What's coomin' next, I wondered, an' afore I'd done wonderin',\nsure enough, t' robins gat agate an' tried to shout down t' blackbirds\nan' all. You see I'd niver noticed afore that when t' birds start\nsingin' i' t' morn they keep to a reg'lar order. It's just like a\nprocession i' t' church. First cooms t' choir lads i' their supplices,\nan' happen a peppermint ball i' their mouths; then t' choir men, tenors\nand basses; then t' curate, keekin' alang t' pews to see if squire's\nlasses are lookin' at him, an' at lang length cooms t' vicar hissen.\nWell, it's just t' same wi' t' birds. Skylarks wakkens up first, then\ncurlews, then blackbirds, robins, throstles. You'll niver hear a\nthrostle i' front o' a robin, nor a robin i' front o' a blackbird. They\nmind what's menseful same as fowks do. At efter, mebbe cuckoo will begin\nto shout, an' close behind him will coom t' spinks an' pipits an' lile\ntits. Eh, deary me! but I've clean forgotten most pairt o' what I've\nlarnt misel about t' birds. They do iverything as reg'lar as if 'twere\nclockwork.\n\n\"I wonder if you childer can tell me what is t' bird that ligs abed\nlangest?\"\n\nThere was silence for a moment or two, and then Kester Laycock suggested\nrooks.\n\n\"Nay,\" answered Grannie, \"rooks are not what I sud call early risers,\nbut they're not t' last birds up, not by a lang way. T' last bird to\nwakken up an' t' first bird to gan to bed is t' house-sparrow. An idle\ntaistrill is t' sparrow, wi' nowther sense nor mense in his head. But\ntheer, barns, I'm gettin' off t' track o' my story o' Janet an' t' way\nshoo wakkened up t' birds wi' her wand.\n\n\"You see shoo allus knew whose turn sud coom next, an' wheer ivery sort\no' bird was roostin'. One minute shoo pointed t' stick to t' top o' t'\ntrees, an' then I heerd 'Caw! Caw!' Then shoo'd bring t' jackdaws out o'\ntheir holes i' t' rocks, an' next minute shoo were pointin' to t' mossy\nroots o' t' trees hingin' ower t' beck, while a Jenny wren would hop out\nan' sing as though he were fit to brust hissen. An' all t' time it were\ngettin' leeter an' leeter, an' I could see that t' sun were shinin' on'\nt' cliffs aboon Malham, though Janet's Cove were still i' t' shade. I\nknew my mother would sooin be seekin' me i' my cham'er, an' I started\nwonderin' what shoo'd say when shoo fan' t' bed empty. I gat a bit flaid\nwhen I thowt o' that, but I couldn't tak my een off t' lass wi' t' wand.\nI were fair bewitched wi' her, an' I doubt that if shoo'd pointed at me\nI sud hae started singin' 'Here coom three dukes a-rid in'.'\n\n\"Howiver, shoo niver clapped een on me wheer I was sittin' behind t'\nstone. Shoo were thrang wi' t' birds were Janet, an' gettin' more\nexcited ivery minute. By now t' din were fair deafenin'; I'd niver heerd\naught like it afore, nor yet sin: without it were when my man took me\ndown to Keighley, Christmas afore we were wed, an' I heerd t' lads and\nt' lasses singin' t' Hallelujah Chorus i' t' Methody chapil. When I saw\nt' conductor-lad wi' t' stick in his hand callin' up t' trebles an'\nbasses an' tother sets o' singers, Marry! I bethowt me o' Janet an' t'\nbirds i' t' cove, an' I brast out a-laughin' while fowks thowt I were\ndaft.\n\n\"But theer, barns, I mun get forrad wi' my tale, or your mothers will be\ncoomin' seekin' you afore I'm through wi' it. By now ommost all t' birds\ni' t' cove were wakkened up an' were singin' their cantiest. I looked\nup, an' t' sun had gotten clean ower t' top o' t' fell, an' were shinin'\nstraight down into t' cove. Ay, an' Janet saw t' sun too, an' when it\nwere like a gert gowden ball at top o' t' hill, shoo pointed her wand at\nt' sun an' started dancin' aboon t' watterfall. I looked at her and then\nI looked at t' sun, an', Honey-fathers! if t' owd sun weren't dancin'\ntoo. I rubbed my een to finnd out if I'd made ony mistak, but, sure\nenough, theer were t' lile nakt lass an' t' owd sun aboon t' breast o'\nt' fell dancin' togither like mad. Then, all on a sudden, I bethowt me\nit were Easter Sunday, and how I'd heerd fowks say that t' sun allus\ndances on Easter mornin'.\"\n\nAt this point I could not forbear interrupting Grannie to ask her\nwhether she had ever heard of a poem called _A Ballad upon a Wedding_.\nShe said she had not, so I quoted to her Suckling's well-known lines:\n\n   Her feet beneath her petticoat,\n   Like little mice, stole in and out,\n      As if they feared the light.\n   But O! she dances such a way,\n   No sun upon an Easter day\n      Is half so fine a sight.\n\nGrannie listened attentively and seemed to think that the heroine of the\npoem was the fairy that wakened the birds in Janet's Cove.\n\n\"T' lad that wrote yon verses has gotten it wrang,\" she said. \"Shoo\nhadn't no petticoat on her. T' lass were nakt frae top to toe. Well,\nwhen shoo'd bin dancin' a while shoo seemed to forget all about t'\nbirds. Shoo let her wand drop and climmed down t' fall. Then shoo set\nhersel on a rock behind t' fall an' clapped her hands an' laughed. I\nlooked at her an' I saw t' bonniest seet I've iver set een on.\n\n\"You see by now t' sun had getten high up i' t' sky, an' were shinin'\nstraight up t' beck on to t' fall. There had bin a bit o' flood t' day\nafore, an' t' watter were throwin' up spray wheer it fell on to t' rocks\nbelow t' fall. An' theer, plain as life, were a rainbow stretched across\nt' fall, an' Janet sittin' on t' rock reet i' t' middle o' t' bow wi'\nall t' colours o' t' bowgreen an' yallow an' blue--shinin' on her hair.\n\n\"Efter that I fair lost count o' t' time. I sat theer, lapped i' my\nshawl, an' glowered at Janet, an' t' sun, an' t' watterfall, while at\nlang length I heerd soombody callin' me. 'Twere my father, an' then I\nknew that fowks had missed me up at t' farm an' were seekin' me amang t'\ncrofts. Wi' that I gat up an' ran same as if I'd bin a rabbit; an' theer\nwere my father, stood on t' brig betwixt our house an' t' cove, shoutin'\n'Martha!' as loud as iver he could.\"\n\n\"Did he give thee a hazelin' for bidin' out so late?\" asked Kester, with\na wealth of personal experience to draw upon.\n\nGrannie was somewhat taken aback by the pertinent question, but she was\ntoo clever to give herself away. \"What's that thou says about a\nhazelin', Kester? Look at t' clock. It's time thou was gettin' alang\nhome, or mebbe there will be a hazelin' for thee.\"\n\n\n\n\nThe Potato and the Pig\n\n\nA Fable for Allotment-Holders\n\n\nAbe Ingham was a Horsforth allotment-holder. He talked allotments all\nday and dreamed of them all night. Before the war cricket had been his\nhobby, and he was a familiar figure at County and Council matches for\ntwelve miles round. Now he never mentioned the game; he had exchanged\nold gods for new, and his homage was no longer paid to George Hirst or\nWilfred Rhodes, but to Arran Chief, Yorkshire Hero, and Ailsa Craig. He\ntook his gardening very seriously, and called it \"feightin' t' Germans.\"\nIf you asked him when the war would be won he pleaded ignorance; but if\nyou asked him where it would be won, his answer invariably was: \"On t'\ntatie-patches at Horsforth.\" He still nursed his grievances, for pet\ngrievances are not yet included in the tax on luxuries, but these were\nno longer suffragettes and lawyers, but slugs, \"mawks,\" and\n\"mowdiewarps.\" In a word, Ingham was one of the many Englishmen whom\nfour years of war conditions have re-created. He was slimmer and more\nagile than in 1914, and of the \"owd Abe\" of pre-war times all that\nremained was his love of tall stories. I was privileged to listen to one\nof the tallest of these one evening, after he had paid a visit of\ninspection to my garden and was smoking a pipe with me under my\nlime-tree.\n\n\"Fowks tell queer tales 'bout 'lotments,\" he began, \"but I reckon\nthey're nobbut blether anent t' tale that I could tell o' what happened\nme last yeer.\"\n\n\"What was that, Abe?\" I asked. \"Did you find a magpie's nest in your\nJerusalem artichokes or half-crowns in the hearts of your pickling\ncabbages?\"\n\n\"None o' your fleerin',\" he replied. \"What I'm tellin' you is t' truth,\nor if it isn't' truth it's a parable, and I reckon a parable's Bible\ntruth. It were gettin' on towards back-end, and I'd bin diggin' potatoes\nwhile I were in a fair sweat wi' t' heat. So I reckoned I'd just sit\ndown for a bit on t' bench I'd made an' rest misen. Efter a while I gat\nagate once more, an' I'd ommost finished my row of potates when my fork\ngat howd o' summat big. At first I thowt it were happen a gert stone\nthat I'd left i' t' grund, but it were nowt o' sort. 'Twere a potate,\nsure enough, but I'd niver set eyes on owt like it afore, nor thee\neither. 'Twere bigger nor my heead; nay, 'twere bigger nor a\nfooit-ball.\"\n\n\"Somebody wanted to have a bit of fun with you, Abe,\" I interrupted,\n\"and had buried a vegetable-marrow in your potato-patch.\"\n\n\"Nay, it were a potate reight enough, an' I were fair capped when I'd\ngetten howd on it wi' my two hands. 'I'll show this to Sam Holroyd,' I\nsaid to misen. He were chuff, were Sam, 'cause he'd getten six pund o'\npotates off o' one root; I reckoned I'd getten six pund off o' one\npotate. Well, I were glowerin' at t' potate when a lad com up that I'd\nniver seen afore. He were a young lad by his size, but he'd an owdish\nlook i' his face, an' he says to me: 'What's yon?'\n\n\"Thou may well axe that,' I answered. 'It's a potate.'\n\n\"'What arta boun to do wi' it?' he axed.\n\n\"'Nay,' I said, 'I reckon I'll take it to t' Flower Show an' get first\nprize.'\n\n\"'Thou mun do nowt o' t' sort,' said t' lad; 'thou mun bury it.'\n\n\"'Bury it! What for sud I bury it, I'd like to know?'\n\n\"'Thou mon bury it i' t' grund an' see what it grows intul.'\n\n\"Well, I reckoned there might be some sense in what t' lad said, for if\nI could raise a seck o' seed potates like yon I'd sooin' mak my fortune.\nBut then I bethowt me o' t' time o' t' yeer, and I said:\n\n\"'But wheer's t' sense o' settin' a potate at t' back-end?'\n\n\"'Thou'll not have to wait so lang to see what cooms on 't,' he replied,\nand then he turned on his heel an' left me standin' theer.\n\n\"Well, I reckoned it were a fooil's trick, but all t' same I put t'\npotate back into t' grund, an' went home. That neet it started rainin'\nan' it kept at it off an' on for well-nigh a week, an' I couldn't get\ndown to my 'lotment nohow. But all t' time I couldn't tak my mind off o'\nt' lad that had made me bury my potate. He'd green eyes, an' I could\nniver get shut o' them eyes choose what I were doin'. Well, after a\nwhile it faired up, and I set off for my garden. When I gat nigh I were\nfair capped. I'd set t' potate at t' top-side o' t' 'lotment, and theer,\njust wheer I'd set it, were a pig-sty, wi' a pig inside it fit to kill.\nI were that flustered you could ha' knocked me down wi' a feather. I\nlooked at t' sty, and then at t' pig, an' then I felt t' pig, an' he\nwere reight fat. An' when I'd felt t' pig I turned round to see if t'\n'lotment were fairly mine, and theer stood t' lad that had telled me to\nbury t' potate.\n\n\"'Well,' he says, 'is owt wrang wi' t' pig?'\n\n\"'Nay, there's nowt wrang wi' t' pig, but how did he get here?'\n\n\"'He'll happen have coom out o' that potate thou set i' t' grund last\nweek,' and he looked at me wi' them green eyes an' started girnin'. 'But\nthou mun bury t' pig same as thou buried t' potate.'\n\n\"'Bury t' pig!' I said. 'I'd sooiner bury t' missus ony day. We've bin\nshort o' ham an' collops o' bacon all t' summer, an' if there's one\nthing I like better nor another it's a bit o' fried ham to my tea.'\n\n\"'Nay, thou mun bury t' pig, an' do without thy bit o' bacon,' he says,\nand there was summat i' t' way he gave his orders that fair bet me. I\nwent all o' a dither, while I hardly knew if I were standin' on my heels\nor my heead. But t' lad were as cool as a cucumber all t' while; he\nfolded his arms an' looked at me wi' his green eyes, an' just said nowt.\nEh! but 'twere gey hard to mak' up my mind what to do. I looked at t'\npig, an' if iver I've seen a pig axin' to have his life spared it were\nyon; but then I looked at t' lad, an' his eyes were as hard as two\ngrunstones; there was no gettin' round t' lad, I could see. So at lang\nlength I gav' in. I killed t' pig and I buried him same as I'd buried t'\npotate.\n\n\"When I gat home I said nowt to t' missus about t' pig, for I couldn't\nlet on that I'd buried it; shoo'd have reckoned I were a bigger fooil\nnor shoo took me for. Shoo gav me a sup o' poddish for my supper, an'\nall t' time I were eytin' it I kept thinkin' o' t' fried ham that I'd\nmissed, an' I were fair mad wi' misen. I went to bed, but I couldn't get\nto sleep nohow. You see, I'd bin plagued wi' mowdiewarps up i' t'\n'lotment; they'd scratted up my spring onions an' played Hamlet wi' my\ncurly greens. An' then all of a sudden I bethowt me that t' mowdiewarps\nwould be sure to find t' pig an' mak quick-sticks o' him afore t'\nmornin'. Eh! I gat that mad wi' thinkin' on it that I couldn't bide i'\nbed no longer. I gat up 'thout wakkin' t' missus, an' I crept downstairs\ni' my stockin' feet, an' went to t' coil-house wheer I kept my spade. I\nwere boun to dig up t' pig an' bring him home afore t' mowdiewarps sud\nfind him. But when I'd oppened coil-house door, what sud I see but a\npair o' green eyes glowerin' at me out o' t' darkness. I were that flaid\nI didn't know what to do. I dursn't set hand to t' spade, an' efter a\nminute I crept back to bed wi' them green eyes followin' me, an' burnin'\nhoils i' my back same as if they'd bin two red-hot coils. Sooin as\ncockleet com, I gat up, dressed misen an' set off for t' 'lotment, 'an\nby t' Mess! what does ta reckon was t' first thing I saw?\"\n\n\"Had the pig come to life again?\" I asked in wonder.\n\n\"Nay, 'twere better nor that,\" replied Abe. \"I' t' spot wheer I'd buried\nt' pig an' buried t' potate afore that, somebody had belt a house, ay,\nan' belt it all i' one neet. It had sprung up like a mushroom. So I went\nup to t' house an' looked in at t' windey, an' by Gow! but it were my\nhouse an' all.\"\n\n\"How did you know that it was your house?\" I asked.\n\n\"Well, you see,\" Abe rejoined, \"I could tell by t' furnitur that were in\nit. There was our kitchen-table that I'd bowt at t' sale when t' missus\nan' me were wed, an' t'owd rockin'-chair set agean t' fire; ay, an' t'\npot-dogs on t' chimley-piece an' my father's an' muther's buryin'-cards\nframed on t' walls; 'twere all plain as life.\"\n\n\"So the lad with the green eyes had carried away your house in the night\nand set it down on your allotment?\"\n\n\"Nay, 'twere nowt o' t' sort. T' house wheer I'd bin livin' were a\nback-to-back house, facin' north, so as we niver gat no sun thro' yeer's\nend to yeer's end. But t' new house stood all by itsen, wi' windeys on\nall sides, an' a back door oppenin' into t' gardin. If there were one\nthing that t' missus an' me had set wer hearts on 'twere a back-door.\nWe'd never lived i' a house wi' a back door, an' t' missus had to hing\nall her weshin' of a Tuesday across t' street. Well, I looked round to\nsee if I could clap eyes on t' lad that had telled me to bury t' pig,\nbut he were nowheer to be seen. But just then I heerd a buzzin' sound,\nan' I reckoned there mun be a waps somewheer about. An' a waps it were.\nHe flew round an' round my heead, allus coomin' nearer an' nearer, an'\nat lang length he settled hissen reight on t' top o' my neb. An' wi'\nthat I gav a jump, an' by Gow! there was I sittin' on t' bench in my\n'lotment. I'd fallen asleep, an all that I'd seen o' t' potate an' t'\npig an' t' house, ay, an' t' lad wi' green eyes, were nobbut a dream.\nBut t' waps weren't a dream, for I'd seen him flee away when I wakkened\nup.\"\n\n\"What you've told me, Abe, is like a bit of real life,\" I said, after a\npause. \"Most of our dreams in this world turn into wasps, with stings in\ntheir tails.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" replied Abe the optimist; \"but 'twere not a proper sort of dream\nnawther. I've thowt a vast about it off an' on, an' I reckon 'twere a\ndream wi' a meanin' tul it. 'Twere like Pharaoh's dream o' t' fat an'\nlean beasts. Happen one day I'll find a Joseph that'll tell me what it\nall means!\"\n\n\n\n\nCoals of Fire\n\n\nI\n\n\nA visitor to Holmton, one of the smaller manufacturing towns of the West\nRiding, on a certain October morning, about the middle of the nineteenth\ncentury, might have witnessed a strange sight. It was market-day, and a\nnumber of farm people were collected in the market-place, where a brisk\ntrade in cattle, sheep, and dairy produce was being transacted. Suddenly\nthere appeared in their midst a farmer holding the end of a rope, the\nnoose of which was attached, not to a bull, calf or horse, but to the\nneck of a girl of nineteen. At this strange sight loud shouts were\nraised on all sides, and a stampede was made to the spot where the man\nand the girl were standing.\n\nThe town was originally merely a centre for the farmers in the\nneighbouring villages, but within the last fifty years it had seen the\nestablishment of the cloth trade in its midst, and the population had\nconsiderably increased. Round about the market-place stone-paved streets\nhad branched off in all directions, and two-storied stone houses had\nbeen built, in which the rooms on the ground floor served for kitchen\nand bedroom, while in the long, low room above hand-looms had been\nerected, and wool was spun and woven into cloth.\n\nThe shouts of the farm people in the market-place at once brought the\nweavers to their windows and doors. Ever eager for any excitement which\nshould relieve the drab monotony of their lives, they rushed into the\nstreets and elbowed their way to the market-place.\n\n\"What's up?\" asked one of them of a farmer's man, as he followed the\nsound of the hubbub.\n\n\"It's Sam Learoyd,\" the man replied, \"and he wants to know if onybody's\nwantin' to buy his dowter.\"\n\n\"Black Sam o' Fieldhead Farm! By Gow! I reckon he's bin crazed sin his\nmissus left him for t' barman. But he hasn't gotten no dowters, nor sons\nnowther. It'll be his stepdowter, Mary Whittaker, that he's browt to\nmarket.\"\n\nThe speakers were now approaching the spot where the father and the\nhaltered stepdaughter were standing. The former, a hard-featured, sullen\nman of about forty-five, was addressing the crowd. The latter, hiding as\nmuch of her face as she could beneath her grey shawl, stood with her\nhands clasped before her and her eyes fixed on the ground. Mute\nresignation was written on every line of her face. Whatever indignation\nor shame she might feel at the degrading situation in which she was\nplaced seemed repressed, either by the humility that comes from long\nsuffering or by a supreme effort of the will, of which the tightly\nclosed lips gave some indication.\n\nThe spot chosen by Sam Learoyd for his traffic in human flesh was not\nwithout significance. Behind him, and approached by steps, on which the\nfarmers' wives exposed for sale their baskets of poultry and eggs, stood\nwhat was left of the market cross. It was one of those old Saxon crosses\nof Irish design which may still be seen in some of the towns and\nvillages of England, and are said to mark the spot where the early\nChristian missionaries, long before the churches were built, preached\ntheir gospel of peace and good will to a pagan audience. Close at hand\nwere the stocks, where, until quite recently, the bullies and scolds of\nthe town had been set by their fellow-citizens and suhjected to the\nmissiles and taunts of every passer-by. Here, then, between these two\nsymbols--the one of Divine mercy and the other of the vindication of\npopular justice--Mary Whittaker was exposed for sale.\n\nIt took some time for the crowd to realise that Learoyd was in earnest.\nThis sale by public auction of a young woman whom many of the bystanders\nhad known for years seemed little better than a grim jest. Yet most were\naware that sales like this had taken place in the town before, and deep\ndown in their minds there survived the old primitive idea that the head\nof a family had a right to do what he liked with the members of his\nhousehold. There were muttered protests from the few women and some of\nthe older men who were present, but most of the young men, in whom a\nsense of chivalry had been blunted by hard lahour and penury, found a\npleasure in goading the farmer on. No magistrate was at hand to put a\nstop to the traffic in human life, and the single policeman, realising\nthat he had no written instructions to deal with such a case as this,\nhad discreetly withdrawn himself to the remotest quarter of the town. So\nLearoyd was left free to conduct his infamous auction.\n\n\"Shoo's for sale,\" he cried, \"same as if shoo were a cauf; and shoo goes\nto t' highest bidder.\" A roar of laughter greeted these words, but\nnobody had the courage to make a bid. Seeing that purchasers held back,\nLearoyd after the manner of an auctioneer, proceeded to announce his\nstepdaughter's \"points.\"\n\n\"Shoo's a gradely lass, I tell you, for all shoo looks sae dowly. Shoo\ncan bak an' shoo can brew, and I've taen care that shoo'll noan speyk\nwhile shoo's spoken to.\"\n\n\"If shoo can do all that,\" asked a bystander, \"why doesta want to sell\nher?\"\n\nThe farmer eyed the questioner narrowly, and then, in a sullen voice,\nanswered: \"I'm sellin' her because I want to get shut on her. Happen\nthat'll be reason enough for the likes o' thee, Timothy.\"\n\nAfter more of this altercation one of the younger men, urged on by his\ncomrades, summoned up courage to make a bid.\n\n\"Sithee, I'll gie thee threepence for her, farmer.\"\n\nThe girl, hearing the insulting offer that was made, raised her eyes for\na moment to glance at the speaker, then shuddered, and, after a pleading\nlook at her stepfather, lowered them again.\n\nLearoyd, taking no notice of the girl, looked the bidder steadily in the\nface for a moment, in order to discover whether the offer was seriously\nmade, and, apparently satisfied that such was not the case, replied:\n\"I'll noan sell her for threepence. Shoo's worth more nor that, let\nalone the clothes shoo stands in.\" But when no further offer was\nforthcoming he turned again to the speaker and said: \"Well, threepence\nis t' price o' a pint o' beer; mak it a quart an' t' lass is thine.\"\n\nBut the bargainer, seeing that the offer which he made in jest was taken\nin earnest, slunk away to the rear of the crowd, and it seemed as though\nthe girl would remain unsold. Then it was that a ragged, out-at-heel\nweaver of diminutive size slowly elbowed his way to the front, and,\nholding up six pennies, said, with a shamefaced look on his face:\n\"There's thy brass. I'll tak t' lass.\"\n\nThe farmer eyed him curiously, while the crowd, realising that a serious\noffer had at last been made, held their breath to see what would follow.\n\n\"Sixpence is it,\" said Learoyd, \"an' what mak o' man art thou that want\nto buy her?\"\n\nThe weaver made no reply, but the bystanders, to whom the bidder was\nwell known, gave the necessary information.\n\n\"It's Tom Parfitt o' Mill Lane; he's lossen his wife a while sin and\nhe'll happen be wantin' a lass to look after t' barns.\"\n\nThere was something in the shabby dress and down-cast mien of the little\nweaver that appealed to the farmer's saturnine humour. He measured with\nhis eye first of all the man, and next the girl; then, slapping his knee\nwith his right hand, exclaimed: \"Well, Tom, t' lass is thine; an' thou's\ngotten her muck-cheap.\"\n\nWithout more ado he unloosed the halter from the girl's neck, led her\nroughly by the arm to where the weaver was standing, pocketed the six\npennies, and, followed by a crowd of rowdies, made his way to the\nnearest inn. Meanwhile the weaver and the girl he had bought were facing\neach other in silence, neither having the courage to utter a word. Those\nof the crowd who had not followed Learoyd began a fire of questions, to\nall of which Parfitt made no reply. At last he turned to the girl, and\nin as kindly a voice as he could command, said: \"Coom thy ways home,\nlass,\" and leading the way, with the girl at his heels, strode through\nthe crowd and out of the market-place. A number of people proceeded to\nfollow him, but as they received no answer to all their questions they\ngradually fell off, and by the time that Parfitt's cottage was reached\npurchaser and purchase were alone.\n\nClosing the front door behind him the weaver led the girl through the\nkitchen, where his three young children were playing at cat's cradle,\ninto the adjoining bedroom. Here he left her to herself, and,\nre-entering the kitchen, got ready a meal of tea and buttered oat-cake,\nwhich he sent in to Mary Whittaker by the hands of his eldest child, a\ngirl of seven. Then, without further intrusion on the girl's privacy, he\nclimbed the rickety staircase to the upper chamber and set to work at\nhis loom. Eager to make up for the time he had lost, he worked with\nenergy, but every sound from the rooms below came up through the cracks\nin the raftered floor. He could hear the voices of the children and,\nwhen the loom was silent for a few moments, the half-suppressed sobs of\nthe outraged girl were distinctly audible. These drew tears to his eyes,\nbut he wisely refrained from descending the staircase and attempting to\ncomfort her.\n\nAfter a time the sobbing ceased, and then one by one the children stole\nquietly into the bedroom, and a hum of conversation was heard, in which\nMary Whittaker was taking her part.\n\n\"Arta baan to stop wi' us?\" he heard his eldest girl, Annie, ask.\n\n\"I don't know,\" Mary replied. \"Happen I'll be goin' back home to-morn.\"\n\n\"I wish thou'd coom an' live wi' us an' mind Jimmy, so as I can help\nfather wi' t' loom,\" Annie continued.\n\n\"Aye, an' thou can laik at cat's cradle wi' me,\" interposed the younger\ngirl, Ruth.\n\nJimmy, aged three, was silent, but he climbed into Mary's lap, and, with\na grimy finger, made watercourses down her cheeks for the tears that\nstill filled her eyes.\n\n\"Give ower, Jimmy, or I'll warm thy jacket,\" exclaimed Annie, fearful\nlest the boy should hurt Mary's feelings.\n\n\"Nay, let him be,\" replied Mary, and wiping the tears from her face she\ndrew Jimmy closer to herself and mothered him.\n\nA hole in one of the rafters, caused by the dropping out of a knot in\nthe wood, enabled Parfitt to see something of what was going on below,\nand with a sigh of relief he realised that the worst was now over and\nthat the children had effected what he himself could not have done. When\nsix o'clock came he called to Annie to bring him his tea and light his\nbenzoline lamp. When she appeared he gave orders that the evening meal\nshould be got ready in the kitchen, and that when it was over she should\nask Mary to wash Jimmy and put him to bed. Anxiously the weaver listened\nto the carrying out of his instructions, and when he descended the\nstaircase at half-past seven he found the kitchen neatly tidied up and\nMary Whittaker seated at the fireside with the two girls on stools at\nher feet. Until all the children were in bed he made no attempt to get\nthe girl to tell him her story, but sought by tactful means to win her\nconfidence. At first she shrank from him and cast anxious eyes towards\nthe inner room where the three children were asleep. But the weaver's\ngentle voice gradually stilled her fears.\n\n\"Thou'll be tired, lass,\" he said at length, \"and wantin' to get to bed.\nThou can sleep wi' Jimmy in yonder anent t' wall.\"\n\nA frightened look came into Mary's eyes as she answered: \"But that'll be\nthy bed.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" replied the weaver, \"it'll be thy bed so lang as thou bides wi'\nme. I'll mak up a bed for misen i' t' kitchen on t' lang-settle.\"\n\nA grateful expression came over the girl's face, but she made no move in\nthe direction of the inner room. Silence prevailed for some time until\nthe weaver asked: \"Is there owt I can do for thee, or owt that thou's\ngotten to tell me, lass? It's been a dree day for thee, to-day; ay, an'\nmony a day afore to-day, I reckon.\"\n\nThis reference to the happenings of the morning brought tears to the\ngirl's eyes, and it was some time before she could summon up courage to\nspeak.\n\n\"Don't mind me,\" she said at last; \"I'll be better to-morn. But he\ndidn't ought to hae browt shame on me i' t' way he's done. It wasn't my\nfault mother left him. I'd allus been a gooid lass to him, choose what\nfowks say.\"\n\nStep by step the weaver led her on to tell him the story of what had led\nup to the shameful transaction in the market-place. It was no mere\ncuriosity that moved him, but a realisation that there could be no peace\nof mind for Mary Whittaker until she had found relief by unburdening her\ntortured soul. The weaver's gentle ways and tactful bearing were slowly\nwinning her heart, and, painful though the recital of her past history\nwas for her, Parfitt knew that it would bring relief. It was a long\nstory that Mary had to tell. She had little art of narrative, and her\nendeavours to shield both her mother and stepfather as far as possible\nfrom blame impeded the flow of her words. Reduced to plain terms, her\nstory ran as follows:--\n\nMary Whittaker was a girl of fourteen when her mother had married Samuel\nLearoyd. Of her father she knew nothing. He had died when she was a\nbaby. From the first the Learoyds had proved an ill-matched pair. Anne\nLearoyd, her mother, had been brought up in Leeds, and having been used\nto all the excitements of life in a big town, found the solitary farm\nlonesome. Samuel Learoyd, though genial enough at times in the society\nof his male friends, was capricious. His temper was often sullen, and\nwhen in one of his gloomy moods he would spend the whole evening in his\nfarm kitchen in morose silence. This state of mind was in part due to\nphysical infirmity. As a child he had been subject to epileptic fits,\nand though these grew less frequent as he advanced to manhood, he never\nentirely shook them off, and during his married life a long spell of\ngloomy misanthropy would sometimes end in the return of one of these\nattacks. He was, too, a proud man, and his pride bred in him a morbid\nsensibility towards any slight, real or fanciful, that was practised on\nhim. He treated his stepdaughter not unkindly, but never accepted any\nparental responsibility towards her.\n\nMeanwhile Anne Learoyd, finding no congenial society in her own home,\nspent much of her time in neighbours' houses. Her chief friend was the\nlandlady of the Woolpack Inn, a public-house situated midway between the\nfarm-house and Holmton. Here whole afternoons and evenings were spent,\nand the work of the farm-house was left in the hands of Mary Whittaker,\ntowards whom her mother had never shown any real affection. Years passed\naway and the relations between husband and wife grew steadily worse,\ntill at length the crisis came. A new barman was appointed at the\nWoolpack, a man whom Anne Learoyd had known during her early life in\nLeeds. Rumour was soon busy with the relations which existed between the\nbarman and the farmer's wife, and after a time suspicious stories\nreached the ears of Samuel Learoyd. A violent scene between husband and\nwife took place in the farm kitchen, but, in spite of this, Anne's\nvisits to the public-house continued as before. One afternoon, when her\nhusband was attending a cattle-mart in a neighbouring town, Anne\nLearoyd, without saying a word to her daughter, left the house and was\nstill absent when her husband returned for supper. Mary Whittaker was at\nonce dispatched to the Woolpack Inn, and, after an hour, returned with\nthe news that her mother was not there and that the barman was also\nmissing. With an oath, Learoyd saddled his mare and rode in all haste to\nHolmton. Finding no news of the missing couple in the town he made his\nway to the nearest station, where he found that a man and woman\nanswering to his description had left by train for Liverpool four hours\nbefore. Learoyd, his heart raging with fury and wounded pride, followed\nin pursuit. He arrived at Liverpool in the early hours of the next\nmorning, and, making his way to the docks, discovered that the fugitives\nhad sailed at midnight for America. Further pursuit was impossible. He\nreturned home, and late that same evening was found lying dead drunk on\nthe road-side within a hundred yards of the local railway station. He\nwas brought home and put to bed, and next day was seized with a severe\nfit of epilepsy. For weeks his life was in danger, and when at last he\nrecovered strength of body, his mind remained in a state of moroseness\nthat at times bordered on insanity. He became a fierce hater of women,\nand the chief victim of his frenzy was his stepdaughter, Mary Whittaker.\n\nShe bore his harshness with a Griselda patience, but this seemed only to\nadd provocation to his anger. In her he saw the daughter of the woman\nwho had trodden his pride in the dust, and he marked her out as the\nobject of his vengeance. Finding that bitter words and deeds of cruelty\nleft her seemingly unmoved, his morose and wounded spirit devised other\nand darker plans of revenge. At first he conceived the idea of driving\nher penniless from his doors, but, realising that the girl would find no\ndifficulty in obtaining a place as servant on one of the neighbouring\nfarms, he abandoned it as furnishing insufficient satisfaction for his\ntortured heart. One day he heard how a farmer had some years before\nignominiously sold by public auction the wife of whom he had grown\ntired, and Learoyd gloated over the story with malicious glee. Here was\na means of satisfying his vengeance to the full. To his warped\nimagination it mattered little that Mary Whittaker was entirely innocent\nof her mother's desertion of him, or that Anne Learoyd, far away in\nAmerica, would probably never hear of her daughter's shame. Inasmuch as\nthe guilty wife was out of his clutch, he was content with the vicarious\nsacrifice that he could demand from her daughter.\n\nFor some days he brooded over his cruel purpose, and it found ever more\nfavour in his eyes. Market day came and the time was ripe for action.\nRoughly informing his stepdaughter that she must go with him to market,\nhe left the house with her on foot, carrying a halter in his hand. On\nthe road he brutally informed her of his purpose. A chill of horror\nseized the girl when she heard the news, but her tears and entreaties,\nso far from melting his heart, filled him with an unholy joy. As they\npassed a farm-house on the road Mary screamed out for help, but Learoyd\nsilenced her with a blow on the mouth, and then, leaving the high road,\ntook the path through the fields in order to avoid company. Arriving at\nthe outskirts of the town, he slipped the halter over her head and\ndragged her through the by-streets to the market-place.\n\nSuch was Mary's story as told to the weaver that evening in his cottage.\nTom Parfitt was a man of few words, but the tears that rolled down his\ncheek showed his sympathy. \"Poor lass, poor lass\" was his frequent\ncomment as he listened to the harrowing details and thought of the agony\nof the market-place; and when she had ended her tale his voice was\nbroken with sobs.\n\n\"Thou sal niver want for a home, lass, so lang as I can addle a bite an'\na sup wi' my weyvin'.\"\n\n\"Happen Learoyd will be wantin' me back agean when he's gotten ower\nthings a bit.\"\n\n\"Then he'll noan get thee,\" and the weaver struck his fist on the table\nwith unusual vehemence. \"A wilful man mun have his way, fowks say; an' I\nreckon Sam Learoyd has had it; but he'll noan have it twice ower, if I\nknow owt about justice.\"\n\n\"But he's bin sadly tewed wi' mother leavin' him an' all,\" replied Mary,\n\"and there's them fits that he has to contend wi'. If he wants me I mun\ngo. There's nobody left on t' farm to fend for him.\"\n\n\"If he cooms here he'll find t' door sparred agean him,\" exclaimed\nParfitt, in his indignation.\n\nMary shook her head sadly, but made no reply.\n\nThey sat awhile in silence, gazing into the dying fire, and then the\ngirl, with a timid \"I thank thee for what thou's done for me,\" withdrew\nto the inner room and cried herself to sleep. The weaver lit his clay\npipe and, bending forwards over the grey ashes of his peat-fire, buried\nhimself in his thoughts till the clock, striking eleven, roused him from\nhis reverie. He slowly rose, placed a cushion on the settle, and without\nundressing, flung himself on the hard boards and fell asleep.\n\nDays and weeks passed and Mary Whittaker still remained in the weaver's\ncottage. The cowed look in her eyes passed gradually away, though it\nwould come back whenever a man's footfall was heard in the street\noutside, and a cold fear seized her at the thought that Learoyd was at\nhand to demand her return to the farm. But he never came, and Mary grew\nmore and more at ease in her new surroundings. The change from the roomy\nfarmstead, with its wide horizons of moors and woods, to the narrow\ncottage in the sunless back street was a strange one for her. She\nmissed, too, the farm work: the churning of the butter and the feeding\nof the calves and poultry. But youth was on her side and she soon learnt\nto adapt herself to her new life. Soon after six in the morning she\nwould mount with Parfitt to the upper room and spin the wool, which he\nwould then weave into cloth. The work was hard, and some of the\nprocesses of cleaning the wool were repulsive to her nature at first,\nbut in time she accustomed herself to this as to so much else. It was\neasy for her gentle nature to win the hearts of the three children; she\nquickly learnt the duties of a mother, nursed them in their childish\nailments, and when the loom was still, joined with them in their games.\nSix months Tom Parfitt waited to see whether Learoyd would make any\nattempt to recover the stepdaughter whom he had wronged, and then, as\nthe farmer made no move, he quietly married Mary Whittaker at the\nPrimitive Methodist Chapel.\n\n\nII\n\n\nYears passed away and a gradual change came over the character of the\nsocial and economic life of Holmton. The town became linked up by rail\nwith Leeds and Bradford, and in this way it lost its isolation and\ncaught an echo of the ideas and views of life of the people in the big\ntowns. Elementary education was introduced, and the printed book slowly\nfound its way into the weavers' cottages. Most important change of all,\nthe hand-loom gave place to the power-loom. Factories were built by the\nside of the beck, and while a certain amount of weaving continued to be\ndone by the old people in their cottages, the younger generation sought\nemployment in the mills, and payment for piecework gave way to\ntime-wages. Most of the younger weavers welcomed this change when it was\nfully understood. They found that the hours of work, though still\nterribly long, were shorter than those spent by their parents over their\nhand-looms, and the social intercourse of the mill, where the youths and\ngirls met their equals in age, was deemed preferable to the family\nlabours in the upper story of the cottages. Moreover, if the overseers\nand foremen in the mills were often brutal, the workers could, at any\nrate, get away from the atmosphere of the weaving-shed when the hooters\nsounded at six o'clock in the evening.\n\nWhen this revolution in industrial life took place Tom Parfitt found\nhimself too old to adapt himself to the change.\n\n\"T' hand-loom's gooid enough for me,\" were his words. \"If I went to work\ni' t' mill I'd feel like givin' up an owd friend, just because he'd\ngrown owd-feshioned. I'll stick to cottage wark, choose-what other fowks\nmay do.\"\n\nHearing this decision, his wife at once decided to remain with him; but\nthe three children of Parfitt's former marriage, the youngest of whom\nwas now seventeen, determined to seek work in the factories. The family\nwas thus split up, and the younger generation brought back into the\nhouse at night new ideas gained amid the social intercourse of the mill.\n\nMary Whittaker's position in the town after her marriage to Parfitt was\nquietly accepted by the community of weavers. They still called her by\nher maiden name, but there was nothing unusual in that. Often, too, she\nwas referred to as \"Mary that was selled for sixpence,\" but here again,\nat least as far as the older generation was concerned, no stigma was\nimplied. It was simply a frank statement of fact. With the younger\ngeneration, however, who were quicker than their elders in absorbing new\nideas and new codes of social convention, \"Mary that was selled for\nsixpence\" was a name that aroused curiosity, and sometimes derision.\nOccasionally Mary's stepdaughters would be twitted about the name at the\nmill, and their faces would burn as they realised that a dark shadow\nhung over the woman whom they had been taught to call mother, and who\nhad won their hearts from the day on which she first set foot in their\nfather's house. Once they spoke of the matter to their father, anxious\nto learn the exact truth from his lips.\n\n\"Aye, I bowt her for sixpence afore I wed her,\" he said, looking them\nsteadily in the face, \"an' t' man that selled her to me said I'd gotten\nher muck-cheap. Them was t' truest words he iver spak, an' shoo would\nhae been muck-cheap if I'd gien a million pund for her.\"\n\nDuring all the years that Mary Whittaker had spent at Holmton she had\nnot once caught sight of Samuel Learoyd. Fieldhead Farm was only four\nmiles away, but she had never had the courage to go near it. The farmer\nvisited Holmton only on market days, and notlung could ever induce his\nstepdaughter to go near the scene of her deep humiliation. But though\nshe did not see Learoyd he was never long out of her mind, and through\nher husband and children she kept herself informed of what was going on\nat the farm.\n\nAfter his shameless traffic in the Holmton market-place Learoyd had for\nsome months lived alone. Never a sociable man, he shunned the society of\nthe neighbouring farmers, and they, on their side, resenting his\noutrageous conduct to his stepdaughter, studiously kept out of his way.\nDoggedly he set himself to do both the labours of the house and farm,\nand sought to stifle in hard work the memory of his wife's desertion of\nhim, together with whatever twinges of remorse may have come to him when\nhe thought of the revenge which he had taken upon her daughter. But as\ntime went on he found it impossible to attend to all his duties. Nothing\ncould induce him to enlist the services of a housekeeper, but he engaged\na man, who occupied a two-roomed cottage a hundred yards away from the\nfarm, and helped him in stable and field. But the sullen humour of\nLearoyd was hard to put up with, and the men who came to him soon sought\nemployment elsewhere. He would engage a servant for the year at the\nMartinmas hiring, but as soon as the year was up the man would leave,\nand it became increasingly difficult for the farmer to find a\nsubstitute.\n\n\"What mak o' a gaffer is Learoyd?\" one labourer would ask of another as\nthey stood together in the Holmton market-place waiting to be hired.\n\n\"A dowly, harden-faced mon, an' gey hard to bide wi', accordin' to what\nall t' day-tale men is sayin',\" replied the other.\n\n\"He looks it,\" answered the first. \"He's gotten a face that's like beer\nwhen t' thunder has turned it to allicker. If I was to live wi' him I'd\nwant a clothes-horse set betwix' me an' him at dinner, or he'd turn my\nvittles sour i' my belly.\"\n\n\"He twilted his wife, did Learoyd, while she ran away wi' Sam Woodhead\nat t' Woolpack, an' then he selled his dowter for sixpence. He can't\nbide women-fowks i' t' house.\"\n\n\"Then he'll not git me to coom an' live wi' him. I've swallowed t'\nchurch i' my last place, but I'm noan baan to swallow t' steeple at\nefter.\"\n\nSuch were the opinions passed on Learoyd by the farm labourers round\nabout Holmton, and it was little wonder that, as the years went by, the\ncondition of his farm grew steadily worse.\n\nWhen the Parfitts had been married fifteen years, a strange rumour\nreached their cottage of a spiritual change that had been wrought in the\nsoul of Samuel Learoyd. It was reported that the farmer had been\nattending the revival services held in the little Primitive Methodist\nchapel about a mile away from his farm, that his flinty heart had been\nmelted, and that he had \"found the Lord.\" The weaver's family was slow\nto credit this change, though Mary prayed fervently night and morning\nthat it might be true. Their doubts, however, were set at rest by the\ncircuit steward of the Holmton chapel where they attended service. He\nhad taken part in the revival meetings and related what he had seen.\n\n\"Aye, it's true, sure enough,\" he said. \"Sam Learoyd's a changed man. It\nwere t' local preacher that done it. He gat him on to his knees anent t'\npenitential forms at after t' sarvice, an' there were a two-three more\nwi' him; an' t' preacher an' me wrastled wi' t' devil for their souls.\nI've niver seen sich tewin' o' t' spirit sin I becom a Methody. 'Twere a\nhot neight, and what wi' t' heat an' t' spiritual exercises, t'\npenitents were fair reekin' an' sweatin'. We went thro' one to t' other\nand kept pleadin' wi' 'em. 'Tread t' owd devil under fooit,' says we;\n'think on t' blooid o' t' Lamb that weshes us thro' all sin.' An' t'\npenitents would holla out: 'I can't, I can't: he's ower strang for me;\nI'm baan to smoor i' hell fires.' But t' local were stranger nor t'\ndevil for all that, an' first one an' then another on 'em would shout\nout: 'I'm saved; I've fun' Him, I've fun' the Lord!' Then they'd git up\nan' walk out o' t' room that weak you could hae knocked 'em down wi' a\nfeather.\n\n\"At lang length there was nobbut Sam Learoyd left. He was quieter nor t'\nothers, but t' load o' sins about his heart was as tough as Whangby\ncheese. So me an' t' preacher gat on either side o' him an' we prayed\nan' better prayed, but all for nowt. So at last Sam got up off his\nknees, an' wi' a despert look on his face, says: 'Let me be. If I'm baan\nto find salvation I'll find it misen.'\n\n\"At that we gav ower prayin', but kept kneelin' by his side an' waited\nfor the Lord to sattle t' job. An' outside t' wind were yowlin' as if it\nwould blow down t' walls and chimleys. But warr nor t' yowlin' o' t'\nwind were t' groans o' Sam Learoyd.\n\n\"After a while t' groans gat easier, and then t' local started singin'\nin a low voice, 'Rock of Ages.' But Sam would have noan o' his singin'.\nSo we just waited to see what would happen. Well, after a while t'\ngroans stopped, an' Sam lifted up his heead an' looked round. 'Arta\nsaved?' asked t' local, and Sam answered: 'I'm convicted o' sin.'\n'Praise be to God,' sang out t' local, and we gat Sam off his knees and\nout o' t' chapil an' away home. An' ivver sin that time Sam's coom\nreg'lar to chapil twice on Sundays an' to t' weeknight sarvice too.\"\n\n\"But will it last?\" asked Tom Parfitt, whose long experience as a chapel\nmember had taught him the snares of backsliding.\n\n\"Aye, 'twill last,\" replied the circuit steward. \"Sam's a changed man:\nhe has gien ower sweerin', goes no more to t' public, but bides at home\no' neight an' sits cowerin' ower t' fire readin' t' Book.\"\n\nThe account which the circuit steward gave of the farmer's conversion\nwas substantially correct, but it did not furnish the whole truth. The\ncharacter of his life had changed, but his conversion was only half\naccomplished. In the process known as religious conversion there are\nusually three well-marked stages: first of all comes conviction of sin,\nthen repentance, and finally a sense of forgiveness and peace. Learoyd\nattained the first stage in the process that stormy night in the little\nMethodist chapel. In a dull, blurred way he arrived too at a state of\nrepentance for the evil he had done. But the final stage of pardon and\npeace remained strange to him, and the chief spiritual effect of his\nconversion upon him was the attainment of an exquisite agony of soul.\nHis conscience, long dormant, was roused to feverish activity. His sins,\nwhich were many, haunted him like demons, and chief among these he\naccounted, not without reason, the wrong he had done to Mary Whittaker.\nShe came to him in his dreams, and always under the same form. What he\nsaw was a girl, with downcast eyes and supplicating hands, standing at\nthe foot of the Holmton market-cross, with a halter round her neck. Nor\nwas it only in his dreams that he saw her. Sometimes as he led home his\nhorses at nightfall after a day's ploughmg, the same form, patient and\nunreproachful, would be seen standing at the open door of the farm\nwaiting to receive him. With a cowed look on his face he would turn away\nfrom the house and pass the night in the hayloft.\n\nThe effect of all this upon his constitution was what might have been\nexpected. One evening, after a night and day of acutest torment, he fell\nin an epileptic fit upon the kitchen floor, and was found there next\nmorning by a child from the village who had come to the farm for milk. A\ndoctor was summoned, who brought with him a nurse, and for some days\nLearoyd's life hung in the balance. Recovery came at last but the doctor\ninsisted that he must no longer live alone, but must secure the services\nof an experienced house-keeper. In vain did Learoyd protest against this\nplan. The medical man remained firm. The nurse would have to leave in a\nfew days and someone else must take her place. The farmer would not stir\na finger to find such a person, so that the responsibility rested with\nthe doctor. But all his inquiries availed little. There was no lack of\nwomen suitable for the post, but not one of them would undertake it. The\nmemory of the scene in the market-place held them back.\n\nThen it was that the call came to Mary Whittaker. She must go back to\nthe man that had wronged her. At first the thought struck terror to her\nheart; all the horror of her ignominy in the market-place came back to\nher mind and filled her with a loathing sickness. For two days she\nfought against the promptings of her better nature, but it was a losing\nbattle. At last she broached the subject to her husband. \"I mun go back\nto Learoyd,\" she said, speaking in those quiet, measured tones which Tom\nParfitt had learnt to associate with an inflexible will. Her husband\ngave her a look in which admiration for her courage was at odds with\nbitter opposition to the proposal.\n\n\"Thou sal do nowt o' t' sort,\" he said, after a moment's pause. \"There's\nno call for thee to go nigh him after all he's done to thee.\"\n\n\"Nay, but he wants me; t' doctor says he mun have somebody to live wi'\nhim.\"\n\n\"If he wanted thee he'd coom an' seek thee, stubbornly answered Parfitt.\n\n\"He'll noan do that. I know Learoyd. He's ower proud to axe a favour\nthro' anybody, let alone thro' me.\"\n\n\"Then he can dee in his pride. He's gotten shut o' thee for good an'\nall, an' trodden thee i' t' muck, t' owd Jezebel.\"\n\n\"Nay, don't call him, Tom. Didn't chapel steward say that he was a\nchanged man sin' he took to goin' to t' chapil?\"\n\nThis was almost the only serious dispute that had disturbed the even\ntenor of their married life, and it ended in compromise. Mary was to go\nto the farm, and if Learoyd needed her she was to stay for a month; at\nthe end of that time she would return home. Her husband's offer to\naccompany her was declined. Instead, she asked him to pay a visit to the\ndoctor and inform him of her plan. The doctor heartily approved of all\nthat Mary Whittaker had taken upon herself to do; he said he would visit\nhis patient in the morning, and if all were going on well would take\naway the nurse with him in his brougham. Then, as soon as possible after\ntheir departure, Mary was to come to the farm and see Learoyd when he\nwas alone.\n\nIt was a bright April morning when Mary Whittaker set out on foot for\nFieldhead Farm. There had been rain the night before and the whole sky\nwas full of fleecy cumulus clouds, some of which enclosed large patches\nof blue sky that looked like tranquil polar seas surrounded by hummocks\nof frozen snow. Now and again a small cloud, at a lower elevation than\nthe rest, would sail gaily across these blue pools, and then be lost to\nview against the white clouds on the other side. Larks and chaffinches\nwere everywhere in full song, and the sunshine had brought the\nhoney-bees to the palm-willows which, during the last ten days, had\nchanged their flower-buds from silver to gold. As Mary approached the\nfarm she saw the first swallows of the season darting in tremulous\nflight across the meadows, and their presence cheered her. They had come\nback to the farm, like herself, after a period of absence, and a feeling\nof comradeship with them penetrated to her heart.\n\nShe needed all the cheering that the sights and sounds of nature could\ngive her. As she climbed the hill-side and saw the seventeenth-century\nfarm-house, with its mullioned windows and hood-mouldings, her heart\nsank within her. The cruel memory of the morning when she had last left\nit came back to her mind, and the hard look of Learoyd, as he disclosed\nhis purpose to her, made her flinch. She closed her eyes for a moment,\nas though to shut out the past, and then braced herself for the coming\ninterview. Arrived at the front door, which opened directly into the\nkitchen, she paused for a moment to summon up her courage, then knocked,\nand, without waiting, lifted the latch. Learoyd, still too weak to\nattend to farm duties, was seated in the arm-chair by the fire; in his\nhands was the family Bible, but he was not reading. Mary was shocked at\nthe change which fifteen years had wrought in him. He was not more than\nsixty, but he looked at least ten years older, and in his eyes there was\nthe look of a hunted animal. The sullen pride, which was the habitual\nexpression of his face in the old days, had given way to a look of\nmorbid irritability. The farmer looked up from his book as she entered,\nbut, failing to recognise her, asked who she was.\n\n\"It's Mary,\" she answered, and advanced towards him.\n\n\"Mary!\" he exclaimed, and then, realising who Mary was, he shrank from\nher as though she had been an avenging spirit. The Mary of his dreams,\nthe girl standing in the market-place with a halter round her neck, came\nback to his mind and deepened the look of terror in his eyes.\n\n\"What doesta want wi' me?\" he exclaimed, in a harsh whisper.\n\n\"I've coom to tak care o' thee,\" Mary replied.\n\n\"Thou's coom to plague me, that's what thou's coom for. I know thee.\nI've seen thee o' neights, aye, an' i' t' daytime too; an' if it's\nrevenge thou wants, I tell thee thou's gotten it already, capital an'\ninterest, interest an' capital.\"\n\nMary's swift intuition afforded her an insight into Learoyd's mind. She\nrealised that the fangs of remorse were buried in his heart and she\ndetermined to remove them at all costs.\n\n\"Father,\" she said--and it was hard for her to utter the word which even\nwhen she was a child had seemed unnatural to her--\"let us forget all\nthat's gone afore. Sufferin' has coom to both on us, but it has bin warr\nfor thee nor ever it was for me. Let us start agean.\"\n\nAs she said this she knelt down by the side of his chair and gently\nstroked his hands and smoothed back the iron-grey locks that had fallen\nover his eyes. At first he shrank from her touch, but in a little time\nit soothed his agitation. After all, this was not the Mary Whittaker\nthat he had seen in his dreams, and the soft grey eyes that looked\nsteadily into his face were different from those downcast eyes in the\nfigure of the haltered girl that haunted him.\n\nFor some minutes Mary and her stepfather remained in this position, and\nthen the former, after imprinting a kiss on Learoyd's forehead, rose\nsoftly to her feet and set to work to prepare the dinner. They partook\nof their meal almost in silence, and then Mary, fetching his hat and\nstick, led him out of doors into the spring sunshine, encouraged him to\npay a visit to the stables, and talked to him about the labours of the\nfarm. His voice was now more natural when he answered her questions, and\nthe frightened look disappeared from his eyes. That night, when she came\ninto his bedroom, in order to smooth his pillow after he had gone to\nbed, he held her hand for a moment and said: \"Thou's a gooid lass, Mary;\nif I'd wed a lass like thee I'd hae been a different man.\"\n\nMary made no answer, but there were tears in her voice when she wished\nhim good-night.\n\nIn the days which followed, Mary Whittaker made new advances in the task\nof winning Learoyd's confidence and stifling the furies of remorse that\nhad gripped his heart. All her quiet patience was needed, for although\nher progress was sure, there were times when he lapsed, apparently\nwithout reason, into his old mood of suspicion and hostility towards\nher. The doctor, when he came to the farm, was full of hope. He found\nthe farmer's pulse steadier, and saw in him a greater composure of mind.\nLearoyd spent long hours over his Bible, and it seemed at last as though\nhis religious conversion was to be fully accomplished. Conviction of sin\nhad been followed by contrite repentance, and soon, Mary hoped, he would\nattain that peace of mind which the sinner experiences when he knows\nthat his sins have been forgiven him.\n\nBut when Mary had been a fortnight at the farm a sudden change took\nplace in his demeanour. It was early evening and Learoyd was, as usual,\nreading his Bible. The chapter before him was the twelfth of Romans, and\nhe read the verses quietly to himself until he came to the last but one:\n\"Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him\ndrink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head.\" As he\nfinished the verse he cast a troubled look at his stepdaughter, who was\nquietly sewing on the other side of the fire. \"Coals o' fire,\" he\nmuttered under his breath, and the old look of terror came back into his\neyes. Mary had never learnt to read, but she saw that the Bible, which\nbefore had brought him peace of mind, was now driving a sword into his\nheart. She tried to comfort him, but the farmer shrank from her, as he\nhad done when she first entered his house, and when she came into his\nbedroom to say good-night, he screamed out in terror and would not let\nher come near him. That night the vision of the girl with downcast eyes\nand supplicating hands, standing in the Holmton market-place, came back\nto him with all its old haunting power. From the adjoining bedroom Mary\nheard him groaning and tossing on his pillow, and she felt herself\npowerless to comfort him. Pity for this tortured soul filled her breast,\nbut it seemed as though all her resources of solace had failed her, and\nthat her mere presence in the house aggravated his suffering.\n\nNext morning, with tears in her eyes, she told the doctor of the change\nthat had come over his patient. The doctor tried his pulse and looked\npuzzled. He ordered Learoyd a soothing draught, but it had no effect.\nAll through the day his agony was frightful to witness. He sat with\nglowering eyes gazing at the verse which had destroyed his peace of\nmind. Mary tried to take the Bible from him but, with an oath, he\nrefused to give it up. The day was a busy one for her. Learoyd's\nman-servant had gone with a flock of sheep and lambs to a distant moor,\nand the duties of feeding the stock and milking the cows fell to her.\nThe farmer preserved a sullen silence while she was in the house, but no\nsooner was she outside than his muttering began.\n\n\"Coals o' fire, aye, that's what shoo's heapin' on me, coals o' hell\nfire; they're burnin' my heart to a cinder. It's vengeance shoo's after;\nshoo favours her mother. All women are just t' same. She-devils, that's\nwhat they are. Shoo sal have her vengeance, sure enough, an' then mebbe\nt' coals o' fire will burn her as they're burnin' me.\" A red-hot cinder\nfell into the grate as he spoke, and Learoyd gazed at it with curious\nintentness until it had lost all its glow.\n\n\"I'll fotch t' halter out o' t' kist, an' I'll do it,\" he began once\nmore. \"Shoo san't torment me no longer: t' coals o' fire sal be upon her\nown heead.\"\n\nHere he lapsed into morose silence, and Mary, re-entering the farm\nkitchen shortly afterwards, found him, as she had left him, gazing\nintently into the fire with the Bible open on his knees. She got tea\nready, but Learoyd stubbornly refused to eat or drink anything, and when\nat last ten o'clock came the farmer roused himself from his lethargy and\nstole off to bed, casting furtive glances at Mary as he passed through\nthe door. She wisely refrained from intruding herself upon him that\nnight, but, climbing the stairs to her bedroom, listened for sounds in\nthe adjoining chamber. She could hear Learoyd muttering to himself, and\nshe noticed that he was quicker in getting into bed than usual. A\nsuspicion crossed her mind that he had not undressed, and this confirmed\nthe idea which she had formed earlier in the evening that some secret\npurpose was maturing in his mind. Sleep was not to be thought of, and\nso, without taking off her clothes, she got into bed and listened.\n\nTwo hours passed, and all the time she heard Learoyd groaning in his\nbed. Then he got up, struck a light, and remained still for a moment as\nthough he were listening for any sound that might come from her room.\nThen she heard him open the door of his bedroom and creep, candle in\nhand, along the passage. As he passed her door he stopped, and Mary held\nher breath lest he should discover that she was awake and listening for\nevery sound. Apparently satisfied that she was asleep, the farmer\ndescended the stairs to the kitchen. Mary noiselessly crept out of bed\nand, lifting the latch of her bedroom door, stood in the shadow of the\npassage and watched every movement of her stepfather in the kitchen\nbelow. He had opened the old oak chest by the wall and was fumbling\namong its contents. At last he found what he was looking for and drew it\nforth. It was a long rope, and, with a shudder, Mary recognised the\nhalter which had once been round her neck. Her head swam as the thought\ncame to her that Samuel Learoyd was going to sell her again, and groping\nher way back to her room she locked the door and threw herself on her\nbed. Anxiously she listened for the farmer's step on the staircase, but\nit did not come. Instead, she heard him moving about in the kitchen, and\nthen came the sound of the bolts being withdrawn from the front door. A\nmoment later his footsteps were heard on the gravel path. Rousing\nherself with an effort, she once more unlocked the door and crept to the\nhead of the stairs. Come what may, she resolved to follow her stepfather\nand discover what were his plans. She made her way down into the kitchen\nand, without striking a light, moved towards the front door. It was\najar, and, opening it, she stared out into the starry night. All was\nstill, and no sound of Learoyd's footsteps came to her from the\nfarmyard.\n\nDrawing her shawl tightly round her, she stepped out into the darkness.\nOnce she fancied that she heard the farmer muttering to himself in the\ncroft below and the harrowing thought crossed her mind that this was all\nsome cunning plan on his part to lure her out of the house and slip the\nhalter round her neck under cover of night. Her fears counselled her to\nreturn to the house and seek shelter from his mad frenzy behind lock and\nkey, but the thought that Learoyd, if seized with a fit while exposed to\nthe chill night air, would certainly meet his death overcame her fears\nand urged her on.\n\nAfter more than two hours of fruitless search she returned to the farm,\ncherishing the hope that her stepfather might have returned too. But the\nhouse was empty and the door still stood ajar. Realising that further\nsearch in the darkness was unavailing, she waited for the dawn and\ndetermined that, as soon as the clock struck four, she would wake up the\nfarm labourer at his cottage and get him to search the moors while she\nmade her way down to Holmton to engage her husband and his son in the\ntask of tracking the fugitive. The dreary night passed at last, the\nlarks burst into song above her head, and the cry of the curlew was\nheard on the moors. She closed the farm door behind her, roused the\nhind, and then made her way as swiftly as possible to the town. Here\neverybody was still asleep, and her footfalls waked echoes in the\nstone-paved streets. Her nearest way to the weaver's cottage lay through\nthe market-place, and for a moment she hesitated whether she should pass\nthat way or take the more circuitous route by the beck-side. Realising\nthat there was no time to lose, she summoned up all her courage, and,\nmaking her way past the church, entered the market-place. Her eyes were\nfixed on the ground, as though to avoid beholding the scene of her\nhumiliation; but the market-cross and the stocks, now that she was\nwithin a few yards of them, exerted a strange fascination over her. Do\nwhat she might, she could not refrain from gazing upon them once more,\nand as she did so a cry of horror escaped her. In front of the cross\nhung the lifeless figure of a man. About his neck was a halter, the\nother end of which was securely fastened to the broken arms of the\ncross.\n\nIt was Learoyd. The wretched man, tortured by a sense of guilt, and\nobsessed with the idea that Mary Whittaker's act of sacrifice was a\ncold-blooded device to shame him and aggravate his misery, had hanged\nhimself, choosing as the scene of his death the spot where, fifteen\nyears before, he had exposed his stepdaughter for sale. In so doing, his\nwarped imagination assured him that the coals of fire which seared his\nbrain would henceforth be poured upon the head of Mary Whittaker.\n\nSuch was the end of Samuel Learoyd. If there was stern retribution in\nhis death so was there also malign mockery. The chalice of pardon and\npeace was filled for him, but before he could raise the cup to his lips\na fiendish hand had dashed it to the ground and substituted in its place\na draught of venomous hemlock.","title":"More Tales of the Ridings","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":23242}