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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..15ffd53 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #62978 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/62978) diff --git a/old/62978-0.txt b/old/62978-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 154912b..0000000 --- a/old/62978-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7494 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, Neighbourhood, by Tickner Edwardes - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: Neighbourhood - A year's life in and about an English village - - -Author: Tickner Edwardes - - - -Release Date: August 19, 2020 [eBook #62978] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEIGHBOURHOOD*** - - -This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler - - [Picture: ‘Homeward Bound’] - - - - - - NEIGHBOURHOOD - - - A YEAR’S LIFE IN AND ABOUT - - AN ENGLISH VILLAGE - - * * * * * - - BY - TICKNER EDWARDES - AUTHOR OF ‘THE LORE OF THE HONEY-BEE’ - - * * * * * - - WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS - - * * * * * - - NEW YORK - E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY - 31 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET - - 1912 - - * * * * * - - - - -CONTENTS - - PAGE -INTRODUCTION xi -JANUARY 1 - I. Hard Times—Wild Life and the - Frost—The Thaw at - Last—Solitude and a - Fireside—Cricket Music—Fiction - and Life—Wood versus Coal. - II. Truantry—Spring in - January—Wind and Sun on the - Downs—A Shepherd - Family—Brothers in - Arms—‘Rowster’—The - Folding-Call—Dew-Ponds and - their Making—The Sign in the - Sky. - III. The Starling Host. -FEBRUARY 27 - I. The Village Green—Daybreak—The - Morning Dew. - II. Under the ‘Seven - Sisters’—Courting Days. - III. The Elm Blossom—A Wild - Night—By the River—The - Hazel-Wood—Meadow Life - IV. The Coming of the Lambs—Night - in the Lambing-Pens—The Luck - of Windlecombe—‘White Eye.’ -MARCH 55 - I. The Woodland Clearing—Rabbit - and Stoat—The Rain - Bird—‘Skugging’—The Lovers’ - Tree—An Adventure in Forestry. - II. The ‘Sea-Blue Bird of - March’—The Old Ferryman. - III. Lion and Lamb—The Churchyard - Wall—Yew and - Almond-Tree—Evensong—A Prophet - of Evil. - IV. Wild March—Rejuvenation—On the - Downs—River and Brook—The Long - White Road—A Mystery of - Rubies—The Thrush. -APRIL 82 - I. Sunday Morning—The Black - Sheep—A Song in the Wood. - II. Rain and Shine—The - Wryneck—Bees and Primroses. - III. Fulfilment—The Martins—The - First - Cuckoo—Bluebells—Swallows and - Nightingales. - IV. April on Windle Hill—Downland - Larks. -MAY 104 - I. Busy Times—The Forge—Two - Ancient Families—The - Sweetstuff Shop—Silent - Company—The Three Thatchers. - II. The Long Back-Reach—In the - Willow Bower—A New Song and an - Old Story. - III. Whitsunday—God’s House - Beautiful—The Soul-Shepherd. - IV. Ringing the Bees—An - old-fashioned Bee-Garden. - V. Corpus Christi: an Impression. -JUNE 132 - I. The Old Brier-Bush—Chaffinch - and Willow-Wren—The - Mowing-Grass—The First Wild - Rose. - II. The Sheep-Wash. - III. Rainy Days—Old Times and - New—The Reverend’s - Garden—Darkie and his Den. - IV. The Cotter’s Saturday - Night—The Cricket - Committee—Summer Gloaming. -JULY 161 - I. Summertide—The Teasel - Traps—Bees in the - Tares—Poppies and Wheat—The - Oat-field—Swifts. - II. The Cricket Match. - III. Time and the Town—The - Beginning of Harvest-Sport and - Nature—In the Seed-hay—The - Storm. -AUGUST 189 - I. The Tea-Garden—In Search of - Change—The Trippers—A - Mysterious Company. - II. The South-west Wind—Talk on - the Downs—In the Combe—A - Reconciliation. - III. Travellers’ Tales. -SEPTEMBER 210 - I. Odd Man out—The Little - Tobacconist—A Talk by the - River. - II. The Waning Summer—Threshing. - III. Two Old Maids—The Minstrels. - IV. Autumn Dawn—The Cub - Hunt—Thistle-down. -OCTOBER 234 - I. The Going of the - Martins—Spider-Webs. - II. A Legacy—The Caravan. - III. Gossamer—The Berry - Harvest—Autumn Changes—The - Brown Owl—Glowworms—Birds that - Pass in the Night. -NOVEMBER 257 - I. The Colours of Autumn—The Ivy - Bloom—The Two Painters—A - November Nosegay. - II. Night in the Village—Tom - Clemmer—Dinner at the Farm. - III. Winter at Last—Capitulation. -DECEMBER 283 - I. Gloom and Shine. - II. House-Bound—A Happy Village. - III. A Voyage down the Street—The - Beef Club Drawing. - IV. The Christmas-Tree—Voices in - the Night. - - - - -LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS - -HOMEWARD BOUND _Frontispiece_ -OLD FRIENDS 28 -SPRINGTIME 48 -THE RINDERS 80 -THE BEE-MASTER (_missing_) 122 -THE SHEEP-WASH 146 -SOUTHDOWN EWES 200 -THE FERRYMAN’S COTTAGE 280 - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -IF you love the quiet of the country—the real quiet which is not silence -at all, but the blending of a myriad scarce-perceptible sounds—you will -get it in Windlecombe, heaped measure, pressed down, and running over, -year in and year out. - -The village lies just where Arun river breaks the green rampart of the -Sussex Downs. To the west, the lowest cottages dwindle almost to the -water’s brink. Northward and eastward, the highest buildings stand afar -off, clear cut against the blue wall of the sky; while in between, -filling the deep, steep combe, church and inn and every kind of -dwelling-house, little or big, huddle together under their thatch and old -red tiles, with the village green in their midst, and a thread of white -road rippling through them all and up the steep combe-side till it is -lost in the sunny waste of the hills. - -But there is no way through Windlecombe. From the market town four miles -off, the road is good enough; and good it remains until it reaches the -highest human outpost of the village. But there it suddenly changes to a -mere cart-track, soon to vanish altogether in the green sward of the -Down. And therein lies Windlecombe’s chiefest blessing. Far away on the -great main road, when the wind is southerly, we can hear the motor-bugles -calling, and see pale comet-beams careering through the night. But these -things come no nearer. At rare intervals, perhaps, a stray juggernaut -will descend upon us, and demand of some placid rustic the nearest way to -Land’s End or Aberdeen, returning disgusted on its tracks when it learns -that there is only one road from here to anywhere, and that the road it -came. But these ear-splitting, malodorous happenings are few and far -between. At all other times, Windlecombe wears the quiet of the hills -about it like a garment. The dust of the highway has no soaring ambition -to whiten the hedgerows, or fill the cottagers’ cabbages with grit. It -still keeps to its ancient, lowly work of smoothing the path for man and -beast; and our children can play in it unterrorised, our old dogs lie in -it at their slumberous ease. - -How wild and quiet the place is, you can only realise by living in it -from year’s end to year’s end, as has been my own privilege for longer -than I care to compute. For how many ages a human settlement has existed -in this wooded, sun-flooded cleft of the Downs, it is impossible to -hazard a guess. Windlecombe is mentioned in _Domesday_, but the stones of -the old church proclaim it as belonging to times more distant still. Be -that as it may, its clustered roofs and grey church tower have long been -reckoned in the traditions of wild life as part and parcel of the eternal -hills. Birds frequent Windlecombe as they haunt the beech-woods that -hang upon the sides of the combe. They use the rick-yards and gardens, -the very streets even, as they use the glades in the woodlands or the -verges of the brooks. You may come out of a winter’s morning and see a -heron flapping slowly out of your paddock, or listen to a pheasant’s -trumpeting on the other side of the hedge. And in early summer you can -sit on the garden bench, and, looking up into the dim elm labyrinth -overhead, watch a green woodpecker at work, cutting the hole for his nest -straight and true into the heart of the wood. That the thrushes sing all -day long from Michaelmas to Midsummer Day, that in June you cannot sleep -for the nightingales, that there is never an hour of daylight all the -year round when a lark is not carolling against the blue or stormy grey -above the village—these things you take as part of your rightful daily -fare, and are content. - -But life in an English village derives its charm only in part from its -intimacy with wild Nature and all her wonders and beauties, indispensable -as these are to the daily lives of most thinking, working men. There is -no error so disastrous, humanly speaking, as that which leads a man to -seek happiness or sublimity out of the beaten track of his fellows. -Neighbourhood, the daily interchange of thought and word and kindly deed, -is a necessity for all healthy human life, and the natural medium of all -true advancement. And nowhere will you find it of such sturdy growth, -rooted in such nourishing, yet temperate soil, than in the villages of -modern England. - -Yet here it is necessary to discriminate, to mark conditions. If one’s -duty towards one’s neighbour assumes a real and prime world’s importance -in village life, it is equally true that all men are not alike fit to be -villagers, nor all villages to be accounted neighbourly. It is an -essential part of the life I would describe in these pages that both the -people and the place should depend for existence on the day’s work; work -done, as far as may be, on the soil from which all sprang, and to which -all some day must return. The show villages, the little lodging-letting -communities that are to be found here and there, must be excluded from -the argument. Nor can men of private means, however modest, find a -natural place in the true villager ranks. Where to all men life is a -series of laborious days, tired evenings, dreamless nights, you, lolling -in the sunshine, or playing at work, or more fatal still, working at -play, will be for ever a public anomaly. You will get civility, a -patient, dignified tolerance from all. But you will not have a neighbour: -though you live until your feet have graven their mark into every stone -of the place, you will be a stranger in a strange land. - -For my part, such as my work is, I have done it, every stroke, in -Windlecombe for half a lifetime back, and may claim to have fairly won my -villagership. And what it is worth to me—how it is sweetened by daily -touch of kind hearts and grip of clean hands; what the country sunshine -means, filtering through the vine-leaves of my workroom window; and what -the song of the robin that sits on the ivied gate-post without, or, in -winter-time, comes fluttering and tapping at the old bull’s-eye panes for -crumbs; how the daily walk, in wood or meadow or by riverside, brings -ever its new marvel or revelation of unimagined beauty; and how, above -all, the lives of the quaint, courageous, clever folk, in whose midst -Destiny has thrown me, overbrim with all traits human, delectably mortal, -divinely out-of-place—these, and many other aspects of villagership, I -have here tried to set down in plain words and meaning, believing that -what has proved of interest and profit to one very human, always erring, -often doubting soul, may do the like for others, though journeying by -widely sundered tracks. - - T. E. - - - - -JANUARY - - -I - - -I HAVE just been to the house-door, to take a look at the winter’s night. -A change is coming, the long frost nears its end—so the old ferryman has -told me every morning for a fortnight back, and his perseverance as a -prophet has been rewarded at last. As I flung the heavy oak door back, a -breath of air struck upon my face warm, it seemed, as summer. All about -me in the grey darkness there was an indescribable stir and awakening of -life. The moon no longer stared down out of the black sky, a wicked, -venomous-bright beauty on her full-fed, rather supercilious face: now she -wore a scarf of mist upon her brows, and looked nun-like, dim-eyed, and -mild. The stars had lost their cruel glitter. I stepped forth, and felt -the grass yield beneath my tread—the first time for near a month past. -And as I stood wondering and rejoicing at it all, some night-bird lanced -by overhead, a note of the same relief and gladness unmistakable in its -shrill, jangling cry. - -Hard weather in the country has a thousand enjoyments and interests for -those who care to look for them; but when the frost holds relentlessly -week after week, as it has done this January, the grimmer side of things -comes obtrusively to the fore. There is too much shadow for the light. It -is as though you rejoiced in the beauty of sunset beams on a wall, and it -were the wall of a torture-house. You lie awake at night, and in the -death-quiet stillness, hear the measured footfall of death—a dull, -reiterated thud on the frozen ground beneath the holly-hedge, each sound -denoting that yet another roosting thrush or starling has given up the -unequal fight. Roaming through the lanes in your warm overcoat and -thick-soled boots, you note the loveliness of the hoar-frost, at one step -dazzling white, and at the next aglow with prismatic colour; and turning -the corner, you come upon the gipsy’s tent, and realise that, while you -lay snug and warm, nothing but that pitiful screen of old rent rags has -stood between human beings and the terror of a winter’s night. - -On one of the hardest days I met the old vicar of Windlecombe, and -regaled him with the story of how I had just passed along the river-way -as the tide was falling; how, at full flood, at the pause of the waters, -the frost had sheathed the river with ice; and how, when the tide began -to go down, this crystal stratum had remained aloft, held up by the -myriad reed-stems; until at length, loosened by the sunbeams, it had -fallen sheet by sheet to the wildest, most ravishing music, each icy -tympanum, as it fell, ringing a different, dear, sweet note. And, in -return for my word-picturing, the old man gave me a story of the same -times to match it; how he had just learnt that certain ill-clad, ill-fed -children—whom the law compelled to tramp every morning from Redesdown, a -little farming hamlet miles away over the frozen hills, to the nearest -school at Windlecombe, and tramp back again every night—were given a -daily penny between the three of them for their midday meal; and how, as -often as not, the bread they needed went unbought from the village store, -because of the lure of the intervening sweetstuff shop. Later, in the red -light of sundown, I met those children going home, as I had often met -them, plodding one behind the other, heads down to the bitter blast. Each -wore a great new woollen muffler, and had his pockets stuffed. I knew who -had cared for them, and my heart smote me. Somehow the pure austerity of -the evening—the radiant light ahead, the white grace of the hills about -me, the star-gemmed azure above—no longer brought the old elation. The -jingle of my skates, as they hung from my arm, took on a disagreeable -sound of fetters. Though I carried them many a time after that, I never -put them away without the honest wish that I should use them no more. - -But lucidly, these long spells of unremitting frost are rare in our -country. Ordinary give-and-take winter’s weather—the alternation of cold -and warmth, gloom and sunshine, wind and calm—brings little hardship to -any living thing. Country children have a wonderful way of thriving and -being happy, even though their diet is mainly bread-and-dripping and -separated milk. As for wild life, we need expend no commiseration on any -creature that can burrow; and while there are berries in the hedgerows, -and water in the brooks, no bird will come to harm. - -It is curious to see how Nature ekes out her winter supplies, doling out -rations, as it were, from day to day. If the whole berry harvest came to -ripe maturity at the same season, or were of like attractiveness, it -would be squandered and exhausted by the spendthrift, happy-go-lucky -hordes of birds, long before the winter was through. But many things are -designed to prevent this. Under the threat of starvation, all birds will -eat berries; but a great proportion of them will do so only as a last -resource. At first it is the hawthorn fruit that goes. The soft flesh of -the may-berry will yield to the weakest bill, and the whole crop ripens -together in early winter. But even here Nature provides against the risk -of immediate waste, that will mean starvation hereafter. The -missel-thrushes have been given a bad name because each of them takes -possession of some well-loaded stretch of hedgerow, and spends the whole -day in driving off other birds. Yet, on this habit of the greedy missel, -depends not only his own future sustenance but that of all the rest. For -all his agility, he cannot prevent each bird snatching at least enough to -keep life going, and while he is so busy, he has himself no chance for -gluttony. - -Other berry supplies, such as the privet and holly, seem to be preserved -to the last because they are universally distasteful, though nourishing -at a pinch. But it is the hips, or rose-berries, which provide the best -example of Nature’s way of conserving the lives of birds throughout hard -weather against their own foolish, squandering instinct. These berries do -not ripen all at once, whether late or early in the season. On every -bush, the scarlet hips soften in regular, long-drawn-out succession, some -being ready in early winter, and some not until well on in the new year. -When the hip is ripe, the tenderest beak can get at its viscid fruit; but -until it begins to soften, there is hardly a bird that can deal with it. -The rose-berries, with their scanty but never-failing stores, are really -the mainstay of all in hard times. It is doubtful, indeed, whether the -birds that die wholesale in prolonged frosty weather, are killed by -hunger at all. Probably their death is due rather to thirst. So long as -the brooks run, bird life can hold against the bitterest times. But once -silence has settled down over the country-side—the only real silence of -the year, when all the streams are locked up at their source—then begins -the steady footfall under the holly-hedge, and you must needs turn from -the crimson sunset light upon the wall. - -I have shut the heavy old house-door, and got back to my table by the -workroom fire. The thaw has come in earnest now. I can hear the drip of -the melting rime in the garden, far and near. The warm west wind is -beginning to sigh down the chimney. The logs simmer and glow, but not -with the greedy brightness of frost-bound nights. - -It is on these long winter evenings that Solitude comes into her kingdom. -Men are not all made alike, nor is solitude with all a voluntary -condition, at least a self-imposed necessity, as it is with me—a -something that I must fashion out of my own will and abnegation, weave -about me as the tunnel-spider weaves her lair. In this ancient house the -walls are thick, yet not so thick but that an ear-strain will just trip -the echo of far-off laughter. If I but drew that curtain and set the -door ajar, I could catch a murmur of voices like the sound of bee-hives -in summer dark; and a dozen strides along the stone-flagged passage would -yield me what I may not take for hours to come—tried and meet -companionship, the flint-and-steel play of bandied jest, my own to hold, -if I can, in brisk exchange of nerving, heartening thought. But these -things in their season. Mine now it is to dip the grey goose-quill, to -gird up for the long tramp over the foolscap-country before me—that -trackless white desert where I must lay a trail to be followed, whether -by many or few or none, or with what pleasure or weariness, I may never -certainly know. For the writer is like a sower, that is ever sowing and -passing on. He can seldom do more than take a hurried, fleeting -shoulder-glimpse at the harvest behind him, nor see who reaps, if haply -it be reaped at all. - -Scratching away in the cosy fireside quiet of the old room, there comes -to me at length a sound from the chimney-corner, to which I must needs -listen, no matter what twist or quirk of syntax holds me in thrall. You -often hear aged country folk complain that the crickets no longer sing on -the hearth, as they used to do in their childhood. My own crickets have -always seemed to sing blithely enough, too blithely at times to help one -forward with a difficult task. But I had always been glad to accept the -statement as one more proof of the decadence of modern times. Hobnobbing -one winter’s evening, however, with the old ferryman in his riverside -den, and noting how merrily the crickets were chirping in his -chimney-corner, I wondered to hear him give way to this same lament. -Then, for the first time, I realised that not the crickets, but his old -ears, were at fault. Though the little smoke-blackened cabin rang with -their music, the old man, who would, on the loudest night, have heard a -ferry-call from the other side of the water instantly, failed now to grip -the high-pitched sound. And this set me to philosophising. When the -crickets cease to pipe in my own chimney-corner, then, and not till then, -I will admit I am growing old. - -But though we speak of the chirp or pipe of the cricket and grasshopper, -it is well to remember that neither these, nor any other insects, possess -a true voice. It would be nearer the fact to call the cricket a fiddler -than a piper. For it is by sitting and drawing the corrugated rib of his -wing-case to and fro over the sharp edge of the wing beneath, that his -shrill note is developed. And it is only the male cricket who can chirp. -The female carries upon her no trace of any fiddling contrivance. When -all things were made, and made in couples, on the females of at least one -numerous species, it is pleasant to remark, a significant and commendable -silence was imposed. - -Solitude by a fireside in an old country dwelling, the murmurous night -without, and, within, the steady clear glow of candles made by your own -hands out of wax from your own hives, it would be strange if the -evening’s work failed to get itself done cleverly and betimes. Pleasant -as it is to all penmen to be achieving, there is no depth of satisfaction -like that of leaving off. Then, not to return incontinently to the -sober, colour-fast world of fact, but to stay in your dream-country, -idling awhile by the roadside, is one of the great compensations of this -most exacting of lives. - -Your tale is done. You have scrawled ‘The End’ at the bottom of the -sheet, and thrown it with the others. You have turned your chair to the -fire, put up your slippered feet on the andiron, and have filled your -most comfortable pipe. The end it is, in very truth, for all who will -read the tale; but for you there will never be an end, just as there -never was a beginning to it. Unbidden now, and not to be gainsaid even -if you had the mind, your dream-children live on in the town or country -nook you made for them; live on, increase and multiply, finish their peck -of dirt, add to the world’s store either of folly or sanctity, come to -their graves at last, each by his own inexorable road, and each leaving -the seed of another tale behind. - -To the enviable reader, when, after much water-spilling and cracking of -crowns, Jack has got his Jill, and the wedding-bells are lin-lan-loning -behind the dropt curtain, there is the satisfaction of certainty that so -much love, and one pair of hearts at least, are safe from further chance -and change in the whirligig of life. But to the teller of the tale, -there is no such assurance. Just as his dream-children came out of an -immortality he did not devise, so will they persist through an eternity -not of his controlling; and for ever they will be subject to the same -odds of bliss or disaster as any stranger that may pass his door. Yet, -being only human, he will nevertheless go on with his tales in the secret -hope that Jove may be caught napping, and a little heaven be brought down -to earth before its allotted time. For living in a world of law and -order—where even Omnipotence may not deny to every cause its outcome—is -too realistically like camping under fire. The old fatalists had peace -of mind because they believed it availed nothing to crouch when the -bullets screamed overhead, nor even to dodge a spent shot. But to take -one’s stand in the face of the myriad cross-purposes and side-issues of -an orderly universe, needs a vastly different temper. Perhaps it is just -the secret longing in all hearts to have at least a little make-believe -of certitude—if nowhere else but in the pages of a story—by which the art -of fiction so hugely thrives. - -I have put out the candles, each shining under its little red umbrella of -paper, the better to see the joyous colour of the fire. When drab -thoughts come—those night-birds of sombre feather—the pure untinctured -glow from well-kindled logs has a wonderful way of setting them to -flight. Let unassailable optimism make his fire of coals: for him of -questioning, craving, often craven heart, there is no warmth like that -from seasoned timber. Coals, with their dynamic energy, their -superfluity of smoke, their sudden incongruous jets of flame, seem to be -for ever insisting on facts you would fain forget a while, much as you -may admire them and depend on them—the progress and competition of outer -life. But wood fires serve to draw the mind away from modernism in all -its phases. So that you burn the right kind of wood, and this is -important, your fireside thoughts need never leave the realm of cheery -retrospect. Good, seasoned logs of beech or ash are the best. Oak has -no half moods; it must make either a furnace unapproachable, or smoulder -away in dead, dull embers. Elm gives poor comfort, and the slightest -damp appals it. Poplar is charity-fuel; burn it will, indeed, to good -purpose, but too explosively. There is no rest by a fire of poplar: one -must be for ever treading out or parrying the vagrant sparks. - -A joyous colour it is—the wavering amber light that fills the old room -now from the piled-up beechen logs; joyous, yet having a sedate, -ruminative tinge about it, like old travellers’ tales of ancient times. -Nor does the colour appeal only to the eye: there seems to be a fragrance -in it. That this is no mere conceit but simple fact, I was strangely -reminded when I blew the candles out, and from the smouldering wicks two -long white ribbons of vapour were borne away on the draught. The -fragrance of the smoking wax brought up a picture of the summer nights -when the bees lay close to fashion it. Round about the cluster in the -pent-up hive were thousands of little vats of brewing honey, each giving -off a steam that was the life-spirit of clover-fields and blue borage, -and sainfoin which spreads the hills with rose-red light. All these -mingled scents had got into the nature of the wax, and now they were -given off again in sweet-smelling vapour, such a fragrance as you may -rarely chance upon in certain foreign churches, where the old ordinances -yet prevail, and the candles are still made from the pure product of the -hives. - -And it is the same with burning logs. Each kind of wood has its own -essential odour, which pervades the room as though it were soul and body -with the light. You cannot separate the two; no riding down of fancy -will dissociate the flickering gipsy-gold of the embers and the perfume -of the simmering bark. If these do not fill your mind with memories of -the green twilight of woodlands, of hours spent in leafy shadows of -forest-glades, then—then you are not made for a country fireside, and -were happier hobnobbing with Modernity by his sooty, coal-fed hearth. - - - -II - - -It is not difficult to understand why indoor work is at most times -tolerable in cities, fair weather or foul. For in cities earth and sky -have long been driven out of their ancient comradeship. Stifled by -pavements and masonry, the earth cannot feel the touch of the sunbeams, -nor the air enrich itself with the breath of the soil. The old glad -interchange is prevented at all points. There is no lure in the -sunshine, no siren voice in the gale. Summer rain does not call you out -into the open, to share the joy of it with the drinking grass and leaves. -Amidst your dead, impenetrable bricks-and-mortar, you can plod on with -your scribbling or figuring without a heart-stir; no vine-leaf will tap -at your window, no lily-of-the-field taunt your industry, nor song of -skylark dissipate your dreams. - -But indoor work, carried on in a village deep in the green heart of some -beautiful country-side, is on an entirely different plane. At times, -perhaps, it becomes the hardest work in the world. With one lavish hand -life gives you the things most necessary for close, unremitting -application, and with the other she ruthlessly sets all manner of -obstacles in your path. On such a day as now dawned crystal-clear over -Windlecombe, with the first warm wind of the year blowing new life into -everything, there was no stopping indoors for me. I got down to my work -punctually enough, even a little before the wonted time. But good -resolutions could make no headway against such odds. The south-west wind -boomed merrily in the elm-tops. The sunbeams riddled my old house -through and through. Out in the garden robins and thrushes had formed -themselves into a grand orchestra; and when the breeze lulled for a -moment, I could hear the larks singing far overhead, as though it were a -summer’s day. An hour of half-hearted tinkering saw my fortitude break -like a milldam. Five minutes later I had shut the house-door behind me, -and was off up the village street, gulping down deep draughts of the -sweet morning air. - -I chose the path that led to the Downs. Mounting the steep, chalky track -in the arms of the gale, with the misty green heights looming up before -me against the blue of the winter’s morning, one fact was borne in upon -me at every step. Though I must needs write winter—for January was but -three parts done—it was no longer winter, but spring. A few days’ sunny -warmth had worked what seemed like a miracle. In the hedges and trees -the buds were swelling. Birds were pairing. Young green spears of grass -showed underfoot. Across the path clouds of midges danced in the -sunshine. I heard the first low love-croon of a wood-dove; and, when I -stopped for breath in the lee of the hazel-copse, there drifted out upon -me a song never yet heard on winter days—the mellow voice of a blackbird -calling for a mate. - -But the more we study Nature out of doors, the more we come to disbelieve -in winter altogether. Winter is in truth a myth. From the moment the -old year’s leaves are down, the earth is in vigorous preparation for the -new year’s life and growth. Nature lies by quietly enough during the -cold spells, but each awakening is a stronger and more joyous one. While -they last, the long frosts seem to hold all the life of things suspended. -Yet, with every return of the south-west wind, it is easy to see that -this is not really so. Though the visible sunbeams have had no power for -progress, those stored in the earth have been slowly and steadily at -work. And when the thaw comes, Nature seems to take up the slack of the -year in one tremendous forward pull. - -I reached the crest of Windle Down, and made over the springy, dew-soaked -grass, content to go wheresoever the tearing wind should drive me. The -long, billowing curves of the hills stretched away on all sides until -they lost themselves in distant violet haze. Here and there flocks of -sheep made a grey patch in the sunlit solitude, and a low clamour of -bells was in the air blent with the unending song of the larks. On the -combe-sides the gorse spread its darker green, and, near at hand, I could -make out its gold buds already bursting under the touch of the sunbeams -The next hill before me was topped with a ring of fencing, near which -stood a solitary figure, clear cut against the tender blue of the north. - -Shepherding on the South Downs is an hereditary family calling, and old -George Artlett, the shepherd at Windlecombe farm, had trained up two at -least of his four sons to follow in his own tranquil steps. In village -life, though the essence of neighbourliness is that it must be exercised -impartially to one and all, worthy or unworthy, there are ever some about -you with whom the daily traffic of genial word and deed comes more aptly -than with the rest. In all the years I had known the Artletts, there had -been scarce a day when I had not encountered one or other of that sturdy -clan, and generally to my profit. If it was not the old shepherd himself -placidly trailing along in the rear of his flock with his shining crook, -it was ‘young’ George, the fifty-year-old under-shepherd, his pocket -bulged out with a Bible; or Dewie, the shepherd’s boy; or John, the -sporting handy-man, tramping off to covert with his pack of mongrels; or -quaint ‘Mistus’ Artlett, carrying her household basket to and from the -shop. Of Tom Artlett—the ‘Singing Ploughman,’ as he was called in the -neighbouring market town—I got a glimpse sometimes in the early grey of -morning, or more often of late afternoon, as he journeyed between home -and farm. He ploughed his acre a day conscientiously, walking the usual -twelve miles in the doing of it; and all the while his rich, powerful -voice made the hills about him echo with the songs he loved. - -Why he sang these songs, and why young George’s pocket always bulged, -would have been at once evident to you if you could have looked out of -window with me any Sunday morning about eight of the clock. Punctually -at that hour, the two brothers strode by in their scarlet guernseys and -blue, braided coats, on their way to the town; and there they passed a -seventh day more toilsome than all the other six, coming home at -nightfall hoarse and weary, yet plainly as happy as any men could be. - -Young George Artlett stood on the hill-top, leaning upon his crook. The -wind fluttered his coat about him, and lashed his haversack to and fro. -He stood with his back in my direction, bare-headed, his grey hair -streaming in the breeze. It was not until I had almost come up with him -that I marked his uplifted face, his closed eyes, his moving lips; and -then I stopped irresolutely, ashamed of the blunder I had committed. But -before I could turn and retreat, the dog at his side had signalled my -presence. The old tarpaulin sou’wester hat was returned to its place. -Young George wheeled round, and looked at me with eyes of welcome. - -‘I knowed by th’ bark o’ him, who ’twur,’ he said, in his slow, deep, -quiet voice. ‘Rowster, ’a has a name fer all o’ ye. That there little -happy shruck, ’tis yerself an’ nane other. When ’a perks up an’ bellers, -’tis th’ poodle-dorg an’ Miss Sweet. An’ when ’a grizzles, I an’t no -call to look around; there be a black coat no gurt ways off, sure as big -apples comes from little uns.’ - -He smiled to himself, as though the memory of some recent encounter with -the black coat had returned to him. Then he took a quick glance at the -sun. - -‘Drinkin’-time!’ said he. - -His sheep were all on the far hill-side, half a mile off perhaps, -feeding—as sheep always do on windy days—with their heads to the breeze; -and shouldering together in long, straight lines, roughly parallel—as, -again, sheep generally will, in spite of the prettily ordered groups on -painters’ canvases. It is only on days of perfect calm that grazing -sheep will head to all points of the compass, and on the South Downs such -days are rare indeed. - -George Artlett put his hands to his mouth funnel-wise, and sent the -shepherd’s folding-call ringing on the breeze. - -‘Coo-oo-oo-o-up! Coo-oo-oo-o-up! Coom along—coo-oo-up!’ - -The shrill, wild notes pealed out, drawing an echo from every hill far -and near. At once all the ewes on the distant sunny slope stopped their -nibbling, and looked round. Again the cry rang forth. This time the -foremost sheep moved a step or two in our direction, hesitated, then came -slowly on. A moment later the whole flock was under way, pouring -steadily up the hill-side and filling the air with a deep, clamorous -song. - -But two or three of the younger sheep had stayed behind in a little bay -of grass beyond the furze-brake. Rowster looked inquiringly at his -master, got a consenting wave of the arm, and was off with the speed of -light. We watched him as he raced down the hill in a wide semicircle, -and, taking the malingerers in the rear, drove them helter-skelter after -the rest. Yelping and snapping behind them, he brought the whole flock -up to the dew-pond at what seemed an entirely unnecessary pace. - -‘’Tis allers so wi’ dorgs,’ observed young George reflectively. ‘Ye can -never larn them as shepherd work ought to go slow as the sun i’ the sky. -All fer hurry an’ bustle they be, from birth-time to buryin’—get the hour -by, sez they, the day over, life done, an’ on wi’ the next thing!’ - -We turned our shoulders to the blustering wind, and leant over the rail -together, watching the sheep drink. These dew-ponds on the Sussex Downs -are always a mystery to strangers coming for the first time into the -sheep country; and they are never quite bereft of their miraculous -quality, even among the shepherds themselves. That in a land, where -there are neither springs nor natural pools of water, man should dig -hollows, not in the lowest sink-points of the valleys where one would -reasonably make such a work, but on the summits of the highest hills, and -then confidently expect Nature to fill them with water, keeping them so -filled year after year, in and out of season, no matter what call was -made on their resources—must appear little else than downright ineptitude -to one who has never had the feasibility of the plan demonstrated under -his very eyes. Yet the seeming wonder of the dew-pond has a very simple -explanation. It is nothing more than a cold spot on the earth, which -continually precipitates the moisture from the air passing over it; and -this cold spot is formed on the hill-top because there it encounters air -which has not been robbed of its vapour by previous contact with the -earth. - -The best dew-pan makers are the men of Wiltshire, as all flockmasters -know. The pond, having been excavated to the right depth and shape, is -lined first with puddled clay or chalk, then with a thick layer of dry -straw; finally, upon this straw a further substantial coating of clay is -laid, and well beaten down. Nothing is needed then but to bring a few -cart-loads of water to start the pond, and to set a ring-fence about it -to keep off heavy stock. The action of the straw, in its waterproof -double-casing, is to intercept the heat-radiation of the earth at that -particular point, so that the pond-cavity and its contents remain colder -than the surrounding soil. - -How the dew-pond came to be invented has often been the subject of -wondering speculation. No doubt there have been dew-pond makers for -untold centuries back, but at one time, however far distant, a first -discovery of the principle underlying the thing must have been made. -Probably the dew-pond, in some form or other, had its origin in those -remote times when all the high-lying chalk-lands of southern England were -overrun by a dense population. But then, as now, the region must have -been waterless; and the people, living there for security’s sake, must, -nevertheless, have been constrained to provide themselves with this first -daily necessity of all life. We read of the manna given in the -Wilderness, and the water struck from the Rock. These were miracles -worked, as miracles ever are, for children: they were grown men, -evidently, in mind and heart, to whom the dew-pond was given. For though -the thing, in essence, was set to shine about their feet wherever men -trod, so that none could forbear seeing, its adaptation to human need was -left to man’s own labour and thoughtful ingenuity. To-day, as in those -far-off ages, the dwarf plume-thistle studs the sward of the Downs, each -circle of thick, fleshy leaves, matted together and centrally depressed, -forming a perfect little dew-pond, that retains its garnered moisture -long after all other vegetation has grown dry in the heat of the mounting -sun. Even if there were no such thing as a dew-pond on all the Downs -to-day, and every flock must perforce be driven miles, perhaps, down into -the valley to be watered, it is inconceivable that no one of prime -intelligence, wandering the hills alive to the need of the thirsty -thousands around him, would mark the natural reservoirs of the thistles, -reason out the principles they embodied, and straightway set brain and -hand to work on the first dew-pond—using perchance, in earliest -experiment, the actual thistle-leaves for the indispensable -heat-retarding layer. - -I had often talked the matter over with George Artlett, and now we -drifted into the old subject. But he was never to be cajoled out of his -belief in the miraculous nature of the affair. - -‘Him as sent th’ fire down to th’ could altar,’ he said, his long arm -going up to heaven, and his voice taking on that deep, vibratory chime so -familiar to Sunday loiterers in Stavisham marketplace, ‘He knaws how to -send watter to faith an’ a dry pan. Ay! but I ha’ seed it comin’, many’s -the time. An’ th’ first time, I ’lowed as ’twur High Barn ricks burnin’. -We was goin’ hoame to fold, and there afore me, right agen th’ red -night-sky, I seed a gurt topplin’ cloud o’ summut as looked like smoke -ahent th’ hill. Sez I, ’tis High Barn ricks afire! But it warn’t. It -wur jest Gorramighty gatherin’ together His dew from the fower winds o’ -heaven, an’ pourin’ it into Maast’ Coles’s pond.’ - - - -III - - -One afternoon, when the month was all but at its end, I came home through -the riverside meadows. The sun had just dipped below the misty -earth-line. Before me, in the east, the darkness was spreading up the -sky, and the larger stars already shone with something of their nightly -lustre. But behind me it was still day. From the horizon upward, and -far overhead, the sky was a pale, luminous turquoise, overflecked with -cloud of fiery amber—the two colours a perfect harmony of cold and heat. -As I trod the narrow field-path, facing the dusk, with all that glorious -enmity reconciled at my back, I became aware of a mysterious sound -somewhere in the chain of tree-girt meadows on ahead. A missel-thrush -had been singing hard by, but now his clarion had ceased, and this other -far-away note forced me suddenly out of my musing. It was not a single -song, but a deep, continuous outpouring, a medley of music like the -splashing and tumbling of mountain brooks. With every step forward it -grew in volume. At last, in a belt of elm-trees that bordered one of the -farthest fields, I came upon the cause of it; and though I had many times -seen vast congregations of starlings, I had never before encountered so -huge a company as now met my gaze. - -The trees stretched across the entire field, and every twig on every -branch had its perching songster, the combined effect being as though the -trees had suddenly shot out a magic foliage, coal-black against the -deepening blue of the sky, heavy and thick as leaves in June. Now the -mountain brooks had swollen to Niagaras. The hubbub was literally -deafening. I shouted my loudest, hoping to set the gargantuan host to -flight, but I could scarce hear my own voice. For a full ten minutes I -stood in that great flood-tide of melody, and all the time fresh -detachments of birds were continually arriving to swell the multitude, -and add their voices to the chorus. At length I saw two birds break away -from the mass, and fly straight off side by side. Immediately the tumult -ceased, and there followed a sound like the long, rumbling roll of -thunder. The whole concourse had taken wing together, the tree-tops, -released from their weight, lashing back as though struck by a flaw of -wind. Now the army swept over my head, darkening the sky as it went. -The thunderous sound grew less and less as the flock made for the distant -woods. A moment more, and an uncanny silence had fallen on everything. -Then, half a mile away in the misty dark, I heard the rich, wild voice -peal out again, where the starling host had taken up their quarters for -the night. - -Thus it happened every evening for a week after, when they passed on out -of the district and I saw them no more. Probably no single stretch of -country could support such incredible numbers for more than a few days -together, and they must be for ever trekking onward, leaving behind them -a famine-stricken land, and making life all the harder for our own native -birds. For there is little doubt that these vast hordes of starlings -that sweep the country-side in winter, are foreigners in the main. - - - - -FEBRUARY - - -I - - -FROM where my old house stands, behind its double row of lindens at the -top of the green, you can see well-nigh all that is happening in -Windlecombe. Sitting at the writing-table in the great bay-window, you -get an uninterrupted view down the length of the village street. From -the windows right and left—through a trellis of bare branches in winter, -and, in summer, through gaps in the greenery—you overlook the side-alleys -where dwell the less profoundly respectable, the more free-and-easy, of -Windlecombe folk. And in the rear, beyond my garden and little orchard, -there is the farm—rickyard and barn and dwelling-house all crowded -together on the green hill-side bestrewn with grazing cattle, cocks and -hens innumerable, all of the snow-white breed, gobbling turkeys, and -guinea-fowl that cry ‘Come back, come back!’ every waking moment of their -lives. - -All the oldest houses in Windlecombe are gathered round the village -green. Here, amidst its thicket of live-oak and yew, the church tower -rears its bluff grey stones against the sky, its clock-face with the one -gilded hour-hand (minutes are of no account in Windlecombe) turned to -catch the last light of evening. The parsonage, the village shop, the -forge and wheelwright’s yard, a dozen or more of ivy-smothered tenements, -stand at easy intervals round the oblong of the green. There is the -little sweetstuff shop at the far corner, side by side with the cobbler’s -den; and, beyond them, the inn juts boldly out half across the roadway, -silhouetting its sign against the distant, bright patch of river which -flows at the foot of the hill. - -I often wonder how other villages get on without a green. In Windlecombe -all the life of the place seems to culminate here. On summer evenings -every one drifts this way at some time or other for a quiet stroll, or a -chat with friends on the seats under the ‘Seven Sisters,’ a group of -gnarled Scotch pines almost in the centre of the green. - - [Picture: ‘Old Friends’] - -Even in winter I seldom look forth and see it entirely deserted. Except -in school-hours, there are always children playing upon it, and the old -men, whose work in the fields is done, hold here daily a sort of informal -club whenever the sun shines. But the old women I never see. All their -lives long, their activities and interests have been centred in the home, -and now they spend the dusk of their days consistently by the firesides. -On week-days, the fairest summer weather has no power to tempt them -abroad. Up to seventy or so, they can be seen creeping over the green -towards the church on Sunday mornings; but it is duty, not desire, that -has drawn them from their burrows. For the rest of the week they sit, -most of them, stitching tiny scraps of silk and cotton together. It -seems to be an indispensable condition of future bliss with all the old -women in Sussex, that each should finish a patchwork quilt before she -dies. - -There comes a morning in the year, generally in early February, when the -fact that the days are getting longer is suddenly driven in upon your -consciousness, as though the change had come about in a single night at -the touch of some magician’s wand. - -A long spell of gloomy weather ends in a crisp, bright dawn. Through the -chinks in the blind, the sun casts quivering spots of gold upon the wall. -You wake from your dreams, and immediately know that life has become a -different thing from that of yesterday. Throwing the casements back, -there comes in upon you a flood of new light, new air, new melody. It is -barely eight o’clock, and already the sun is high over Windle hill. The -thrushes have given up their winter piping, and have begun to sing in the -old glad way, linking half a dozen sweet notes in a phrase together, and -pouring it out over and over again. The air has the savour of warm earth -in it, the scent of green growth; and, looking down at the flower-borders -in the garden, you see sheaves of snowdrops breaking up through the soil, -and the first crocuses yielding their treasure to the first bees. - -To-day, though it was only the first of February, just such another -morning startled me from sleep, and sent me out of doors tingling to the -finger-tips with this new spirit of wonder at a changed order of things. -Over Windlecombe, in the level sunlight, half a hundred violet plumes of -smoke rose into the calm air. From the smithy came the steady chime of -Tom Clemmer’s anvil. The pit-saw was droning in the wheelwright’s yard. -Up at High Barn they were threshing wheat, and the sound might have been -that from a great cathedral organ, so far off that nothing but the deep -tones of the pedal-pipes could reach the ear. But though all these -sounds denoted humanity astir, and busy at the day’s task, to the eye -there was no sign of any one abroad. I was as much alone as Crusoe on -his island, and just as free to wander where I would. - -I skirted the green, and turned in at the churchyard gate. Everywhere -between the crowding stones, the grass was white with dew. Glittering -water-bells rimmed every leaf, and trembled at the tip of every twig. -The old yew dripped solemnly in its shadowed corner. Down the face of -each memorial-stone, tiny runnels coursed like tears. - -It was strange to see how the dewdrops obliterated all vestige of natural -colour in the grass, and yet lent it a thousand alien hues. As I moved -slowly along, sparks of vivid green and crimson, orange and blue, flashed -incessantly amidst the frosted silver. Turning my back to the sunshine, -all these colours vanished, and the glittering quality of the dew was -lost. Now it was just a dead-white field, crossed and re-crossed with -lines of emerald where the foraging birds had left their tracks. But all -round the head of my shadow, that stretched giant-like before me, there -was still a shining circle of light. I remembered to have read somewhere -of one of the religious painters in the Middle Age, who accounted himself -divinely set apart from his fellows, by reason of a halo which, he said, -appeared at certain seasons about him as he walked in the fields. -Probably he saw then what I saw this morning; but, being an artist, he -won inspiration, new freshets of saintly energy, from what, to the -ordinary unemotional sinner, would be no more than an interesting, -natural fact. - - - -II - - -Towards afternoon, quite a little throng of ancient folk gathered on the -benches under the Seven Sisters, drawn thither by the sunny mildness of -the day. Sauntering about on the green hard by, I could hear the low hum -of their voices; and at last I took a place, almost unobserved, on one of -the outer seats a little distance from the group. - -Eavesdropping, even in its most innocent form, hardly comes into the -category of virtues; but, in any serious attempt to study country life -and character, it must be reckoned almost a necessary vice. I confess, -in this respect, not only to having yielded to it as a lifelong, -irresistible habit, but to having cultivated it on many occasions as an -art. The English peasant under open observation is no more himself than -a wild bird in a cage; and these old folk, in particular, needed as much -wary stalking-down as any creature of the woodland. Settled myself -quietly now behind a newspaper in the corner, my presence, if it had been -marked at all, was soon forgotten; and the talk began again among the -group in the usual desultory, pondering style—talk in the ancient dialect -of Sussex, such as you will hear to-day only in the most out-of-the-way -villages, and then only among those with whose passing it also must pass -irrevocably away. - -Daniel Dray, the old wheelwright, was tapping his stick reflectively on -his boot-toe, keeping time with the song of the pit-saw in the -neighbouring yard, where young Daniel was mightily at work. By his side -sat Tom Clemmer the elder, his bleak grey eyes far away in space. All -the rest of the company were studying the horizon in much the same -distraught, silent fashion. A very old, but still hearty man, in a wide -blue suit, was chipping at a plug of sailor’s tobacco with a jack-knife, -and smiling to himself. At length the smile developed into a rich -chuckle. - -‘Dan’l,’ said he, ‘now you ha’ spoke a trew wured, if never afore! So -they be, Dan’l, so they be! Ay! an’ all round the wureld ’tis th’ same -wi’ ’em! Doan’t I know?’ He made a telling pause at the question, and -then—‘Not ’aaf!’ he added in solemn irony, as he struck a match on his -hindermost serge. - -The old wheelwright stretched himself luxuriously in the sunshine. - -‘I knows naun o’ Frenchies, an’ blackamoors, an’ sech-like,’ said he. -‘But a Sussex maid!—Ah!’ - -The exclamation, long drawn out, was echoed round the circle. Old Tom -Clemmer turned argumentatively in his seat. - -‘Ay! real purty, Dan’l!—purty enough!’ he agreed. ‘Ye wur i’ luck’s way, -as I minds well wur said by all th’ folk, forebye ’tis so long ago. But, -Fegs! man! We han’t all had your fortun’ i’ bright eyes! What sez -Maast’ Grimble there?’ - -A thin high voice quavered out from the end of the bench. For full five -minutes it hovered in mid-air, like a long-drawn-out treble note on a -violin. - -‘Ay! trew, Tom! Never a wured o’ a lee, Tom! But ’twur nane o’ my -doin’, as many’s th’ time I ha’ tould ye. Stavisham Fair, ’twur, i’ -Fifty-three, as I first seed her, all i’ sky-blew an’ spangles; wi’ th’ -lights flarin’, an’ th’ drooms bustin’, an’ th’ trumpets blowin’; an’ -sech a crowd o’ gay folk as never got together afore, i’ th’ wureld. -Wunk, ’a did, at me; an’ I wunk back. Then ’a wunk agen, an’ ’twur all -ower, neighbours! We got church-bawled th’ follerin’ Sunday; an’ hoame I -fetched her all within th’ month. An’ then, Tom, ye knowed how’t fell -out. Six weeks o’ it, we had together; an’ then off ’a goos after ’a’s -ould carrawan agen, an’ I goos fer a souldger. An’ nane but th’ gurt -goodness knows whether I be married man or widder-man to-day.’ - -The faint, shrill voice ceased. A lean, old man, with a chubby face and -eyes of so pale a blue, that they seemed almost colourless in the rich, -yellow light of the afternoon, had been intently listening, a trembling -hand to each ear. He wore a spotless white round-frock, and was -punctiliously, unnaturally clean in all other respects. Now he brought -his finger-tips softly together, and stared at the sky in an ecstasy of -reminiscence. - -‘Eighteen thousand happy days,’ said he triumphantly, ‘agen six weeks o’ -rough an’ tumble—pore George! Ah! well-a-day! But ’tis so, neighbours. -Th’ Reverend, ’a figured it out fer Jane an’ me laast catterning-time. -Eighteen thou— Gorm! but I should ha’ lost ’em all, if she hadn’t up an’ -spoke out! I ne’er had no thought on’t, trew as th’ sun goos round th’ -sky. But Jane, ’a gie me a red neckercher wan Hock-Monday. Thinks I, -“Wat’s that fer?” An’ then ’a gie me a bag o’ pea-nuts, an’ sez I to -mysel’, “’Tis a queer maid surelye!” An’ then ’a cooms along at -harvest-time, an’ sez she, “’Enery Dawes, I ha’ jist heerd as ould Mistus -Fenny ’ull gie up th’ malthouse cottage at Milemas, an’ seein’ as how you -warnts me an’ I warnts you, ’twould be a pity to lose it; so let’s get -arsted i’ church directly-minute,” sez she. Wi’ that, ’a putt both arms -around th’ red neckercher, as I wore; an’ gie me wan, two, three—each -chop, an’ wan i’ th’ middle. Lor’ bless ye! I knowed then what ’a -meant, I did! I wur allers th’ sort as could see through a brick wall -fur as most folk: never warnted no more ’n an ’int.’ - -‘There agen!’ said old Tom Clemmer, after a pause. ‘Ye wur another o’ -th’ lucky wans, ’Enery. Th’ best o’ wimmin plunked straight into your -eye, in a manner o’ speakin’. Ah! but courtin’ days warn’t all pea-nuts -an’ red handkerchers wi’ some o’ us, ’Enery! Dear! oh Lor’! what trouble -I did ha’, surelye!’ - -He stopped, and sat for a while smiling down into the bowl of his pipe, -and shaking his head. - -‘But ye got her at laast, Tom!’ said Daniel Dray softly. He stole a -commiserate glance round at the other members of the company, and had a -silent, meaning nod from each. Old Tom Clemmer blushed, then laughed -outright. - -‘Trew, Dan’l! An’ well I reckermembers th’ day as ’a first come to -Windlecombe—up to th’ farm-us yonder, though ’tis forty year ago. All o’ -a heap, I wur, soon as I sot eyes on her. “Churn-maid?” sez I to mysel’, -“’twunt be long afore y’are summut better’n that, down at th’ -forge-cottage ’long o’ me!” Come Sunday, I runs agen her on th’ -litten-path. “Marnin’, Mary!” sez I, an’ gies her th’ marigolds I’d -picked fer her out o’ my own gay-ground; an’ down ’a throws ’em in th’ -mud, an’ off wi’out so much as wured or look. Ah! a proud, fine maid ’a -wur!—to be sure an’ all!’ - -Tom Clemmer knocked out his pipe upon his crutch. Then he threw an -exultant glance about him. - -‘What might a man do then, ye’d think? Well, as marigolds warn’t no -good, I tries laylocks. Not a bit on it! Jerrineums—wuss an’ wuss! -Roses—never so much as a sniff! Summut useful, thinks I; but they little -spring onions as I tied up in a bunch wi’ yaller ribbin, an’ hung on th’ -dairy gate fer her, there they hung ’til they was yaller too. Then I has -a grand idee. Off I goos to Stavisham, an’ buys a gurt big hamber -brooch; an’ a silver necklace wot weighed down my pocket, carryin’ of it; -an’ a spanglorious goulden weddin’-ring. “Now, my gel, we’ll jest see!” -sez I all th’ way hoame. I bides quiet ’til Sunday, then I hides ahent -th’ gurt elver-tree, an’ pops out upon her suddentlike, as ’a cooms -along. I offers her th’ brooch. “Get out o’ my way!” sez she, “’tis -jest a common ha’penny fairin’— No, ’tis hamber, ’tis real purty!” ’a -sez, an’ brings up stock-still. Then out cooms th’ necklace, an’ down -went ’a’s good book slap i’ th’ dirt. “Oh! ’tis kind o’ ye, blacksmith!” -sez she, ketchin’ hould on’t. “Ah! but what thinks you o’ this here?” -sez I; “but I mount gie it ye yet awhile, ’cause ’tis unlucky fer a maid -to ha’ th’ ring afore th’ day.” Lor! what eyes ’a had, surelye! ’A -thought a bit, then sez she, “Thomas Clemmer, how much ha’ ye got laid -by?” An’ soon as I’d tould her, sez she, “I’ll ha’ ye, Tom, darlin’, fer -I never loved nane but you!” Ah! well, well! Most onaccountable, ’tis, -how th’ very wureds cooms back to ye, arter years an’ years!’ - -He fell into a brown study, out of which he presently came with a jerk. - -‘Fower o’clock? Never! Gorm! how high th’ sun be! I must be getten -hoame-along!’ - -He rose upon his one serviceable foot, fitted the other foot, a shapeless -bundle of linen, into the sling that hung from his neck, seized his -crutches, and stumped placidly away. There was a direct path from the -Seven Sisters across the green to Tom Clemmer’s cottage, but he always -came and went by the roundabout route through the churchyard. For the -excellent, but frugal-minded Mrs. Clemmer had lain there, under a -home-made iron cross and a carefully tended bed of marigolds, these -twenty years back. - - - -III - - -Living year after year in Windlecombe, I have come by old habit to -associate with each month that passes its own characteristic changes and -events. February always stands in my mind for three great ebullitions of -the year’s life, equally wonderful in their several ways—the coming of -the elm blossom, the earliest clamorous music from the lambing-pens, and -the first rich song of the awakening bees. - -Through my study window, all this week of warm, glittering, showery -weather, I have watched the elm-trees about the churchyard gradually lose -their sharp, clear-cut outline of winter, and dissolve into the misty -softness of spring. Already the tree-tops are so dense that the blue sky -can barely penetrate them. This change is not caused by the expanding -leaf buds, but by the opening of the myriad blossoms, which come and go -before the leaf. Their colour is a magnificent, sombre purple; and the -whole tree stands up in the sunshine, clad in this gorgeous raiment from -its bole to its highest twig—an imperial garment reminding you in more -ways than one of ancient Rome and its Cæsars; for there is little doubt -that the elm is no British tree, but was brought to us by the Romans, all -those centuries ago, with so many other good things. - -In the deep pockets of rich soil which have sifted down to the valleys, -and in the shallower soil of our chalk hills, almost every species of -forest tree makes generous growth. But perhaps nothing takes so kindly -to highland Sussex conditions as the elm. The village gardens are -fringed about with its beautiful, wide-spreading shapes, and, in summer, -griddled over with its long blue shadows. But no tree stands within a -distance of its own height from any dwelling. Hard experience has taught -men that the elm is undesirable as a near neighbour. Of all trees it is -the most comely, because it is never symmetrical, but it owes this -picturesque trait to a habit intolerable in a close acquaintance. Not -only does the elm cast its great branches to earth at all times and -without creak or groan of warning, but during the season of the -equinoctial gales, you never know when the whole tree may not come -toppling over in a moment, measuring its vast length on the ground with a -sound like the impact of the heaviest wave that ever thundered against -Beachy Head. - -It was so that the King of Windlecombe, the oldest and mightiest elm -through half the county, came down one pitch-black, tempestuous night in -a September of long ago. None of the children, nor many of the younger -folk in the village, now remember the King, where he towered up beyond -the east wall of the churchyard, and every sunset threw his vast shadow -half way up the combe. But they are all familiar with the story of his -downfall. A wild night it was. Every window shook in its frame; every -chimney was an organ-pipe for the wind’s blowing; the sound of the rain -on roof and wall was like an incessant hail of musketry. Thatches were -stripped off. The inn-sign went clattering down the street. The gilt -weather-cock on the church tower took a list that it has kept to this -day. No one dared go abroad that night, but families sat close at home, -keeping shoulder to shoulder in timorous company, and dreadfully -wondering what it was like at sea. Had you need to speak, you must shout -your words, so great was the din of the hurricane. All night it raged -undiminished, and no one slept; some even would not venture to bed, not -knowing but the roof might be plucked off any moment as they lay, and let -the drenching torrent in upon them. Then, as the first grey tinge of -dawn blanched in the eastern sky, high above the voice of the storm came -one tremendous booming note, as though the earth had split asunder. And -with the light, people looked out and saw that the King of Windlecombe -was down. - -To-day, as I settled myself to work with the lattices tight closed, to -shut out the lure of the songful morning, there came a patter of earth -upon the glass. At first I thought it was one of the martins’ nests -broken away from the eaves above, being stuffed too full of hay by -interloping sparrows. But the sharp volley sounded again, and looking -out, there on the path below I beheld the old vicar in wide-brimmed hat -and tartan shawl. - -‘How now, old mole!’ cried he, shaking his stout oak cudgel at me. ‘The -sun shines, the west wind calls, all the brooks are laughing over their -beds! Yet there you hide in your burrow, grouting among dead words, -warming up stale, cold dreams a twelvemonth old! Shame on you! Come -out, and let the air and sunbeams riddle your dusty fur! Come and lend -me your eyes for a long morning. I have seen to Mrs. Dawes’ rheumatics. -I have done the school. Old Collup has had his bedside talk. I am free -for a ramble, and I want to go everywhere and hear tell of everything. -Come this moment, or I’ll huff and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house -down!’ - -With his jolly, wrinkled face turned upward, his long white beard -wagging, and his kind eyes steadily meeting mine, it was difficult to -believe that he could see only the faintest shadow of all before him; -that for years past he had lived and worked in a world of deepest dusk, -wherein the very noontide sun of summer was no more than a pale spot in -never-ending gloom. I got my thick boots, and was soon trudging down the -hill with him towards the riverside woods and meadows, every yard of -which had been familiar to him in his days of light. - -Arun was running high, with three spring tides yet to come. Much rain -had fallen of late. It looked as though the floods would soon be upon -us, unless the wind changed, and drier, colder weather set in. We -skirted the river-bank, with the wind whipping light ripples almost to -our feet, and the sun making a broad path of gold along the waters. -Beyond the river stretched level green pastures intersected by deep -dykes, and beyond these again lay the misty blue sierra of wooded hills. -The old parson strode easily forward, his face turned up to the sky. His -step never faltered, but his stick hovered incessantly about the path as -he went. - -‘Hark to the wind in the trees!’ he said. ‘That is a new voice: the elms -must be in full bloom, and I can guess what they look like. And the -sound is different in that clump of beeches there: the leaf-buds must be -getting long and green now. Only the ash and the oak keep their winter -voice in February.’ - -Thus it always was on our walks together. What he heard, he told me of; -and what I saw, I gave him as well as I was able. - -‘Listen!’ he said presently. ‘Did you hear that? That is the first -chaffinch-song of the year. And there is the great-tit clashing his -silver cymbals together, and the bullfinches blowing over the tops of -their latchkeys, and a green woodpecker laughing—he never laughs in that -grim, scornful way until the year is well on the wing!’ - -Then I, not to be behind him: - -‘I see grass—fresh new growth pushing up everywhere. Young nettles too: -they are coming up green amongst the old dead stems. But they cannot -sting yet—yes, they can! and badly! Stop here a moment, Reverend! The -celandines are out thick on the bank—you remember their shining, yellow, -five-rayed stars, set in dark green leaves like the spade-blades of -Hamlet’s diggers. Below on the bank, where it is too steep for anything -else to grow, there are coltsfoot flowers. The drab earth glows with -them—no leaves at all, but just long, curved, scaly stems, each ending in -a tuft of golden fleece. And then there is—’ - -‘I know, I know! I can look back a dozen springs, and see them all as -well as you. But listen to that thrush! That is his honeymooning note, -and the pair must be nesting not far away. I have found thrushes’ nests -in February many a time. See if you can find this one.’ - -‘Your singer has flown. And there goes the hen, out of the other side of -the bush; if the nest is anywhere, it will be here under this tangle of -clematis. Yes, two eggs already! I wish you could see their clear -greenish-blue, with the dapple-marks on it.’ - -I guided his hand to the nest, and his fingers wandered lightly over it. - -‘Cold!’ said he. ‘She will not begin to sit yet. Perhaps never on this -clutch. There is frost and snow ahead of us still, though all of us -forget it this weather, bird, beast, and man.’ - -The path led us into the hazelwood; hazel below, and overhead soaring -columns of beech, whose branches touched finger-tips everywhere across -the white-flecked blue of the sky. As we went along, the sound of our -footsteps in the fallen leaves was like the sound of wading through -water. I must read off to him what I saw about me as though it were from -a book. - -‘The hazel-catkins were never so fine, I think, as they are this spring. -The wood is full of them, like showers of gold-green rain falling. -Whenever we brush against them, clouds of pollen drift off in the wind. -It is the wind that makes the hazel-nuts which we gather by and by. What -millions upon millions of spores only to make a few bushels of nuts! I -struck a single bush with my stick just now, and, for yards ahead, the -sunshine was misty with the floating green dust. Then, here and there on -every branch—’ - -‘Yes! I can see it all! There are little green buds each with a torch -of bright crimson at its tip, flaming in the sun. Why should they be so -vividly coloured, if only to catch what the wind brings—floating pollen -as blind as I? No, no! The hazel-nut was made for the bees originally, -depend upon it. Nature never uses bright colour unless to attract winged -life.’ - -We came out of the wood on the south side. Stopping just within the -shade of the last trees, we had a view over a chain of sunny, sheltered -meadows that lay between the riverside willows and the first steep -escarpment of the Downs. Here the wind was only a song above our heads. -Scarce a breath stirred where we leaned upon the gate in the sunshine. I -must be at my living book again, yet knew not where to begin, so crowded -was the page. - -‘March is still three weeks off, and yet the hares are already as mad as -can be. Over there under the Hanger, a mile away, I can see them racing -and tumbling about together. There are more celandines and coltsfoot -blossom everywhere. I can see daisies wherever I look, and there is a -disc of dandelion by the gate-post just where you stand. What clouds of -midges! Thousands are dancing in the air above our heads, and I can see -their wings making a hazy streak of light all down the hedgerow, where -the elders are in flourishing green leaf. Did you ever hear so many -birds all singing at the same time? And there goes an army of rooks and -jackdaws overhead! What a din!—the high, yelping treble of the daws, and -the deep-voiced rooks singing bass to it.’ - -The Reverend put a hand upon my arm to stop me. - -‘I can hear something else,’ he said. ‘A dandelion, did you say? Then -she will come straight for it.’ And as he spoke, I heard the old -familiar sound too. It was a hive-bee, tempted abroad by the glad spring -sunlight. She came straight over the meadows. Passing all other -blossoms by, she settled on the single flower half-hidden in its whorl of -ragged green leaves close beside us, and forthwith began to smother -herself in its yellow pollen. - -‘And there she goes again!’ said the old vicar, as the soft, rich sound -mingled once more with the myriad other notes about us. ‘High up into -the air—doesn’t she?—making ever a wider and wider circle until she gets -her first flying-mark, and then in the usual zigzag course, home to the -hive! A bee-line! People always make the words stand for something -absolutely straight and direct. But a true bee-line is the easiest way -between two points, not necessarily the shortest. To take a bee-line, if -folk only knew it, is just to fly through the calmest, or most favouring -airs, judge the quickest way between all obstacles, dodge the ravenous -tits and sparrows, and so get home safe and sound to the hive.’ - - - -IV - - -This spring, the Artletts have built their lambing-pens on the sunny -slope of Windle Hill in full view of the village. When, at -threshing-time last autumn, the waggons toiled up the steep hillside with -their shuddering loads of yellow straw, and the ricks were fashioned end -to end in a curving line against the north, strangers wondered why a -farmer should carry his bedding-down material so far from its main -centres of consumption, the stables and cowsheds. But the reason for the -work is clear enough at last. Behind the solid rampart of straw, the -lambing-pens lie in cosy shelter, and every day now sees them more -populous; day and night, as the month wends on, there arises from them a -fuller and fuller melody. - -Alone, perhaps, of all other rural occupations, shepherding remains -unaffected by the avalanche of machinery and chemistry which has -descended upon agriculture. Here and there may be found a flockmaster -who talks of shearing-machines, but it is rare to find anything but the -old hand-clippers in use by the old-fashioned, wandering gangs of -shearers. Flocks are larger, and so bring the modern shepherd more -anxious care; but in all essential ways, his year’s round of work is the -same as in that time of old when the shepherds watched their flocks by -night near Bethlehem. - - [Picture: ‘Springtime’] - -For the first time, in near upon fifty years, old Artlett has had no hand -in the pen-making. Rheumatism, the life-long foe of the shepherd, has -got him by the heels at last; and, if it turn out with him as with nearly -all his kind, he will never again leave the chimney-corner, until he is -carried thence and laid to sleep beside his long line of forbears up in -the churchyard. But young George is as good a shepherd as any of his -line, in this, as in all other branches of the craft. Wherever you go -among the neighbouring sheep-farms, you will hear tell of the amazing -good luck of Windlecombe at lambing-time. George Artlett views the -matter from a different standpoint. - -We sat together in his cosy hut on the hillside, towards twelve o’clock -of a gusty, moonlit night. The coke-fire burned in the little stove with -a steady brightness, casting its red rays through the open door, and far -out into the resounding night. Overhead a lantern swung gently to and -fro, rocking our shadows on the walls. From the lambing-pens hard by -there rose a ceaseless yammering chorus, and from the outer folds a -confusion of tongues deeper still, mingled with the tolling of -innumerable bells. George Artlett sat on the straw mattress in the -corner, his knees drawn up to his chin. - -‘Ah! luck!’ said he, a little scornfully, peering at me through the cloud -of tobacco-smoke—all from my own pipe—which hovered between us. ‘An’ how -be it then, as them as believes in luck, gets so onaccountable little -on’t? Gregory, over at Redesdown yonder—’a wunt so much as throw a -hurdle on a Friday, an’ ’a wears a bag o’ charm-stuff round’s neck, an’ -’a wud walk a mile sooner ’n goo unner a laadder—well, how be it wi’ un? -Lambs dyin’ every day, folks say; ah! an’ yows too—seven on ’em gone -a’ready! “’Twill be thirteen,” ’a sez, “thirteen, th’ on-lucky number, -an’ then ’twill stop. ’Tis Redesdown’s luck!” sez he; “ye can do nought -agen it!” An’ next year, ’a’ll goo on feedin’ short an’ poor, jest as ’a -allers doos; an’ putten th’ yows to th’ ram too young; an’ lambin’ i’ th’ -hoameyard agen, where ’tis so soggy an’ onhealthy, jest because ’tis near -to ’s bed. When a man doos his night-shepherdin’, swearin’ at th’ laads -through ’s windy, ’a may well look fer bad luck!’ - -He rose, and drew on his great blanket-coat, and pulled his sou’wester -over his eyes. Then he took down the lantern from its hook, and together -we plunged out into the buffeting wind to make the round of the folds for -the sixth time since my advent, although the night was but half over. - -The moon was nearly at the full. In its flood of pure white light, the -lambing-yard, with its surrounding folds, looked like some extensive -fortification, so high and impregnable seemed the walls that hemmed it in -on every side. These walls were made of sheaves of straw, standing on -end, shoulder to shoulder, of such girth and density that not a breath of -the unruly wind could penetrate them. Within, the lambing-yard was -floored a foot deep with the same straw, and on all sides were the pens, -little separate bays flanked and topped by hurdles covered in with the -like material. The whole place was crowded with ewes and lambs; the -newest arrivals still in the pens with their mothers, the rest almost as -snugly berthed out in the mainway of the yard. Outside this elaborate -stockade were two great folds, the one containing the ewes still to be -reckoned with, the other thronged with those whose troubles were happily -over, and with whom already the cares and joys of motherhood were verging -on the trite. - -Shepherd Artlett took no chances at any stage of his work. At the -entrance to the lambing-yard, he carefully covered up the lantern with -his coat, and thereafter allowed its light to fall only where he need -direct his scrutiny. - -‘Nane o’ Gregory’s luck fer me!’ he said. ‘There bean’t no wolves on th’ -Hill nowadays, but sheep, they be jest as much afeared o’ summat as ’twur -born in ’em to dread. ’Tis in their blood, I reckons. Now look ye! A -naked light carried i’ th’ haand, an’ let sudden in upon ’em—see how it -sets th’ shadders dancin’ an’ prancin’ all around! Like as not, ’tis so -th’ wolves came leapin’ round th’ folds ages an’ ages back; an’ so it -bides in th’ blood wi’ all sheep—a sort o’ natur’s bygone memory. -Froughten wan yow, an’ ye be like to froughten all. Set ’em stampedin’, -an’ that means slipped lambs, turned milk, an’ trouble wi’out -end—Gregory’s luck agen!’ - -On these rounds, every pen in the yard was visited, and its denizens -critically examined: not a sheep of the huddled, vociferating crowd -through which we threaded our difficult course, but had her share in -George Artlett’s swift-roving glance. Here and there we came upon a -newborn lamb, and then George took its four legs in one handful and -carried it head downwards through the throng to the nearest vacant pen, -its frantic mother bleating her expostulation close in our rear. There -were the feeding-cages to fill with hay, and mangold to be carried in and -scattered amongst the crouching sheep. Sometimes there was a sickly lamb -or ewe to doctor, when we went trudging back to rifle the medicine-chest -in the hut; and rarely a weakling, who refused its natural food, must be -taken under George’s coat, a silent shivering woolly atom, and restored -to life and voice by the warmth of our fire and the bottle. - -In how great a measure the luck of Windlecombe or any sheep-farm depends -on the foresight and tender care of the shepherd, was well brought home -to me as, in the first ghostly light of morning, something like a crisis -came to vary the monotonous round of our task. I had dozed off as I sat -in my corner, and woke to find grey dawn picking out the tops of the -hills, and George away on his unending business. Presently, through the -little window at my side, I saw him coming back over the rimy grass, his -coat bulged out with the usual burden. He set the lamb down on the straw -by the fire. Limp and lifeless it looked, and past all aid; but George -fell patiently to work swabbing it. As he worked, he talked. - -‘’Tis White-Eye agen—a fine yow, but a onaccountable bad mother, ’a be, -surelye. Purty nigh lost her lamb laast season, an’ now agen ’tis -ne’ersome-matter wi’ un. Wunt gie suck. Butts th’ little un away, ’a -do. That, an’ th’ could, ’tis. Terr’ble hard put to ’t, I wur, laast -time, to save un! An’ this—well: if ’a cooms round, ’twill be a -miracle—’ - -He stopped to fetch his breath, then set to more vigorously than ever. - -‘Lorsh! I do b’lieve! . . . Ay! I’ll do ’t!—better ’n a score o’ dead -uns, ’a be, a’ready. Now, shaap wi’ th’ bottle!’ - -But the wretched mute morsel of woolliness was too weak to suck. And -then George Artlett did what I had never seen done before. - -‘Well, well!’ he said confidently, ‘we must try th’ ould-fangled way wi’ -un!’ He took a gulp of the warm milk, and bringing the lamb’s mouth to -his own, tenderly fed it. Again and again this was done, until life -began to flicker up strong once more in the little creature’s body. - -‘But mind ye!’ said George, as presently he stood looking down on the -resuscitated lamb, and regaling himself with its pitiful bleating, ‘No -more o’ White-Eye! Off to Findon Fair ’a goos wi’ th’ draught-sheep next -May, sure as she’s alive!’ - - - - -MARCH - - -I - - -THE charm of Sussex woods, though you may frequent them at all times in -and out of season, is that they are never the same woods from year to -year. The great trees, indeed, keep their old familiar forms and -stations, but the undergrowth of hazel, ash, larch, or silver-birch is -periodically cleared away. This year, a certain hillside or deep hollow -may be hidden under a thicket of growth impenetrable not only to the -casual wanderer, but to the very sunlight itself; and next year the -wood-cutters may have swept it clean, leaving only the forest trees to -cast their shadows over a sunny wilderness that your eyes, though you -have journeyed this way scores of times, have never yet beheld. -Clearings wherein the children gathered primroses by the thousand one -spring, are overgrown and all but impassable the next. The very paths -and waggon-ways change their direction, as the woodmen vary the scene of -their labours from year to year. And in the track of the copse-cutters, -arise all manner of new plants; new birds come to nest; new sights and -sounds throng about the way at every turn—so, in nearly all seasons, a -strange new land is brought to your very feet, in the midst of things -familiar, maybe, for a score of years. - -In the dead deeps of winter, nothing seems so remote, so hopelessly -unattainable, as the March sunshine; yet here it is at last, and here I -am, sitting on a hazel-stole softly cushioned with ivy, alone and -deliciously idle, in a clearing I have just discovered in the heart of -Windle Woods. - -All this part of the wood has lain untouched for a decade, perhaps, given -over to the jays and magpies, and other wildest of wild nesting things. -There is a green lane only a few hundred feet distant, and along it I -have journeyed many a time during the past year, never dreaming that the -clearing existed. And yet, no later than last April, the woodmen must -have been here with their bill-hooks, hacking and hewing, and letting in -the living sunlight where the earth had known no more than green gloaming -on the brightest day. - -It is strange how quickly the fertile soil awakens from such a lethargy -of long, dark years. From where I sit, high upon the sunny slope, I can -see nothing but greenery. All that remains of the dense growth of hazel, -that covered this part of the wood, is gathered into great square piles, -looking like windowless houses set here and there on the sunny declivity. -Primroses shine everywhere; truly not in the abundance of April, but -still there is no yard of ground without their sulphur sheen. Red -deadnettle makes a rosy flush in the grass at my feet. There is -ground-ivy round the base of each hazel-stole, with its pale violet -flowers, so minute, yet making such a brave show by sheer strength of -numbers. And hovering everywhere over this still mere of sunshine, with -its sunken treasure of blossom, are butterflies—great sulphur-yellow -butterflies—flapping idly along, little tortoiseshells and peacocks that -have laid up through the winter, and one gorgeous red-admiral, also a -hibernator, veering about in the sunshine with outspread, motionless -wings. - -To this secret nook of woodland I came but an hour ago, yet in that one -hour of still March sunshine, I have seen and heard more things than -could be chronicled, perhaps, in a day’s hard driving of the swiftest -pen. To set down only the things that dwell foremost in the memory is -not easy. I had been here only a few minutes when a rabbit came racing -across the clearing, dodging in and out of the hazel-stoles in tremendous -hurry and fear. On seeing me, he turned off at a sharp angle, then -scurried away into the wood. A full five minutes after came a stealthy -rustling from the same direction, and a ruddy-furred stoat drew into -view, his snake-like head alternately poised high in the sunshine and -lowered amidst the grass, as he carefully picked up the rabbit’s trail. -He was going at only a tithe of the rabbit’s pace, but going without an -instant’s hesitation. Where the rabbit had turned off at seeing me, the -stoat also veered sharply round. He went straight for the wood, entering -it, as far as I could judge, at exactly the same spot. So he would go -on, I knew, until at last his blood-thirsty cunning and pertinacity had -outworn the rabbit’s speed. - -Then a woodpecker came over the clearing, his crimson cap and tarnished -jerkin of lincoln-green looking strangely tawdry and theatrical in the -brilliant sunshine. He flew heavily yet swiftly, arresting the motion of -his wings at every four or five beats, much as a finch flies. As he -passed over, he uttered his weird call-note, that sounds something like -‘Ploo-ee, ploo-ee!’ wherein, however, there is a tang of crafty cynicism -indescribable. Not far from where I sat was a beech-tree, and to this -tree I watched him go. He climbed up the smooth bark like a cat, taking -the trunk spiral-wise. Then, when almost at its summit, he stopped and -beat out of the hard wood, with his pick-axe of a bill, such a note as -can be likened to nothing else in nature. So fast fell the blows of his -beak, that between them no interval could be distinguished. They ran -together into one smooth, continuous volume of sound. Extraordinarily -musical it was, with a plaintive quality and a variableness of tone, now -loud, now soft, that could not fail to impress the dullest ear. The note -was prolonged for half a minute or so, and then the bird stopped to -listen. Far away over the wood-top I heard the answering sound. For -this woodpecker-music in springtime is a true love-call, and you will -hear it onward through the months until the last pair of birds is mated -in the wood. - -This is the time when the queen-wasps come out of their winter -hiding-places, and the first bumble-bees appear. Of the hive-bees very -few seek out these isolated clearings; they have all gone to the -riverside where the sallows and willows are in bloom. But as I sat -listening to the medley of birds and insect-voices around me, trying to -pick out one after the other from the chaos of song, I heard the soft -note of a honey-bee down in the blue veronica close at hand. Yet she -touched none of the flowers. She passed all by, and went scrambling down -among the moss and dead leaves. Knowing that the honey-bee never wastes -time, and anxious to find out what she might be doing there, I watched -her as she painfully went over the moss-fronds one by one, sending forth -a shrill, fretful note at intervals, very like an interjection of -disappointment at not finding what she needed. At last her search came -to a successful end. It was a dew-drop she had been seeking, one of the -few that had escaped the thirsty glances of the sun. Silently she drank. -And then, as she rose into mid-air with her burden, there was no -mistaking the triumphant quality of her song. At this time, water is the -all-important factor in the prosperity of the hive; and the bee knew well -she was carrying home something of greater worth even than a load of the -purest honey. - -Leaving the clearing at length, I went homeward by a roundabout way, -through the oldest part of the wood. Traversing one of the shadiest -paths, where the oaks grew thick together overhead, I came to a turn in -the way. Just beyond, there was a single spot of sunshine lying on the -moss-green path, and in it a squirrel gambolled, as though he were taking -a bath in the yellow pool of light. Often throughout the winter I had -come upon squirrels thus, tempted out of their warm winter-houses by some -day of exceptional mildness. For the squirrel is no true hibernator. He -sleeps through the cold spells, often for weeks at a stretch. But, like -the hive-bees, warm weather at once rouses him from his dray, and sends -him forth ravenous to his secret store of acorns or beech-mast. - -Old Tom Clemmer once told me of a custom regarding the squirrel which, in -his boyhood, was rife in most Downland villages. On Saint Andrew’s Day, -towards the end of each November, most of the Windlecombe men and boys -used to foregather on the green, armed with short sticks, shod at one end -with some heavy piece of metal. The party would then go out into the -woods for this, the annual squirrel-hunt, or ‘skugging’ as it was called. -The weighted sticks were thrown at the squirrels as they leaped in the -branches overhead; and some of the folk, Tom Clemmer himself among the -number, were famous for their skill at this pastime. Skugging, however, -being essentially a poor man’s brutal sport, has been long ago -suppressed. - -My squirrel in the pool of sunshine blocked the path, and there was no -way round. I must perforce disturb him. I watched him clamber upward -into the wilderness of budding oak-boughs, his glossy red-brown coat -gleaming in the sunshine as he went. - -Presently, coming into a spacious valley of beeches, where the eye could -wander far and wide, between the grey-green trunks, over a bare, -undulating carpet of last year’s leaves—for scarcely anything will grow -under beech—I caught sight of an object which drew my steps over to the -near hillside. It was a spot of shining white painted about breast high -on the smooth bark of one of the trees. I knew what it meant. It was -the White Spot of Doom—the token of the woodreeve to his men that the -tree was to be felled; and this was the time, when the sap was beginning -to run strong and rinding would be easy, for the death sentence to be -carried out. - -I looked at the white spot, and if I could have saved the tree by -obliterating it there and then, I would have done so gladly. Carved -deeply into its wood, and so long ago that the characters were all but -illegible, was a double set of initials, and, between them, two hearts at -once united and transfixed by the same arrow. Below these roughly-hewn -signs a date appeared. I had often come upon the legend in my walks, and -stopped to ruminate over it. Who had cut it I never knew, nor indeed -whether C. D. and L. E. W., if they were alive to-day, would have joined -with any enthusiasm in my desire for its preservation. But somehow it -came to me at the moment as an infinitely pathetic thing, that the tree -should be cut down after all those years, and the record destroyed—it had -been done so obviously for perpetuity. What kind of stony-hearted -villain must the woodreeve have been, I thought to myself, who could daub -that patch of white paint so callously near to the silent eloquence of -such an inscription? - -Out of the far distance now, as I lingered over the carving in that mood -of moralising sentimentality, there came creeping up the hollow stillness -of the glade a murmur of voices, and, in a little, the tramp of heavy -feet. I recognised the gang of woodmen carrying the tools of their -craft; and behind them a little rabble of village-folk, mostly children. -I drew off some way up the hillside, and sat me down on a stump, to look -on at the now imminent, as well as inevitable spectacle. - -To watch a great tree felled, especially when such a giant as this -lovers’ tree was in question, is one of the most exciting things to be -met with in country-life. There is ever growing suspense for the -onlooker from the moment when the first axe-blow sends its echo ringing -through the aisles of the wood, to that last stunned feeling after the -mighty tree is down. The speed and workmanlike dexterity with which the -gang now got to their task only served to intensify this sensation. One -buckled on a pair of climbing-irons and carried aloft two long ropes, -securing them to the trunk at its highest point of division. While he -was still up there, like a perching crow black against the sky, another -took a great glittering axe, and, stepping slowly round the tree, dealt -it a succession of downward and inward blows, cutting out a deep ring all -round the bole some six or eight inches above ground-level. On the side -towards which the tree was to fall, this cut was now widened and deepened -until it laid bare a good foot breadth of the solid heart of the wood. -And while the amber chips were still flying under the axe, the rest of -the gang were carrying the ropes away at two sharp angles, and binding -them securely to neighbouring trees. - -And now began the crucial part of the business. The great wood-saw was -got to work, with four strong men at it. Cutting close to the ground on -the far side of the tree, the shining blade tore its way steadily into -the wood. Inch by inch it drove its ragged teeth forward, and at every -lunge it gave forth a savage gasping scream, and a spume of yellow -sawdust spirted from the cut, gathering in an ever-growing heap on either -side. No other sound broke the stillness of the glen for a full ten -minutes or more. No one among the mute, expectant crowd, nor any of the -woodmen, seemed to move hand or foot. All watched and waited, as it -appeared, breathlessly. There were just these four strong men labouring -to and fro, the flash of the hungry saw-blade in the sunlight, and the -harsh sudden screech of the direful thing every time it ripped at the -vitals of the tree. The gang of woodmen had divided at a sign from their -chief, and stood, three or four of them bearing on each rope. The leader -watched the saw, a hand on each hip. Once he raised a hand the saw -stopped; a row of steel wedges was driven in behind it; the saw began -once more its old rasping melody. At last the hand went up again. The -work was done. I could see the black line of the cut reaching within an -inch or so of the deep axe-cleft on the face of the tree. - -Long ago, on shipboard, I had been present at the firing of one of the -heaviest guns that ever put to sea; and what followed now reminded me -strangely of that deafening experience. The leader marshalled his men, -and directed operations with short, sharp words of command, much as the -gun-lieutenant had done. There was the same busy preparation and -skurrying to and fro, the same moment of suspense, the same terrific -outcome. Every available man was now set to haul on the ropes, while the -leader of the gang himself took a mallet and, with mighty blows, drove -the wedges in. Thick and fast the blows fell, and their echoes went -chevying each other down the ravine. The vast-spreading tree quaked, -lashed its branches wildly about overhead. The crowd of waiting children -and old women were ordered farther back from the zone of danger. Now the -great mallet redoubled its blows, and the two gangs of men bore on the -ropes with all their might and main. Still, though the commotion -overhead increased to the force of a hurricane, no other sign of movement -other than a faint shudder, was visible in the trunk of the tree. One -last blow of the mallet, and one last pull all together, and then a sharp -crack sounded, as it were, from the bowels of the earth. The ropemen -leant back in one huge final effort, then dropped the ropes, and ran for -their lives. There came a slithering, tearing noise as the mighty beech -toppled forward, tearing itself from the clinging, cumbering embrace of -its age-long fellows, then down it came to earth with one long, rolling, -thunderous, crackling roar. - -Where I stood, I felt the solid earth quake and shudder. Between the -moment when the uppermost branches of the great tree began to force their -way in a wide, descending arc through the thicket of intercepting -branches, and the moment of the last terrific boom, as the trunk struck -the earth, there seemed a strangely long interval of time. Another thing -struck me with all the force of unimaginable novelty. All the undermost -branches of the tree as it fell were splintered into a thousand -fragments, and these, flying upward and outward, in a great cloud, gave -an effect as if the mighty trunk had fallen into water. - -And now I learned for the first time why all the poor folk had followed -the woodmen with their baskets. The tree was no sooner prone on the -ground, and the last soaring splinter come rattling out of the sky, than -a rush was made to the spot by all. Here was firewood in plenty for -every one, as much as each could gather or carry. And it was firewood -already chopped. - - - -II - - -It was Tennyson who first set us looking for kingfishers in March, -though, indeed, the ‘sea-blue bird’ makes the riverside beautiful at all -seasons. There is a little creek here, winding away from the main -current of the river through a thicket of willow and alder, where, coming -stealthily along the shadowed footpath, you can always hear the shrill, -creaking pipe of the bird, and generally catch the glint of his gay -plumage as he darts down-stream, or sits on some branch overhanging the -clear, brown water. - -But it was from the stern-seat of the old ferryman’s boat that I learnt -whatever I know about kingfishers and river life in general; and these -secret excursions seldom began until March was well under way. For me, -therefore, the kingfisher, as for all Tennyson lovers, is most clearly -associated with the still barren hedgerows and brakes, the song of the -thrush mounted high amidst leafless branches, and that wonderful array of -crimson tassels and brown bobbins, all set in a mist of pale green -needles, which at this time makes the larch one of the sights of the -country-side. - -I have said secret excursions; and, indeed, all my relations with old -Runridge during recent years have necessarily taken on this furtive -character. It was not always so. In happier days, when the old man was -a widower, I used to drift down to his cabin by the water-side for a -quiet pipe at all seasons of the day and openly, whenever the mood seized -me. Then, if tide and the weather served, we would take the little skiff -and go off for hours together exploring the shiest nooks of the river, -either with or without the ancient fowling-piece that hung over his -kitchen hearth. At these times the ferry was left to take care of -itself, which it did sufficiently well, there being often quite a little -collection of pennies on the thwart of the boat when the old man got back -from these unpremeditated truantries. - -But, one fateful day, a distant cousin of Runridge’s arrived on a visit—a -sedate, ponderous woman, very black as to brows and eyes, and with a -hard, shiny face whose colour seemed all on the surface, like red paint. -She never went away again, for within the month she became Mrs. Runridge. -From that day, for peace and quiet’s sake, the old ferryman and I pursued -our ancient courses only by stealth. Fortunately Mrs. Runridge had a -genius for household economy, which led her to eschew the village shop, -and took her off with her basket at least once a week to Stavisham and -its cheaper wares. This was always our opportunity; and regularly on the -town market-days, when Mrs. Runridge and her basket had been safely -stowed into the carrier’s cart and it had turned the distant bend of the -lane, the little green wherry set forth over the shining tide with its -self-congratulatory crew, bent on visiting the ‘harns,’ or looking for -reed-warblers’ nests, or anything else that might fit the occasion. - -To-day we went up on the full tide, and turned into the little creek -where the kingfishers have their nests. It has been one of those -dead-still, cloudless days, that so often come in mid-March just before -the gales of the equinox—a halcyon day, in very truth. As our little -craft sped up the glittering pathway of the waters, hardly a whisper -sounded in the dense jungle of reeds that flanks the river here on either -side. The treetops stood motionless against the sky—one clear, blue arch -except where just above the horizon a series of white clouds peered over -the hill-tops like a row of beckoning hands. The willows on the banks -were full of yellow blossom in which the bees crowded; their soft music -was with us wherever we went. Larks carolled overhead. Thrushes, -blackbirds, hedge-sparrows sang in every bush. There was a great cawing -and dawing from the rookeries, where the black companies had returned for -the season, and were busy furbishing up their nests. We drove our boat’s -prow through the willow branches that all but hid the entrance to the -creek, then let her drift idly down the narrow way until we gained the -broader basin near the footbridge, and moored her to an overhanging -branch. - -Keeping quiet and still in our corner, we had only a few minutes to wait. -The familiar, high-pitched cry rang out from the sunny breadth of the -river. And then, into the cool, grey light, came what looked like a -flying spark of emerald fire. The bird pitched on a wand of sallow that -drooped nearly to the water just opposite our retreat. Here he sat -awhile carelessly preening his magnificent feathers. Below him the water -lay glassy-still and clear, reflecting his tawny breast and the rich -chequer-work of gold blossom and blue sky overhead. The kingfisher did -not watch the stream with that motionless vigilance that one reads of in -the nature books. He seemed to give the gliding water scarce a thought, -but to be intent only on the contemplation of his own finery, as he -twirled on his perch, reaching now and again over his shoulder to set -straight a feather that had gone awry. - -But suddenly he stopped in this popinjay performance, pointed his bill -downward, and plunged like a stone. The glittering emerald vanished. On -the mirror of the waters there spread ring within ring of light. What -seemed like whole minutes passed in waiting and silence. And then all -the brilliant green and blue and amber burst into view again, as the bird -came up in a scatter of diamonds, and lanced straight back to his perch. -Now we could see he held a minnow, a little writhing atom of silver, -crosswise in his beak. He struck it to and fro on the hard wood until he -had killed it. Then, at a single gulp, it was down his throttle. Again -the kingfisher sat preening his gorgeous plumage, with the same -dilettante touch and light carelessness, as though the shining treasury -of the waters below concerned him not a jot. - - - -III - - -I often wonder how it is that the old saying, about March and its leonine -or lamb-like incomings and outgoings, should have kept so sturdily its -place in popular credence. Looking through a pile of old note-books -ranging back over a couple of decades or so, I find that, in the majority -of years, March has both begun and ended in the lamb-like character. The -lion appears only in the rôle of an interloper, a go-between; for, almost -invariably, there has been a period of chilly, riotous weather sometime -after the middle of the month. - -So it has come about this season. Yesterday was a day without a flaw; -and as the sun began at last to mellow and decline, dragging a net of -shining golden haze behind it over the western hills, I gave up a -day-long, though still unfinished task, and went to sit awhile on the -churchyard wall. - -The north-west wall is the last rampart of Windlecombe. It is made of -flint, with an oval, red-brick coping of generous breadth: there is none -in the parish, as far as I know, but can be comfortable upon it. Sitting -thereon side-saddle-wise, you have a view, on the one hand, of the grey -stones and evergreenery of the churchyard, and, on the other, your glance -can wander unchecked straight down the combe to the river, then forward -over the brook-country to the far-off Stavisham woods. As yet the light -had abated scarce a jot of its dynamic brilliance. Shadows were long, -and the white house-fronts had taken on a leaven of rosy sweetness; but -in the most retiring nooks it was still broad day. I turned my back on -the serene prospect of level plain, where here and there the sunlight -picked out a glittering coil of river, and set myself to the -contemplation of a remarkable fellowship near at hand. - -Close by the wall stood an almond-tree, its wide-spreading branches -covered to the tips with pink blossom, and behind it glowered and gloomed -a venerable yew. The one tree, as it were, reached out glad, welcoming -arms to the spring, squandering its all to make one hour of joyous -festival at the return of the prodigal light; the other turned but a -niggardly side-eye on all the inflowing radiance of the season. It -seemed to be trying to do its least and worst, to discount the -extravagant jubilation of its neighbour. For very shame it could not -wholly resist the call of the sunshine. Grudgingly it put forth, at the -tip of each sombre green frond, a sparse sprig of lighter green. And -because the almond-tree threw down its spent blossom in largesse of rosy -litter upon the grass below, this dour-natured vegetable, turning its -necessities to virtuous account, now shed the dead brown buds of the -foregoing year, sending this rubbish fluttering to earth with the same -hesitant, sidelong action with which the almond petals fell, as though in -a mockery of imitation. - -As I sat on the wall with my back to the declining sun,—humouring this, -and many similar far-fetched, vain conceits as the best antidote I knew -against the day’s long overstrain of fancy,—high overhead in the church -tower hard by, the bell began its quiet summons for evensong. Through -gaps in the thicket of ilex and laurel, I saw, first, the tall, gaunt -figure of the Reverend go by on the litten-path with his vast, confident -stride, the pallid threadpaper of a curate flickering at his heels. -After them came Miss Sweet, the rich and lonely spinster up at the great -house, mincing along under a puce sunshade, with an extended handful of -ivory books; then Mrs. Coles from the farm, as ever, hot and out of -breath; finally, at a respectful interval carefully calculated, three or -four of the village women dribbled through, and disappeared into the -north porch after the rest. - -The usual weekly congregation being now complete, the bell stopped. The -harmonium gave out one low, sonorous note, which on weekdays was the -beginning and end of its share in the service. For the next twenty -minutes, no other sound drifted over to me but the clucking and whistling -of the starlings on the chancel roof. And then, having become again -immersed in the affair of the yew and almond trees, both now alike -steeped by the setting sun in the same rose-red dye, I was startled by a -hand on my arm. The Reverend stood at my side, ruddy-faced, red-bearded, -the very blackness of his clothes changed mysteriously to the like -glowing hue. His kind eyes looked straight into mine, just as if he -could see them. - -‘A fine evening, isn’t it?’ he said, ‘just one rich flood of crimson -without form—only a great light spreading up the sky from where the sun -has disappeared; spreading up and gradually paling and changing until -there is nothing but pure blue, with one silver peg of a star sticking in -it—is it not so?’ - -‘Why, no, it is not quite that,’ said I, considering, ‘the star is there -sure enough, and the great red light. But the red does not merge into -blue, it melts gradually into a wonderful, luminous, metallic green, with -the star, almost white, swimming in the midst of it. Far overhead the -sky is blue enough, and up there more stars are blinking out every -moment. But the green! If you could only see its—’ - -‘Snow!’ interrupted the old vicar placidly. - -‘What!’ - -‘Snow. Wind first, a gale perhaps; and then the snow. You will see. -What says the almond-tree here?’ - -‘It says,’ I contended, ‘but one word. Spring!—abounding new life and -growth; sunshine kindling stronger and stronger every day; the winter -gone and already half forgotten. With every pink bloom it promises -nightingales, and white flannels and straw hats and—’ - -‘Ah! And you never will grow up now: you’re too old. The -almond-blossom?—it lies in my memory always side by side with the -snowdrop and the Christmas-rose. Snow-flowers, all three! Wait a -little, and be convinced. But now look, and tell me which way the -chimney-smoke is blowing.’ - -‘Blowing! There is not a breath of—’ - -There was more than a breath down there in the fair-way of the combe, -although here we could feel nothing of it. Under the deep red dusk I -could make out the smoke-plumes from the village chimneys all driving off -at a sharp right-angle to the south. Even as I looked, there came a -sudden flaw of wind overhead that set the yew boughs rocking, and its -voice was the old-remembered voice. The north wind again! Somewhere in -its black tangled depths the yew-tree creaked derisively. The Reverend -put his arm through mine. - -‘But it is mercifully late,’ he said, as we turned homeward together. -‘Artlett need not fear for his lambs now, nor I for mine. Is the sky -already overcast? Or am I only blinder than usual?’ - - - -IV - - -After that day I was house-bound for near upon a week. Later than its -wont by a good hour, the dawn broke every day; but as in darkness so with -the grey wan light, the wind never abated one iota of its whistling fury; -the soft thud-thud of the flying snow reverberated on the panes; the -white drifts at the street corners mounted steadily higher and higher; in -the fireplace, where I already thought soon to start my summer fernery, I -had the logs crackling and glowing with more than their old wintry might. -Poor almond-blossom! I thought to myself again and again, as I sat -industriously scratching away in the strange dumbness and the thin, queer -light that fills the room in snowy weather. - -Yet this was not so ill a wind but that some good was blown my way. I -found myself overhauling arrears of work at a surprising rate. When the -wind fell at last, backing steadily to west, then to south-west, and -there came a night of drenching rain—rain that felt like hot tea to a -hand held out in it—I was ready for any sort of idleness and any -wandering company. - -Two long days and nights the world lay under that simmering, steaming -cataract. And then such a morning—almost the last morning of the -month—rose over Windlecombe as made the mere awakening in one’s bed seem -like a sort of first act in a miracle play. - -The sun had hardly breasted Windle Hill before I was out and clear of the -village: its last red tinge had faded into night when I turned my tired -steps homeward, and so to bed once more. - -Lying there cosily, with the delicious ache of thirty miles in my bones, -and in my ears the lilt of a thousand melodies, all the glad day’s -journey projected itself like swiftly changing pictures thrown upon the -screen of the starry night. The Downs first—the green sea of hills that -seemed to heave and subside as the violet cloud-shadows lazily drove from -crest to crest; the unending sheep-bell music, and lark-song, and the -playing of the gulls high up in the blue, like scraps of white paper -fluttering in the breeze. Then down the steep hill-side to the sunny -flats, where the plovers were at their love-play—each pair rising and -falling, somersaulting together, crying continually, coming to rest a -moment, then up again at the old interminable gambols. - -Here in the deep ditches the frogs croaked. There was a golden rim of -marsh-marigold to every strip of water, over which you must peer if you -would study the submerged life below. And what a life there was down in -each crystal deep! Queer water-beetles wove a bright pattern on the -surface of the slow-moving, almost stagnant stream; and their shadows -made just the same pattern on the sunlit weed of the bottom, though here -it was black instead of bright. Down there were mimic forests or jungles -of ferny, bronze-green growth, all in gentle undulating motion as the -water glided imperceptibly by. Shoals of minnows cruised about in the -sunny open, or lay in wait singly in the shadowy glades. These single -fish seemed to be for ever quarrelling; either making sudden raid on the -lairs of their neighbours, or being attacked in their turn. When they -banded themselves together, evidently making common peace the better to -rout a common enemy, and swam boldly in the sunshine, I could see that -each fish was faintly tinged with blue and green and orange-red, the -identical colours, although vague and subdued, of the kingfisher, their -traditional foe. - -Then came up the vision of a long white road barred with tree-shadows, -flowing between thorn-hedges already full of a green promise of leafage, -and edged with butterfly-haunted flowers. Little cottages passed by, -ankle-deep in blue forget-me-nots, and aflare with blossoming creepers. -Deep pine-woods took the road and folded it in fragrant gloom, then set -it forth in the sunshine again to wander over gorse-clad heaths, or -amidst spangled meadows. I saw the inn, where I sat awhile in a company -of travelling ‘rinders’—men who strip the bark from the felled oaks for -the tanneries-who would now be camping, like Robin and his merry rascals, -a month long in the woods. - -I dozed off, and woke again where, in the drowsy afternoon sunshine, I -had rested under a great pollard ash weighed down with ivy. Upon the -grass about my feet there shone an infinity of small, rounded objects, -much as if Aladdin had passed by and thrown down a handful of superfluous -rubies. Everywhere their soft carmine lustre gemmed the sward. Year by -year I have found the like on meadow-paths, wood-rides, by the church -tower, sometimes in the very streets of the village, and have never known -how they came into being. You may have broken asunder the ivy-berries a -hundred times, and noted the pale-hued seeds within, yet never guessed -that here was the mining-ground for your treasure. It is the sun and air -that make rubies of the fallen ivy seeds. - -And, for a last vision, as I lay watching the starshine travelling across -the square of the window, I saw within it a picture, and heard again a -note of music, perhaps the most wonderful thing in the whole day’s idle -round. It was a keeper’s cottage at the entrance to a wood. On the -steep thatch, white pigeons hobbled amorously; and behind, in a green -bower of elder, a wild bird sang. I could see the bird; I knew it to be -a common song-thrush; but the song was the song of a nightingale—not the -loud, silver-toned warble that the poets love, but the low, slow, -sorrowful keening that always seems as if torn from the very heart of the -bird. And here is a pretty problem. If the nightingale were already -with us, singing in every brake, there would be nothing strange in the -thrush—prone as he is to imitation—borrowing a stanza from the new melody -here and there. But it is more than strange that he should do so at the -present time, seeing that, for eight or nine months back, there has been -no nightingale music in the land. Yet we, who are mute fowl, are all -thinking of April now, and what it has in store for us: can the thrush be -thinking of April too? And, as with us, can old memories of nightingales -be stirring in him?—in him that alone can sing his thoughts aloud? - - [Picture: “The Rinders”] - - - - -APRIL - - -I - - -SUNDAY morning in Windlecombe, especially when the season is early April -and the weather fine, is, of all mornings, the one not to be spent -indoors. - -To-day, until the church-bell had ceased its quiet tolling, and the last -belated worshipper had hurried up the street, I stood just within the -screen of box-hedge that divides my garden from the public way, so as not -to obtrude my old coat and pipe and week-day boots on those more -ecclesiastically minded. And then, bareheaded, hands thrust deep into -trouser-pockets, and pipe leaving a grey trail of smoke behind on the -tranquil air, I lounged out upon the green—deserted and still in the -sweet April sunshine—to study Windlecombe under one of its most inviting -aspects—its seventh-day spirit of earned sloth and unstrung, loitering -ease. - -Though the old vicar has held his post here for nearly half a century, -and is better acquainted with the parish than almost any other, there is -just this one aspect of life in Windlecombe which must be to him for ever -a sealed book. When once he has got his little flock together for -morning service, with the church-door shut upon them, the village and all -its doings pass, for the time being, out of his ken. On wet Sundays, and -on the great church festivals, he knows that many accustomed corners—my -own included—will be as infallibly occupied as they are at other times -unvaryingly empty: and thereof he never makes either complaint or -question. He goes on his way, never doubting but there is some saving -good somewhere in the worst of us, and whole-heartedly loving us all; -while we, the black sheep, who would sacrifice for him our right hands, -our money, our very lives even, anything but our fine Sunday mornings, go -our ways too, satisfied—if there is meaning in looks—of his secret -sympathy. For there never was human man, whether lay or clerical, who, -of a fine Sunday morning, believed himself so nearly at one with his -Maker on his knees in a dusty pew, as abroad in the vast green church of -an English country-side. - -I had gone no more than a dozen paces over the level, worn grass of the -green, when I stopped to look about me, knowing well what I should see. -Like rabbits coming out of their burrows after the gunner has passed on, -the non-churchgoing folk began to appear. I saw young Daniel Dray and -young Tom Clemmer go off with a bag of ferrets and their faithful -terriers at their heels. Dewie Artlett arrived at the well-head—the -traditional meeting-place for Windlecombe lovers—and stood waiting there -with a big nosegay of primroses in his hand and another in his cap. He -was joined a moment later by one of the girls from the farm, and off they -went together for a morning’s sweethearting in the lanes. At the far end -of the green, the inn-door came clattering open, and that genial -reprobate, the inn-keeper, appeared in his shirt-sleeves, blinking up at -the sky as though but lately out of his bed. Other doors here and there -were thrust back, each giving egress to some happy loiterer in his Sunday -best. Within five minutes, almost every garden-gate had a pair of brown -arms comfortably resting on it, and voices began to pass the time of day -to and fro in the whole sunny length of the street. By easy stages, -stopping for a word here and there by an open door, or a chat with some -old acquaintance sunning himself amidst his cabbages, I got to the foot -of the hill and so to the river. The ferryman sat in his boat, but as he -returned me for my greeting only a stare and a scarce-perceptible shake -of the head, I knew that our common enemy was in ambush close by. I made -off along the river-path, and turned into the woods. - -There was a blackbird singing somewhere in the budding thicket, and I -managed to get quite close to his perch without being seen. To the songs -of birds like the thrush, the skylark, the robin, you may listen for five -minutes; and, beautiful as they are, in that short space of time you will -have learnt all that the song has to tell. But the blackbird’s song is -very different. It has an endless succession of changes in rhythm, power -and quality. You may listen to it for an hour, and never hear a phrase -repeated in its exact form. The difference between the blackbird’s song, -and that of nearly all other birds, is the difference between the singing -of a happy schoolgirl and that of a prima donna. While both have melody, -one alone has finished artistry. Until you have stayed in a wood with a -blackbird a whole sunny April morning through, and got from him the truth -of things as he alone can tell it, you do not really know that spring is -here. - -Now, by the riverside copse, as I leaned on the old, lichen-gilded -timbers of the fence, listening to the pure, unhurried notes, the fact -that it was really April at last was suddenly borne in upon me. In the -daybreak and eventide choruses of birds, the thrushes, by dint of sheer -numbers and vehemence, easily overpower all other singers. Now and again -you can catch and isolate a matchless phrase of blackbird music; but to -hear the song in perfection, you must wait until the day is wearing on -towards noon, and he seeks solitude for his singing. - -If bird-song is a language, then the blackbird must be the supreme orator -of the woods. Though you understand not a syllable of what he is pouring -forth, there is no doubt of its ever-varying meaning. In the midst of a -succession of quite simple phrases, each consisting of three or four -notes at the most, he suddenly gives you a passage whose melodious -complexity is almost bewildering. He constantly varies the pace of his -delivery. He embellishes his song with grace-notes—beautiful -silver-chiming triplets in the midst of his lowest, most leisurely -strains. There is emphasis, attack, a sort of blustering use of sheer -power of utterance; or he may run over a slow, quiet tune at his lightest -tongue-tip. At times, indeed, it is well-nigh impossible to believe that -you are not listening to two birds together, of totally different -qualities of voice, alternating their melodies. - -How long I should have tarried there, furtively renewing this old -acquaintance, I know not; but it seems my cover was incomplete, and the -song came to its usual termination. It stopped short in the midst of one -of its brightest stanzas, and I knew my presence had been observed. The -blackbird made off. There was first the defiant, yet fearsome -cluck-cluck-cluck until he was clear of the bushes and free to fly, and -then away he went through the sunshine to the far bank of the river, -hurling over his shoulder as he went the usual mocking laughter-peal. - - - -II - - -A week of April has gone by—a week of rain and shine, and the singing of -the south wind by day; and, at nights, an intense dark calm full of the -sound of purling brooks. - -The river runs high. All the streams are swollen. The low-lying meadows -are half green grass overspread with a pink mist of lady’s-smock, and -half glittering pools of water that bring down the blue of the sky under -your feet as you go. You can never forget the rain for an instant. On -this page, as I sit writing at the open window, the morning sun was -streaming a minute ago: now a ragged grey rain-cloud has come tumbling -over the hills, and I cannot see across the green for the torrent. It is -by almost as quickly as I can set down the words; and now the sunbeams -are pouring in at the window again: the whole village lies before me -drenched and sparkling, the street one long river of blinding light. - -Tom Artlett, going by early this morning to his work and spying me in the -garden, called out that he had heard the cuckoo twice already; and it may -well be so. The ringing note of the wryneck—the ‘cuckoo’s mate’—has been -sounding in the elm-tops all the morning through, and the cuckoo is -seldom far behind her messenger. Nightingale and swift, swallow and -martin, they are all on their way northward now, and any day may bring -them. But time spent at this season in looking forward to the things -that will be, is always time wasted. Every hour in early April has its -own new revelation, and common eyes and ears can do no more than mark the -things that are. - -Yesterday, in a blink of sunny calm between the showers, I took my midday -walk through the hazel-woods. The young leaves already tempered the -sunlight to the primroses and anemones that covered the woodland floor, -giving all a greenish tinge. Though the whole wood was full of -primroses, it was only by the edges of the fields, where they grew in -full sunshine, that their rich yellow colour had any significance. Here -under the hazels this was so diluted and explained away by the white of -the anemones, and again by the leaf-filtered sunbeams from above, that -the primroses no longer seemed yellow. At a few yards distant, in the -dimmest spots, you could scarce tell one flower from another but for its -shape. - -Wherever I went in the wood, the soft droning song of the bees went with -me. You could hardly put one foot before the other without dashing the -cup from the lip of one of these winged wanderers. But though the -anemones and primroses grew so thick, so inextricably mingled together, -the honey-bees kept to the one species of flower. They clambered in and -out of the star-like anemones, sometimes two and three at a blossom -together. But the primroses were always passed over, by hive-bee and -humble-bee alike. Here and there, I picked one of the sulphur blossoms, -and tearing it apart, made sure that there was nectar in plenty—its -presence was plain even to human eye. The truth was, of course, that the -sweets of the primrose were placed so far down the trumpet-tube of the -flower, that no bee had tongue long enough to gather them, even if they -were to her mind. - -Yet though the bees might scorn the primrose for much the same reason as -the fox contemned the grapes in the fable, there was one creature -specially told off by Nature to do the necessary work of fertilisation. -Now and again in the general low murmur of voices about me, I could -distinguish an alien note. This came from a large fly, in a light-brown -fluffy jacket, with transparent wings fantastically scalloped in black. -He jerked himself to and fro in the air from one primrose to another, -hovering a moment over each before settling and thrusting a tongue of -amazing length down the yellow throttle of the flower. His name I have -never heard, but I know that, until recent times, he continued to -conceal, not only his means of livelihood, but his very existence from -the vigilance of naturalists: Darwin himself failed to identify this -primrose-sprite with his special mission in fertilising work. - -It is strange how familiarity with the commonest natural objects may -exist side by side with a pitiful ignorance about them. I had gathered -primroses every spring for half a lifetime through before I realised that -I bore, not one, but two kinds of blossom in my hand. The discovery, I -remember, came with something like a shock of surprise. Yet there was no -blinking the fact: the wonder, indeed, was that in all the thousands I -had gathered, as boy and youth and man, the thing had never before -occurred to me. There was no difference in the sulphur-hued faces of the -flowers. But while the deep, central tube of some was closed with a -little whorl of pale buff feathers, in others this tube was open, and -there stood just within it a slender stem topped with a small green -globe—it seemed at first sight, then, that the sexual principle in the -primrose was divided, each plant bearing only male, or only female -flowers. But investigating farther, I found that this was not so. Each -flower was truly hermaphrodite, only in one the male feathery anthers -were uppermost, and in the other the green pistil of the female appeared -above. - -Thirty years it took me to discover these simple, obvious facts about a -thing I had handled every spring since childhood: how many decades more, -I wonder, must pass ere I shall clear up the final mystery about them, a -matter now to me dark as ever—how, with the primrose alone, this came to -be so; and, above all, why? - - - -III - - -If I tell the plain, honest truth about the day which has just ended, and -call it a day of adventure and excitement from its first grey gleam to -its tranquil golden close, I am not sure that there are many who will -understand me, save the one who shared it with me almost hour by hour. - -For nothing really happened on this day, as the world estimates events. -Over an obscure Sussex village, a mid-April sun shone out of a cloudless -sky; certain migrant birds arrived in the neighbourhood; certain wild -flowers and insects were observed for the first time; there was nothing -more. No wandering stranger appeared in the street, to bring us all to -our doors; no big-gun practice was going on thirty miles away at -Portsmouth, outraging our blue sky with incongruous thunder; nor did even -the gilt arrow on the church-clock slip an hour at midday, as it often -does, and send us scurrying home to dinner before the time. To all save -two in Windlecombe, the day was just an ordinary working week-day; but, -to these, it was no less a day than the one on which the year comes -suddenly into its full young prime. - -For me it began when the grey eastern sky took its first tint of morning -rose. There is no sweeter sound than the song of the house-martins, and -this it was that roused me now. In the darkness they had come, straight -to their old nesting-site under the eaves; and now they filled the room -with their quaint, voluble melody, and wove a mazy pattern against the -sky as they circled to and fro. - -While I dressed, I watched them dipping and crying in the sunny air; and, -peering out through the window now and again, I could see them all along -under the eaves, clinging to the rough bricks of the wall, where they had -left their mud-houses last October. But of these none remained now. Not -to break down the martins’ nests in early spring, before the sparrows -begin to stuff them with grass, is to prepare for the little -black-and-white voyagers’ war instead of welcome. And they seem quite as -happy and content if, returning, they find nothing but a clay-mark on the -wall. - -Later, by an hour at most, I had the Reverend by the arm, not so much to -guide, as to restrain him, for he went ever a little before me through -the meadow with the sure, swift stride of a mountain-goat. There was but -one thing that could betray his affliction to a close observer. While I -went blinking in the intolerable glory of the sunshine above us, and the -scarce lesser glory of the buttercups below, he strode onward, his calm -old face turned straight up to the sun, his blue eyes meeting it -unflinchingly from under their shaggy arches of white. He might be -Gabriel looking into the very focus of heaven, I thought, as I stole a -glance at him a little fearsomely. Indeed, I never quite limited his -vision to that of his poor, purblind, human eyes. - -‘It will be down in the little birch-clump near the Conyers,’ he said. -‘That is where the first nightingale always comes. It will take us a -good five minutes, and why are you not talking to me? Come! do not keep -all the brave, beautiful things to yourself!’ - -How to tell him of all the things I saw in a single yard of meadow about -us! But I got to work with the will, if not the power. - -‘We are walking,’ said I, ‘through buttercups a foot high; and almost -with every step we send a cloud of little blue-and-copper butterflies -chevying before us. Listen to the grasshoppers piping! The buttercups -make a sort of thick scum of gold as on the surface of a green lake. -Down below, like pebbles on the lake-bottom lie the daisies—their white -discs touch each other in all directions; nay, they overlap, they are -heaped upon one another. An insect might crawl over them from side to -side of the great meadow and never tread on anything but daisy-white. -And the dandelions! There are millions of them, I think, filling the air -with a perfume like choice old wine. And smell these, Reverend! Do you -know what they are?’ - -‘Cowslips! They must be in full bloom now: they were always fine -cowslips in this field. But you should pull them—never pick them. Then -you get all their beauty, the crimson at the base of the stem, and— -Hark!’ - -From the oak-clad hill-side to the northward, clear and slow on the -gentle air, came the cuckoo’s double chime. The old vicar faced about, -and took off his hat ceremoniously. I did the like. It was no -superstitious greeting of the bird on its first appearance. We were not -thinking even of the ancient Sussex legend—that an old witch goes to -Heathfield Fair every fourteenth day of April, with all the year’s -cuckoos in her bag, and there lets them fly. On our part, it was merely -a precautionary measure against a very ancient rustic pleasantry. Farmer -Coles of Windlecombe loved his joke, and that was Farmer Coles’s wood. -Though we had no real doubt that we were listening to our first cuckoo, -it was well to be on the safe side. - -The path now left the full fair-way of the meadow, and meandered along by -the edge of the wood. I was bidden to go on with my chronicle. - -‘The bluebells are out as thick as ever I saw them, Reverend. Under the -shadow of the trees they look like purple smoke stealing up the hillside; -and where a bar of sunshine pierces through, the colour seems to leap -into the dim air like a tongue of flame. How the rabbits play! Every -moment they break cover and dart across the open spaces, two or three -together. There goes a spotted woodpecker!—I saw his black-and-white -coat and crimson plume as he swung through the bar of light. They are -scarce here. Here comes something flitting along that I wish you could -see—you know how the orange-tip—’ - -‘The butterfly with his wings on fire? Don’t grizzle over me, man! I -_can_ see it!—lazily looping along, though you think he will fall to -earth a cinder any moment at your feet. He is like Nero fiddling, I -always think. There must be chervil growing close by.’ - -‘Yes, a great bank of it, and the butterfly has gone.’ - -‘Well: he is only settling there. Look how the mottled green and white -on the under side of his wings, now he has closed them, exactly match the -colours of the chervil. All his fire is quenched till you disturb him, -and then off he goes, burning himself up as unconcernedly as ever.’ - -We rounded the corner of the wood, and came upon a little open stretch of -heathland. The sulky sweet fragrance of the gorse so loaded the air as -to make one’s breath come hard. Over the gorse, linnets sang their -slender, tweeting melody. The blossom-laden bushes spread away before us -like great heaving waves of gold, flowing up to the hill-brow and over -out of sight. Where the crests of yellow bloom stood against the sky, -they made the sky a deeper blue. But between the gorse-brakes the -heather showed no sign. It crouched low upon the earth, looking black -and dreary and dead, as though a forest fire had lately swept by. - -‘Dead!’ cried the Reverend scornfully. ‘Turn up a frond of it, and look -at the under side of the leaves. Each leaf is black above, but see how -green and sappy and full of life it really is, if you look at it aright. -One misses a lot in life by taking too lofty a standpoint. The heather -in April may be black to you, but it is green enough to the hiding mice.’ - -We went along in silence for a minute or two. - -‘And what about the trees?’ he asked presently. ‘Is it death or life -there? The cuckoo never will wait for his green leaves, you know.’ - -‘Green leaves I see, but leafage nowhere. All the wood-top is chequered -into different clear zones of green, or grey, or russet, or soft sad -yellow—buds bursting and leaves just promising everywhere; but leaves, as -I want them, none. How slow it all is! I can understand the cuckoo’s -impatience. Flying all the way from Africa only to find—’ - -He had ceased to listen. He had turned swiftly towards the sun-bathed -meadows. He put up a thin hand—blue-veined, almost transparent—against -the light. He visibly started. - -‘I heard the throb of a wing—a new sound. It must be—’ - -‘Yes, there it is! The first swallow! Wheeling and darting over the -buttercups yonder, like a bit of bright, blue-tempered steel!’ - -And as I uttered the words, there drifted out of the thorn-hedge hard by -us the note we had come to seek. All the ringing music of the woodland -seemed to grow mute at the sound. Wild and pure, with a force and a -lingering sweetness indescribable, the nightingale’s song poured out of -the thicket, dwelling upon the one silver, clarion note, moment after -moment, as though it would never cease. At my side two gaunt arms rose -tremblingly into the sunshine: - -‘They are all here!’—the voice was husky, faltering—‘All! all! I have -heard them again, every one of them, the good God be praised! Though I -never hoped to— Yes, one by one, I bade them all a long farewell last -year!’ - - - -IV - - -Down in the village, when I left it this morning, hardly a breath was -stirring under the warm April sun; but the wind is never still for more -than an hour or two, here on the top of Windle Hill. At first, there was -only a gentle wayward air out of the blue south-west. But already the -wind is freshening as the sun lifts; and, with the growing heat, it is -sure to strengthen. Midday may find half a gale singing in the long -grass-bents around me, the gold tassels of the cowslips lashing to and -fro in the grip of a madcap breeze. - -To get the true spirit of the Sussex Downs, you must become a lover of -the wind, loving it in all its moods. There are rare moments, even on -Windle Hill, when the sun glows in a halcyon sky, and the blue air about -you lies as still and silent as a sheltered woodland mere. But this is -not true Downland weather. A calm day in the valleys may stand for -tranquillity, and be well enough; but here it savours rather of -stagnation. The very life of the Downs is in their flowing, -ever-changing atmosphere—the sweet pure current coming to you unwinnowed -over a visible course of twenty miles. When the wind is still, it is -good to keep to the lowlands, under their green canopies of whispering -leaves, within sound of their purling undertone of brooks; for the valley -has its own companionable voices of earth, even under silent skies. But -the Downs are as a strung harp, that will yield no music save to the -touch of the one gargantuan player. Their very essence of life is in the -careering air. You must learn to love the wind for its own sake, or you -will never come to be a true Sussex highlander—to know what the magic is -that brings Sussex men, meeting by chance in some far-off nook of the -world, to talk first of all of the Downs, when, in the stifling heat of a -tropic night, or by northern camp-fires, pipes are aglow, and tired -hearts wistfully homing. - -Out of the blue south-west comes the gentle wind, bringing with it the -colour of the skies to every dell and shady woodland track in the -far-spreading vista. Violet-hued the lazy cloud-shadows creep over the -hills, or travel the lowland country to the south, dimming the green of -blunting corn and the rich brown of new tilth, with their own soft -scrumbling of azure. Where the village lies, far below at the foot of -the hill, the elm-tops seem full of green: but this is only the scale of -the bygone blossom. It will all fall to earth in tiny emerald discs, -each with its crimson centre, before the true abiding green of the leaf -appears. In the cottage gardens—looking, from the heights, like -patchwork in a quilt—the cherry-trees make snow-white wreaths and posies. -The lane that leads to the hill is flanked with ancient blackthorn hedges -whiter yet. Blackthorn and sloe, and bright festoons of marsh-marigold -weave a dwindling pattern over the low brook-country beyond, where the -grey-blue thread of Arun river winds in and out on its long journey -towards the sea. And, far beyond all, glistens the sea itself—one vivid -streak of blue, incredibly high in the heaven—a long broad band as though -made with a single sweep of a brush charged with pure sapphire, and -fretted here and there with a few scarce, dragging, crumbling touches of -gold. - -Swallows go by overhead in the sun-steeped air chattering pleasantly. -Every bush and branch, it would seem, below in the combe, must have its -singer; for how else to account for such a bewildering, dim babel of -song? All the larks in the world, you think, must be congregated in the -blue region above the hill-top, and to be giving back to the sun a dozen -gay trills for every beam he squanders down. While there is daylight, -there will be this incessant lark-song, here on the green pinnacle of the -wind-washed hill. With the first light of dawn the merry round began: it -will hardly cease with the last red glimmer of the highland evening, -when, an hour before, the leaf-shrouded combe has grown silent in the -blackness of night. The stars will hear the last of it then, just as -they will hear again its earliest music before they are quenched by the -white of morrow. And if a drab, forbidding sky lowers over everything, -or the rain-clouds wrap the hills about with mist of water, still the -larks will sing. Nothing daunts the little grey highland minstrel. So -that there be light enough to guide him upward, he will soar and sing, -carrying his music indifferently up into the glory of this perfect April -morning, or the gloom of the winter torrent and whistling winter blast. - -Human fret and worry have a habit of keeping to the lowlands, as all -lovers of the Downs know well. You cannot climb the hill-top, and bring -with you all the care that burdened your footsteps down in the dusty -shadow-locked vale. Somehow or other, every stride upward over the -springy turf seems to lighten the load; and once on the summit, you seem -to have lifted head and shoulders far above the strife. The hurrying -mountain freshet of a breeze singing in your ears, and the rippling -lark-music, have washed the heart clean of all but gladness; and you see -with awakened eyes. You have soared with the lark, and now must needs -sing with him. You cannot help looking over and onward, as he does, at -the brightness that is always pressing hard on the heels of human worry -and care. - -It is the great wide expanses in Nature that have most effect on the -hearts and lives of men. The sea has its own intrinsic influence; but it -is too fraught with echoes of old wrath and unreasoning violence, -overpast yet still remembered, even in its quietest moods. You cannot -forget its grim levy on human lives, and the stout ships beaten to -splinters uselessly. The leviathan lies crooning, inert, under the hot -April noon, all lazy benevolent gentleness; yet you owe it many bitter -grudges rightfully, and see the silken treachery lurking deep down in its -placid depths. But the story of the Downs is one long tale of harmless -good. They have no record of strife and disaster. Their tale of the -ages is a whole philosophy of life without its terror:—Nature’s great -good gift to world-worn souls, the bringing of calm into human life, with -calm’s inherent far-seeing; reason working through worry towards hope and -trust for the best. - -The blithe spring day wears on; the sun lifts higher and higher; and the -blue tree-shadows, that span the village down at the foot of the hill, -have shrunk to half their former length. With the ripe heat of midday, -the wind has freshened to a surging, roistering gale; but its rough touch -is full of kindly warmth and jollity. The cloud-shadows that, in the -serener mood of the morning, crept so stealthily over hill and dale, now -stride from peak to peak in a wild chevy-chase after the sunbeams; -leaping the valleys in their path, and filling them with rollicking grey -and gold. The sky, with its griddle of white cloud, has come strangely -near, and the Downs have risen suddenly to meet it. You seem buoyed up -on an ever-lifting tide of green hills, that rock and sway as the broad -bars of sun and shadow drive onward under the goad of the breeze. It is -all sheer exultation—the changing light, and the song of the gale, and -the lark’s unceasing challenge above you. Now, of all times, you must -learn how good a thing it is to be out and about on these Sussex -highlands, washed in the sun and the rain and the pure salt breath of the -sea. - - - - -MAY - - -I - - -SOMETIMES for days together, a whole week, perhaps, I may never set foot -outside the area of the village. These are generally times when the tide -of work runs high, and one must keep steadily pulling to make any real -headway against it. They are days, and nights too, of necessarily close -and constant application, varied, however, by odd half-hours of quiet -loafing hither and thither about the village—delicious moments pilfered -recklessly from the eternal grindstone of the study, to be remembered for -their pipes smoked and their talks with old acquaintance at street -corners, long after the labour which sweetened them has passed, maybe -fruitlessly, away. - -So it has happened this last week, during which the season has journeyed -out of April into May. At one time or another in the chain of busy -hours, I have renewed acquaintance with all my favourite bits of old -Windlecombe, and the personalities from which they are inseparable. - -Getting out into the sunshine, I usually find my steps turning, first of -all, towards the smithy. It stands just behind the Clemmers’ cottage, -its yawning black doorway wreathed about with elder branches full of -white blossom, and deep green spray reminding one of the foliage in old -paintings, which looks as if it were compounded of indigo and gamboge. I -never knew a smith who could beat out such ear-assuaging music from an -anvil as young Tom Clemmer. If you hear it in passing, you are bound to -turn aside, and stand for awhile looking in at the door, and fall -adreaming under the spell of its quiet melody. But standing out there, -with the sun across your eyes, you can see nothing at first save a -sputtering red spot of fire, and hear nothing but the chime of hammer and -anvil, to which the gruff, wheezy bellows add a sort of complaining -undertone. When you catch sight of young Tom Clemmer, it is to make him -out as one of great height, immensely broad in the shoulder and lean of -hip—a peg-top figure of a man. Through the smoke and flying sparks he -shows you a black face with a pair of grey eyes, deep-set, glittering, -mirthful, and a great head covered with crisp flaxen curls. He is of the -old South-Saxon blood through and through. - -But at the wheelwright’s yard, a little farther along the green, you are -confronted with quite a different breed of Sussex peasant. The Drays are -thickset, of middle height; and dark, almost swarthy of feature. Up in -the churchyard, you come upon the two names at every step. You read -Clemmer, Dray, Dray and Clemmer, everywhere amidst the moss-grown stones, -in varying degrees of illegibility back for hundreds of years. The two -families are by far the oldest in Windlecombe. You note that the -Clemmers were nearly always Thomases, and the Drays for the most part -Daniels; while the females of both races were, and are still, either -Marthas or Janes. Looking over the ranks of this silent company, it is -impossible to think of any member of the former clan as other than -long-limbed, grey-eyed and fair; and a Dray, even though he were a serf -under Harold, who was not dark of glance and visage would be an anomaly -unthinkable. Young Daniel now—as you pass by and see him bending to and -fro over his cavern of a sawpit, with the red elm-dust spurting up -fountain-like in the sunshine between his gaitered legs—must be the very -counterpart of the Dray who, doubtless, fought at Hastings; or him of -older times who, daubed in blue war-paint, might have watched with wrath -and wonder from his seaside ambush the first Phoenician galley that came -adventuring after Cornish tin. - -When it rains, though work and the house have for the nonce become alike -intolerable, I have several havens wherein I can be sure of finding just -that quiet anchorage that the moment needs. The little sweetstuff shop -is foremost among them. Over the long, low window, with its curious -lattice panes of bull’s-eye glass, there runs a legend, in one uniform -character and without stop or break:—‘BERLIN WOOLS TOYS SUSAN ANGEL ALL -KINDS OF SWEETS.’ And within at her fireside behind the little counter, -sits Miss Angel, always busily knitting, and always ready for a chat. - -I reserve Miss Angel and her flute-like under-flow of small-talk, for -moments of placidity. But at unruly seasons of mind, I go to the -cobbler’s den, and getting my elbows upon the half-door, look in upon -him, often without spoken word on either side, for ten minutes at a -stretch. It is dark in there, with a penetrating smell of tanned leather -wonderfully soothing in certain states of the nerves. My own taciturnity -is real enough at these times; but that of the cobbler, a garrulous old -soul by nature, is usually forced upon him by circumstances. His mouth -seems to be permanently full of brass brads, which come automatically -through his closed lips one by one, and always miraculously head-first, -to be ready when his quick left hand needs them. With his right hand he -keeps up an incessant monotonous tattoo on the boot between his knees; -and to watch the shining brass pins flowing from his mouth into -symmetrical rows on the leather is pure balm for eyes tired of staring at -paper and ink. I know the cobbler means to talk directly he has finished -his mouthful. Now and again he looks up with premonitory gleams of -politics or ground-bait in his eye; or, worse still, with that slow -double-wink which I know presages a story ancient even in his -great-grandfather’s time. So I watch the flow of the brads, and when I -judge the supply to be nearly exhausted, I generally execute a stealthy -retreat. - -The parlour of the Three Thatchers Inn is, I know of old, an unrivalled -place for the rejuvenation of a jaded faith in the reality of life, at -times of idleness and dismal weather. It is not the talk of the old -landlord behind his bar—talk at once serenely simple and shrewdly -worldly-wise; nor the unending volley of song from the three canaries, -each in its crinoline-like cage overhead; nor even the quality of the -liquor, that draws me to this cosy, sawdust-carpeted, crimson-curtained -nook. It is the furniture of the bar itself, all that stands upon its -shelves and hangs upon its old wainscoted walls, that attracts me at -these odd, unemployable moments—a collection of articles never to be got -together, I think, in less than four generations of like-minded men. - -All the woodwork is of oak, planted, grown, and felled, no doubt, within -an arrow-flight of the village. On the walls of the parlour hang various -framed and coloured prints, disreputable by tradition, yet so embrowned -with varnish as to be long ago relegated into harmless indecipherability. -There is a picture of a bird of dubious species, from whose open beak -issue the words—‘_As a bird is known by his song, so is a man by his -conversation_.’ Opposite the door, where all entering must immediately -observe it, hangs another picture, this time of a dog lying upon its back -with all four legs rigidly pointing upwards, and a very long red tongue -lolling out of its mouth; and, underneath, the inscription—‘_Poor Trust -is dead_: _bad pay killed him_.’ - -Behind the bar, the walls are lined with shelves, backed up by scrolled -looking-glass, wherein all the treasures that crowd before it have their -blurred and distorted counterparts. On the uppermost shelves, hard -against the smoke-blackened ceiling, stand rows of pewter-pots, kept -scrupulously clean and bright, but never taken down for use within living -memory. Below these is a regiment of cut-glass bottles in different rich -colours, quaintly fluted, each with a gilt vine-leaf upon it; and between -the bottles stand inverted wine-glasses, every one upon a little mat of -gaudy wool, and balancing a lemon upon its upturned foot. Other shelves -are taken up with toby-jugs, curious old snuff-boxes and tobacco-jars, -row upon row of earthenware mugs, ringed with brown and blue, and stamped -with a mysterious ornament like black seaweed. There are three large -wooden kegs with brass taps, marked respectively with the letters—O.T., -J.R., and C.B. The local pleasantry has it that these are needed to -store the special liquor of three devoted patrons of the inn. The -ferryman and Bleak the cobbler reject the insinuation with contumely; but -O.T., as I have the best of all reasons for knowing, regards it as a -compliment of subtle hue. - -But perhaps the most fascinating item in the whole collection is a -certain ancient puzzle-mug of blue crockery-ware, with a suspiciously -heavy handle and an elaborately perforated lip. A stranger is invited to -drink from this, but, by reason of the open lattice-work all round the -rim, it appears an impossible feat. The trick, however, is easy to one -in the secret. The handle of the cup is hollow, and communicates with -the interior at its lowest extremity. By setting the mouth to a small -hole in the handle-top, the liquor can be slowly sucked through. - - - -II - - -It being the day of the fortnightly market at Stavisham, and the weather -fair, Runridge and I took the little green punt from its moorings this -afternoon, and set out to explore the Long Back-Reach. - -The Reach is just a winding side-alley of the river, overgrown with -willows and reeds—a mere crevice of glimmering water hiding itself in the -heart of the wood. Coming into it from the dazzling sunlight of the main -river, it strikes at first almost chill and gloomy, for all it is an -afternoon in May. But this is only an illusion that soon passes. After -a minute or two you get its quiet keynote; the green dusk becomes -deliciously tempered sunlight, the cool air something finer and more -delicate than the sun-scorched breath of the open river-way. - -Runridge pulls a long clean stroke, and dips his oar-blades with a -perfect rhythm. He is silent company, as far as words go; but he has an -eloquence of look and gesture which more than takes the place of speech. -And there is something about his mute system of comradeship that -irresistibly impels itself on others. With his tanned, wrinkled face -sedately smiling under the brim of his battered old felt hat, and his -thoughtful eyes for ever roaming over the landscape, you feel that the -ordinary human method of conveying ideas by sounds is somehow out of -place in the little green wherry. Over and over again to-day, when a -scarce bird or uncommon flower showed itself on the river bank, and I -would direct his notice thither, I found myself insensibly adopting his -silent way of a waved hand or an inclination of the head, when, in other -company, my tongue would have been set agoing on the instant with less -sufficing words. - -Out on the broad water-way the tide was still running up, but here in the -Long Back-Reach the drift of the current was hardly perceptible. The old -ferryman had laid by his oars, and now sat filling an ancient pipe with -tobacco that looked like chips of ebony. As for me, I lay back in the -boat, head pillowed on clasped hands, dimly recalling a dream I had had, -ages and ages back, of a world without green leaves or nightingales—a -weirdly impossible world of nipping frost and firesides, the sob of the -winter wind, and the dreary deluge of winter rain. - -The reeds stood high on either hand: above, the old yellow reeds, with -their nodding mauve-grey plumes, and below, the fresh green growth, -wherein the reed-warblers would soon be building—a living emerald -thronging up amidst the old dead stems. Over the solid rampart of the -reeds the willows reached down, trailing their ferny branches in the -water. And beyond these, the great forest trees hemmed us in, oak and -elm and beech in two vast cliffs of verdure towering above us, and -interlocking their laden boughs against the far blue sky. - -The little sugar-scoop of a boat drifted on. Everywhere about us the -martins were skimming over the clear water, chattering as they went. The -seeding willows sent down tiny flecks of white, that hovered and dwelt in -the dim air, like snow-flakes; and from the beeches overhead there was a -constant rain of light fine atoms, the discarded sheaths of the -leaf-buds, that fell upon the waters and gathered into all the little -nooks and bays among the reeds like pale, dun foam. - -Somewhere far in the distance a cuckoo sang. Runridge took his pipe from -his mouth, and gave it a rocking motion. Never a word he said, but his -thought passed to me just as if he had spoken it: a see-saw melody it -was, and will be until the hay is down. There were willow-wrens singing -far above in the tree-tops. A chiff-chaff went looping by with his soft, -broken note. To count the nightingales that we heard as the boat stemmed -onward were almost to count the white-budded hawthorns that shone out -through every gap in the reeds. And now the old ferryman put out an oar, -and turned the little craft towards the bank, where a great willow-tree -drooped half across the stream. The boat-prow clove its way into the -heart of this leafy shelter, and we came to rest. The pipe went up -warningly. In the dense reed thicket hard by there was a new maytide -song. - -Of all utterances of wild birds, perhaps none attains to a human-like -quality more nearly than that of the sedge-warbler. It is not so much a -song as a continuous complaint, and that of a characteristically feminine -kind. To me the little sedge-bird, restlessly flitting from stem to stem -through the waving jungle of reeds, and singing as she goes, inevitably -suggests a type of dutiful, laborious womanhood, all affection and -unselfishness, but ever ready alike with sharp words and an aggressive -tearfulness that disarms as completely as it maddens. And the sweetness, -the occasional sudden bright abandon of the song only serves to -strengthen the comparison. You can picture the bird stopping in the -midst of her most fretful, self-commiserate strain, bravely to estimate -her compensations. The sun shines, the nest is well-built and furnished, -the larder easy to be filled. Material good is unlacking; but— And then -the singer goes hopelessly under again. Now the song is nothing but -sweetly lachrymose expostulation, voiced grief all the more intolerable -for its tunefulness,—an epic of melodious woe. - -Turning over in my mind this fantasy about the sedge-bird, as we lingered -under the willow bower, I found the old ferryman looking at me with a -strangely reminiscent eye. It flashed across me that long ago, when all -days were as good as market days to us, I had put before him just these -thoughts, and had received his silent, amused concurrence in them. Then -there had been no chance of inconvenient application; but now—I sat bolt -upright and looked closer at him. I was beaten at this talk of eyes. I -harked back to the old safe path with which I was familiar. He had -turned away now, and did not revert his glance though my hand was upon -his arm. - -‘Why, why did you do it, Runridge?’ I blurted out, almost as forlornly as -the sedge-bird. ‘You never minded living alone! You were happy enough! -And I—I—’ - -He was looking at me straightly enough now. - -‘Do it?’ His breath whistled in through his set teeth. ‘Do it—did ye -say? I do it?—never! ’A did it hersel’! Kind o’ mesmerised, I wur. -Never rightly knowed as ’twur done, till ’twur all ower. But there ’tis -i’ th’ book, an’ no gettin’ ower it now. Ah! well, well! purty near time -we was skorkin’ hoame-along, bean’t it? Gie tired women-folk a could -kettle for welcome, an’ ’tis trouble wi’out end.’ - - - -III - - -Whitsuntide has fallen early this year, and that seems to me always the -fittest thing. It should come, as it has come now, at the full fair tide -of the spring, when the apple-blossom, last ebullition of the year’s -youth, is at the zenith of its glory, and summer is still only a promise -yet to be fulfilled. - -Whitsunday in Windlecombe, to all average folk, at least, excels in -importance every other day in the year, Christmas Day alone excepted. -There is neither man, woman, nor child in the parish, with the ability to -get to church, but arrives there somehow and sometime during the day. -For the old vicar, from his early communion service to the time he gives -the benediction at close of evensong, it is a day of ceaseless action and -exaltation. Every Whitsunday—when, in fulfilment of an ancient compact -between us, I go to the vicarage to share the last light of day with him -alone—I find him sitting in the little summer-house at the foot of the -garden, radiantly happy, yet tired as a navigator, and hoarse as a crow. -What befalls the curate at the end of this arduous day no one knows; for -he is never visible after the final service. But Miss Sweet is said to -pervade the neighbourhood of his lodging like an unquiet ghost far into -the twilight, waylaying his housekeeper with offers of night-socks and -eau-de-cologne. - -On this fine Whitsunday morning I got to my corner in the grey old church -earlier than my wont, before, indeed, the bell began its measured -tolling. The school children were in their places in the south aisle, a -whispering, nudging crew. The curate flitted about the chancel in his -long black cassock like a bat disturbed from its dreams. The little -organist sat at her harmonium. No one else as yet had come to church. - -It was good to sit thus in the cool and quiet before the service began, -letting the heart go back over all the other Whitsuntides I had spent in -Windlecombe, and letting the eye rove here and there through the hollow, -sun-barred twilight of the old place, comparing the garlands that -beautified it now with those that, in former years, had registered the -attained prosperity of the season. For though, wherever you looked, from -the window-ledges of the sanctuary to the multi-centred arch of the west -door, there were flowers and greenery in profusion, no garden blossom -shone amongst them. They were all wildflowers. Every child, most of the -women, and many of the men, who could spare an hour from work the day -before, had been busy in the woods and fields to make this House -Beautiful. The old vicar’s ambition was known to all—that in the church -to-day every wild Maytide blossom should have its place. I looked hither -and thither, but could think of none that was missing. The altar was -golden with cowslips, primroses, buttercups, every flower that bore the -colour of gold. Bluebells hid the old oak carving of the pulpit, and -with them others that were blue or purple, violet and veronica, -forget-me-not and pimpernel. On all the window-ledges, not to vie with -the richness of the painted glass, white flowers alone were -assembled—chervil and elder, daisies that are snow-white in the mass, -sprays of silver stitchwort, wreaths of hawthorn entwining all. The -chancel screen was hung with festoons of pink herb-robert and deadnettle; -and the steps beneath it flanked with those wild growths that bear -greenish flowers as well as green leaves—the woodspurge and the paler -green of arum and bryony. No colour was crowded unthinkingly upon -another. Each blossom held by its kinsfolk of a like complexion, and a -hundred forms and shades of verdure underflowed them all. Gladly I -marked that there were no roses anywhere, and this it was that gave the -day its special meaning. Last year I remembered how the wild dog-roses -lorded it over everything, making Whitsun a summer feast, which it never -should be. But this year we are weeks in front of the roses and the may -is scarce half-blown. - -Now the bell commenced its slow rhythmic chime, and in the south porch, -where the surplices hung, the choir boys began to assemble. The west -door stood open, and, mingling with the songs of the birds and the joyous -note of the wind in the trees, footsteps sounded on the churchyard path. -At first they came singly, then in twos and threes. After awhile their -shuffling note became continuous, and the church began to fill on all -sides. I could no longer look about me, but must sit straight in my pew, -contenting myself with rare side glances. I heard the stump of old Tom -Clemmer’s crutches afar off in the street, heard it grow gradually louder -and nearer, until it ceased on the floor of the pew behind me, and -Clemmer set himself to subdue the hurricane of his breath. Mrs. Runridge -fluttered up the aisle, with the tall old ferryman so close behind her, -and his head so decorously lowered, that he seemed to be regaling himself -with the smell of the roses in her new bonnet as they went. Farmer Coles -and his retinue arrived, blocking the aisle for a full minute, until hot -and flurried Mrs. Coles, by much pointing and nudging, and a hubbub of -whispered directions, had succeeded in packing all her family into the -two great pews. With astonishing suddenness the erstwhile empty church -had become a crowded building. All Windlecombe was there, every woman or -girl in her new Whitsuntide bonnet and gay new cotton frock. - -And now the bell stopped; a few late stragglers came hurrying up the -path, and into the rustling silence of the church with but -half-restrained momentum; a sonorous Amen came from the south porch; the -little harmonium uplifted its voice afar off in the chancel; the -white-robed choristers began to pour up the nave, singing as they went; -the curate followed, and last of all the old vicar, as upright as any, -with his sure, unfaltering stride. No stranger, seeing him keep the true -centre of the way, and pass unhesitatingly to his desk in the chancel, -would have dreamed that he walked in almost utter darkness; nor when he -faced about, and began the service with that deep-toned serene voice of -his, did any one of us believe it, though we had known him all our lives. -Not a word halted, not a word went awry. Only when the time for the -Bible lessons came did he give place to his helper; and even at these -times we were not always delivered over to the sad-voiced, diffident -curate. How much of the Bible he knew by heart not even he himself could -say; but often he would come down to the lectern, and with a face of -inspiration turned upon us, recite the whole lesson as though he who -wrote it ages back stood whispering at his side. Many a time, as he -ceased, and turned back to his chancel seat with unerring step, and every -man fetched his breath in the silence, I have marvelled at the force of -habit that, when all hearts were inwardly exclaiming, could hold us mute -of voice. - -The same thought came to me when, a little later, he stood in the pulpit, -his deep tones rumbling in the rafters over our heads; and most of all it -pressed itself upon me when, at close of the long service, I beheld him -afar off in the radiant flower-garden of the sanctuary, a towering white -figure, with arm uplifted, nebulous, uncertain, in the multitudinous -lights. But, with the thought, came always a kind of fear, a sensation -that we were all living recklessly outside our defences, going our ways -like children sheltered, aided, and irresponsible:—what would happen to -Windlecombe, and to us all, when the strong arm failed and the voice no -longer guided? At these times my comfort was always in a word of Susan -Angel’s, spoken with a cheery, quiet conviction from behind her rows of -sweetstuff bottles and knick-knack trays. With her young, almost girlish -eyes shining out of her crabbed, ancient face, she pointed a -knitting-needle at me for emphasis. - -‘Depend on ’t, my dear,’ said she, ‘’a wunt goo far, when th’ call comes. -Him as has christened, an’ married, ay! an’ buried well-nigh all i’ th’ -place, an’ been more ’n a faather to us, what ’ud ’a be doin’ aloane up -there i’ the skies? Na, na! Man or sperit, ’a belongs to Windlecombe. -Here ’a’s treasure be, an’ here ’a’ll bide.’ - - - -IV - - -I heard a weird, tom-toming somewhere in the village to-day, and going -forth, soon tracked the sound down to cobbler Bleak’s garden that lay at -the far end of the green. - -The old man was ringing his bees. Through a gap in the hawthorn hedge, I -could see him standing under his apple-trees surrounded by the hives, and -beating on a saucepan with a door-key, while the air above was alive with -flashing wings, and resonant with the high shrill music of the swarm. -This was the first swarm of the season, although it was well on in May. -Most of the Windlecombe folk kept a few hives in some odd nook or other -of the garden, and these were nearly all of the ancient straw pattern. -He who could get the earliest swarm was accounted at once the luckiest -and most astute of beemen; and the old cobbler’s face glowed with pride -through its encircling fringe of ragged white hair and whisker, as he -pounded away with his key, never doubting for a moment that the noise -would soon induce the swarm to settle. - -But the bees were in no hurry to end this one mad frolic of their -laborious lives. They rose higher and higher into the blue air and -sunshine, drifting to all parts of the compass in turn. They veered out -far over the roadway; swept back towards the cottage, hovering awhile -like a grey cloud over the chimney-tops; took an indecisive turn round -the next garden; reappeared in their old station above the orchard, as -little inclined as ever, apparently, to make a permanent halt. And all -the time their high tremulous music burdened the air, every dog in the -village barked, and every goose quacked its sympathy, and the old cobbler -beat steadily on his pan. - -I got my elbows comfortably into the gap in the hedgerow, the better to -enjoy the scene. The garden was completely surrounded by the -hawthorn-hedge, a glowing wreath of white, against which shone masses of -blooming lilac and laburnum and red garden-may. The little cottage at -the back of the shop stood up to its window-sills in bright colour, every -old-fashioned flower crowding about it. The winding red-tiled paths ran -between borders of the same rich living hues. And beyond in the orchard, -splashed over with blue-grey shadows and quivering gold, as the sunshine -filtered through the leaves, were innumerable hives, old-fashioned skeps -of straw, each with its little chanting company of bees. - -The old cobbler spied me in the hedgerow gap, and beckoned me to join -him. He was without hat or coat, and wore his leather apron. A -half-mended boot thrown down on the path showed how hastily he had been -summoned from work. As I came up, he managed somehow to extract from the -saucepan an exultant, almost jeering tune. - -‘Ah, ha!’ cried he, blinking up at his whirligig property, ‘can ye show -th’ like o’ that ’n?—you as keeps bees in patent machines? Naun like -straw, there be; as I allers telled ye! These yere new-fangled -boxes!—ye’ll ha’ ne’er a swarm this side o’ Corp Christian, I’ll lay a -pot o’ six!’ - -It wanted still four or five days to the date of the great Roman festival -of Corpus Christi in Stavisham, which annually drew all village -sightseers from far and near. I reflected sadly, and rather -shamefacedly, that not only was a swarm from my modern, roomy frame-hives -little to be expected during that interval, but that it was the last -thing I had hitherto desired. Working at home among my trim, up-to-date -hives, with all the latest scientific methods in apiculture at my -finger-tips, it seemed a fine thing to possess bees that had almost -forgotten how to swarm, and that could bring me in a double or treble -harvest of honey. But here in the beautiful old bee-garden, I began -dimly to perceive another side to the argument. Whether courage or -ignorance had led him to resist the tide of progress in beekeeping that -has all but engulfed this gentlest, most picturesque of village crafts, -the old cobbler might be right after all. My honey was better and more -abundant than his; but it might well be dear at the price. - -The swarm was coming lower now, and the wildly flying bees closing their -ranks. Above our heads the air grew dark with them. It was plain that -they would soon be settling. Of a sudden the clanging key-music ceased. -Bleak pointed triumphantly to a bough in a tree hard by. A little knot -of bees had fastened there, no bigger than a clenched fist. But as I -looked it doubled its size with every moment. From all the regions of -sunny air above us the bees thronged towards the cluster. In a short -five minutes hardly one remained on the wing; and in place of the wild -trek-song, a dull, uncanny silence held the air. From the drooping -apple-bough the whole multitude hung together in a dark brown mass, -looking strangely like a huge cigar, as it swayed idly to and fro in the -gentle breeze. - -And now the old cobbler went about the work of hiving the swarm in the -old way, punctiliously observing all the traditional rites of the craft. -A jar of ale was brought out, from which we must both drink, to sweeten -our breath for the coming ceremony. Then, having washed his hands, Bleak -set about the dressing of the hive. It was a new skep, one of many he -had himself made during the long winter evenings bygone. He gathered -first a handful of mint and balm and lavender, and with this he carefully -scrubbed out the skep. Then he made a syrup of brown sugar and beer, -wherewith he gave the hive a second thorough dressing. Finally, having -cut two or three leafy boughs of elder, he took the skep with its -baseboard under his arm, and approached the swarm on tiptoe and with -bated breath. - -The bees hung in the sunshine, as silent, as inert as ever; except that a -dozen or so were hovering about the cluster, humming a drowsy song. The -note contrasted oddly with the wild merry music of the flying swarm, when -all had seemed mad with excitement, as though they were setting forth on -some fierce neck-or-nothing adventure, instead of the rather tame -business in which they were at present absorbed. - -The old beeman stepped warily towards them, and holding the skep mouth -upwards beneath the cluster, gave the branch a vigorous shake. Like so -many blackcurrants, the entire mass of bees rattled down into the hive, -when the baseboard was swiftly clapped over them, and the whole inverted -and placed upon the ground. Waiting a minute or two, the old man then -gently raised one edge of the skep, and propped it up with a stone. A -few hundred bees came tumbling out with a sound like the boiling-over of -a cauldron; but the greater part of the swarm remained within the hive. -Before half an hour had passed, they had completely accepted the -situation, and the worker-bees were lancing busily off in all directions -in search of provender for the new home. - -The old cobbler’s prediction that I should have no swarm by Corpus -Christi, fell true enough. Every day I watched until the hours for -swarming had passed by eventlessly. And then, on the great Stavisham -feast-day, in the sunny calm of afternoon, I followed the straggling line -of sightseers by the river-way to the town. - - - -V - - -A hush is over the little precipitous market-town. The hot May sun beats -down on the waiting lines of people, on the fragrant linden-trees shading -the quiet street, on the fluttering banners and pennants everywhere. - -The air is full of dim sound; wild drift of far-off bell-music, the deep -hum and stir of the expectant people, the voice of the wind, sweet and -low, in the green lime labyrinth overhead. Every glance is turned up the -street, where the church of Saint Francis of Assisi lifts its bluff -sandstone tower against the blue. The great west door stands open. -Straining the eye, the nearest watchers can just make out a glint of -altar lights through the cavernous dark within—the rich uncertain glow of -candles given back from a thousand gleaming points of silver chalice and -golden cross and glittering filigree. - -And now the last rumbling harmony of the organ dies away. For a moment a -deeper silence than ever fills the Gothic gloom. Then the thin fine note -of a clarinet lifts up its trembling signal in the darkness. The brazen -trombones join in with their passionate, deep-voiced music. The lights -begin to move and dance, growing nearer and stronger. ‘They are -coming!’—to the remotest end of the waiting line the whisper spreads. - -Slowly the procession winds its way through the great church door, and -down the precipitous street. First the gilded, jewel-encumbered cross, -borne aloft by a young priest in a black cassock and snowy, deep-laced -surplice. Then the singing multitude of schoolgirls, all in white, with -wreath-crowned veils like so many Lilliputian brides. Now the boys from -the convent seminary in crimson shoulder-sashes, with their fussing -marshals; and the elder women after, in their doleful, decorous black. -Banners swaying; rainbow streamers flying; the shrill child-voices blent -with the sound of the wind in the glad green leaves overhead. - -Now the trumpets and clarinets have turned the bend of the street. The -singing gives way to deeper music. More banners come flinging and -flaunting into the sunny vista. The gay procession takes on a darker -tinge. Sisters in black, sisters in brown, sisters in grey; weary faces, -sad faces, comely faces; winter and glowing spring and ripe calm autumn, -all in the same cold livery of sorrow, all with the like abandonment to -destiny so plainly fettering the innate unrule of will. - -The musicians pass on: the deep blurring melody fades: the pageant -changes. - -Monks and friars now. An old Capuchin father totters by in his rough -brown frock, carrying a candle on a brazen stick. After him a score of -his own degree, all bearing lights that glimmer and blink superfluously -in the sunshine, and all chanting a long slow antiphon in a minor key. -Old men reeking of the cloister, bent nearly double with their weight of -years; sturdy young friars, ruddy-jowled, tonsured, with only half an eye -to their book; suave-faced, grey-headed superiors, eyes in the sky, calm, -transfigured, the vanquished world behind every man’s broad back. - -And now a weird, dirge-like note creeps down the sun-bathed street, and a -murmur follows it through the craning, nudging crowd. The end, the -crown, of the pageant is suddenly in view. It is all shining celestial -white now, as the choristers sweep slowly by in their spotless lawn and -lace, chanting their pseudo-requiem as they move. Behind them a bevy of -major priests, of comfortable figure, gorgeously caparisoned. Little -scarlet-robed acolytes walking backwards and strewing the way with -rich-hued flowers; swinging censers vouchsafing their hallow of dim smoke -upon the common air. And then at last—under the great square -baldacchino—the old Roman bishop himself, holding aloft the precious -monstrance, like a glittering captive star. - -A vision now of billowing white and gold; and the low, sad chant -swelling, falling; and the languorous fragrance of the incense and the -trampled flowers. Wrapped to the eyes in his heavy, gilt-encrusted cope, -the old priest grasps his cherished burden with all the little might of -his trembling blue-veined hands. His eyes are on the gold-rayed -treasure-casket, held but an inch or two beyond his flushed, illuminated -face. A trance-like stupor seems to be upon him as he moves, guided on -either side by those other two, almost as splendidly robed as himself, -who keep a grip on the fringe of his silken coat, and lead him onward in -his passionate ecstasy, treading thin air, enrapt, magnificent with -other-worldly light. - -It is over now. The great canopy has moved on, its bearers keeping -ceremonious step and step. More richly accoutred priests follow in a -holy rear-guard. Then the crowd closes up eagerly behind, and surges -after them, bare-headed, jostling together; catching now and again a -phrase of the mournful melody, and giving it an echo that sobs away into -silence far in the sunny length of the street. - -As I stand apart, here in the deep shadow of the convent wall, the -thronging multitude sweeps by, growing thinner with every moment. The -gleaming star of the monstrance sends back a last clear flash of sunlight -as it turns the distant foot of the hill. Soon the straggling human -fringe of the procession vanishes after it. A debris of blossom litters -the long deserted way. Flags and streamers wave their bright hues over -the dusty solitude. The street is forsaken, quiet again; save for the -bells in the upper air, and the wind in the trees. - - - - -JUNE - - -I - - -THIS morning, for the first time in the year, I found myself -unconsciously taking the shady side of the way. It was a small thing, -truly; but it stood as an index of something great, perhaps the most -portentous thing that happens annually in the life of him who is a -countryman at heart and not merely by name. Summer had come in. It was -not only that the calendar told me the month was June. I felt it in the -sunbeams, saw it in the hedgerows and trees, read it in the pure azure of -the summer sky. I took the shady side of the lane unthinkingly, and -laughed because I did it;—not that I laughed for that alone, but because -gladness was welling up within me unbidden, irresistible: I laughed for -the same reason that the nightingale sang in the green brier-thicket hard -by. - -I stopped to listen to the song. It was June, and the nightingales would -not be singing much longer. Perhaps in a week’s time, at the worst, -their music would be done. I silenced my footfall in the long grass by -the wayside, and crept up close to the nightingale’s bower. - -Every year a nightingale came to this brier-bush, and sang there as she -was singing now. The hedge was a very old one, lifting its dense green -barrier ten feet or more against the sunny southern sky; and, in all the -years I could recall, the brier-bush had never been without its -nightingale. This one must have her nest close by, where all her -ancestors must have built their nests, for how many generations back, who -can say? The life of this old hedge, towering far above me, and nearly -as broad as it was high, could not be compassed by a man’s life. It was -thick and tall when the oldest in the village was but a child. At long -irregular intervals of years it had been trimmed, cut back; but the -growth of the gnarled old stems, where they sprang from the ground, had -not been checked. There its age stood recorded; and it would be little -wide of the truth to think of it as already thick and tall, already the -traditional singing-place of this race of nightingales, a full hundred -years ago. - -The brier-bush stood on the shady side of the way. The nightingale had -her perch in the sunshine beyond, so that the song filtered down to me -through the tangle of intervening leaves. And yet it was not so much a -song as a detached, occasional reverie on the summer’s morning. There is -always this about the music of the summer migrant birds. They are -creatures of eternal sunshine. Their life is no give-and-take of good -and evil, like that of the birds who stay with us all the year through. -They have no need to hearten themselves with memories of bygone sunbeams, -to bring brightness from within when all without is lowering and grey. -Wisely following the sun about the world from season to season, they -ensure for themselves that the joy they sing of is never a memory, but -always the expression of the moment’s living fact: they have but to turn -the vision, the aspect of the hour, into its equivalent of music. - -More than all, you see this truth exemplified in the songs of chaffinch -and willow-wren, which are so much alike in form, yet so strangely -different in the spirit. The hardy chaffinch began his bubbling, -rollicking song with the first warm day in March, and it was more than -half a fiction: to-day it has the same hard, set quality, like a -petrified laugh in the woods. But the little willow-wren is the slave of -no long habit of pretences. She has followed the sun from the south, -keeping up with his youth; and now, from the glowing wood-top, she sends -down her slender echo of chaffinch music, as if, though she would fain be -silent, she must sing for very joy of the light. There is in it all the -verve and gaiety of the chaffinch, yet infinitely softened and -etherealised. And the long bowling phrase is never finished: it falls -away and fails in the end, as if the singer suddenly realised her -impotence to convey in melody one fraction of the morning’s loveliness -and light. - -Invisible through the dense tangle of the brier-bush, to me a voice and -nothing more, the nightingale sat in her nook on the sunny side of the -hedgerow, pouring out her song on the already song-burdened morning as a -gilder lays gold upon gold. All its sweetness, its wild purity, its -slow, sorrowful strength, and its sudden overtripping, overmastering joy, -drifted out upon the sunshine of the meadow, the varied phrases coming -turn and turn about with long intervening silences, as though the singer -ruminated on all the beauty before her, and unconsciously sang her -thoughts aloud. It was good to stand there in the cool shade, and -listen, and take the facts of the thronging meadow life and colour beyond -the hedgerow at such tuneful second-hand. But at length the nightingale -put such a call, such an insistence into her music, as sent me to the -meadow-gate a little way down the lane, just to see with my own eyes what -manner of beauty could be to her so great an inspiration. Shading my -eyes with my hands, I looked out over the mowing-grass, and thanked God -it was June. - -Knee-deep, almost, the grass stood under the morning sun; intensely green -below, and above, white with the white of countless marguerites; and, -higher still, rich rose-red with myriads of tremulous sorrel-plumes. A -little way over the meadow, the green of the grass-blades was lost, and -the eye saw only the white of the great moon-daisies, and the sorrel-red. -Farther still, these two merged into one surface of formless pink, upon -which the breath of the slow western air drew a rippling pattern like -watered silk. - -I passed through the gate, and waded into the grass to the farthest limit -of the oak-shadow. All round the meadow these shadows lay upon the -mowing-grass, blue and cool in the universal glare. It mattered nothing -which way the sunshine fell. The green oak-boughs stretched out so far -and so low that there was shadow beneath them everywhere. Just where I -stood there was a patch of poor and stony soil. The tall-growing plants -had shunned it, leaving it a little haven where the unconsidered trifles -could see sunshine and flourish in their little might. Faced with the -rich bewilderment of summer growth, a spot like this offers irresistible -attraction. To look for long on great magnificence unwearied is a power -not given to all. I know with what relief and pleasure, in other times, -I have turned my back on snow-pinnacled mountains and soothed dazed eyes -with a spot of grey-green lichen on a common stone. And now I turned -from the boundless meadow radiance before me as from glory intolerable, -and knelt to look awhile at the tiny, creviced beauties that lay among -the clods. - -There were scarlet pimpernel and lily-bind, gold-eyed cinquefoil and blue -veronica—a score of nameless atoms starring the drab bare soil. Stooping -lower, I noticed what I had never marked before—how the red of the -pimpernel was centred with a crimson heart; crimson and scarlet—the -military colours that I had always thought execrable, because unnaturally -blended—here they were brought together, justified by the infallible -artistry of the sun. The veronica seemed all pure cobalt blue as I stood -gazing down upon it; but, looked at closely, each minute flower revealed -a complication of colour. The blue of its petals was not a simple tint -throughout, but was striped with a darker blue down in the cup. From its -centre of sulphur-yellow three spires uprose, the one rich purple, the -other two of a pale mauve. And, as if this were not enough beauty for so -small a thing, the slender stalk upon which each blossom trembled was a -shaft of delicate, translucent crimson, feathered over with white. - -The cinquefoil was just as minutely wonderful in its way. Studded with -little flat golden blossoms, its ferny growth mingled everywhere with the -other rich-hued things, but it held itself aloof from them all. Even -under the full noontide sun it preserved its chilly, star-like quality. -Its pale silvery fronds seemed to quench the very sunbeams as they fell, -and to make a cold spot on the earth in the midst of all the glowing -soaring meadow-colour, like frost in fire. Many a time, in former years, -I had looked at the cinquefoil thus, and marvelled at the ice-cold virtue -of a thing that could so repel the fierce Tarquin of a summer sun. -Nursing the fancy, I would grant it nothing at length but a senseless -chastity done up in silver paper; as zealously guarded as little worth. -But now I took the pains to pluck a few of its flowers, and discovered -something new about it, something that raised its value to me a -hundredfold. In all the meadow there was scarce another blossom with so -sweet a scent; it was like the may, but at once more poignant and -delicate. And, thinking of the may, I straightway forgot all about the -cinquefoil, and turned to wander along the hedge. - -The time had gone by when the hawthorn overran all the country-side with -its billows of white blossom. These blinding masses of white—snow-white -and cold as snow—are wonderful to look upon for a moment or two; but to -me the hawthorn is always more lovely at the beginning, and, most of all, -towards the end of its flowering life. At neither of these times is it -really white. The new-opened blossom of the may is full of pink anthers -that, in the aggregate, colour the whole bush. At this hour, for it is -no more than an hour, the hawthorn-hedge is besieged by hordes of -honey-sippers; hive-bees for the most part, but also every insect that -can fly. Each flower keeps its rosy blush only so long as it remains -unfertilised; and then colour and song forsake it together. The -full-blown hedges of hawthorn have nothing for the ear, as they have -little abiding solace to the eye. - -But now again, as I roved along the narrow green way between the hedgerow -and the tall grass of the meadow, the may, as of old, was beautiful to -look upon. The pink anthers were dead, brown, shrivelled in their -drained chalices; but the petals themselves, as they faded, had taken -upon themselves a rich flush—the hectic of decay. Everywhere the -hedgerow was wreathed and posied with this soft tint, the colour of -old-rose. It was the colour of death, and that was often gay and bright -enough, I knew. It seemed an ill thing wherein to delight on such a -brave June morning. But the truth stuck fast in the mind, for all that: -these festoons of dying may were nearly as beautiful as the best that -youth and life could show. - -Nearly—yet as I wandered on, creeping from bay to bay of green shadow, -and edging round the great jutting promontories of hedgerow-growth, I -came at once upon a sight and a sound that brought me to a more wondering -halt than ever. It was my brier-bush again, and the nightingale was -still singing, as I had heard her from the lane an hour ago. But now I -no longer stood outside her concert-hall. I was here with her on the -meadow side of her bower, and understood at last the full import of her -singing. While on the shaded northern flank of the hedge there was -nothing but greenery, here, on the sunny side, the brier-sprays were -putting forth antlered buds, and one of them, close to my hand, had -opened into the perfect flower. It was the first wild rose. If I had -been Rip van Winkle, there and then waking from an age-long sleep, I -should have known the day of the month, almost the very hour. Rarely, -six days of June may pass in southern England, but never a seventh, -without this master-sign of summer. Though storm and chill hold back the -music of the migrant birds, they cannot daunt the English roses. - - - -II - - -A stranger observant of trifles, coming into Windlecombe any time during -early summer, might note one common feature of the place, not remarkable -at other seasons. All the garden-gates were kept carefully closed; and -all houses abutting on the street had their doors either shut altogether, -or replaced by low boards or fence-bars. Even the gate of the -churchyard, open day and night at other times, was now closed as -heedfully as any; and, more curious still, the entrance to the inn, where -there were no children to come wandering out and none dare intrude, was -as cautiously barriered as the rest. - -Plainly these obstructions were not set up against absconding babies, for -the tiniest of them was invariably out-of-doors playing in the dust of -the street. And yet there was no other visible explanation of the -phenomenon. It was a puzzle of a mildly interesting kind, giving just -that gentle spur needed by the tired brain of a citizen holiday-maker, -escaped into villagedom for awhile, and lolling there, genially, yet -rather contemptuously, agape at the silence and sloth of country things. - -But if tide and weather served, any moment of the day might bring the -desired solution of the mystery. From afar over the hills, a deep low -clamour would begin to invade the songful village quiet. Then, on the -crest of the nearest hilltop, a column of white dust would suddenly spurt -up against the blue, and spread slowly downwards, marking the winding -course of the lane as with smoke from a travelling fire. Now by degrees -the tumult would grow louder and deeper, revealing itself at last as the -hoarse medley of voices from a flock of sheep; a flock so vast that, -while the first ewes were already charging into the village, the last -ones had not yet breasted the top of the hill. - -There would be no doubt now of the wisdom of the gate-shutting policy. -Any of these that by chance had remained open, would be hastily clapped -to; and all about him the stranger would see the children scramble into -corners, and mount upon doorsteps out of the way of the tornading host. -He himself, indeed, would be glad to take shelter in the nearest doorway, -where he could look on at a spectacle, stirring even to a nature dulled -by the din of a town. - -Now the hoarse note has swelled to a veritable hurricane of sound. The -whole village bids fair to be submerged and swept away by an avalanche of -wool. In the forefront marches a shepherd-boy, straw knapsack on back -and blue cotton umbrella under arm. Behind him the street is packed with -the jostling, vociferating crowd of sheep, a solid mass of woolly life -extending as far as eye can penetrate the cloud of dust. At intervals in -the throng walk the under shepherds, each with his dog, all—dogs and -men—adding their voices to the general uproar. And at the end of the -procession, when at length it has stormed its way past, comes the -master-shepherd, a figure shadowy, indistinct in the dust-laden air; -nothing certain about him but the glint of the sun on his crook, and his -easy, hearty replies to the shouted greetings of old acquaintance by the -way. - -Every day in June, while the tides last, and there is water enough in the -river for the work of sheep-washing, these great flocks pour through -Windlecombe, some of them coming from lonely farmsteads miles away over -the Downs. Today it was the Ambledown wash, one of the largest of the -year; and when the sheep had gone through, and the dust had cleared from -the sunshine, I set off myself, in oldest garb and thickest boots, to -join the string of onlookers drifting from all parts of the village -towards the washing-creek. But on these sheep-wash days, there is much -more to do than look on at one of the most fascinating and exhilarating -sights in all the round of farm work. A helping hand from every man used -to the task is alike expected and freely given as a point of honour at -these times. Each of us has his favourite wash, in which, as a matter of -old custom, he takes his share of the heat and burden of the day; and to -me, when Ambledown’s turn comes round, is given, now by old-established -and hard-won right, the long crook by the plunge. - -As life journeys on, we tend to make ever less and less of our rare -moments of swelling pride and self-satisfaction, or even to abrogate them -altogether. But on this one day of the year, when I exchange a less -noble tool for the long crook at Ambledown sheep-wash, and feel the cares -of my office gathering upon me, I go back nearer to the child’s pure joy -in a paper cocked-hat and tin epaulettes than at any other moment of my -life. If you have never stood wide-legged, like a ship-captain in a -gale, on a rickety hurdle six feet above a chaos of swirling, glittering -water, crowded with the bobbing heads of sheep, your charge being not -only to keep each ewe swimming down the wash to the tubmen, but to -sustain a constant watch on the weaklings and prevent them drowning—you -have never known responsibility’s true zest. Picture to yourself an old -chalk-quarry on the river’s brink, long disused and abandoned to every -form of wild life—a shy, green place overgrown with brier and bramble, -merged at all other times of the year in eternal quiet, but now the scene -of brisk activity, crowded with busy folk and innumerable sheep, and -echoing with voices and laughter. The washing-creek is a sort of bay of -the river, a long strip of water caged in by lofty fences, topped by a -platform of hurdles, whence the crookmen manœuvre the struggling, gasping -sheep in the water below. At one end of the creek is the plunge, where -the sheep are thrown in; midway down the wash two tubs are sunk to within -a foot of the water’s level, wherein stand the washers; and at the far -end appears a gradually rising slope up which the dripping, water-logged -ewes struggle inch by inch towards safety and the green feed awaiting -them beyond. - -It is nearing the top of the tide, but the work has not begun yet, nor -will it begin until the flock has rested and cooled from its long journey -over the Downs. As I come down the zigzag path into the chalk-quarry, -the place seems almost as shy and still as ever. There is the multitude -of sheep, a thousand or more, quietly nibbling in the great pen. The -shepherds, the washing-gang, the little crowd of onlookers, are lounging -on the green river-bank, chatting idly together as if there were no more -weighty business in hand than to enjoy the summer morning. The dogs are -mostly asleep on their chains. Only the old captain of the wash is -astir. He roves about, here tightening up a girth in his tackle, and -there straightening a crooked hurdle; and every minute or two he goes and -looks over the plunge, measuring the depth of water with his eye. At -last he gives the signal, every man goes to his post, and the silence of -the old quarry breaks as with the crash of a sudden storm. - -For it is nearly impossible to convey a real idea of the hubbub and -turmoil of the scene under any less decided simile. From the moment the -first sheep is thrown in, until the last terrified, bedraggled ewe -staggers up the slippery incline at the other end of the creek, there is -one long, unceasing babel of sound. Often a score of sheep are in the -water at the same time, each one rending the air with her piteous -calling. Those that have passed through the ordeal crowd together on the -bank above, still lifting to the skies their mingled note of indignation -and alarm; and those as yet dry in the great pen anticipate their -sufferings with a like deafening tumult. The yapping chorus of the dogs -punctuates the entire symphony; and every man engaged in the work joins -in a general running fire of comment and mutual encouragement, although -hardly any sound less forceful than the bellow of a bull can be heard -above the din. - -Not the least onerous and responsible part in a great sheep-wash is the -element of danger to the sheep—the risk of drowning always present when a -large number have to be put through the creek at a swinging pace. The -head shepherd, and often the flock-master himself, stands at the plunge -and keeps a vigilant eye on the whole proceedings. Yet, even with the -greatest care, sheep are sometimes drowned. It is a lucky day, for -washers and shepherds alike, if the flock gets back to the farm without a -single casualty. - - [Picture: “The Sheepwash”] - -But there is a humorous as well as a tragic side to sheep-washing. The -continual splashing of the water soon drenches all the approaches to the -creek, making them as slippery as ice. The platform of hurdles running -the whole length of the wash is a particularly hazardous place from which -to look on at the fun; and many a spectator, venturing too near, has -received an impromptu ducking. This is an accident to which the -throwers-in, as well as all the crook-men, are specially liable; and the -day is hardly complete unless some one has succeeded in dipping himself -as well as the sheep. The time-honoured joke then is to force him down -the creek with his woolly companions in misfortune, and send him under -the bar with all the rest. - - - -III - - -For days past now the rain has been steadily falling, hour after hour, -from dark to dark. Rain and wind together are always disconcerting, and -often melancholy in the last degree; but still, soft summer rain like -this, not heavy enough to obscure an outlook, yet sufficient to serve as -an excuse for stopping indoors, has all sorts of commendable qualities. -Much of the time, both in daylight and darkness, I have spent lolling out -of a little dormer-window high up in the roof of this old house, and I -have got to know many small things about life and work in Windlecombe -that I have never known before. - -It would seem that the cat and I are almost the only able-bodied -creatures, feathered, four-footed, or human, that are not out and about -in the rain, and I alone because the indoor mood happens to possess me. -If I shed that craze before the weeping weather is done, I may be -squelching about with the rest all day long in the sodden lanes; or -slithering joyfully over the green turf of the Downs miles away, barefoot -and bareheaded, absent-mindedly whistling the first halves of innumerable -tunes as I go. But of that in its season. The cat and I are of a mind -now. The comforts of a dry coat appeal to each of us for the moment -irresistibly; and we lean out over the window-sill no farther than will -afford me a view of the village doings, and her an eye-feast on the -martins chattering about the roof-eaves below. - - * * * * * - -I saw Farmer Coles go by in his gig to-day, and heard him call out to his -bailiff on the footway, ‘If ’tis fine, George, i’ th’ marnin’, get all -th’ tackle down to th’ Hoe-field, an’ make a start first thing.’ The -word brought my heart into my mouth. The Hoe-field is the field where -the first wild rose opened to the spell of the nightingale’s music; and -it meant that haying-time had come round at last. To-morrow there might -be a new sound in Windlecombe, the high ringing note of the -mowing-machines; and I knew then there would be no hour of daylight free -from it, until the last meadow lay shorn and desolate under the summer -sun. - -In modern village life, the lot of the sentimentalist is no easy one, -especially if he love his neighbour. Though he may secretly repine for -the old days, when the grass came down to the rhythmic song of the -scythe, and the corn to the tune of the sickle, he cannot blink the fact -that, in farm life, prosperity and machinery go hand-in-hand together. -The true, indeed the only, way for him now is to realise that not all the -beauty of country things belongs to old times, and not all the hard, ugly -utilitarianism of nowadays has come in with machinery. Honestly -considered, there is no mechanical farm-implement of to-day essentially -at variance with the spirit of beauty. A threshing-mill or a -reaper-and-binder owes its form and parts to the same designer that made -the sickle. The lines of a sailing-ship are unvaryingly lines of grace, -because they are dictated by wind and water. And the unchanging needs of -earth that made sickle, scythe, and ploughshare what they are, are as -unchanging and imperious as ever. - -It was hard to conceive the nightingale’s song without the loveliness of -the mowing-grass—the green dragon-flies cruising over its sea of blossom, -the shadows of the swallows’ wings upon it, and the grumbling bees like -pearl-divers at fault down in its emerald depths. But now, listening to -the songs of the birds in the village gardens round about, songs that -seemed all the more joyous for the grey light and the unceasing patter of -the rain, the truth fell cold upon me that the nightingale’s was no -longer among them. But a few days past, she was keening as sorrowfully -as ever. In the one glimpse of soused moonshine last night I had thought -to hear her plaint far down by the river; but I could not be sure of it, -and the sound had not returned. Maybe her song is done at last, and I -could wish it so, now that the grass is to fall. - -With a little neck-craning, I can contrive a view of the Reverend’s -garden, or as much of it as is discernible through the crowding trees. -On the smooth fair lawn I can see his white doves strutting, but they are -there alone to-day. Generally, when I look forth, there is the gaunt -black figure pacing to and fro, with these snow-white atoms fluttering -about its feet. At the end of the lawn an arm goes out, and the figure -pulls up at the first touch on the rose-covered trellis. There is the -bank of mignonette at the other end, and here he halts and turns, warned -by the music of the bees. But I have never been able to guess what -guides him unerringly between the rippled edges of the flower-beds; nor -why, when walking under the wall, hung from end to end with blue racemes -of wistaria, he goes no farther each way than the limit of the blossoms’ -reach. The gleaming white turrets of syringa, of acacia, of guelder -rose, these I know are just visible to him; and his doves lighten the -darkness a little about his feet. But there are whole stretches of the -garden given over to deep-hued things—rhododendrons and peonies, -canterbury-bells and flaming tiger-lilies; amidst these he must pass with -eyes as little aware of their passionate colour as I of the tiger-moth’s -scarlet when he burrs in my ear at night. Yet is glowing colour of a -truth a thing that reaches us through one sense alone? I have doubted it -ever since— - -An angry shout struck up to me just now from a side alley below the -green, where some of the poorest and prettiest of the cottages are -jumbled together. It is strange how far sounds carry on these still, -rainy mornings. The shout was followed by the shrill tones of a woman, -and the thud of something being hurled into the street. Presently, -through the alley-mouth, appeared a man with a basket on his back. He -came up the street through the rain, bent and lurching, his black beard -wagging with imprecations he was at no pains to subdue. It was Darkie, -the tramp, fern-seller, ne’er-do-well; a familiar figure in Windlecombe. -As usual, he was pretty far gone in liquor. He took the middle of the -way, addressing himself to all passers-by indiscriminately. - -‘Wimmin,’ he cried, in his fine deep voice with the violoncello quality -in it, ‘wimmin? ye may live ’til crack o’ Doom, sir, and then never larn -how to take ’em! “I’ll ha’ two!” sez she, only laast Saddaday, ma’am, -“an’ bring another brace, Darkie,” she sez, “when ye happens along -agen,”—all as nice as nice could be, sir. An’ now, soon as ’a sot eyes -o’ me, ’a hups wir futt, an’—’ - -He turned the corner of the house, and I heard no more. - -I wonder, now, how Darkie fares this weather in his Downland eyrie. It -has always been a mystery in Windlecombe as to where he passes his -nights. At all times, winter or summer, he is to be met with, tramping -up the lane towards the Downs; using the last light of day apparently in -putting himself as far as may be from the chance of a night’s lodging; -and, in the early mornings, you meet him trudging down again from the -heights, his basket full of odd hedgeside garnerings for sale in the -town. The mystery is a mystery to me no longer, although it was quite by -chance I lit upon him in his secret nook. - -Coming over the Downs one winter’s morning, I saw a thin blue spiral of -smoke rising from the very centre of a great patch of gorse on a -hill-side; and threading my way through the wilderness, bent on -elucidating this phenomenon, I came at length upon a queer little scene. -At the mouth of a sort of cave cut deep into the solid green heart of the -gorse thicket, burned a little fire of sticks; and over it hung a pot -that gave forth a savoury steam. Behind the fire lay Darkie on a snug -couch of hay and old sacking, fast asleep, with a pipe in his mouth. -Evidently he had dozed off in the midst of his preparations for a meal. -I took one swift look round his castle, noting various old tins, old -coats, and the like hanging over his head; several sugar-boxes filled -with odd lumber behind him; and a shepherd’s folding-bar—a deadly weapon, -twenty pounds or so of solid iron—lying conveniently to his hand; and -then I crept away, as silently as I had come. Not that I feared any -violence from him. In all the years we had been acquainted, I had never -known him harm a mouse. But many was the time I had turned him away from -my own door, unceremoniously enough; sometimes with hard words, once or -twice, indeed, with threatenings of his natural enemy, the constable. -And I feared now reprisals of a kind that would hurt almost as much as -the folding-bar heftily wielded—I feared to see Darkie stagger to his -feet and pull off to me one of my own long-discarded caps, hear him give -me generous and courtly words of welcome, and a kind look out of his -mastiff’s eyes, making me as free of his snug, green-roofed dwelling as I -had so often made him free of the street. - -Towards the hour of sunset I went up to the little attic window again, -and looked out over the drenched housetops for any sign of a break in the -weather. The rain had ceased, and the western sky had lightened -somewhat, taking on an indefinable warmth of hue. There was no sunshine, -nor any hope of sunshine; but there was a light abroad that picked out -all the browns and reds and yellows in the landscape, wondrously -intensifying them, while leaving all other hues as grey and cold as ever. - -Past eleven o’clock, and a cloudless night of stars, with the wood-larks -singing high over the village, and the cuckoos calling in the hills as -though it were broad day. Yes—the change has come: Farmer Coles is never -far out in his prognostications. It will be cutting weather to-morrow; -and to-morrow I must be up with the earliest of them, and away to the -Hoe-field. - - - -IV - - -Of summer evenings in Windlecombe, all through haying and harvest time, -you see men lounging about the village, one and all obsessed by the same -trance-like, serenely dilatory mood. All have pipes well alight, leaving -a trail of smoke behind them on the dusky golden air. All have hands -thrust deep in trouser-pockets, carry their unshaven chins high, are -tired as dogs, and look as somnolently happy as noontide owls. And of -all the days of the week, there are more of these placid optimists -abroad, and these characteristics are most to be noted in them, on the -evening of the last working day. - -To-night I went up and down the green—the most uncertain of a -deliberately irresolute company—half a dozen times, perhaps, before, by -common but unvoiced consent, we turned our lagging footsteps towards the -inn. All the while I was rejoicing in a possession, priceless indeed, -yet hard-won as might be—a heart and mind filled with the spirit of the -_Cottar’s Saturday Night_. You cannot get this chief of all country -pleasures in exchange for money. It is to be had in only one way, at the -cost of long laborious days in the fields; and every tired muscle, every -aching joint in my body, stood then as witness that I had done my best to -earn what I had of it, if it might be earned at all. The old oak -window-seat, in the parlour of the Three Thatchers, was as softly welcome -as the Chancellor’s woolsack: I would not have exchanged that mug of -home-brewed ale for a draught of ambrosia at the feet of the gods. - -The crimson sunset light streamed hot upon me, as I sat on the -window-ledge half among the parlour company, and half among those -congregated on the benches under the virginia creeper outside. Every -moment or two some other tired haymaker strolled up, and added his solid -breadth and his tobacco smoke to the throng. But we were not all -field-workers in the Three Thatchers to-night, nor had only the common -causes of tired limbs and sun-parched throats brought us together. Young -Daniel Dray was knitting his dark brows over some papers and -account-books at the trestle-table; and young Tom Clemmer sat close by, -thoughtfully swinging a cricket-bat pendulum-fashion between his -outstretched legs. A silence fell upon the company. - -‘Well,’ said Tom Clemmer at last, ‘I dunno. ’Tis ne’ersome-matter -awk’ard fer Windlecombe. Wi’ young Maast’ Coles hayin’, an’ Tim Searle -hayin’; an’ George Locker, an’ Tom an’ George Wright, an’ Bill here all -hayin’, how i’ fortun’ be us to make up a team?’ - -You could pick out the members of the cricket-club committee amidst the -crowd by reason of their grave, troubled faces; whereas all other faces -wore the easy contented smile of the village Saturday night. We had -weighty business to consider. The annual challenge had arrived from the -Stavisham club. They were a cocksure, overweening lot, the town-eleven; -and we had set our hearts on beating them at next Saturday’s match. But -there was the hay to carry, if the weather held. Many of our best -players would be in the fields. It looked as though the town were to add -Windlecombe again to their long list of village victories. Secretary -Dray gnawed savagely at the butt of his pen. - -‘I knows how ’twill be,’ he said. ‘Five men an’ a tail o’ boys—the ould -story! Tom here ’ull knock up his couple o’ score; and then ’twill be -hout, hout, hout, fer th’ rest o’ us i’ two hovers. An’ I can jest hear -they chalk-headed town chaps larfin’!’ - -It was a dismal picture. The fragrance went out of our tobacco, and no -man thought of his ale. The three canaries carolled so joyously in their -cages overhead, that I could have wrung their necks with all the pleasure -in life. Young Daniel stared straight into the eye of the setting sun -with the very face of disaster. - -‘But ’tis th’ bawlin’,’ he went on. ‘Ne’er a change o’ bawlers, there’ll -be; an’ me an’ George Havers caan’t go on fer ever. Na, na! ’tis all -over agen, I tell ye! The boys ull ha’ their fun, an’ Windlecombe -another smashin’!’ - -He swept the club papers into his pocket, and rose to fill a pipe. - -‘But mind ye!’ he added, looking grimly round on the company, ‘I’ll ha’ -that there flitter-mouse grocer-chap’s wicket this time, or I’ll be— Ah! -you see if I doan’t, if I ha’ to throw at his ’ed!’ - - * * * * * - -Long after night had fallen, and all the village was quiet under the dim -half-moon, I came out again upon the green, to wander and ruminate over -the week that had gone by. I bared my arm to the biceps, and even in -that disguising light I could see the sunburn dark upon it. Yawning and -stretching involuntarily, a delicious ache spread over me from top to -toe. The Seven Sisters loomed hard by, and I went and lay down at full -length on one of the seats, looking up through the black wilderness of -boughs at the flinching starshine, and watching the nightjars as they -wheeled and whirred above me through the scented dark. - -They are a merry company, the nightjars. Perhaps there is no other sound -in Nature that comes nearer to pure mirth and jollity than this rhythmic, -spinning-wheel chorus of theirs. Up there, where the dense pine foliage -made a sort of black coast to the dark blue ocean of the summer night, a -whole nation of them was astir. They did not utter their peculiar note -when on the wing; but every moment or two one of the concourse came to -rest on a branch with a sudden snap, and forthwith set his spinning-jenny -blithely going. - -There is another sound which you hear of summer evenings, often far into -the night, and which is nearly akin to that of the nightjar. I heard it -only a minute ago in one of the garden hedges as I came across the green. -But when the two songs occur together, there is no confusing them. They -are both continuous, mechanical sounds, and each is curiously varied in -tone, speed, and intensity. But while the nightjar’s music is a rich -full tremolo, uttered from some high point, generally the branch of a -tree, the grasshopper-warbler sings always close to earth. His note is -thinner, shriller, faster. If your fingers were as deft as his slender -throat, you could imitate the sound exactly by the rapid chinking -together of two threepenny-bits. - - - - -JULY - - -I - - -IN the spring of the year, July seems as far off as middle-age seems to -youth, and almost as undesirable. But when midsummer-day is past and -gone, whether in human life or the year’s progress, we look at things -with clearer, more widely ranging eyes. The man in his prime strength, -the season at the summit of its beauty—these are fairer things than the -childhood and the springtime that have gone to make them. For the -greater must be all the greater and more wonderful, because it contains -the wondrous less. - -Here is the first day of July come, and ever since sunrise I have been -straying about the field-paths and lanes, wending home, indeed, only when -the fierce noontide heat and a ravening hunger combined to drive me -thither. There was this fierce, tropic quality in the sunlight from the -very first. Though the gilt arrow on the church dial pointed barely to -four o’clock, the level sunbeams struck hot and bright on the face; and -the dew in the grass by the laneside was shrinking visibly with every -moment. In an hour the last water-bell was gone from the shadiest nook -in the wood. Only the teasels could defy the thirsty sun, and these kept -their water-traps over-brimming, as if fed from a magic source, far into -the heat of the day. - -There are many common things of the country-side—small facts to be -learned for the trouble of a glance—which are little known because the -glance is seldom given. As I passed along the hedge where the teasels -stood up straight as a row of church spires, the glitter of the water in -their leaf-cups caught my eye, and I stopped to look at them. I had -always thought of the teasels as natural drinking-places for the bees, -and other flying or creeping things; but now I saw that their use was -very different. Studying the plant carefully, the whole meaning of the -thing dawned on me at last. The teasel must be a flesh-eater, more -greedy and destructive than any spider in the land. In the cups a host -of creatures lay drowned; and upon the green, translucent leaves and -stems there crawled multitudes of others, all destined for the same fate. -There were in the water not only small insects, but bumble-bees, large -caterpillars and slugs, even broad-winged night-moths that had fallen to -the teasel’s snare. I saw also that the pools of water insulating every -stem served not as traps alone, but actually as digestive cells, wherein -the carcases of the teasel’s prey were gradually resolved into the slime -that lay at the bottom of each cup. Somehow, I conjectured, this must be -absorbed into the tissue of the plant; and cutting one of the stems -asunder, just where the water-holding leaves embraced it, I came upon -what seemed proof of this—a ring of apertures at the base of each -cup—sink holes, in fact—leading into the substance of the stem. - -The path wound up a hill-side over a field of tares, rippling away before -me through the sea of purple blossom until it ended abruptly against the -blue sky far above. And here another minute wonder brought me to a halt. -Though it was so early, the hive-bees were out and about in their -thousands. The great field was besieged by them. The air throbbed with -their music. A madness for honey-making seemed upon them all; and yet, -of all the busy thousands upon thousands set loose amidst what seemed -illimitable forage-ground, nowhere could I see a hive-bee upon a flower. -I went down on hands and knees for a closer view, believing at first that -my eyes were playing false with me. But there was no doubt about it. -Though on every side the great furry bumble-bees were seizing upon, and -dragging open the purple blooms of the tares, the hive-bees never touched -these, for all they were in so huge a heat and flurry of work. - -Now I knew that, while every other insect under heaven has its times of -relaxation, deeming moments given over to dancing in a sunbeam or basking -on a wall as moments not ill-spent, the honey-bee allows herself no such -wasteful delights. If she were here in this tare-field in her thousands, -and here she was, she came for no other purpose than a useful one. -Clearly, therefore, the hive-bees were getting nectar in abundance: yet -how, if they were not seeking it in the flowers? - -Another minute’s careful watch resolved the mystery. The tare-plant can -almost rank with the slug-devouring teasel as a curiosity of the -country-side. Knowing well that the hive-bee’s tongue is not long enough -to reach the sweets at the bottom of its flower-cup, the tare provides a -special feast outside. At the base of each leaf-and flower-stalk, just -where these join on to the main stem, will be found a little green flap -or fin. In the centre of this fin is a valve, from which exudes a thick -sweet liquid. If you are quicker than the bee, you may see the tiny -globule shining in the sun as you turn the plant up. But even as you -look, a bee fusses in between your fingers, drinks up the liquid in a -moment, and hums off to the next stalk. If we can extend no more -sympathy to the bee in her folly of never-ending labours than to a -lily-of-the-field at toil, we must at least concede something for her -fearlessness. A peep into her own looking-glass is not always all of -virtue’s reward. - -Over the field of purple tares, and on through the cornfields—wheat -waving high and green, with the scarlet poppies flushing midway down in -its murmuring depths. Who would have hawthorn and buttercups, the bridal -white and gold of spring, when he can have poppies by the million, and -roses, a wagon-load to be gathered from every hedgerow, if he will? -Where I stood, breast-high in the wheat-field, the poppies crowded thick -together among the green stems, making one unbroken sheet of colour that -I could hardly look upon in the full light of the summer sun. A little -way onward, and this blood-red flare was softened instantly: a dozen -yards away there was nothing but the rustling green of the wheat. Every -moment a lark rose out of the corn, singing, or dropped into it like a -stone silently out of the blue. The hedgerow on the far side of the -field shone with the roses, tremulous, uncertain, in the heated air. -Beyond, in the blue mist of woodlands, a blackbird chanted his joy of the -morning; and all round me in the distant ring of hills, there were -cuckoos chiming, each note clear but double, some of the songs perfect -still. - -From the wheat, the path led me presently into the oat-fields, green too, -but of a cooler, greyer tinge; and full of a stealthy motion and the -sound of wind, though scarce a breath was moving overhead. There is -something eerie, mysterious, about a field of oats on a hot summer’s -morning. It is as though the ears bent together and whispered to each -other, passing the word on unceasingly from plant to plant. Looking over -the plane of grey-green awns, stretching away under the still sunshine, -you see low wavelets rise and fall, furrows come and go; the light -changes; or, suddenly, the whole expanse grows mute and still. A gentle, -inconstant breeze would produce exactly this effect; but you see it when -not a leaf moves in the highest treetops, when even the aspens have -hushed their quivering music under the noontide glare. No doubt, in a -minor degree, all plants show this movement, whether it be caused by the -travelling heat of the sun, or be simply due to the varying impetus of -growth. In a great field of corn closely drilled, there are always the -separate individualities of the plants comprising it to be reckoned with. -That these exist in fact, as well as in fancy, is difficult to -demonstrate. But that each field has a communal spirit—often different -from, or wholly antagonistic to, that of its near neighbour—is evident. -For how else to explain why all the ears of corn in one field lean -eastward, and all the ears in the next field may incline normally to the -west? - -Coming homeward at last, surfeited of sunshine, eyes and ears outwearied -with the brilliance and the melody of the day, I stopped awhile in the -shadow of the church tower to consider an old familiar, yet perennially -interesting thing. Just as I, at fiercest noon, was returning to the -shelter of my own cool, ivy-mantled nest, the swifts that built in the -tower were lancing back to their homes in the gloom of the belfry. -Singly, in twos and threes together, every moment saw them arriving and -disappearing through the jalousies; but now none went forth again, though -they had been coming and going all the morning long. There they would -remain, I knew, quiet in the temperate dark of the old tower, until the -sun had got out of its furnace-like mood. And then they would be out and -about again, yet filled with a wholly different spirit. And towards -sunset they would be tearing round the sky in a madcap chevy-chase, -screaming like black imps let out of Inferno. - - - -II - - -Windlecombe Mead, where the village cricket matches have been played from -time immemorial, lies on the gently sloping ground between Arun river and -the hills. It was the day of the great annual match with Stavisham, and -most of the older villagers had congregated on the benches round the -scoring-tent, when, in the sweltering heat of early afternoon, I hurried -down to the field with pencil and book. The townsmen, it seemed, had won -the toss, and had elected to put the home-team in. Young Tom Clemmer and -young Daniel Dray were already at the wickets, taking middle. I looked -round at the glum, set faces of the spectators, and felt tragedy in the -air. - -‘Fower men an’ a parson,’ whispered the old cobbler to me behind his -hand, ’a ould rickety chap as caan’t run, an’ five bits o’ lads! Drat -that there hay! Heough! Now they’re aff!’ - -The umpire had called Play. The fast Stavisham bowler—we knew him of -old—retired into open country, wheeled, and bore down on the crease like -a bull at a gate. Young Daniel ducked, then turned up a face of -indignant scarlet. But the ball had gone by for two, and a chuckle of -relief spread through the crowd. The bowler prepared to try again. - -‘Dan’l’s got th’ sun in ’s eyes,’ said old Dray anxiously, as he watched. -‘’A never can bide that top wicket! Steady now, Dannie, an’ keep a -straight bat!’ - -He roared out the last words. And then, in a moment, we were all on our -feet in consternation. The ball had never left the bowler’s hand—that -much we were sure of. Daniel stood at his wicket safe and sound, but Tom -Clemmer was coming back to the tent, followed by a derisive chorus from -the whole field. - -‘Hout, Tom? Never hout!’ - -‘What i’ th’ wureld houted ye, lad?’ - -‘Hout! Never!—’tis a swindle, Tom!’ - -Amidst the eager exclamations of his friends, Tom Clemmer strode into the -tent, and began slowly to unbuckle his pads. All the time he stared -fixedly into space. - -‘I could ha’ hup wi’ my fist,’ he said, after a moment’s wrathful -silence, addressing no one in particular, ’an’ I could ha’ gi’en that -there grocer-chap sech a— But there! ’tis no sense yammerin’! Doan’t ye -run out, sir, or ’a ’ll ha’ ye, same as ’a had me!’ - -He spoke now to the curate, who was preparing to go to the wicket, and -the truth dawned upon us at last. The bowler had played Tom a very -ancient and very mean-spirited trick. Old Clemmer, regardless of the -agony it caused him, stamped his swaddled foot upon the ground. - -‘An’ to think, Tom!’ he groaned, ‘as ye lit up th’ forge-fire special for -’un only laast Sunday, ’cause his ould mare—’ - -But we had no thought for anything but the disaster that had befallen us, -and all that was now imminent. With Tom Clemmer, the one hope of -Windlecombe, out of the fight, what might happen to the rest? With bated -breath we watched for the third ball. Young Daniel drove it over the -bowler’s head, and with a trembling pencil I put down two to his name. -Playing with desperate care, he added two more before the end of the -over, and we began to pluck up heart again. Young Tom came and stood -behind me. His big thumb travelled down the list of names on the -scoring-book. - -‘’Tis not lost yet!’ he said with reviving cheerfulness. ‘Dan’l may do -well, wanst ’a gets set. An’ belike Mr. Weaverly ’ull bide out a bit. -Then there be Huggins wi’ his luck; an’ who knaws but what the boys ’ull -account fer a dozen or so atween ’em?’ - -I had now time, as the fielders were accommodating themselves to the -left-handed batting of the curate, to glance down the list. The last -name came upon me as an utter surprise. - -‘What? Never old Stallwood! Why, he must be seventy, if he’s a—’ - -‘Ay! Cap’n Stall’ard sure enow! ’Tis a joke, more ’n anything. But -ne’er another livin’ sowl there wur, as cud— Oh, Jupitty! Mr. -Weaverly’s hout leg-afore!’ - -But it was not Mr. Weaverly’s leg. With a white face, his body bent to -the shape of an inverted letter L, and both arms clasped about his -middle, the curate came tip-toeing back to the tent. He sat down -silently in a corner. Huggins—a lean, red-whiskered giant in -moleskins—burst out into the sunshine and made for the wicket, waving his -bat like a war-club and murmuring imprecations as he went. - -‘Now ’tis jest touch-an’-go,’ said young Tom in my ear. ‘If ’a hits ’em, -they’ll travel, you mark me! ’Twill be eether th’ river, th’ town, or -Windle Hill.’ - -Huggins stood at the wicket, legs wide apart, and bat held high over his -head. The bowling now was swift, stealthy, underhand. The ball sped -down the pitch, never leaving the grass for an inch. A crack rang out in -the dazzling July sunshine. Daniel Dray started to run, but the batsman -waved him back. Huggins stood watching the skied ball until it came to -ground in the next field. He laughed uproariously. - -‘What d’ye think o’ ee?’ - -It was another four, and that made eleven in all. Huggins swung up his -bat, and spread his great hob-nailed boots for a still mightier effort. -The ball hissed down the pitch. Huggins caught it as it hopped from a -tussock. Like a lark it soared up into the blue, and we heard a clear -musical plunk as it dropped into the river. A roar of delight burst from -the crowd. - -‘Lost ball!’ shouted Tom behind me. ‘Hooroar! Seventeen!’ - -Huggins spat upon his hands, took a reef in his leather belt, and lifted -his bat again. The little underhand bowler came crouching up to the -crease, and launched the new ball almost from his knees. Wide and wild -it flew this time. But there was a sound of crashing timber; Huggins’s -wicket scattered into space, stumps and bails whirling together half-way -up the pitch. He had hit the wrong thing. - -‘An’ now,’ wailed poor Tom Clemmer, ‘’tis as good as finished. Dan’l -wunt ha’ no chaance. Jest as well declare, an’ ha’ done wi’ it. Th’ -boys?—they’ll be all done in a hover, an’—’ - -‘Well, an’ what about th’ Cap’n, Tom?’ - -It was the voice of the Captain himself, and we all turned to look. He -was leaning comfortably against the tent pole, the very picture of an -old, superannuated forecastle-hand. He wore his usual vast faded blue -suit. A seaman’s cap with hard shiny peak gripped his bald head from the -rear. His red face swam in joviality and perspiration. Tom regarded him -with mingled respect and doubt. - -‘Ye caan’t run, Maast’ Stall’ard.’ - -‘Trew, Tom!’ - -‘An’ ye ha’ant touched a crickut bat fer thirty year.’ - -‘Trew agen,’ returned the Captain serenely. - -‘Ha, hum! well! a good plucked-un ye be, anyways. Now then, Dickie!’ - -The first small boy set forth over the sunny stretch of grass that lay -between the tent and the waiting team. Very small and insignificant he -looked in his school-corduroys, and leg-pads that reached well-nigh up to -his waist. His advent was greeted with ribaldry from all parts of the -field. We heard Daniel Dray admonishing the boy as he came smiling up to -the pitch. - -‘Now, Dickie, doan’t ye dare run ’til I shouts to ye, an’ then run as if -_He_ wur after ye. Hould your bat straight, ye young varmint! Now then, -look hout! There! what did I tell ye?’ - -Dickie’s wicket was down, and Dickie himself was running back to the tent -vastly relieved. - -‘Out wi’ ye, Georgie Huggins! An’ do as well as your faather!’ cried Tom -Clemmer encouragingly. ‘’Tis hover, an’ Dan’l’s got th’ play now. Oh, -Dan’l, Dan’l! if only ’twur you an’ me!’ - -But, playing with the ingenuity as well as the courage of despair, young -Daniel Dray now began to show his true mettle. Odd runs he refused, -taking only even numbers, so that each time the bowling fell to his lot -again. At the end of the over, he stole a desperate single with the same -object in view. He reached home safe enough, but Georgie was run out. -Boy Number Two had been disposed of at the cost of a gallant six. - -Following the same tactics, young Daniel eked out the remaining three -boys with still more crafty skill. When at length old Stallwood, the -last man, launched out into the sunlight to show the town what he -remembered of cricket, the score had risen to forty-nine, and our spirits -with it. We cheered him lustily as he went. - -‘Wan more,’ quoth Tom Clemmer, ‘jest wan, an’ I’ll light me pipe. There -be allers a chaance wi’ fifty. Lorsh! Look at th’ Cap’n!’ - -Three times on his way to the pitch he had stopped, turned, and waved his -cap in acknowledgment of the ovation given him. And now he was greeting -the Stavishamites each by name, and shaking hands with the wicket-keeper. -He got to the crease at last and grounded his bat. The next moment the -whole field had left their places and run for the tent, leaving the -Captain standing alone and amazed at his wicket. - -‘’A doan’t knaw ’a be hout,’ said Tom. ‘D’ ye onnerstand? ’A never -heerd th’ bawler shout, an’ never seed th’ ball acomin’. Belike ’a -thinks they be all gone fer a drink, to hearten ’em at the sight o’ sech -a crickutter!’ - -And being free for a time, I took upon myself the task of walking out to -the Captain, and breaking the news to him as gently as I could. - -It was now Windlecombe’s turn to take the field, and Tom Clemmer led out -his team with a good heart, in spite of its tail of juveniles. Daniel -Dray and the Rev. Mr. Weaverly were our first, indeed our only bowlers. -One of the first batsmen for Stavisham was Daniel’s ancient foe, the -grocer; and we watched the beginning of play with breathless interest, -for we knew Daniel would aim to kill. He grubbed savagely in the -sawdust, then sent the first ball hurtling down the pitch. - -The old men were still upon the benches outside, and in that quarter -sympathy with Windlecombe was as staunch as ever. But in the scoring -tent I sat amidst enemies now. The townsmen crowded behind me, a -humorously sarcastic crew. - -‘Fifty to beat? My ould Aunt Mary! D’ ye reckon we’ll do it, Bill?’ - -‘Dunno. ’Tis ser’ous fer Stavisham. Only eleven on us, there be. -Likely March wunt do ’t off his own bat—no, not ’arf!’ - -‘That there tinker-cove’s agoin’ to bowl fust. There ’ee goos! Wot a —’ - -The rest was drowned in a thunderclap of shouting. There was a general -stampede among the spectators. For the grocer had driven Daniel’s first -ball clean into the tent. - -It was a bad beginning for Windlecombe, and bad rapidly changed to worse. -Young Daniel bowled steadily and coolly for the first over, in spite of -continuous punishment; but thereafter he lost first his temper, and then -his head. The smiling grocer played him to all points of the compass; -and the more the grocer smiled, the more wildly erratic Daniel’s bowling -grew. As for the Rev. Mr. Weaverly, he could do no more than send meek, -ingenuous balls trundling diffidently up the pitch; and he was skied with -heartrending regularity. The batsmen kept continually running. The -little tent seemed to belly out on all sides with the cheering, as a sail -with wind. - -‘Thirty up!’ - -‘Thirty fer nauthin’!’ - -‘Thirty-one! And another’! Thirty-two! Garn, March! Wot a wazegoose! -Thirty—’ - -‘Five! ’Ooray!’ - -The shout went off in my ear like a punt gun. And then there fell a -sudden silence about me, as all strained eyes and ears out to the field. -Some altercation was going on, but not between members of the opposing -sides. ‘Drop ut, ye ould fule!’ I heard Tom Clemmer roar; and, peering -over the crowd, I saw Captain Stallwood, ball in hand, walking up to the -pitch. He rolled up his sleeves as he came. - -‘Drop ut, I tell ye!’ cried Tom once more, ‘’tis crickut we be playin’, -not maarbles, man! Gimme that ball, Stall’ard, or I’ll— Lorsh! what be -come to th’ ould—’ - -The rest was a confused wrangle amongst the whole team. Presently, to -our amazement, we saw all drift back to their posts, and old Stallwood -take his place triumphantly at the bowling-crease. In the dead quiet -that followed, I heard the grocer chuckle richly, as he got ready to -smite the Captain all over the field. - -The old man stood stock still on the crease, eyeing the batsman solemnly, -the ball held low down between his knees. So long he remained in this -posture, that at length impatient exclamations began to break out on all -sides. - -‘Well! now ye ha’ got un, Stall’ard, let ’n goo, mate!’ - -‘’Tain’t i’ church ye be, Cap’n. ’Tis crickut!’ - -‘Bawl up, gaffer! We warnts to get hoame afore daark!’ - -And from the grocer, leaning with exaggerated weariness on his bat: - -‘Doan’t ye be i’ no sorter hurry, ould bluebottle! But when y’ are -ready, just send us a postcard, will ye?’ - -The Captain’s hand went slowly up, the ball held curiously against his -wrist. He launched it with a sudden sidelong twist. As it rose high -into the air, I could see that it went wide and off, even from my -position in the tent. With a laugh the batsman strode out half a dozen -yards to meet it. A moment later he was gazing back aghast at his -splayed wicket. The Captain’s rich husky voice pealed out above the din: - -‘There be a poun’ o’ butter fer ’ee!’ - -And now we were the frantic spectators of a drama that gained in -thrilling interest with every moment. The new batsman arrived at the -wicket, and again old Stallwood sent the ball sailing down the pitch, -wide as ever, but this time to leg. I watched it more carefully now. -Though it made a high curve, it rose not a hair’s-breadth after touching -ground, but shot straight in. Again we saw the glint of a falling bail -behind the wicket. The Captain thrust both bare arms deep in his -trousers-flap, and silently grinned. The third man did little better. -He succeeded in blocking a couple of the balls; but the next, more -crooked than any, sent him dumbfounded back to the tent. - -There was no more ribaldry about me now. The fourth batsman sallied out -amidst a rustle of whispered apprehension and hard-drawn breaths, and -returned almost immediately to the same tense atmosphere. Outside on the -benches, the old men were rocking on their seats with delight, like trees -in a wind. Bleak, the cobbler, was careering up and down, beside himself -with joy. - -‘Fower in a hover!’ he shouted. ‘I reckons I knaws summat about leather, -but I ne’er seed it do the like o’ that! ’Tain’t bawlin’, I tell ye: -’tis magic!’ - -And now young Daniel Dray was bowling again, and bowling with renewed -courage and skill. All his old command of length and break had returned -to him. By the end of his over, another wicket had fallen, and the score -had risen no higher than forty-three. The Captain took the ball once -more, this time without any opposition. At once the fearsome whispering -in the tent grew still. Almost we forgot to breathe, as the great dark -hairy fist came slowly up into the sunlight. - -But the Captain had changed his tactics. Instead of the leisurely, -high-curving delivery with which he had done such execution hitherto, the -ball left his hand straight and low and as quick as light. It pitched no -more than an inch or two in front of the waiting bat, then struck -vertically upward. A crack resounded through the field. The batsman -staggered—clapped a hand to his head. A moment more and he was picking -an uneven course towards the tent, thoroughly satiated with the Captain’s -magic. - -Very slowly the next man set out for the pitch. He stopped on the way to -tighten a strap of his leg-guard, and again unconscionably long to adjust -his batting-glove. Once he turned back a tallowy face, and seemed to be -in two minds about something. But at length he got to the wicket and -grounded his bat. The long arm uprose again, and the ball sped. It -proved to be the last bowled that day. For once more that terrible -upward break ended with a thud and a yell, echoed from nine -panic-stricken men about me. The luckless batsman fled with as gory a -visage as his companion had done, and none would take his place, though -the grocer charmed and stormed never so wisely. Windlecombe had won by -six. - -Later by an hour the victorious eleven gathered in the parlour of the -Three Thatchers Inn, old Stallwood grimly smiling in their midst. Tom -Clemmer shook his fist at him, delight in his eyes. - -‘But ’twarn’t crickut, Stall’ard!’ he said reproachfully. - -‘Noa,’ returned the old man, ‘not crickut, leastways not all on’t. That -there sing-chin-summat or other—Red Hot Ball, I calls un—that wur a trick -as I larned in Chaney.’ - - - -III - - -How fast time flies you can never truly estimate until you go step and -step with it through the summer woods and fields. In a sense, -town-life—where there is so much of permanence in environment—puts a drag -on time, and not seldom pulls it up altogether. Moreover, in towns time -is estimated by events, by experiences. You hear a great musician, see a -great play, look on at some magnificent pageant, or are shocked by some -catastrophe; and straightway there is half a lifetime of emotion thrust -between two strokes of the clock. By so much in very truth your life has -been lengthened; for it is the intensity of living that counts in the -civic tale of years. If you find an old man not only declaring that he -has lived long, but believing it, it is a great chance but he tells you -so in the close-clipped cockney tongue of the town. - -And yet it is better to live in some far-away country nook like -Windlecombe, and be reminded with every gliding summer hour that time -flies and life is short, if only because of the undoubted fact that such -a frame of mind carries a belief in eternal youth as a necessary -implication. Between life’s dawn and the dusk of its western sky, there -is literally no time to grow old in a natural, aboriginal environment. -So inextricably interwoven are the threads of human existence and that of -the green world round about, that the annual rejuvenation of the one -infallibly communicates itself to the other. With every spring we start -life afresh. Though we may live to threescore years and ten, we are -children still; and come upon death at last like an unexpected gust at a -corner, old age unrealised to the very end. - -In the weeks that are closing now, I have heard and seen more of the -galloping hoofs of this swift, high-stepping jade, summer, than is good -for entire peace of mind. Years ago I made a vow that I would never -again eke out the fleeting golden days, like a miser to whom spending is -not pleasure but only pain. I vowed that I would always squander time at -this season; let it drift by unthinkingly; get my fill of sunshine, and -fill and fill again to my heart’s content; yet do it as a strayed heifer -in the corn, wantoning over an acre to each mouthful. But this time, as -ever, the good resolution has been forgotten. The old parsimony has -dogged the way at every step. I must be up with the sun in the small -hours of each morning, fearful of losing a single beam from the millions. -To waste in sleep the blue, spangled summer nights, when all the -country-side is resonant of life and fragrant with the scent that comes -only with the darkness, has seemed like sacrilege. Yet, for all my -industry, July is nearing its end, and I know that I have drunk but a -drop or two out of its vast ocean. And already I have renewed the old -vow, to be disregarded as ever, doubtless, when July again comes round. - -On all the high-lying corn lands now, harvest has begun; and the fields -in the valley are fast taking on that deep tinge of gipsy-gold which is -the sign of full maturity. Scarce had the shrill note of the -mowing-machine stilled in the meadows, when the deeper voice of the -reaper-and-binder began on the hill. All day long I sat in this cool -quiet nook of a study, and the steady jarring sound came over to me from -the hillside, filling the little room. I saw the machine with its pair -of grey horses, waiting at the field-gate, while the scythe-men cut a way -for it into the amber wall of the grain. Steadily hour after hour it -worked round the field, until at last, looking forth towards noon, I saw -that only a small triangular piece remained uncut in the middle of the -field. - -Now there were a score or so of the farm folk waiting hard by, each armed -with a cudgel; and with them seemingly every dog in the village. As the -machine went round, every time making the patch of standing corn smaller, -I could see rabbits bolting in all directions from the diminishing cover; -and there uprose continually a hubbub of voices from dogs and men. -Towards the end, the stubble became alive with the little dark scurrying -forms, fleeing to the surrounding fields, the most of them escaping -harmlessly for want of pursuers. But even then, as I afterwards learned, -some eight or nine dozen were killed. - -I have always kept away from these harvest battues, as indeed from all -scenes of sport and congregations of sportsmen. I am willing enough to -profit by these activities, and receive and enjoy my full share of the -furred and feathered spoil admittedly without one humanitarian qualm. -But this much confessed, I would gladly welcome the day when everywhere, -save in the rabbit warrens, the sound of the sporting gun should cease -throughout this southern land. Rabbits must be kept down to the end of -time; but, for the creatures that require preservation, too great a price -is paid, and paid by the wrong class. It is not the owner of -game-preserves who bears the main cost of his thunderous pleasuring. It -is the lover of wild life, who sees the hawks and owls and small deer of -the woodlands growing scarcer with every year; and the children who, in -the springtime, are cheated out of their right to wander through the -primrose glades. - -To many this may seem a wearisomely trite point of view, affecting a -grievance as old as the hills, and even less likely of obliteration. But -though the point of view is ancient enough, the grievance is no longer -so. Of late years the ranks of village dwellers have been very largely -reinforced from the classes who care little for sport and a great deal -for all other allurements of the country-side. Rural England is no -longer peopled by sportsmen and the dependents of sportsmen; but, slowly -and surely, a majority is creeping up in the villages, composed of men -and women both knowing and loving Nature, and to whom the old-time local -policy of endurance under deprivation of rights for expediency’s sake, is -an incomprehensible, as well as an intolerable thing. All the -vast-winged, beautiful marauders of the air that I love to watch, are -ruthlessly shot down by the gamekeepers on a suspicion presumptive and -unproved; but the fox that, in a single night, massacres every bird in -the villager’s hen-roost, must go scatheless because poor profit may not -be set before rich pastime. - -One day, almost the hottest so far, I was out in the meadows, and came -upon a curious thing. The path, or rather green lane, ran between high -hedges. On either hand there was a great field of flowering crops, the -one red clover, the other sainfoin. There must have been twenty or -thirty acres of each stretching away under the tense still air and light, -much of a colour, but the sainfoin of a softer, purer pink. Both fields -seemed alike attractive to the bees; but while, to the right, the -sainfoin gave out a mighty note of organ music, the red clover on my left -was utterly silent. Looking through a gap in the foliage, I could not -see there a single butterfly or bee. The truth, of course, was that the -nectar in the trumpet-petals of the clover was too far down for the -honey-bee to reach; nor would even the bumble-bees trouble about it, with -a whole province of sainfoin hard by, over-brimming with choicer, more -attainable sweets. - -As I wandered along, between these great zones of sound and silence, the -air seemed to grow hotter and more oppressive with every moment. There -was something uncanny in the stillness of all around me. The green -sprays in the tops of the highest elms lay against the blue sky sharp and -clear, as though enamelled upon it. Not a bird sang in the woodland. -Save for the deep throbbing melody from the sainfoin, all the world lay -dumb and stupefied under the noontide glare. And then, chancing to turn -and look southward, I saw the cause of it. A storm was coming up. Close -down on the horizon lay a bank of cloud like a solid billow of ink. It -was driving up at incredible speed. Though not a leaf or grass blade -stirred around me, the cloud seemed tossed and torn in a whirlwind’s -grip. Every moment it lifted higher towards the sun, changing its shape -incessantly, black fold upon fold rolling together, colliding, giving -place to others blacker still. And flying in advance of all this, borne -by a still swifter air-current, were long sombre streamers of cloud rent -into every conceivable shape of torn and tattered rags. - -And now, as the dense cloud-pack got up, the brilliant light was blotted -out at a stroke, and this startling thing happened. Every bee, -apparently, at work in the vast field of sainfoin, spread her wings at -the ominous signal, and raced for home. They swept over my head in -numbers that literally darkened the sky. Again, literally, the sound of -their going was like a continuous deep syren-note, striking point-blank -in the ear. For a minute at most it endured, and then died away almost -as suddenly as it came. A bleak ghostly light paled on everything around -me. Little cat’s paws of wind flung through the torpid air. Afar the -harsh voice of the oncoming tempest sounded. Slow hot gouts of water -began to fall, and every moment the inky pall of cloud lit up with an -internal fire. - -At first, as I made off homeward in the track of the vanished bee-army, I -tried to emulate their speed. But the torrent came surging and crying up -in my rear, and in a dozen yards I was waterlogged. Thereafter, going -leisurely, I came at last into the village, and so to the house. And -here, in spite of the deluge, I must stop and look on at more wonders. -It seemed almost impossible for any bird to sustain itself on wings under -such a cataract. But there above me the martins were at their old -incessant gambols, circling and darting about, hither and thither, high -and low, in a whirling madcap crew; and higher still, right in the throat -of the tempest, I could make out the swifts, hundreds strong, weaving -their old mazy pattern on the sky, as though in the pearl and opal dusk -of a summer’s evening. - - - - -THE TEA-GARDEN -AUGUST - - -I - - -OLD Runridge’s misadventure in wedlock has proved a trouble to more -people than one in Windlecombe. In former years, though boating parties -from the town were continually to be seen on the river, when the August -holiday season began, they seldom pulled up at our ferry stairs. From -the waterside the village had a somewhat inhospitable look, while a mile -farther on there were the North Woods, Stavisham’s traditional picnicking -ground, where, at the gamekeeper’s cottage, all were sure of a welcome. -Such wandering holiday-makers as found their way into Windlecombe came -usually by road, and were of the tranquil, undemonstrative breed, like -pedestrians all the world over. There would seem to be something about -sitting long hours in a rowing-boat which is detrimental, even debasing, -to a certain common variety of human nature. The tendency to run and -shout and skylark on reaching dry ground again appears to be irresistible -to this numerous class. And it is at Mrs. Runridge’s door that we must -lay the blame of submitting Windlecombe to a pestilent innovation. - -‘Look ye!’ said the old ferryman from his seat in the boat, waving a -scornful hand towards his garden, as I chanced along the river bank one -fine Saturday afternoon. ‘’Twur me as painted un, an’ me as putt un up, -jest fer peace’s sake; but I’d ha’ taken an’ chucked un in th’ river if -I’d only ha’ knowed what sort o’ peace ’ud come on ’t!’ - -A great white board reared itself on ungainly legs above the elder-hedge -of the garden, and on it, in huge irregular characters, appeared the -single word, ‘TEAS.’ By the side of the ferry-punt half a dozen town -rowing-boats lay moored. And from the green depths of the garden there -arose a confusion of voices, shrill laughter, and an incessant clatter of -crockery. I had hardly realised what it all meant, when Mrs. Runridge -showed a vast white apron and a hot perspiring face in the gateway. She -bore down upon us with upraised hand, as though she intended bodily harm -to one or both. - -‘Here, Joe!’ cried she, giving the old ferryman a coin. ‘Change fer half -a suvverrin, an’ shaarp ’s th’ wured! Try th’ Thatchers, or Mist. -Weaverly, or belike— Doan’t sit starin’ there, looney! Dear, oh Lor! -was there ever sech a man! An’ us all run purty nigh off our legses, we -be!’ - -‘Th’ seventh time,’ gasped Runridge, as we hurried together up the steep -street, ‘or like as not th’ eighth—I dunno! An’ ut bean’t as though ’a -warnted money. Money?—th’ bed bean’t fit fer Christian folk to sleep on, -wi’ th’ lumps in ’t! An’ to-morrer ull be wuss, if ’tis fine. Lor’ send -a hearthquake, or Noah’s flood, or summat!’ - -When a naturally silent man attempts self-commiseration in words, his -case is sure to be a desperate one. But we are all fated to share in his -trouble now. On any fine Saturday or Sunday in the month, Runridge will -be a familiar figure, hunting down from door to door the change that, in -villages, is so scanty and so hard to discover. On Mondays we shall all -suffer from our foolish kindness in allowing this reckless exportation of -bullion. Only Susan Angel at the sweetstuff shop, and her small -customers, will be unincommoded; for the handful of battered farthings -that has served them as currency during whole decades past will be -necessarily saved by its insignificance, and will remain, no doubt, in -the village for service amidst generations yet unborn. - -But disturbing visitors to Windlecombe do not all come by the river. -There is an iniquitous job-master in Stavisham who has long had the -village in his evil eye; and at intervals, fortunately rare, he descends -upon us with charabancs drawn by three horses, and filled with -heterogeneous human gleanings—the flotsam and jetsam of holiday-land -strayed for the day into Stavisham from contiguous seaside towns. - -They come in families, in amorous couples, in collective friendships of -each sex and every number and age. They bring baskets of provisions, -cameras, balls wherewith to play rounders on the green; and of musical -instruments many weird kinds—concertinas, mouth-organs, babies, and often -yapping terriers that set all our own dogs frantic on their chains. An -altruist, whose convictions have grown up amidst the quiet slow -neighbourliness of the country, never finds his principles less easy of -application than when he must atune himself to the holiday moods of -people escaped from the town. There is no harm in all the shouting and -laughter and fatuous horseplay. Inebriety is practically extinct among -those who make summer the season, and the country the scene, of their -year’s brief merry-making. And yet it all seems mistaken, reprehensible, -on the same principle that a blunder is worse than a crime. It is futile -to tell him so, unless he already knows it, and then it is equally -unnecessary; but when the day-tripper learns to enjoy himself on the -green country-side in the true spirit for which the sun was made to shine -and the flowers to grow, he will have found the Philosopher’s Stone that -is to change, not mere lead and iron, but Time and Life themselves into -gold. - -On most mornings in August the more careful of us will go about thrusting -greasy paper-scraps out of sight under bushes, flicking the incongruous -yellow of banana-peel into obscure corners, lamenting stripped boughs, -and marvelling at nosegays thrown heedlessly away, as if the joy of them -had lain in the mere plucking. But all the strange folk that use the -village for their pleasuring at this time, do not leave these unlovely -tokens behind them. Only yesterday, as I sat on the edge of the old -worked-out, riverside chalk-pit here—whence you have a view north and -south of the glittering water for miles—there came a new sound in the -air, and I must throw aside my sheaf of galley-proofs to listen. The -sound came from the river, and was still afar off. Many voices were -joined in singing one of the old catch-songs, which go round a circle of -three or four phrases, and to which there is never an end until you make -an end of its beginning in slow time. - -The sweet medley grew louder and clearer, and presently there was united -to it the rhythmic plash of oars. A great tarry old sea-boat came round -the water’s bend, holding a party of a dozen or so. At last the -labouring craft and the music came to a halt together, and the singers -clambered ashore. I should have forgotten all about them now, for they -soon passed out of sight amid the waterside foliage. But as I was coming -homeward up the village street, I heard the voices again; and there, -under the Seven Sisters on the green, the little company were standing -together, singing apparently for their own solace and delight. It was a -strange thing, here in unemotional England, and many of the village folk -had been drawn wonderingly to their doors. Yet the singers did not seem -to remark this, nor to regard their action as anything out of the common. -For, the song finished, they broke into several parties and sauntered on, -talking quietly amongst themselves as if to make music were part of the -daily conversation of their lives. - -All that afternoon, from the quiet of my garden, I heard the voices at -intervals, and from different points about the village, near and far. -Once I saw the party right on the top of Windle Hill, strolling about in -twos and threes, looking like foraging crows on the heights. After a -while I saw them get together in a little circle; and then, right at the -ear’s-tip, I could just catch the higher notes of their singing—a strange -wild song, much like the song of the larks that must be contending with -them up there against the blue sky. - -The last I saw of this mysterious company was at sunset, from my perch -over the chalk-pit again. They had already embarked when I arrived, and -had got their little ship well under way. The oars were dipping steadily -to the same old catch-song that had brought them hither: there was still -a faint throbbing echo of ‘White Sand and Grey Sand’ upon the air long -after the sun had plunged, and the pale half-moon was beginning to enter -a timid silver protest against the lingering crimson in the sky. - - - -II - - -Near upon half a century I have lived in the world, and cannot yet say of -the wind whether I hate it or love it most. - -It is a dilemma that comes only to the dweller in the country, for in a -town no sane man can be in two minds on the matter. With a careering, -mephitic dust choking up all organs of perception, and the risk of being -cloven to the chine by a roof slate or lassoed by a loose electric wire, -no one can think of wind, hot or cold, without heartily wishing it gone. -But in the country, though for my old enemy, the northeast wind, I have -nothing but fear and detestation at all seasons, warm gales, whether in -winter or summer, come as often in friendly as in inimical guise. Like -certain of the Hindu gods, the wind must be content to be treated -according to the outcome of its activities, and receive laudation or -revilement as this prove fair or foul. - -All through to-day the south-west wind has been volleying up the combe, -and everywhere in the village there has been a hubbub of slamming doors -and rattling casements, and the flack and clutter of linen drying on the -garden lines. People fought their way step by step down the hill against -the wind, and tripped lightly up it, the oldest and feeblest forced into -a smart jog-trot. Aprons were blown over faces, and hats snatched off at -corners. The trees overshadowing the village have been lashing together, -and roaring out a deep continuous song. The three thatchers on the inn -sign, each with a gilded hod of straw, have been flashing signals up to -my window every time the sun broke through the flying storm-wrack; and a -hundred times in the long day some riding witch of a rain-cloud has tried -to drench us, but each time the south-west gale has seized it by the -tattered skirts and chevied it away over the hills before it could shed a -dozen drops. - -But it has been a good wind all through, and fine heartening weather; and -I have been glad to be abroad in it whenever I could spare or steal an -hour. Said the old vicar, as we climbed up Windle Hill together this -morning, his long white beard flowing out before him as he lay back on -the blast: - -‘I know what you would have done, if I had let you choose the way. You -would have struck deep into the woods, like the butterflies, and missed -all the healthy buffeting of it. But there is only one place for a man -to-day, and that is on the open Down. It never pays in the long-run in -life to study how to keep out of the way of hard knocks.’ - -The sunshine raced ahead of us, vaulted the hilltop, and was gone. A -scatter of warm rain drove out of the grey heaven. I turned up my -coat-collar just in time to intercept the returning sun. - -‘True,’ said I, ‘but the good of hard knocks depends not on their -frequency, but on the profit you extract from them. I get and keep -designedly as much of this as I can, so a little goes a long way with me. -And I love the quiet and stillness of the deep wood, when the wind is -roaring out in the open. If we had gone there to-day, we should have -found the rosebay willowherbs in full bloom, and more butterflies upon -them than you could find in a week elsewhere. Besides, the ups in life -are just as good for one as the downs. I can admire the old Scotch pine -that clings to the bare hill-top through a century of winter storms, but -I must not be inconsiderate of the lilies.’ - -The old Windlecombe vicar has a way of dealing with notions of this kind -which is good for his hearer, whether he allow himself convinced, or -consider his dignity affronted. He ventilates such ideas as he would let -light into a room, by dashing a rough hand through the dust-grimed -window. It is a method unpicturesque and often brutal, but effective and -salutary in the main. I owe him gratefully many a pretty rainbow bubble -of conceit exploded. - -‘Pluck your head out of the sand,’ quoth he, ‘for your ragged -hinder-parts are visible to all the world of honest eyes. The pine and -the lily are not choosing creatures. To them is their environment -allotted, but to you is given the wilful fashioning of it. A man may be -either gold or iron—made either for beauty or for use. But the one will -not decorate, nor the other uphold the world, if he shirk the fires that -must first refine or temper him. So away with your foolish Sahara -tricks, and get on with the work the moment brings you.’ - -By this he meant I was to look about me, and tell him what I saw as we -went along, a duty in which I was too often an unintentional malingerer. - -‘Yesterday a Londoner was in the village,’ I told him, for a start, ‘and -he was scoffing at our Downs. “Where,” said he, “are the green highlands -of Sussex I have read so much about? Why, the hills are not green, but -brown!” And it was quite true at this season, and from his standpoint -down in the valley. Up here we can see what gives the Downs their rich -bronze colour in summer-time. From below they looked parched and -sunburnt, as though nothing could grow for the heat and drought. But now -I can see that the general brown tone is really a mingling of a thousand -living hues. Looking straight down as you walk, the turf is as green as -ever it was; but a dozen paces onward all this fresh verdure is lost -under the greys and drabs of the seeding grass-heads. Then again, the -brown colour is due just as much to the blending of all other colours -that the eye separates at a close view, but confuses from afar. We are -walking on a carpet of flowers; we cannot avoid trampling them, if we are -to set foot to the ground at all. Yellow goatsbeard and vetchling, and -the little trefoil with the blood-red tips to its petals, and golden -hawkweed everywhere; for blues, there are millions of plantains, and -sheepsbit, and harebells; and the wild thyme purples half the hillside, -making the bright carmine of the orchids brighter still wherever it -blows. But I have not reckoned in half the flowers that—’ - -‘Hold, enough! I am sick of your Londoner, and of every human being for -the moment. Listen to the free, glorious wind! Down in the valley there -we always think of the wind as a creature with a voice—something striding -through the sky and calling as it goes. But up here we know that it is -the earth that calls. Hark to it swishing, and surging, and sighing for -miles round! The sound is never overhead on these treeless wastes, but -always underfoot. You keep head and shoulders up in the soundless -sunshine, and walk in a maelstrom. Did you ever think that the larks -always sing in the midst of silence, no matter how hard the wind blows? -Those are George Artlett’s sheep we are coming to, are they not? I ought -to know the old dog’s talk!’ - -I scanned the hills about me, but could see no sign of sheep, shepherd, -or dog. But as we drew to the edge of the wide plateau we were -traversing, and got a view down into the steep combe beyond, there sure -enough were all three. The sheep, just growing artistically presentable -after their June shearing, were scattered over the deep bottom, quietly -nibbling at the turf. Far below, in the shadow of a single stunted -hawthorn, sat young George Artlett scribbling on his knee. No doubt -Rowster had been lying by his master’s side, until our shadows struck -sheer down upon him from the brink of the hill. But now he was up and -pricking his ears sharply in our direction, growling menaces and wagging -a welcome at one and the same time. I gave the Reverend what I saw in -few words. To my surprise he began to descend the steep hill-side. - - [Picture: “Southdown Ewes”] - -‘After all,’ said he, ‘George Artlett and I never really fell out. But -we agreed to differ, and that is the most fatal, most lasting -disagreement of all. I should have known better. I think I will risk a -hand to him again.’ - -As we clambered down the precipitous slope, into the shelter of the -combe, the wind suddenly stopped its music in our ears. There fell a -dead calm about us. At the bottom, we seemed to be walking between two -widely separated, yet almost perpendicular cliffs of green, with a great -span of blue sky far above, across which the heavy cumuli raged -unceasingly. George Artlett got to his feet at our approach, thrust his -paper into his pocket, and gravely clawed off his old tarpaulin hat. He -took the hand held out to him with wonder, and a little hesitation. - -‘And how fares the good work, George?’ - -Artlett was silent a moment. He tried to read the sightless eyes. - -‘Shepherdin’, sir? ’Tis allers slow goin’, but goin’ all th’ time. We -did famous with th’ wool, an’—’ - -‘George, leave the wool alone. You know what I mean.’ - -George Artlett swung round on his heel, and swung back again. He counted -the fingers on his gnarled hand slowly one by one. - -‘Be ut priest to lost runagate, or be ut man to man?’ he asked, looking -up suddenly. - -‘It is just one child in the dark way putting forth hand to another. -For, to the best of us, George, comradeship can be no more than a -heartening touch and sound of a footstep going a common road, and the -voice of a friend. Do you see a light at the end of your path?’ - -‘Ay! I do that!’ - -‘Look closer. Is not the light just the shine of a Beautiful Face, very -grave and sorrowful, but with a great joy beginning to spread over it, -and—’ - -Though the deep voice stemmed on in the sunny quiet of the combe, I could -distinguish the words no longer; for something, that was by no means part -of me but of a more delicate nurture, had set my feet going against my -will. I was halfway down the long alley of the combe before I stopped to -wait for the old vicar. And then, looking backward, I fell to staring -with all my eyes. - -‘Reverend,’ said I, after he had rejoined me, and we had walked on -together in silence for a minute or two, ‘I wish you could see what is -before me now.’ - -I had brought him out of his reverie with a jerk. ‘Well: on with it!’ - -‘I see a green sunlit space, with the shadow of an old hawthorn upon it. -And in the shadow I see two men kneeling, bareheaded, their faces turned -up to the sky. And with all my heart I wish there were a third with -them; but there is not another fit for such company, to my certain -knowledge, within ten thousand miles.’ - -He seemed to weigh his reply before he uttered it. But:— - -‘You’re a good fool,’ said he, ‘and I love you. And there were three -there, nay! a Fourth,—all the time.’ - - - -III - - -In winter-time, ‘when nights are dark and ways be foul,’ I can conceive -of no pleasanter aspect of village life at any season than the indoor, -fireside one; but when the long radiant August evenings are here, there -is equally no other time for me. More and more, with every year that -glides by, life in Windlecombe at this season seems to focus itself round -the Seven Sisters’ trees upon the green. All the summer day through, the -old folk gather there; and always a low murmur of voices comes drifting -up to my window from their garrulous company. But it is after the day’s -work is done, and all, able or disable, are free for recreation, that the -true life of the place begins. - -There is something about the ease-taking of men physically tired after a -long day’s work in fresh air and sunshine, that fascinates one who is -only mind-weary, and that alone from much chaffering with pen and ink. -Though you have but cramped limbs to stretch out over the green sward, -and, by comparison, but a torpid, attenuated flow in your veins, somewhat -of your neighbour’s healthful, dog-tired humour over-brims upon you; and -after a pipe or two, and an hour’s slow desultory chat, you can almost -forget the tang of the study, the reek of old leather burdening -imprisoned air, and congratulate yourself on a man’s work manfully done, -albeit vicariously—the day-long tussle with the good earth, mammoth -‘nunches’ and ‘eleveners’ devoured under hedgerows, a shirt a score of -times soused with honest sweat, and as many dried by the thirsty harvest -sun. - -All the old Windlecombe faces were there to-night under the drooping pine -boughs, and most of the middle-aged ones. The younger men and boys were -down on the Mead at cricket practice, and there they would stay as long -as a glimmer of daylight remained in the sky. But the sun had still a -fathom to go before it would lie, red and lusty, caught in the toils of -the far-off Stavisham hills. I evaded with what grace I could the cake -of ship’s tobacco held out to me by Captain Stallwood, accepting as fair -compromise a charge from the tin box of old Tom Clemmer, his dearest -friend. Gradually the talk got back to the point where my coming had -intersected it. - -‘’Tis trew,’ said the Captain now, ‘trew as I sets here on a plank o’ th’ -ould _King_, as ye cut an’ shaped yersel’, Dan’l.’ - -I followed his glance round the circle of benches. There was not a head -among the company but was wagging dubiously. Old Daniel Dray’s face was -an incredulous, a horrified blank. - -‘What!’ said he, ‘a human critter swaller seventeen live—’ - -‘I seed it,’ interrupted the Captain, pointing his pipe-stem solemnly at -us for emphasis, ‘I seed it wi’ my own pair o’ eyes. Little lirrupy -green chaps, they was, all hoppin’ an’ somersettin’ i’ th’ baasket. An’ -th’ blackamoor, ’a putts ’a’s mouth to th’ lip o’ it, an’ “hap! hap!” sez -he, an’ every time ’a sez it, wan o’ ’em jumps in. An’ when they was all -down, ’a gies a sort o’ gruggle, an’ skews ’a’s head ower th’ baasket, -an’ “hap! hap!” sez he agen, an’ every time ’a sez it, out pops— But -there! ’tis no sense tellin’ ye! Folks sees naun o’ th’ wureld i’ little -small village places, an’ an’t got no believes.’ - -He was silent a while, then brought out a tobacco-box like a brass -halfpenny bun, and held it up to the common view. It was old and -battered, and had certain initials scratched on the lid. The Captain -fingered it in mournful reminiscence. - -‘Lookee now,’ he said, ‘I doan’t rightly know as I ever telled ye. -“G.B.” That bean’t Tom Stall’ard, be ut? Ah! No, sez all on ye, ready -enow. ’Twur George’s, ould George Budgen as— Dan’l, what year war’t as -I went aff to sea?’ - -Daniel Dray’s lips moved in silent calculation. - -‘Seventy-three belike, or maybe seventy-four, ’cause ye’d been gone, Joe, -a year afore Harker’s coo slipped the five-legged heifer, an’ that wur—’ - -‘Ay! trew, Dan’l. An’ George Budgen, ’a wur shipmate along o’ me purty -soon arter I gooed away. Well: an’ this here baccy-box—th’ least time as -I seed ut i’ George’s haand, ’a took a fill out av ut, jest afore ’a went -on watch. An’ ut come on to blaw that night—Gorm! how ’t did blaw! An’ -_rain_, not aarf! An’ i’ th’ marnin’ never a sign o’ pore George Budgen -to be seen! Well now, full a fortnit arter that, what ’ud we do but -ketch a gurt thresher on a trail-line, an’ inside o’ th’ crittur what ’ud -we find but a halibut, big as a tay-tray, all alive an’ lippin’, ’a wur. -Sez th’ cappen—I wur ship’s-boy then—“Joe,” sez he, “git an’ clane un, -an’ I’ll ha’ un fer me supper,” ’a sez. Now then, Dan’l, ye’ll never -believe ut, but trew as ye sets there, clink goes my knife agen summut -inside o’ th’ halibut, an’—’ - -‘Goo on, Stallard!’ - -‘He, he! We all knaws what be acomin’, cap’n!’ - -‘An’ there wur—ah! but ye’ll ne’er believe ut, not if ye was Jonah -hisself—there, inside o’ th’ halibut wur a gurt rusty hook as— What-say, -Dan’l?’ - -‘Doan’t ’ee say ut agen, Dan’l! You a reg’lar prayers-gooer, too!’ - -The Captain filled his pipe from the box, tragically ruminating in the -silence that followed. - -‘Ah! pore George Budgen! ’A little knowed as ’twould be th’ laast time -as ’a ’d pass his tobaccer-box to a friend!’ - -The sun had long set, and the dusk was creeping up apace. Here and there -in the shadowy length of the street, lights were beginning to break out. - -Where we sat under the dense canopy of pine-boughs, night had already -asserted itself, and to one another we were little more than an arc of -glowing pipe-bowls. Old Stallwood chuckled richly from his corner. A -sort of inspiration of mendacity seemed to have come over him to-night. - -‘But Lor’ bless ye!’ he went on, ‘that bean’t nauthin’!—not when ye’ve -been five-an’-thirty year at sea. I knowed a man wanst as worked in a -steam sawmill way over in Amurricky somewheres; an’ what did ’a do wan -fine marnin’ but get hisself sawed i’ two pieces; an’ wan piece died—th’ -doctor cud do nought to save ut. But t’other piece kep’ alive for ten -year arterwards—ah! an’ did a man’s work every day!’ - -Old Daniel bounced to his feet. He breathed hard for a full half-minute. - -‘Joe Stall’ard!’ he said at last, severely, ‘shame on ye fer a reg’lar, -hout-an’-hout, ould leear! A man cut in two? An’ lived ten year -arter—leastways th’ wan part o’ him? Fer shame, Joe! ’Tis traipsin’ -about i’ all they heathen countries, I reckons, as has spiled ye! Ah, -well, well-a-day! There they be, lightin’ up at th’ Thatchers! Coom -along, Tom Clemmer!’ - -Three squares of red shone out amidst the twinkling dust of the street, -denoting the curtained windows of the inn. It was the signal for which -all had been waiting, and a general stir took place in the assembly. At -length none remained about me but the old seaman. He had said nothing -while the dismemberment of the group was in progress, but had sat shaking -in silent merriment. Now he, too, got slowly to his feet. - -‘’Tis wunnerful,’ he observed, moving away, ‘real onaccountable, th’ -little simple things as some folks wunt b’lieve. There be a thing now, -as—’ - -But this story of partitioned, yet still living humanity, even though it -came from America, was too much also for me; and I told him so. He -stopped in his easy saunter towards the inn. - -‘’Tis trew!’ he averred as stoutly as ever. His rich, oily chuckle came -over to me through the darkness. ‘Mind ye! I didn’t say as th’ man wur -sawed into two ekal parts: ’twur but th’ thumb av him as wur taken off. -Belike I’ll jest step acrost to th’ Thatchers now, an’ tell that to -Dan’l.’ - - - - -SEPTEMBER - - -I - - -AUGUST holiday-makers in Windlecombe are mainly of the normal, obvious -kind, the people for whom guide-books and picture postcards are produced, -and by whom the job-masters and the boat proprietors gain a livelihood. -But September brings to the village a wandering crew of an altogether -different complexion. There is something about the temperate sunshine -and general slowing up and sweetening of life during this month, that -draws from their hiding-nooks in the city suburbs a class of man and -woman for whom I have long entertained the profoundest respect. With -every year, as soon as September comes round, I find myself looking out -for these stray, for the most part solitary, folk, and, in quite a -humble, unpretentious spirit, taking them beneath my avuncular wing. - -That they seek the quiet of an inland village in September, and not the -feverish, belated distractions of the seaside town, is an initial point -in their favour. But almost invariably they bring with them a much more -subtle recommendation. They are down for a holiday, but they have come -entirely without premeditation. Suddenly yielding to a sort of migratory -impulse, they have locked up dusty chambers, or left small shops to the -care of wives, or begged a few precious days from niggardly employers; -and come away on a spate of emotional longing for country quiet and -greenery, irresistible this time, though generally the impulse has been -felt and resisted every autumn for twenty years back. Indeed, there must -be some specially fatal quality about this period of time, for I -constantly hear the same story—no holiday taken for twenty years. - -At noon to-day, after a long tramp through the fields, I came up the -village street, and paused irresolutely outside the Three Thatchers Inn. -The morning had been hot, and the walk tiring; moreover, it was the first -of September, and the guns had been popping distressfully in all the -coverts by the way. I knew that before sundown a brace or two of -partridges would be certain to find their road to my door; but this did -not prove, and never has proved, compensation for the flurry and -disturbance carried by the noise of the guns into all my favourite -conning-places, or arenas for quiet thought. The whole world of wild -life was in a panic, and I with it. - -The red-ochred doorstep of the inn glowed in the sunshine at my feet, and -from the cool darkness beyond came a chink of glasses and murmur of many -tongues. It all seemed eminently consolatory for the moment’s mood. -Within there, no one would fire a gun off at my ear, nor stalk past me -with a shoulder-load of limp, sanguinary spoil, nor warn me out of my -favourite coppices with a finger to the lip, as though a nation of babies -slumbered within. I was a lost man even before I began to hesitate. I -stood my stout furze walking-stick in the porch beside a drover’s staff, -a shepherd’s crook, and three or four undenominational cudgels; and -plunged down the two steps into the bar. - -Now, before my eyes had accustomed themselves to the subdued light, and I -could see what company was about me, I had become aware of a strange -odour in the air. It was the scent of a tobacco, happily unknown in -Windlecombe: neither wholly Latakia nor Turkish, not honeydew alone nor -red Virginia, cavendish nor returns, but a curious internecine blend of -all these. I knew it at once to be something for which I have a -constitutional loathing—one of the new town mixtures, wherein are -confused and mutually stultified all the good smoking-weeds in the world. - -Looking more narrowly about me, after the usual greetings, I discovered a -vast and elaborate meerschaum pipe in the corner, and behind it a little -diffident smiling man. But this could not entirely account for the -overpowering exotic reek in the room. I missed the familiar smell of our -own good Windlecombe shag, although there were half a dozen other pipes -in full blast round me. And then I realised the situation. The stranger -had seduced all the company to his pestilent combination; and now, as I -lowered at him through the haze, he was holding out his pouch even to me, -who would not have touched his garbage if it had been the last pipe-fill -left on earth. But he took my curt, almost surly refusal as if it were -an intended kindness. - -‘Ah! you do not smoke? Well: it does seem a kind of insult to the pure -country air. But in towns, you know, what with the din and the dust, and -the strain on one’s nerves, everybody— And of course I must not quarrel -with my bread-and-butter!’ - -I produced my own pipe and pouch, and filled brutally under his very -nose. Serenely he watched the operation, and without a trace of offence. - -‘I am in the trade, as I was telling these gentlemen here when you came -in. Do you know the Walworth Road, in London? My shop is just behind -the Elephant, and any day you are passing, I— But wasn’t I glad to get -away, if only for the few hours! And I do assure you, sir, I haven’t -been out of London for nearly—nearly—’ - -‘Twenty years, I suppose?’ - -He looked at me in placid surprise. - -‘Lor’, how did you know that now? But it is quite true. Being -single-handed, you see, it isn’t easy to— But I was glad, I tell you! -And I had never seen a real country village in my life, until I got out -of the train at Stavisham and walked on here. Isn’t it quiet! And how -funny it seems—no asphalt-paving, and no wires running all ways over the -house-tops, and the singing-birds all loose in the trees! And flowers! -I suppose there is a law to prevent people picking ’em: there were no end -along by the road I came.’ - -Somehow my heart warmed to this inconsiderable by-product of civilisation -that had strayed amongst us; and presently, as much to my own surprise as -his, I found myself loitering down the hill again, with him at my elbow, -having promised to show him that there were other flowers in the country -beside the dust-throttled daisies and dandelions of the roadside. - -We took the path that runs between the river and the wood. He soon let -his pipe go out, for he moved in open-mouthed wonder all the way, which -rendered smoking impracticable. At last we came to a bend in the river, -where the bank sloped gently down to the water-side covered with all the -rich-hued September growths, and we sat down to rest. I did not plague -him with the names of things, nor with any talk at all; but lay, for the -most part silently, watching the effect of the place upon him, as one -might study the demeanour of a dormouse let loose amidst the like -surroundings, straight from Ratcliff Highway. - -He took off coat and hat, and sat quite still for awhile with legs drawn -up, and his chin upon his knees. But presently he fell to wandering -about like a child, ducking his pallid bald head over each flower as he -came to it, but keeping his itching fingers resolutely clasped behind his -back. It was a brave show, even for this brave time of year. Though -other months afford perhaps a greater variety in colour and kind, Nature -in early autumn seems more forceful and impressive because she -concentrates her energies into the dealing of the one blow, the urging of -the one appeal upon the colour sense. It was the Purple Month. Look -where we would, the same royal colour filled the sunshine. Purple -loosestrife edged the river, and purple knapweed, thistles, heather, -purple thyme and willowherb and climbing vetch hemmed us in on every -side. Paler of hue, yet still of the same regal dye, the wild mint and -cranesbill, marjoram and calamint, crowded upon one another; and close to -the water’s edge, the Michaelmas daisies were already in full -flower—under both banks the soil was tinged with their pure cool lilac, -mirrored again yet more faintly in the drowsy water below. - -For half an hour, perhaps, the little tobacconist wandered up and down -this enchanted place; and then he came back to me, treading on tiptoe, -hushed, and solemn-eyed, as if he were in church. - -‘You live hereabouts?’ he asked, in a voice little above a whisper, ‘all -the year round, don’t you? And nothing to do but just put on a hat -whenever you want to come here, and in ten minutes here you are! Nothing -to pay, and no trouble. Oh, my stars!’ - -‘And it is not always the same, you know. I pass this way nearly every -week, and there is always something different. The flowers change with -every month. You hear different birds singing, according to the season. -The leaves on the trees come and go, and the sky shows you a new picture -every time you look at it. Even the river changes. It is the top of the -tide now: that log, floating out there, has not moved a dozen feet in the -last five minutes. But in an hour’s time the water will be driving down -swift and strong, and all the reeds and rushes, that now stand up quite -straight and still in the sunshine, will bending and trembling in the -flow.’ - -‘Ah!’ He crowded a perfectly bewildering variety of emotions into the -breathed monosyllable. ‘Is that a nightingale singing over there?’ - -‘No; you are too late for nightingales: they have done singing these two -months and more. That is a robin. The robins have just begun to sing -again after their summer silence; and when that happens, you know the -summer is almost done.’ - -He sat now mute at my side for so long, that at last I must steal a -glance at him. I saw him brush a hand hastily across his eyes. - -‘I—I am glad I came, of course,’ said he, musing, ‘but—but I have been -the worst kind of fool all the same. Just think of going back there -to-night! Lor’! just think of it! Yesterday morning I watered the -geraniums in the window-boxes, and gave the canary his seed; and, says I, -“Here’s singing-birds and flowers, as good as any you’ll get in the -country!” Then I went to the shop door, and saw a cart full of straw -going by, and another of green cabbages for Boro’ Market. “Lor’!” I -says, “the country comes on wheels to your very door in London! London -for me!” And now I’ll never get that feeling back again, no, never! The -very worst kind of fool, I _don’t_ think!’ - -Close by us there grew a great tuft of valerian. As he sat staring -tragically at its disc of deep red blossom, butterflies came to it with -every moment, sipped awhile, then passed on. Painted ladies, red -admirals, little tortoiseshells always in twos or threes; finally a -peacock butterfly sailed over to the valerian and settled there, her rich -colours aflare in the sunshine. She spread out her great vanes, the -upper covering the lower. Then she gently slid her upper wings forward, -and gradually the wonderful spots on the lower wings appeared, like a -pair of slowly opening, drowsy, violet eyes. The little tobacconist -breathed hard. - -‘I can see it all clear enough,’ he said tremulously. ‘A man gets a real -chance here. Come worry, come sickness, come bad luck, come anything you -like—all you have got to do is to open your eyes and ears, and off it -goes like the bundle of sins in the _Pilgrim’s Progress_ book. But in -London—’ He stopped short; then, in a tone of deep, despairing disgust, -‘Geraniums!—Canaries!—Cartloads of cabbages! bah!’ - -I had not found myself confronted by so difficult a proposition for many -a long day. If only the Reverend had been there! But there was nothing -for it but to try a joust with the situation alone. - -‘Depend upon it,’ said I, ‘if coming amongst the beautiful natural things -of the world has made you despise the mean, ugly, necessary parts of your -life, then you have been a fool indeed—one of the worst kind. But are -you really the sort of fool you think? And have you not overstated both -cases alike? In neither town nor country is there all of good, or all of -evil. There are plenty of geraniums and cabbages in Windlecombe, -and—alas!—canaries. And in London there is plenty of beauty, if you look -for it with the right eyes.’ - -‘Beauty?—in London?’ he repeated incredulously. - -‘Yes, truly; and the people who see it, and enjoy it most, are just those -people who have the deepest knowledge of, and love for, the natural -things of the country-side. Now, shall I tell you what sort of a fool -you really are?’ - -He thought a moment, eyeing me in some perplexity. ‘Well—yes,’ said he -at last, ‘if it isn’t too much trouble.’ - -‘It is a lot of trouble, and I am not sure I can do it. But I will try. -Did you ever hear of the saying, “Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to -be wise?”’ - -‘No: I can’t say that I ever—’ - -‘Well, you have fallen right into that trap. You have given yourself -twenty years of that kind of bliss, and now you have got to pay for it. -But what was it made you start off this morning in such a hurry to get to -the country, when only yesterday you were quite content with your -window-boxes and your screeching yellow gewgaw?’ - -He considered a little, then blushed to his eyes. - -‘It was an old book,’ he said mysteriously, looking round apparently to -make certain we were alone, ‘nothing but an old book on a bookstall. I -picked it up just out of curiosity as I went by last night, and there -were some dried flowers in it—dog-roses, I think. And then I looked up -and saw the moon shining very small and bright high up in the sky; and it -came over me that though she kept one eye dutifully on the Walworth Road, -with the other eye she might well be looking down on the country lane -where those roses grew years ago. And thinks I, all of a creep, like, -Why can’t a man look two ways at once; and if he must give one eye to -business, why can’t he give the other to just what he likes? And then -I—’ - -‘And then you certainly left off being the kind of fool I mean—left off -for ever. Well: that saves us both a lot of trouble, for we are both -wrong about your case, it seems. You need not fear to go home to-night. -You will find those geraniums as fresh and sweet as the valerian there, -and just as populous of butterflies. And the canary—you will hear in his -song every morning the notes of all the wild birds that have sung to you -to-day. And when next a wagonload of straw goes by your shop, it will -not be mere straw, but a field of wheat under the country sunshine: the -sound of the wind in the Walworth telephone wires will be for you only -the rustle of wind in the corn. That is what I meant by London beauty.’ - - - -II - - -That summer is drawing to its end, and autumn close at hand, one need not -look at the calendar to know. Throughout a morning’s walk, signs of -imminent change crop up now at every turn. The wild arums that you have -forgotten since last you saw them turning their pale green cowls from the -light, give out a bold glitter of scarlet in the shady deeps under every -hedgerow. Each day sees the hips and haws growing ruddier. Though -September is scarce half gone, the green bracken-fronds in the woods are -already alight at the tips with crimson and gold; and the heather on the -combe-side has lost its clear rose-red. The song of the bees in it seems -as loud as ever, but for every tuft of living blossom there are two that -are faded and brown. The good times are nearly over for the -honey-makers, and each day the gathering of a full load of nectar means -travelling farther afield. - -I wonder why it is I always look forward to the renewal of the year’s -life with so much eagerness and impatience, and yet meet its decline with -such surpassing equanimity. Am I—I have often asked myself lately—the -same being who industriously searched the river bank for a whole bleak -February morning in quest of the first coltsfoot, greeting it with an -unconscionable extravagance of rejoicing: I who now tread the same way in -nowise perturbed, nor even unelated, at the obvious fact of each day’s -lessened ardour? The truth that the year is already on the long downward -road, riding for its winter fall, awakens in me not a pang of regret. -Indeed, I neither remember the departed magnificence of June as something -lost, nor regard the ever-diminishing September days as portent of -penurious times to come. With autumn, as with advancing age, when once -each is assured, irrevocable, the natural tendency seems to be towards a -looking neither backward nor forward, but towards a joyful acceptance of -the things that are. And so, at these times, whatever our declared -principles, we one and all develop, or degenerate, into optimists. - -But, of a truth, it needs very little of this mental condiment to be -happy in a Sussex Downland village in September. Perhaps none but the -very old can, at any time, sincerely avow a repugnance towards machinery -in farming: certainly, at this season of the year, the whole spirit of -village life receives benefit from it. They have been threshing up at -the farm to-day, and from sunrise to sunset, all through the still, -quiet, golden hours, the voice of the threshing mill has permeated -everything, blent itself with the song of the robins in the garden, with -the chime from the smithy, with all the other sounds of labour that go to -make up the silence of country dwelling-places. I have come to look upon -this sound as the veritable keynote of autumn, and to believe that it has -an influence on all hearts at this season, entirely underrated by those -whose business it is to study rural affairs. - -It is the fashion to contemn the old melodramatic trick of still-music; -but, for my own part, I have never been able to resist the low sobbing -and sighing of the violins when the stage-story is being cleared up, all -wrongs righted, and the villain given his due. The speech itself is -nothing to me. It is seldom regarded, and remembered never. I should be -just as deeply moved if all that leashed, melodious passion went as -setting to ‘Old Mother Hubbard’ or ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’ And -on the same principle, when this beautiful, solemn voice of the threshing -mill dwells in the autumnal air, I find myself doing the commonest things -with a sense of high Fate and speeding of the world’s progress. But, -indeed, Nature works throughout largely on this still-music plan, and -therein lies one inestimable advantage of living in the country. Bird -song, to all intents and purposes, unceasing throughout the year—the -songs of stream, river, and sea—the songs of the four winds—all work -together for good on the hearts of those men and women who, by their own -design, or by external destiny, have been led to keep their thread of -life running by green woods and fields. - -As the sun went down behind the hills, and left the world afloat in -wine-coloured mist, every sound of work ceased in the village, save this -rich throbbing voice of the threshing mill up at the farm. I went out -into the dreaming light to listen to it. From where I sat on the -churchyard wall, I could make out that they were prolonging the work into -the dusk, so that the last rick might be finished now, and the threshing -gang move on to-night to the next farm. There was the deep sound of the -mill itself, one tremendous baritone note succeeding another, each held -for a moment, and then suddenly changing to one higher or lower in the -sonorous clef. Apart from this, I could distinguish the fuss and fume of -the engine, as it drove its white breath in little unsteady gusts up -against the violet calm of the sky. And there was another sound—the -flapping song of the driving-belt—a note that punctuated everything, as -though some invisible conductor were beating time to the general -symphony. But the combined effect of all was infinitely harmonious and -restful. - -Yet I had come out, in the main, to hear, not this familiar part of the -music, but something about it that I loved to hear most of all; and this -was the stopping of the machine. It was almost dark before the last -sheaf went to the mill, and steam was shut off. And then the wonderful -note began. The machine took an appreciable time to run down. But now -there was no upward inflection in its voice. Note by note, each note -more drawn out and quieter, the rich tones fell through every stage of an -octave, until at last they died away in the profoundest, softest bass. -Even then I fancied I could feel the solid earth still shuddering with a -music too deep for human ear. - - - -III - - -I think the last of the summer boating parties to Windlecombe has come -and gone; at least for a week I have seen and heard nothing of revelry. -But the thin stream of odd folk still dribbles into the village from road -or Down. - -There were two elderly ladies, obviously sisters, wandering about the -place one day, who afforded material for commentary to most curious -tongues. Severely and sparely clad in grey tweeds, wearing black felt -hats each wrapped about with a wisp of grey gauze, and gold spectacles, -over the shining hafts of which little tight glossy-white ringlets -depended, pink serene faces inclined to be downy, and voices low and -gentle yet extraordinarily penetrating and clear—they crept about the -village all day long in an ecstasy of enjoyment, peering into cottage -doorways, looking over garden fences, watching the children at play on -the green and the mothers hanging out their linen, gazing with timorous -delight down into the wheelwright’s sawpit, and into the black deeps of -Tom Clemmer’s forge. And all the while, though they kept up an incessant -low interchange between themselves, they accosted no one. Apparently -Windlecombe was to them a sort of spectacle, half peep-show and half -menagerie, where everything might be looked at, but nothing touched. The -last I saw of them, they were standing at the far end of the green, -looking towards the seats under the Seven Sisters where two old rustics -slumbered peacefully in the sun. The pair were in earnest consultation, -and obvious, though wholly affectionate difference on some point. At -length one, apparently the more ancient by a year or two, raised her -hands with a gesture of reluctant consent. And then the other timidly -approached the old men, presented each with what, at a distance, appeared -to be a surplus sandwich drawn from a reticule, and returned to her -companion, giving her—before they made off down the street together—a -grateful, childish little hug. - -On another day a very different pair dropped down from the skies amongst -us. They were two men scarcely of middle age, the one with a swirl of -coppery hair topping a high forehead, the other sombre-locked, low-browed -and swarthy; both alike shabby, unshaven and unkempt. They came swinging -down the hill-path together, hatless and barefooted, laden up with -certain dusty travelling-gear, the one of them carrying in addition a -leather-cased violin. As they strode through the village street they -made the place resound with their laughter, jovially greeted all and -sundry that chanced in their way, and finally disappeared through the -door of the Three Thatchers Inn. - -Thereafter, sitting at work by the window, I forgot all about them, until -a far-off strain of music gradually forced itself upon my ear. I could -make out the violin, played as though it were three instruments at least, -and above it such a voice as I had heard only once in my life before. I -saw that passers-by were halting in the roadway to listen. Some were -crowded round the inn window, craning over one another’s heads. Then the -music stopped, the pair of harmonious vagabonds reappeared, and made -straight for the Seven Sisters, all the folk jostling at their heels. A -moment later, the violin struck into an air that sent my pen clattering -to the paper, and my feet speeding towards the house-door. It was the -‘X—,’ the tenor song from ‘Q—,’ played by a master hand. Before I -reached the fringe of the little crowd—taking the old vicar by the arm as -I went—the copper-haired man had mounted upon the seat and had begun to -sing the incomparable melody, hurling it over the heads of the crowd with -a passion, a force, yet with a surpassingly delicate sweetness of tone, -that drew the people spellbound closer and closer with every moment round -him. The old parson’s grip tightened on my sleeve. - -‘What is he like?’ he whispered. And when I had told him—‘Strange that -he should come here and— But there can be few with a voice like that: it -must be— Ah! listen! Don’t you know now?’ - -For the song had changed. The violin had slowed down into a simple quiet -undertone. And then there pealed out upon us an air that a year ago had -been made famous by one man alone, and he almost the greatest in his art. -As he sang, his great chest heaving in the sunshine, I watched him, and -once he looked swiftly in our direction. He gave us the whole piece, -that finishes on a note incredibly high, yet is not really an end to the -song, for the note is one picked out, as it were, at random in the scale. -Then, to my amazement, he got down from the bench, took the hat from the -head of the nearest boy, and went gravely about among the folk, -collecting pennies. From me he levied toll as from the rest, but instead -of holding out the hat to the Reverend, he placed it, money and all, into -his hands, adding to the goodly store a shining piece from his own -pocket. ‘You will know what to do with it,’ said he, his grey eyes -twinkling merrily. - -A minute later the pair were trudging off together down the street, as -they had come, with their dusty, travel-stained satchels swinging behind -them, and their long hair blowing in the breeze. - - - -IV - - -Yes, the summer is gone, in very truth. With every day now, and every -hour of the day, the writing on the wall shows plainer. While the -hushed, hot times endured, it was still possible to believe red autumn as -far away as ever; for not a leaf in oak or elm has changed, nor will -change, perhaps, for weeks to come. But the tell-tale winds of the -equinox are upon us, bringing the very voice of autumn with them; and the -acorns are falling by the river, and the thistle-down drifting white upon -the hills. - -I began this day badly—badly, that is to say, from my own private point -of view; which is a point, it may well be, like Euclid’s, having position -but no dimensions, yet a point nevertheless. Chancing to wake with the -dawn, I saw that the day was beginning with a beautiful smoke-pearl -trellis in the east, behind which welled up an ever-strengthening -fountain of silver white. Coming presently out upon the green under this -pure pale glow of morning, I was startled by a cry that came echoing from -the misty twilight of the hills. - -‘Hi-up! Hi-up! Voller, voller, voller!’ - -Hoarse, harsh, undeniably brutal it sounded in the sweet, snow-white -lustre of the virgin light. And then came the shrill blare of the -huntsman’s horn, the confused yelping and baying of the pack, and the -dull thunder of beating hoofs, as the hunt drove over the hill-top, and -fell to drawing Windle coverts. - -At once the silent village awoke. Windows were thrown open and heads -appeared. Dark figures burst from cottage doors and went pounding up the -lane that led to the hills. Round the covert the horsemen gathered in a -motionless ring, while the huntsman drove his pack through the -undergrowth, for ever urging them forward with that fierce guttural note, -which was more like the cry of a wolf than a man. At length a fine cub -fox broke cover, and led the whole company a ding-dong chase over the -hills, and out of sight and hearing for good. - -Some hours later, I met Farmer Coles and his two sons returning from the -sport, the youngest, a mere schoolboy, mounted on a pony, his head, as he -rode, reaching scarce to his father’s saddle-peak. He was in huge high -spirits, displaying the brush, his share of the spoil, to all -acquaintance as he passed. And the face of this yellow-haired, chubby -child was bedaubed with blood, thick zebra-like streaks of it smudged -across his smooth forehead and rosy baby cheeks. He was going home -delighted, to show to an admiring mother how he had been ‘blooded’ at his -first cub-hunt; and in all that country-side, I thought to myself as I -passed on, there was scarce a man or woman of station and breeding who -would not have applauded son of theirs returning home in such a plight. - -Nor, though at the time the thing filled me personally with genuine -horror and loathing, did I condemn it, nor wish to see its like made -impossible in the land. For the sybaritish, lotus-eating danger is too -imminent in our midst for any such fabian trifling: it will be a woeful -day for England when we have bred out of our young manhood the last -instincts of the healthy brute. - -I got into Runridge’s skiff, in the absence of its owner, and pushed off -into mid-stream, letting the little craft drift whither it would. Wind -and tide together were setting strongly up-country. Swiftly the reedy -banks glided by, as we bore through the meadows that lie at the foot of -the hills. The summer was gone, indeed; and gone with it that sense of -striving towards achievement. The year seemed to be resting upon its -oars, as I was doing. All its fruit was set: there remained nothing now -but to wait and let it ripen. It was just this waiting and resting that -made up autumn’s greatest charm. - -I set my elbows on my knees and my chin on my hands, and let the little -boat choose a destiny for the idle pair of us. The bank was high to -windward. We drifted in an almost unruffled calm, while overhead there -sailed by an unending cloud of thistle-down, tiny verticals of sunlit -silver, each gleaming star-like against the morning blue. Most of them -took the broad river at a stride, disappearing over the opposite bank, -but many fell upon the water. Thousands of them floated around me, and -as far as eye could reach the water was grey and misty with them. And -this was only one nook of earth in innumerable miles. How was it, I -asked of the wind above me, that with such inexhaustible store of -thistle-seed, she could not sow the whole land thick with thistles in a -single season, and drive all other things from the fields? The answer -was to be obtained for the mere raising of a hand. For it is not the -thistle-seed that flies, but only the harmless thistle-down. Moreover, -among the millions of air-ships that each thistle-patch sends off upon -the wind throughout a breezy autumn day, not one in fifty ever bore a -seed, or, if bearing it, contrived to carry its burden more than a yard -or two. The curved seed-pod of the thistle is attached to its feathery -volute only by the slenderest thread, and is brushed off by the lightest -touch of the first grass-blade as it sails low over the sward. But the -thistle-down, lightened of its counterpoise, bowls on for ever. - - - - -OCTOBER - - -I - - -WITH each October in every year for a long time past, I have watched for -the going of the martins, but have never yet contrived to witness the -moment of their flight. It has always happened in the same way. One day -they have been as busy as ever about the roof-eaves, their chattering -song pervading the house unceasingly from dark to dark. And then a -morning comes, generally towards the end of the first week in the month, -when I awaken to a curious sense of strangeness and loss. First I mark -the unwonted silence outside the windows, and then I guess what has come -about. Looking forth, I see that the little mud-houses, huddled together -in a long row under the eaves, are deserted and silent at last. - -But to-day, though I missed the departure of the martins as usual, I was -not wholly disappointed. Getting up in the new silence and throwing the -windows back, I looked along the roof-edge. Save for the chippering and -fluttering of a few sparrows, there was nothing to be seen or heard in -the dim grey light. But it seemed the little army could have been away -only a few minutes before me, for while I looked, I saw the last of them -depart. One single note of the remembered song broke out overhead; there -was a whir of wings, and the little black-and-white bird lanced straight -off, going due south unhesitatingly, as though the vanished throng of her -companions was yet visible far away in the skies. - -It was a still, grey, warm morning. There had been no dew. Everything, -as presently I went along by the wood-side, was quite dry; and though it -was barely eight o’clock, all the spiders in the bushes were hard at work -weaving their snares. It was almost perfect spinning weather. On windy -mornings, though the webs must be made, the task is difficult and the -work seldom properly carried out. But to-day there was only a vague air -moving from the south-west, and all the spiders had got to work betimes, -and with light hearts. - -The great charm in all nature study is to find out the truth for yourself -at first hand. There are few things in my life I regret so keenly as the -reading of nature books. This has robbed me of many a moment of -pleasurable surprise; for to recognise a commonly accepted fact is poor -substitute for its original discovery, although this discovery may have -been made by others a thousand times before. Looking back over twenty -years’ poking and prying in the woods and fields round about Windlecombe, -I rejoice not so much at the many things I have found out, but at the -fact of so many things still unread of, and still remaining to be -discovered. This morning, as I went along by the bushes in the lee of -the wood, and saw the spiders at work, it suddenly occurred to me that I -knew little or nothing about them; and the recognition of this ignorance -came to me as truest bliss. I fell to looking on at the ingenious, -complicated work with almost as much anxiety and interest as the male -spiders themselves. - -For it appears to be only the female who spins a web. The big-bodied -spider, so industriously occupied in every gap of the thicket, is always -the female, though the male is never far off. You are sure to find him -peering out from under one of the adjacent leaves, or treading timidly on -the circumference of the web, trying to attract the attention, and -thereafter, perhaps, the regard of its maker. - -Spider nets and their weavers have, I think, never been given quite their -place in the world of wonders. As far as human profit is concerned, -spiders are useless things; and have therefore missed, because, from that -standpoint, they have not merited, popular favour. But no doubt their -ingenuity as craftswomen stands very nearly on a level with that of the -worker honey-bee. The waxen comb of the bee, whose perfection is due to -the combined arts of engineer, mason, and geometrician, is very little -superior in design and carrying-out to the spider’s web. - -On these still, grey autumn mornings, the tendency of the eye is not to -wander far afield, but to concern itself with the little things of the -wayside close at hand; and so, more than at any other time of year, -perhaps, the spiders and their ways come in for narrow scrutiny. And -here is something, in the first loving investigation of which the -uninformed, unread observer is much to be envied. - -He notices in the outset that these fine silken snares, hung by the -spiders in the hedgerows, are of two kinds—the one placed vertically -across a gap in the surface of the thicket; the other placed -horizontally, closing up some shaft or upward passage-way in the heart of -the green bush. The vertical net is seen to be composed of a number of -threads radiating from a common centre, and upon these threads an -ever-increasing spiral line has been laid, forming a regular, meshed net. -But the horizontal web has none of this geometric neatness. It is a mere -expanse of fine tissue irregularly woven into a sort of crazy pattern, -and slung hammock fashion, completely closing the chimney-like hollow -wherein it has been made. From a view of the finished webs, two other -facts will be noted—the vertical net is supported only by lines springing -from its circumference, and the spider sits at its centre in front; the -horizontal net is suspended by numberless fine lines attached at all -points in its upper surface, while the spider clings to the under side as -she lies in wait for her prey. - -But it is in the actual weaving of the nets that the interest of the -onlooker will be chiefly centred. The maker of the vertical, or -cartwheel, pattern of web begins operations in various ways, according to -the conditions imposed upon her by the weather and the spot she has -selected. Webs made in calm seasons, or when only light airs are -stirring, will have few mainstays, and these may be of considerable -length; but in windy times the spider will stretch her snare on only -short hawsers, using as many as may be necessary to make assurance doubly -sure. But in either case she will commence the work in much the same -way. - -First she goes to the highest point on the windward side of her gap, and -turning her head to the current, begins to pay out a line behind her. As -this floats out, she continually tries it with her leg until she knows -that the end of the line has caught in the opposite twigs. Then she runs -to the middle of this horizontal line, dragging after her another thread -which she has previously attached to her original starting-point. From -the centre of the first line she lowers herself vertically, always -dragging the second line in her rear, until she reaches a twig below. -Here she draws her second line tight and fastens it, after which she -climbs to the horizontal line and repeats the manœuvre, only this time -from its leeward end. Thus the triangle of mainstays—the first essential -in all spider-web making—is complete. - -The weaving of the net within this triangular frame is the next work -undertaken. The spider, when she first dropped from the centre of her -uppermost thread, made a vertical line in descending. Some point on this -line marks the centre of the future cartwheel pattern of web, and this -central point the spider now finds unerringly, and begins to put in one -by one the radiating spokes of the wheel. When all these spokes are in -place, she returns to the centre, and revolving her body quickly, she -forms upon it a close spiral of four or five turns. This is to be her -seat and watch-tower, whence she will keep the whole web under -observation. Having done this, she now—if the morning is at all -breezy—carries temporary stay-lines from spoke to spoke all round the -web, these isolated circles of thread occurring at intervals of an inch -or so between centre and circumference. But on still mornings this part -of her work is omitted as unnecessary, and she proceeds at once to the -main spinning of the net. - -The construction of the cross-threads between the spokes of the web is -always commenced at the extreme outer edges of the space to be filled; -and the spider works inwardly, carrying the thread round and round from -spoke to spoke until she arrives within half an inch or so of the central -small spiral. But the two are never joined: an interval is always left -where the web consists of nothing but bare radiating lines. The snare is -now finished. The spider takes up her station in the middle of the net, -with no more to do for the rest of the day but take what fair chance, and -her own crafty ingenuity, may provide. - -Yet, having thus watched the making of a spider-web from start to finish, -and having noted all the details of construction here set down, there is -something more about the matter which, if it escape the observer, will -leave him in the rather disgraceful plight of having missed the most -wonderful thing of all. - -The spider’s snare is not woven throughout of the same kind of thread. -Two kinds are used, and the difference between them is apparent even to -eyes of very moderate power. While the triangle and the radiating lines -are made of plain silk, the cross-threads are corrugated, and look like -strings of tiny, transparent beads. A touch of the finger will prove -that these beads are really adhering drops of some glutinous fluid, whose -use is not difficult to guess. But how do the beads get on the line, -seeing that this, when first drawn from the spider’s body, is visibly -nothing but a plain filament of silk, like the rest of the web? - -The question has been asked many times, and the answer commonly given is, -I have come to believe, an entirely erroneous one. We are told that the -thread used for the cross-bars in a spider’s web, when it first emerges -from the creature’s body, is only smeared, not beaded with the gluten; -but that after attaching each segment of the spiral to the spokes, the -spider gives it a twang with her foot, thus causing the gluten to -separate into beads. Here then is a fact such as one would read in the -nature books, and unquestionably accept. But a little independent -experiment with various kinds of strings, elastic or non-elastic, and -smeared with different glutinous substances, reveals the fact that no -amount of twanging will induce the latter to divide into beads, such as -one sees in the spider line. In every case, the tendency of the gluten -in the experiment is to fly off altogether, or to gather to one side of -the string. - -But to any that desires to know the truth of the thing, the spider -herself will speedily resolve the difficulty. Watch her at work, and it -will soon be seen that the beads are formed on the line not by twanging, -but by stretching. At the moment each length of sticky thread is drawn -from the spider’s spinnerets, it is destitute of beads. But the spider -quickly stretches it out to nearly double its original length, and then -as quickly slackens it; whereupon, before she has well had time to fasten -the thread in its place, the beads will be seen to have formed themselves -throughout its entire length. - - - -II - - -Said Miss Susan Angel this evening, as I leant over the counter of her -little dark shop, studying the rows of sweetstuff bottles beyond: ‘Th’ -chillern here, ’tis real astonishin’ how changeable they be. One time -’tis all lickrich wi ’em, an’ next ’tis all sherbet-suckers, an’ then -maybe ’tis nought but toffee-balls for weeks on end. But you!’—she -turned me a glance full of smiling, proud approbation—‘You!—come winter -or summer, come rain or shine, I allers knaws ’twill be nobbut -black-fours!’ - -She reached down the ancient glass jar, and stabbed at its contents -ruminatively with an iron fork. - -‘Black-fours—ah!’ she mused, as the shining magpie lumps rattled into the -brass scale-pan. ‘An’ I never smells ’em but I thinks o’ my ould missus -as— Lorey me! how many long year ago! Fond on ’em, wur she? Ah! an’ -scrunch ’em up, ’a could, quicker ’n e’er wan wi’ a nateral jaw!’ - -‘What kind of jaw, then, had she, Susan?’ - -‘Ah! I believe ye! My dear! th’ money as ut costed! All gold, an’ ivory -like, an’ red stuff! An’ when ’a died— Did never I show ’em to ye?’ - -She disappeared into the little kitchen behind the shop. I heard a -drawer unlocked; there was a sound of rummaging, accompanied by asthmatic -interjections; Miss Susan Angel came forth again bearing a bulky parcel. -This, as she removed various coverings, became smaller and smaller until, -from a final wrapping of tissue-paper, there appeared a beautiful double -set of false teeth. Miss Angel held them up to my gaze admiringly. - -‘Left ’em to me, ’a did! ’Twur all writ in her will—“To my faithful -servant an’ friend, Susan Angel, I give an’ bequeath”—an’ all th’ rest on -’t. Ah! bless her an’ rest her sowl!’ - -It seemed rather an appropriate legacy, for Miss Angel had possessed not -a single tooth of her own in all the years I had known her. But the -display of the treasure provoked a very natural commentary. - -‘How long have you had these put by, Susan?’ - -‘Nigh upon thirty year, my dear.’ - -‘And never used them yourself all that time, although you—’ - -‘What!’ The old lady drew herself up, the youthful blue eyes in her -wrinkled face flashing indignation. ‘What d’ ye say!—me use ’em? _Me_? -Th’ very same as my dear ould missus chawed wi’? Shame on ye! Not if -there was nought to eat but cracking-nuts left i’ th’ wureld fer us all!’ - -I took the rebuke in penitent silence. When she had restored the revered -relics to their locker in the back room, she resumed her knitting in the -great wicker chair behind the counter. In a minute or two she had alike -forgiven me and forgotten the cause of her displeasure, as I knew from -her tone. - -‘How the evenin’s do draw in, to be sure!’ she observed, laying down her -work. ‘A’most dark, ut be, though ’tis no more ’n six o’clock.’ - -The ancient timepiece in the corner promptly droned out eleven. Miss -Angel clapped her hands. - -‘What did I tell ye?’ she said triumphantly. ‘Wunnerful good time ’a -keeps, when I recollects to putt un back reg’lar.’ - -She rose and reversed the hands for a circle or two. - -‘That’ll do till mornin’,’ said she placidly. ‘Ye warnts to be a little -particler i’ country places: ut bean’t like i’ towns where—Gipsies! I do -believe! An’ this time o’ night, to be sure!’ - -I followed her sudden glance to the doorway. A heavy grinding of wheels -had sounded outside, and across our field of view, silhouetted against -the deep turquoise blue of the night, there passed what looked like a -gipsies’ caravan. A bony horse toiled in the shafts, and a long lean man -walked in front, dragging at the animal’s bridle with almost as much -apparent effort. Lights shone from the windows of the vehicle, and its -chimney smoked voluminously against the stars. As it went by, we could -see another man sitting upon the steps in its rear, his squat bulky form -entirely blocking the open door-place. The caravan pulled up about -midway over the green. - -‘Now, that wunt do!’ observed Miss Angel decisively. ‘We warnts nane o’ -they sort traipsing about Windlecombe after dark, leastways not them as -keeps chicken. ’Tis on your road hoame: jest gie ’em a wured as you goos -by, my dear. Tell ’em as you warnts to save trouble fer th’ policeman.’ - -In nowise intending to disturb the gipsies, I nevertheless took the short -cut over the green, passing in the darkness close by their queer, -spindle-spanked, top-heavy dwelling. As I cut through the beam of light -that poured from the doorway, a suave voice hailed me. - -‘Hi! my man! Just a moment! Now, Grewes, your difficulty is at an end. -I have intercepted one of the inhabitants, and doubtless he will— Yes: -inquire of him—very politely now—where we may obtain water.’ - -The long lean man had blundered into the light beside me, carrying two -pails. He was clothed in little better than rags from head to foot. A -massive gold watch-chain glittered across his buttonless waistcoat. He -turned upon me two gaunt, diffident eyes. - -‘Water,’ he hesitated, holding out the pails helplessly before him. -‘Water, you know! Could you be so kind as to—’ - -The suave, flute-like voice sounded again from the depths of the caravan. - -‘Now, Grewes! if I am to carry out the little supper scheme I explained -to you, no time must be lost. When once they are peeled, potatoes should -never—’ The owner of the voice appeared in the doorway. ‘Dear, dear! -My good fellow! there you are, still standing there; and I fully -impressed it upon you that if rabbit is permitted to bake one moment -longer than— Grewes! give me those pails!’ - -But the long lean man had drawn me precipitately away. As we hurried -across the green together in the direction of the well-house, he seemed -to consider himself under some necessity of explanation. - -‘It is his caravan,’ he said, ‘Spelthorne’s, you know. And I am -travelling with him for a bit, because I was run down, and—and other -things. One of the best fellows breathing, he is, though you mightn’t—I -mean I so often forget what I— Of course, I really don’t wonder that -sometimes he— Why! I have forgotten to unharness the horse! Do remind -me—will you?—when we get back; but quietly, you understand? Spelthorne, -he is the best fellow breathing, but— Oh, is this the well? It is most -kind of you, I’m sure!’ - -He seemed in so strained and nervous a mood that I did not trust him to -handle the heavy bucket and chain, nor to return unaided to the caravan -with his burden. When we drew into the beam of light again, I could see -Spelthorne inside, stooping over the little cooking-stove in his -shirt-sleeves and a great sombrero. If anything, his clothes were even -more tattered and soiled than his companion’s. At sound of our clanking -pails he turned, stared, then swept me a low bow with the sombrero. - -‘Thoughtless, very thoughtless!—indeed, most selfish of Grewes!’ he said -confidentially, for the long lean man had hurried away to attend to the -horse. ‘A good fellow, such a good fellow, you cannot think! But he has -this little failing of sometimes taking advantage of any kindness that— -But excuse me: I must get the potatoes on!’ - -I had hardly gone a dozen paces towards home, when I heard him pounding -after me. - -‘What is—the name,’ he asked breathlessly, ‘of—of this village?’ And -when I had told him: ‘There are beautiful old cottages here, are there -not? And quaint people? And charming country round about? Such a -spot—isn’t it?—where two artists could find incessant inspiration, -and—and—’ - -But the question had been put to me before, and too often. - -‘Well, I don’t know,’ said I discouragingly. ‘The place is very quiet -and humdrum, and most inconvenient—no railway and no roads to anywhere -and—’ - -‘The very place!’ he broke in delightedly. ‘I shall persuade poor Grewes -to remain here with me a month.’ - -And when I took a last look at the night some hours after, I beheld the -faint glow, from the windows of the caravan upon the green, with dismal -foreboding. A month of that prospect! And not only that, but something -worse; for, upon the wings of the slow night wind, there drifted over to -me the mournful thrumming of a guitar. - - - -III - - -As it has turned out, the caravanners have proved very little trouble to -any, and to myself least of all. In a day or two, they moved down to the -riverside, choosing one of the wildest and leafiest corners of the old -abandoned chalk-quarry; and for a week past I have seen nothing of them -but a wisp of blue smoke from afar. - -And, indeed, October in the country, if your design is to keep step and -step with the month through all its bewildering changes, leaves you but -scanty leisure for social traffic with your kind. Every day now there is -something new to wonder at, and ponder over. - -To-day the gossamer was flying. If you stood in one of the low-lying -sheltered meadows, and turned your back to the light, the air seemed full -of these ashen-grey flecks, some only the merest threads, others of the -breadth of a finger and several inches long. I have always believed that -the gossamer spiders sit in the hedgerows spinning these fairy draperies, -and letting them go upon the breeze to little more use and purpose than -when a child blows soap-bubbles for the mere delight of watching them -soar. At least, what end could possibly be served by them, other than -the sufficient and obvious one of bringing a note of austere, chilly -delicacy into the riotous colour of an October day? But idling along -this morning with literally thousands of these grey filaments tempering -the rich gold of the sunshine far and near, I chanced to stretch forth a -hand and capture one of them. Between my fingers there hung a shred of -fabric infinitely finer than anything that ever came from loom devised by -man; and within it sat the gossamer spider herself, a shining black atom, -evidently vastly surprised and alarmed at the sudden termination of her -flight. After that I pulled down a score or so of these gossamer -air-ships, and although a few were tenantless, the most of them bore a -passenger embarked on, who shall say how long and how hazardous a voyage? -Yet, while none fell to earth as I watched, but seemed to have the power -of rising ever higher and higher, it is certain that the gossamer -spider’s flight must end with each day’s sun. The heavy autumn dews must -sweep the air clear of them at first tinge of dusk. - -If there is anything in the old saying that a plentiful berry harvest -foretells a hard winter, then have we bitter times in store. The hedges -are loaded with scarlet wherever you go, and yet in all this flaunting -brilliance there seems to be no two shades of red alike The holly-berries -approach more nearly than any to pure vermilion. Then come the hips, the -rose-berries, with their tawny red; and the haws that are richer of hue -than all others, perhaps, yet of a sombreness that quietens the eye for -all its glow. Ruddy are the bryonies and the bittersweet. The rowans -love to hold aloft their masses of pure flame, the rich rowan-colour that -is always seen against the sky. Along the edge of the hazel copse, where -the butcher’s broom grows, its curious oblong fruit gives another note of -red. But they are all essentially different colours. Nature often -duplicates herself in blues, yellows, and particularly in a certain shade -of pale purple, of which the mallow is a common type. But among red -flowers, red berries, finding one, you shall not find its exact -counterpart in hue in all the country-side. - -In southern England, the general lurid effect due to change of leafage in -the forest trees belongs of right to November, but already there are -abundant signs of what is coming. Though the woods, on a distant view, -still look gloriously green, a nearer prospect reveals a touch of autumn -in almost every tree. In the beech-woods nearly all the branches are -tipped with brown. The elms have bright yellow patches oddly dispersed -amidst foliage still of almost summer-like freshness. The willows by the -river are full of golden pencillings. Only the oaks remain as yet -uninfluenced by the changing times. The temperate autumn nights, that -have checked the sap-flow of less hardy things, have had no influence on -the oak-woods. They wait for the first real frosts—the knock-down blow. - -And strangely, though October is nearing its end, the frosts do not come. -The nights are still, moist, dark; and full of the twanging note of -dorbeetles, and now and again the steady whir of passing wings. This is -the sound made by the hosts of migrant birds, all journeying southward, -travelling in silence and by stealth of night. - -Coming out into the darkness, and hearing this mighty rushing note high -overhead, you get a queer sense of underhand activity and concealed -purpose in the world, as though scenery were being swiftly changed, a new -piece hurriedly staged, under cover of the blinked lights. It tends -towards a feeling that is rather foreign, not to say humbling, to your -desires—that of being made a spectator rather than a participant in the -great earth play. Or it may have another and a stranger effect. The -sound of all that strenuous motion, the deep travel-note high in the -darkness, may come to you with all the urging inspiration of a summons: -you may restrain only with difficulty, and much assembling of prudence, -the impulse to gird up and be off southward in the track of the flying -host. The old nomadic instinct is not dead in humanity, as he well knows -who keeps his feet to the green places of earth, and his heart tiding -with the sun. - -Now, too, the brown owl begins his hollow plaint in the woodlands. -‘Woo-hoo-hoo, woohoo!’ comes to you through the fast-falling dusk, the -direction and intensity of the cry varying with astonishing swiftness, as -you stop to listen on your homeward way. This is conceivably the -‘to-whoo’ that Shakespeare heard; and there is another note, which seems -to be an answer to it, and which sounds something like ‘Ker-wick,’ and -might by a stretch be allowed to stand for the ‘to-whit’ in the song. -But ‘to-whit, to-whoo!’ in a single phrase, from a single throat—that -seems to be a piece of owl language that has become obsolete with the -centuries. - -There is a stretch of lane here, running between high grassy banks -densely overshadowed by trees, which is always dark on the clearest -nights of any season, but of a Cimmerian blackness on these moonless -evenings in late October. As if they knew their opportunity for service, -the glowworms often light up the place from end to end, so that it is -possible, steering by their tiny lamps alone, to keep out of the ditch -that yawns invisibly on either hand. I came through the lane this -evening, and counted near upon a score of these vague blotches of -greenish radiance hovering amidst the dew soaked grass, each bright -enough to show the time by a watch held near. As long as I can remember, -glowworms have been plentiful in this stretch of dark, overshadowed lane, -and very scarce in all other quarters of the village. New colonies of -glowworms seem difficult to establish, although single lights do appear -in places where they have not been seen before, and in ensuing year -appear again and again, generally in slowly increasing numbers. It is -not wonderful that glowworms should keep to the same grassy bank season -after season, because, as all countrymen know, it is only the lampless -male that flies. The female, who bears the light, and on whom the -persistence of the race depends, lives and dies probably within no more -than the same few square yards of tangled herbage. What seems really -wonderful is that single glowworms of the female sex should occur in -places far removed from old resorts of their kind, seeing how feeble are -their means, and how slow their rate of travel. - -I have said that the flocks of birds that can sometimes be heard in the -quiet of October nights, passing seaward over the village, are generally -silent, save for the dull, pulsating roar of their wings. As I lifted -the latch of the garden-gate to-night, and stood a moment listening in -the darkness, the old sound grew out of the silence of the hills, and -there went swiftly by what seemed only a small flock; but now and again, -as they passed, I could hear a note bandied to and fro in the company, a -chuckling, voluble note, which I recognised instantly. They were -fieldfares, the first-comers of their species. From now onward, I knew, -their queer outlandish cry would mingle with the common sounds of the -fields; and not only theirs, but the notes of all other foreign birds -that winter here; for the field-fare is generally the last to come. - -This cry in the darkness above me, however, was strange in a double -sense; because, while the silent hosts were emigrants, only at the -commencement of their long, perilous journey, this chattering company had -safely arrived at its bourne, all the hazards of the voyage happily past. -And it seemed only in the way of Nature, for bird or man, to set forth -mute of voice upon a difficult and dangerous enterprise; while to win -through safe and sound must provoke each alike to self-congratulation. -My fieldfares were halloaing because they were out of the wood. - - - - -NOVEMBER - - -I - - - ‘No mirth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, - No comfortable feel in any member; - No warmth, no shine, no butterflies, no bees— - November!’ - -IT was the old vicar of Windlecombe who ironically quoted the lines, as -we went along our favourite path together—the path that runs between Arun -river and the woods. - -The first frosts had come and gone, and left us in the midst of the usual -revolutions and surprises. In a single day, the ash-trees had cast their -whole weight of foliage to earth, green as in summer prime. Though as -yet not a single leaf had fallen from the other forest trees, all had -changed miraculously. The beech-woods looked like vast smouldering -fires. Every elm stood up clothed to its finger-tips in shreds of -gold-leaf. Here and there in the wood a dash of vivid scarlet showed -where a sycamore had been found and struck by the frost. Larch, willow, -maple, birch, each added to the glowing prospect its individual shade of -tawny brown, or drab, or yellow. We walked in a land where, for once, -the sunshine seemed a superfluous thing. To turn the eye away for a -little while from all that intolerable radiance, and rest it on the -oak-woods where alone a vestige of summer greenery endured, or on the -cool grey stems of the stripped ash-trees, was a pleasure I found myself -furtively snatching as we went along, although I left the sentiment -discreetly unexpressed. The old vicar stopped, removed his great white -panama, and mopped his forehead luxuriously. - -‘No warmth, no shine!’ he repeated. ‘Now where in the world could the -poor soul have lived who wrote that? And no bees! Why, I can hear them -now—thousands of them!’ - -It was true enough, and with the bees were the November butterflies too, -if he could only have seen them. In a sunny corner by the path-side -stood an old pollard ash, its trunk rearing up out of the thicket high -over our heads, like a huge doubled fist thrust into a green gauntlet of -ivy. It was only one tree among innumerable others in the wood, and the -same stirring scene was enacting round each of them. Though with -everything else the season was autumn, for the ivy it was the heyday of -spring. The great tree above us was smothered in golden blossom, the -nectar glistening in the sunshine, a rich honey scent burdening the still -air. There were not only hive-bees and butterflies rioting at this, the -last outdoor feast of the year, but bumble-bees, wasps, drone-flies, -every other creature that could fly and had escaped the chills of the -November nights. The air was misty with the glint of their wings, and -full of a deep sweet song. As we passed along by the wood, we were -always either drawing into the zone of this ivy music or leaving it -behind us, and never once did it forsake our path all the morning -through. - -We came at last to a spot where the woods fell back from the waterside, -and a stretch of wild, hillocky grassland, overgrown with brier and -bramble, bordered the stream. Between the willows that stood upon the -bank dipping their yellow autumn tresses in the flood, I could see the -placid breadth of the river, with its topsy-turvy vision of the glowing -hills beyond—hills that, by reason of the interlacing boughs above, were -directly invisible. A lark broke up almost from under our feet, and went -slanting aloft into the blue sky, singing as though it were April. The -Reverend put a hand upon my arm. - -‘Well: what do you see?’ he asked. ‘Everything must be changed since we -were here last, and—’ - -‘I see,’ said I, rather disturbed, ‘a painter’s easel straddled in front -of your favourite creek—an easel with a three-legged stool before it, but -no painter. I see also, a little farther on, a big white umbrella, with -the top of a sombrero just showing above it, and a great cloud of tobacco -smoke drifting out of it, but here again no other sign of painter or man. -Shall we go back?’ - -But he was for pushing on. As we approached the umbrella, a throaty -tenor voice was uplifted to a weird foreign strain:— - - ‘En passant par Square Montholon, - La digue-digue donc! la digue-digue donc! - Je rencontre une jeune tendron! - La digue-digue— - -‘Superb! _Su_-perb! If only I could excite myself to— Ah! if only that -tumultuous thrill, which I know always presages— - - ‘la digue-digue donc! - J’offre tout de suite ma main—ye - La brigue-donc-dain-ye—’ - -Or at least so the gibberish sounded. But now it suddenly left off. A -palette went rattling to the ground. The short squat figure of the owner -of the caravan burst into view. - -‘Grewes! I cannot do it, I really cannot! I am not sufficiently inspired -to-day! I am not great enough! I— Oh! I beg your pardon! I thought it -was my friend’s step. Why! the water-bearer, to be sure! How do you -do?’ - -It was my first glimpse of Spelthorne by light of day, and I owned to -myself frankly that the night had been kind to him. A fringe of -yellow-grey hair escaped in all directions beyond the brim of his hat. -He had a florid, puffy, indeterminate face, eyes at once selfish and -sentimental, and a week-old beard still further ostracised a chin already -too retiring. Like his companion, he wore a gold watch-chain of heavy -calibre, with a bunch of seals and trinkets upon it; but his clothes, -that in the darkness had seemed much tattered and torn, now appeared -entirely disreputable. They were, moreover, covered with finger-marks of -paint, to which he was now adding, as he ceremoniously welcomed us. - -‘Art—what is it?’ he cried, removing his hat, and running his fingers -through his hair, when presently, at his earnest invitation, the Reverend -had sat himself down before the easel, and was making a grave show of -inspecting the canvas on it. ‘And the artist—where is he?’ He made a -dramatic pause. - -‘Where indeed?’ quoth the Reverend, grimly staring before him. - -‘You see this picture?’—wagging a chrome-yellow thumb over the -canvas—‘nine-tenths of it are the work of one exalted day: the rest the -unilluminated toil of a week! Strange that we should be made so! At one -moment, like Prometheus, stealing the very fire from heaven, and at the -next— Ah! but only an artist can really comprehend!’ - -He filled his pipe, with a resigned, quiet sadness. - -‘Now Grewes—that is my friend who is travelling with me—’ he went on; -‘Grewes, poor fellow, he never realises the difficulties in his path -because—because— Let me put it in the kindest way. Because—well, the -truth is, poor Grewes has mistaken his calling. No better fellow in the -world, you know! A hard plodder: always trying, always doing his best; -but—but— You see, that brings us back to what I said just now: art and -the artist—where will you find them? and what are they?’ - -A slight cough sounded in our rear. Looking round, I saw that the long -lean man had returned to his easel unmarked by any of us. The Reverend -got abruptly to his feet. - -‘Well,’ said he, ‘you have a great responsibility. Supreme gifts in a -man mean that much will be required of him. So bend your back to it. -Good day!’ - -As we passed by the other easel, its owner looked up pleasantly, but his -brush kept busily to work. - -‘Don’t go yet,’ he entreated, ‘I am so glad to— But you won’t mind, will -you, if I go on with— You see, I have not had very long at it this -morning. Spelthorne, he was getting so anxious about the stew, that I—I -had to run back to the caravan and— Or else he would have— It wouldn’t -have done, of course, to let him go himself. When once he has got into -the mood, the slightest little thing—’ - -He rambled on thus, scarcely ever finishing a sentence, and all the while -dabbing away industriously at his sketch. He, too, I had never yet -beheld in daylight; but, unlike his friend, sunshine rather improved his -appearance than otherwise. It could not fill up the gaps in his coat, -nor had it a lustrating effect upon his linen; yet it revealed in his -long, cadaverous face, and in his mild, sad eyes, a delicacy, a -sensibility, that I had not remarked in them before. As he talked, the -old vicar studied his voice attentively. - -‘Spelthorne,’ he went on, in his curious, disjointed, breathless way, -‘Spelthorne, his work is so immeasurably— He has such a demand for it -that— And I am always so glad, of course, to do any little thing to save -him trouble. I—I really think no man in the world ever had a better -friend.’ - -The Reverend was standing close behind him now. He laid a hand gently on -Grewes’s dilapidated shoulder. - -‘Don’t hurry,’ he said, ‘at least don’t hurry with your mind. Above all, -don’t worry: it is all coming beautifully. When did you see your doctor -last?’ - -The question, unexpected as it was by myself, seemed to surprise Grewes -infinitely more. The blood got up into two bright points in his cheeks. -His brushes rattled against his palette. He looked round at the old -vicar tremulously. - -‘Doctor? Why, do you— What makes you think I— Oh! I am very well -indeed; never better.’ - -He stopped, looking up into the sightless, kindly blue eyes that appeared -to be as steadily gazing down into his. There was a moment’s silence. -And then, if I ever saw real untrammelled joy spring into a human face, I -saw it in his. - -‘Do you really think so?’ he cried. ‘You think I— Well, sometimes -lately I have thought myself that—’ - -Spelthorne’s voice grumbled out from behind the umbrella. - -‘Now, my dear Grewes, have I not frequently told you that, though I am -willing to lend you anything I have, I always expect—’ - -Grewes sprang to his feet. - -‘It is his cadmium,’ he whispered, horrified. ‘I borrowed it, and never— -How very annoying for him!’ - -‘Now there is a strange thing,’ said the Reverend musingly, as we trudged -on our way together. ‘A man well on in a rapid decline, and neither -knowing nor caring about it; as glad, indeed, to hear the thing confirmed -as if some one had left him a legacy! A month, did you say? Then he may -never go out of Windlecombe by the road.’ - -We made a long day’s round, taking meadow, riverside, wood, and downland -in our walk, and reaching home again only when the lights were beginning -to star the misty combe; for we had a special object in our journey. To -the townsman it may well seem as fruitless a task to seek wild flowers in -November, as to go ‘gathering nuts in May.’ Well, here is a list of what -we found in one November day’s ramble about a single village in highland -Sussex—fifty-seven distinct species, and of many we could have gathered, -not single flowers, but whole handfuls, had we willed. Nor is the list -an exhaustive one either for the district or the time of year. Bringing -more eyesight, leisure, and diligence to the task, no doubt a fuller -inventory could be made in any mild season.— - -Dandelion. Hawkweed. Strawberry. - -Furze. Penny Cress. Teasel. - -Red Dead-nettle. Hedge Mustard. Sun Spurge. - -White Dead-nettle. Dwarf Spurge. Hedge Parsley. -Knapweed. - Mallow. Rock-rose. -Marguerite. - Harebell. Crane’s-bill. -Poppy. - Daisy. Heather. -Musk Thistle. - Hogweed. Betony. -Charlock. - Yarrow. Viper’s Bugloss. -Buttercup. - Sheepsbit. Burnet Saxifrage. -Red Clover. - Marjoram. Sow-thistle. -White Clover. - Cudweed. Wild Pansy. -Pimpernel. - Groundsel. Shepherd’s Purse. -Calamint. - Nipplewort. Nonsuch. -Blackberry. - Small Bindweed. Ivy. -Mayweed. Herb-Robert. - Chickweed. -Field Madder. Ragwort. - Veronica. -Sandwort. Silverweed. - -White Campion. Persicary. - -Red Campion. Mouse-ear. - -II - - -There has come a spell of chilly, overcast weather, and the long dark -evenings have settled upon us at a stroke. At twilight to-day, as I came -into this silent-floored, comfortable room, and lit the candles on my -work-table, it seemed strange that I should do so, and yet the ordinary -life and traffic of the village be still going on outside. Hitherto, so -it appeared, the village quiet had fallen always before the need for -candlelight. I had looked out before drawing the curtains close, and -heard not a step stirring, seen the windows dark in the lower storeys of -the cottages, and here and there a pale light glimmering behind the drawn -blinds of upper rooms, for your true Sussex villager hates to sleep in -the dark. But to-night some new order of things seemed to have been -suddenly ordained. Footsteps hurried or leisurely, voices old and young, -the rumble of wheels, even the distant chime of Tom Clemmer’s hammer—all -the sounds that go to make up the common rumour of work-a-day life in a -village, were abroad in the air; though already the hills were lost in -the gloaming: the white chrysanthemums by the garden-gate were nothing -but a dim blotch on the murky autumn night. - -I lit the candles—home-made candles of yellow beeswax—and set them on -their little mats of plaited green leather. I got out a new quire of -foolscap, sobering in its empty whiteness, its word-hungry look. I -arranged the ruler, the old cut-glass inkpot, the painted leaden frog -that serves for paperweight, the elephant that carries a penwiper as -houdah, ash-tray and tobacco-jar and sheaf of favourite pipes, all in -their proper stations. I drew the old oak elbow-chair sideways to the -table—sideways because that was non-committal: too squarely business-like -an approach in the outset, as I know of old time and cost, often scatters -the fairies into the next county, and you may chew to shreds a whole -quiverful of goose-quills before they again come crowding and whispering -curiously about your ears. - -But having made all these exact preparations, I chanced to turn to the -open window for a final look down the street, and knew at once that I was -lost. It was the steady far-off song from Tom Clemmer’s anvil that -overcame me more than anything, and the red glow amidst the elder-boughs -that overhung the forge. But all else conspired in one basilisk-like -lure to get me forth. The busy wending to and fro, and the cheery -commerce of tongues in the darkness, footsteps and voices that I knew as -well as I knew my own; twinkling lights in cottages, the illumined -windows of the little sweetstuff shop, the cobbler’s den, the inn, the -village store; the church lit up for evensong, and the bell quietly -tolling, as it seemed, somewhere far up in the black void of the sky; -again, the smell of the night, that moist, earthy fragrance of decaying -leaves, and tang of frost, and pungent scent of simmering fire-logs from -stacks new-broached on these first chilly evenings in November—it all -ranged itself together before me as something, ever present and constant -in my life, that I too often disregarded, took for granted—the jumble of -thatch and red-tiled roof and grey flint wall, sheep and lowing kine and -cackling poultry, bevy of kindly human hearts, sharp tongues and willing -hands, all wedged up together in one green crevice of the hills, and -calling themselves collectively by the old South-Saxon name of -Windlecombe. - -I went first of all a few strides out over the green and looked backward, -rightly to estimate, if I could, my own part in the little communal -symphony. The bluff bulk of the house, with its coven roof and many -gables, stood dark against the greyer darkness of the hills, and behind -it rose sable elm plumes fast thinning under the recent autumn chills. -From its windows shone lights of varying significance. There were my own -red-shaded candles with a corner of a crammed bookcase dimly visible -above them; there were naked kitchen lights with ware of polished pewter -and copper glinting behind, and a pleasant clatter of crockery; there was -a window where the light burnt red and low and wavering as from a spent -hearth, and a quiet ripple of music from a piano keeping it congenial -company; there was the window high up in the great gable, whose -flickering light cast a bunch of head-shadows on the ceiling, suggestive -of nursery bedtime, and fairy-tales round the fire. It was all very -reassuring and enheartening. Yes: the old White House had its integral -part to play in this good English game of Neighbourhood, and played it -passing well. - -Round Tom Clemmer’s forge a group of village lads was gathered, all -looking on at the work with an interest that amounted well-nigh to -fascination. As I came up, and stood unobserved in the shadow of the -elder-tree, there was before me a picture in which two colours only were -represented glowing crimson and deep velvety black. Young Tom stood, -pincers in hand, watching the iron in the fire. Behind him his -apprentice laboured at the bellows. With every wheezy puff, the furnace -roared out an imprecation, and spat hot cinders upon the floor. - -It was a large piece of metal that Tom had in work, something out of the -ordinary run of his business, it seemed, and he turned it and shifted it -with an anxious eye. No one spoke a word, for somehow we all knew that a -crisis was coming, and we were expected to hold our tongues until it was -victoriously past. At length the moment came. Tom thrust the pincers -into the blaze and drew the white-hot iron out upon the anvil. -Immediately the apprentice left the bellows, seized a great hammer, and -swinging it over his head, began to let fall on the metal an unceasing -rain of mighty blows. As Tom twisted and manoeuvred the glowing mass -about with all the strength of his wiry arms, it lengthened, squared -itself in the middle, flattened out at each end, bent into complicated -curves, then turned upon itself and was united miraculously head to tail. -Still gripping the writhing thing with one hand, Tom took a punch in the -other, and pointed it to various parts of the work; and wherever he -pointed, the hammer drove a bolt-hole clean and true through the rose-red -iron. Finally Tom lifted the finished piece above his head, and came -striding to the door with it. The crowd of onlookers scattered right and -left. Out into the darkness he plunged, and straight to the pool by the -roadside. We saw the thing poised for a moment like a mammoth fire-fly -over the water; and then, with a roar and an angry splutter, it vanished -into the pond. - -It was scarcely six o’clock, and already the night was pitch-black, with -a creeping, chilly air from the north. It was not loitering weather. -People were moving briskly on their several ways. Cottage doors were -shut, and windows diamonded with moisture. Roving about with no settled -purpose but to humour the neighbourly fancy, and to identify myself with -the evening life of the place, I presently came full tilt at a corner -upon Farmer Coles. - -‘The very man!’ said he, barring the way jovially with his stout oak -stick. ‘Didn’t ye promise me that when I killed that four-year-old -wether, ye’d come and take a bite along o’ us? Well, ’tis a saddle -to-night, and I was on the road to fetch ye. Round about, man, and -straight for the faarm!’ - -Now, when a South-Down flock-master—whose pedigree sheep are famous -throughout the county—bids you to his table, with the announcement that -the principal dish is to be mutton, there is only one thing to do, that -is, if you are human, and of sane mind. I turned and went along with him -without demur. - -‘Jane’s sister and her man be with us,’ said Farmer Coles, as we left the -village behind and mounted the steep lane that led to the farmhouse. -‘And Weaverly ’ull be there; and the gells be home, so we wunt lack for -company. I don’t know as ye ever met Jane’s sister’s man?—Parrett by -name. No? Wunnerful well-eddicated man, though, he be.’ - -We found the Rev. Mr. Weaverly, a shining gem of purest water, set in the -ring of hearty country faces that surrounded the drawing-room fire. The -broad-shouldered, broad-faced man, with a mat of sandy beard and a very -bald head, who occupied the great armchair in the corner, I judged to be -Mr. Parrett. Mrs. Coles and her sister, both comfortable of mien and -rigidly ceremonious of visage, sat side by side in flowing black silk -gowns, knitting as for a wager. The younger members of the household, -who filled the interspaces of the circle, fidgeted in a constraint of -merry silence, exchanging covert glances of boredom, and all obviously -pricking ears for the first sound of the dinner-gong. This clanged out -behind us almost at the moment of our entry into the room, providentially -cutting short the first amenities of greeting; and before my fingers had -done aching from Mr. Parrett’s grip, I found myself sitting at the loaded -board with Mrs. Parrett’s voluminous drapery overflowing me on the one -side, and, on the other, her husband’s great brown barricade of an elbow -securely fencing me in. - -‘Mutton,’ observed Mr. Weaverly presently, by way of filling up a pause -in the conversation due to our all watching with secret anxiety Farmer -Coles’s attack on the joint, ‘mutton, and on a Monday! You remember the -little game of alliteration we played at the school treat, Mrs. Coles? -Really, we could make an admirable sequence here! Mutton, and Monday, -and Miss Matilda sitting by my side, and—and—if it were only March -instead of—’ - -‘And we’ll soon all be munchin’ of it, sir!’ cried Farmer Coles. ‘Ha, -ha, ha! That’s the best Hem o’ all! Gravy, George?’ - -At the inclusion of her name in the sequence, the eldest Miss Coles had -blushed, then let her glance demurely droop upon her -chrysanthemum-wreathed bosom. It was a moment of exceeding pride and -satisfaction to her, for here was Mr. Weaverly beside her—an -incontestable, a beautiful fact—while Miss Sweet for once was half a mile -away. Now she looked up coyly. - -‘I think,’ she hesitated, ‘I could suggest a— Oh! I know a lovely one!’ - -Mr. Weaverly laid down knife and fork, to rub his hands delightedly. - -‘Do tell us!’ he murmured. ‘I am positively longing to—’ - -The eldest Miss Coles turned him glamorous eyes. - -‘Marmaduke!’ she said. - -And I think I was the only one present to realise the whole ingenuity of -the manœuvre. For she had contrived here, in the open family circle, -before a dozen people, yet with entire meetness and propriety, to address -Mr. Weaverly by his Christian name. - -As the meal progressed, and tongues became generally loosened, Mr. -Parrett—whose silence, except as regarded his hearty application to his -food, had so far remained unbroken—now essayed to contribute his share of -the talk. His first effort was a startling one. - -‘D-d-d’ he began, smiling over his shoulder at me, ‘d-do you l-l-l—’ He -stopped, and gazed helplessly towards his wife. - -‘Like, dear?’ suggested Mrs. Parrett, softly. - -‘N-no! I was agoing t-t-to ask ye if ye l-l-l—’ - -‘Lend, then?’ - -‘Hur, hur! Emma, I don’t want to b-b-borrow nauthin’ o’ the gentleman! -It was just to ask if he l-l-lived—there y’ are!—in W-w-w— Whatsay, -Jane?’ - -‘’Tis apple-pie, George. Or maybe ye’d sooner try the—’ - -‘Pie, Jane! Pie, my d-dear! Pie, if _you_ please, mum! An’ a double -dose o’ sh-sh-shuggar. They allers says—don’t they, sir?—as if a man has -a sweet-t-t-t—’ - -‘Sweetheart, dear?’ - -‘Oo, ay!’ laughed Mr. Parrett, suddenly inspired. He looked across the -table roguishly at Mr. Weaverly and Matilda, and all glances followed -his. ‘Ah, well: n-n-never mind! We was all young once, and—’ - -Mrs. Coles deftly drew the fire of attention away from the absorbed, -unconscious pair. - -‘William, dear; Emma has nothing in her glass. And there you sit, -staring at the cheese as if—as if it were only for show, and as wooden as -you are! And do pray pass the old ale to Mr.—’ - -‘Oh, deplorably, deplorably so!’ sighed Mr. Weaverly to the rapt Matilda. -‘Over and over again I have remonstrated with her, but all in vain, I -fear. Each time I have said, “Mrs. Gates, if you will feed little -children on new hot bread, and red herrings, and”—only think of -it!—“beer, you will find not only their physical but their moral nature -entirely—”’ - -It is strange how, in a room full of heterogeneous talk, the attention of -a quiet listener flits uncontrollably from one quarter to another. Much -as I was interested in Mrs. Gates’s domestic policy, I lost it here, to -find myself in the rick-yard, taking part, against my will, in some -complicated sporting affray. - -‘And there were three of them, father, in the trough; and I crept up and -got the gun-barrel through a hole in the side of the sty, and just as the -old buck-rat—’ - -And then it was Mr. Parrett again. - -‘Emma ’ull tell ye b-b-better ’n me, Jane. It came hoot-tooting round -the corner, and afore I could s-s-s—’ - -‘Stop, George?’ - -‘N-n-nonsense!—afore I could s-s-s—’ - -‘Seize hold o’ the—?’ - -‘Emma, do bide quiet!—afore I could s-s-say Jack Robinson, the ould mare, -she b-b-backed upon her harnches, and she—’ - -And from Miss Matilda: - -‘Oh! I should so love to, Mr. Weaverly! Is there a very beautiful view? -And could we walk there and back in an afternoon, do you think?’ - -And from Farmer Coles, folding up his napkin: ‘Well, if no one wunt have -no more—’ - -The rest was lost in the rustle of Mrs. Coles’s skirts, as she uprose. - -‘And now, William dear, I think we ladies will leave you to your smoke. -And when you are quite ready, we will have a rubber and a little music.’ - -In the drawing-room presently, the farmer and his wife, and Mr. and Mrs. -Parrett, sat down to a solemn, silent game of whist. A ‘Happy Family’ -party made a vortex of merriment in a far corner. At the piano stood Mr. -Weaverly, translating into soft melodious trifles such songs as ‘The -Wolf’ and ‘Hearts of Oak.’ As for me, I was happy in the great chair -with the family portrait album, full of early Victorian photographs, -which I sincerely believe to be amongst the most fascinating and -informing productions of all that fertile reign. But after an hour of -this inspiring occupation, I was suddenly roused to the contemplation of -a still greater wonder. One of the card-players had spoken, and that -sharply. - -‘Emma! Emma, my dear!’ - -I strolled over, and watched the play. Something had happened to disturb -Mr. Parrett, for though his face was turned from me, I could see that his -bald head had taken on a purple hue. And gradually, as the game -progressed, the mystery became clear. - -‘Emma, my d-d-_dear_! Emma!’ - -It was Mr. Parrett’s voice again, and this time with a sharper ring of -warning and remonstrance. Two or three times in the next half-hour he -spoke thus, and each time now I was able to detect the cause. Mrs. -Parrett was cheating. Continually her neck craned for a sidelong view of -her opponents’ cards. She revoked unblushingly. Once I could have sworn -I saw a card-corner sticking out of a fold in her silken lap. The aces -she seemed to be trying to mark with her thumb-nail. And all the time, -though Mr. Parrett got momentarily redder and more wrathful, Farmer Coles -and his wife sat serenely smiling, evidently well used to dear Emma and -her little harmless, eccentric ways. - - - -III - - -Here is a winter’s day already, and still November. As I looked forth at -sunrise this morning, the whole village was white with frost. I could -hear the ice in the wheel-ruts crackling under the tread of passers-by. -A single thrush piped forlornly somewhere in the dense thicket of the -churchyard. And as I leaned out into the nipping blast, a word came up -to me, bandied between a trudging labourer and his friend, a word that -brought with it an entire new sheaf of thoughts and memories. ‘More ’n -’aaf like Christmas, bean’t ut, Bill?’ It was said but in jest, and that -unthinkingly. Yet, by the calendar, as a glance now told me, Christmas -was scarce a month away. - -While the sun was yet no more than a white spot in the faint gold mists -of morning, I took the lane that led to the Downs. It was strange to see -how the frost had missed all the bright-hued berries in the hedgerows, -and how the ivy-leaves were only rimmed with white. It was the same with -the prickly holly foliage. The spines were thickly encrusted, while the -dark green membranes of the leaves had given no fingerhold to the frost. -But the colour of the grass, and dead dry herbage, by the wayside was -completely blotted out. Every blade and twig stood up stark and white -against its fellow; and here it was easy to see which way the frozen air -had been drifting all night long, because on the windward side the pale -accretion was thicker: in the more exposed places it more than doubled -the natural girth of the stems. - -Where the dew-pond lay, at the top of the hill, far above the swimming -lowland mists, there must have been bright sunshine from the very first; -for here the veneer of frost had melted into dewdrops, that flashed back -a thousand prismatic rays amidst the emerald of the grass at every step. -But behind each upstanding tussock, the frost still held as white and -thick as ever. The water, too, in the pond was still frozen over. As I -came up to the rail, a flock of starlings rose whirring over my head. -They had been waiting there on the sunny side of the bank for the ice to -melt round the pond edges, and thither they would return to slake their -morning thirst, as soon as I passed on. - -Keen and unkindly blew the blast, so that one must keep ever moving to -withstand the chill of it. Looking round me on the waste of hills, I -could see that the northern slopes still retained their wintry hue, -though all those facing to the sun were intensely green. Below in the -valley only the oak-woods kept their bronze stain of autumn. Every other -tree, the hedges that divided ploughlands and meadows, the winding line -of thicket marking the course of the river, all looked bare and dark in -the glistening pallor of the sun. The river itself, between the broad -water-meadows, seemed like a river of ink. - - [Picture: “The Ferryman’s Cottage”] - -As I took in all the cheerless, void purity of what lay below me, -thinking to myself that this indeed was winter, there came a sudden -cawing and dawing high up in the frosty steel-blue dome of the sky; and -here again was confirmation of that unenlivening fact. A great company -of rooks and jackdaws was streaming by, but with none of its summer zest -and purpose. The throng made a general progress towards the south, yet -it was obviously doing little more than killing time, spinning out the -business of a doubtful journey into the semblance of a morning’s task. -Instead of going straight forward in one steady strong tide, the birds -were incessantly veering back in wide circles, crossing and re-crossing -each other’s paths aimlessly, and weaving a mazy dark pattern on the sky. - -I watched this dubious host from the hill-top until it vanished in the -eye of the sun; and then, fairly beaten at last by the razor-edged north -wind, turned and went back to the village. It was winter again, in very -truth; and there was little sense or profit in blinking it. I would -strike my flag now, as I had struck it often before. And the flag with -me was the little staging of fernery that still concealed the yawning -blackness of my study hearth. I pulled it all down and stowed it away; -and by and by, when the ash logs were sizzling and glowing, and the -sparks were volleying up the flue, and a living warmth pervading the -room, I plucked up new heart and courage: - - ‘No mirth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, - No comfortable feel in any member; - No warmth, no shine—’ - -It was all as false now as it must ever have been. And as for -butterflies and bees, what but a sick fancy could crave for such -delicacies out of season? - - - - -DECEMBER - - -I - - -WE sat on the churchyard wall, the Reverend and I, debating many things. - -It was one of those silent, gloomy afternoons that would be cold but for -their exceeding stillness. A heavy grey pall of sky lowered overhead. A -multitude of noisy sparrows was going to bed in the thicket of ilex and -yew, denoting that the time was nearing sunset, although not a tinge of -sunset colour showed in the shrouded west. The same impulse, it seemed, -had brought us both out of doors, which, elementally, was nothing more -than a sudden realisation of the impossibility of remaining within. In -the whole year’s round, perhaps, there come only two or three days like -this. You become the prey of a conviction that something cataclysmic is -going to happen. There is a sense of the world slowing down in its -age-long, giddy race through the pathless ether; a feeling that its -momentum is almost spent, and that any instant it may come to a final -stop, to be followed by the Last Trump and dissolution of all things. -The mute house seems alive about you, and full of a sort of terror and -foreboding. You are seized with an apprehension that the ceilings and -roof are falling in; and, hurrying forth, a like doubt comes upon you as -to the stability of the sky: it looks so overburdened and unsafe. In -this easeless, impotent frame of mind, I came up into the churchyard as -being the most reassuring place I could think of, and found the Reverend -wandering there for a like reason and in much the same mood. - -‘Wind and dirty weather coming,’ said he, ‘the sort of times to make -people think of home and fireside, the need for human peace on earth, and -good-will towards men—the very weather for me.’ - -As we sat on the wall, silent awhile, the bells in far-off Stavisham -began their chime, every note drifting over to us sharp and clear through -the miles of torpid air. - -‘Winter coming,’ he went on; ‘the winter we all need once a year to knit -us closer together. Listen to Saint Barnabas practising his Christmas -carillons!—forging his link in the chain of bell-ringing that in a week -or two will stretch all round the world. It is my time coming, my own -time. For did you ever think how little eyesight matters at Christmas? -Blindness is nothing to a man then. Christmas is all glad sound; warm -heart-beats; faithful words. And, please God, when the day dawns, there -shall not be a cottage-nest in Windlecombe that does not overflow with -these.’ - -To see him so deeply moved, and hear him run on presently about his many -schemes of comfort and relief, the furtherance of joy and merriment, -good-will and good cheer, to be sown broadcast throughout his little -domain, was yourself to take the infection irresistibly. Whatever -Christmas has become in the great outer world, in Windlecombe he held us -year by year to all the old ideals and traditions. As I harkened to him, -the black sky, the sullen, miasmic air, lost their significance. I found -myself thinking only of the golden light and undimmed azure that must -eternally lie beyond and above it all. And now—though I might have heard -it long ago, if I had had but the heart to look up and listen—there, high -against the drab heaven, a lark soared and sang. - - - -II - - -The dirty weather has come indeed. For many days I have not seen the -tops of the hills. They have been hidden in the rain-clouds that have -been dragging ceaselessly over the combe. The rain has not seemed to -fall, but to flow horizontally from west to east, a gliding white curtain -of water-drops, hiding all but the nearest houses from the view. And -yet, for all the deluge and the sobbing wind, the gloom, the cold, the -miry ways, I would not change this solitary, inaccessible spot in England -for the best of foreign sunshine, ease, and gaiety to be found by the -Tideless Sea. - -Perhaps, if winter is to be given a place at all in the calendar, it must -come in these few weeks leading on to Christmas. It is true that, so far -as the natural outdoor world is concerned, there is no winter, in the -human conception of a season of decay and death. In an hour, when the -sky lightened a little and the rain ceased its rattle on the window, I -went out and found next year’s corn greening the hill-side; and in all -the bare dark woodland there was not a twig without its new buds ripe and -ready for another spring. The year’s miracle-play was beginning all over -again before its last lines were said. - -Yet because, as the old vicar maintains, winter is a human necessity by -reason of its heart-welding, neighbour-making qualities, winter we must -all have; and so at this time I am glad to hoodwink myself into the -belief that the rough-voiced, harrying weather is the very negation of -life, bringing us all together for mutual comfort, like children in the -dark. - -The rain is over now, seemingly for good. Last night at sundown the wind -fell, and the grey cloud canopy lifted off to the northward, like the -opening lid of a box. As the dense cloud pack broke away from the -western horizon, the sun burst through, and poured a sudden stream of -red-gold light up the combe. Before this light had paled, the whole sky -was crystal clear; and in the east, just above the earth-line, shone the -moon—a perfect human face, full-jowled, low-foreheaded, gazing down upon -us all with a puzzled, quizzical smile upon her comfortable chops. I -came up the street apostrophising her, and ran into a basket, and behind -the basket was Grewes. He laid a bunch of lean bony fingers in my hand. - -‘This is life again,’ he said feelingly. ‘To be weatherbound in a -caravan, you know— Well, it is a little trying even for common people, -but for a genius—Spelthorne, you see, cannot bear any constraint. At -home he has a studio as big as a church, and when it rains he walks up -and down it. But when he tries that in a caravan— Really, I have been -very sorry for him, though of course I kept outside as much as I could.’ - -I had turned and strolled back with him under the pale December twilight. -The new quiet of things, the frosty glimmer of the moon, here and there a -star beginning to show, the renovated life of the village about us—all -made for peace and content. Grewes suddenly stopped and laid his basket -down. - -‘Spelthorne wants to move on now,’ he told me; ‘he says we have painted -the place out, and I haven’t tried to persuade him, you know, but—but—I -don’t want to go, and that’s a fact.’ - -He looked at me distressfully, his stubbly lantern jaw in his lean hand. - -‘What has happened to change the place so?’ he asked. ‘Everybody you -meet looks as if bound for a wedding. You are all humming carol tunes -wherever you go. I haven’t seen a dirty-faced child for a week. And how -the people joke and laugh with each other! It can’t be all because -Christmas—’ - -‘Yes, it is,’ said I, ‘it is all because one old man we love insists on -having it so, year by year. He has been into every home in the village, -great and small, and fired each man, woman, and child with his own -rejoicing spirit. If you stop for the next ten days, you will see things -change more thoroughly still. Wait till you see them bringing the -Christmas-tree up the hill for the children’s treat! And the committee -going round on Boxing-Day to award the prizes for the home decorations! -And if you have never heard real old-fashioned carols, nor listened to a -real Christmas sermon preached by a holy angel in a white beard—’ - -He took up his basket hurriedly. - -‘If—if I must go,’ he said, as we trudged on towards the quarry where the -caravan had made its pitch, ‘I shall think of you all wherever I— It -seems rather selfish to press him, don’t you think? But perhaps— Oh! -here we are! Do come in and talk to Spelthorne for a bit, will you? He -sees so little company, and—’ - -‘Is that you at last, Grewes? My good fellow, what an unconscionable -time to take in procuring no more than one pennyworth of pepper and just -a pound of gravy beef! To say that I am excessively annoyed is wholly to -understate my— Of course all my carefully-thought-out plans for the meal -are entirely upset!’ - -I drew back into the darkness. - -‘No, not to-night. There are times when you cannot stand—I mean, when a -call is not convenient, and— Why on earth don’t you tell the selfish old -brute to go to smithereens?’ - - - -III - - -This has been a week of undeniably hard work for us all, and one, at -least, is by no means sorry that to-morrow is Christmas Eve. - -Most of the time I seem to have spent on the top of a rickety step-ladder -in the school-room, having tin-tacks and boughs of holly and -gaily-coloured flags passed up to me by Mr. Weaverly and the mutually -distrustful Miss Sweet and Miss Matilda Coles. Tom Clemmer, helped by -half a dozen others, brought the great tree up from Windle Woods, and it -stands now in its tub of spangled cotton-wool, a gorgeous sight, every -branch weighed down with toy-shop treasures, the queen-doll at its apex -brandishing her gilt-starred sceptre high up among the oaken beams of the -ceiling. Every available chair or bench in the village has been -confiscated, and ranged round the room. The tables at the far end fairly -creak and groan under their burden of infantile good cheer. It is all -ready for to-morrow. We put in the finishing touches with the last gleam -of daylight this evening, Weaverly and I alone together. Then he locked -the door, speechlessly tired and happy, and faded away—a black but -benevolent ghost in goloshes—down the length of the darkening street. - -As for me, I followed at a respectful distance with no object definitely -in view but to smoke a quiet pipe after the day’s work, and enjoy the -unwonted life and bustle of the village. - -Thinking it over discriminately, it seemed to be a great thing, a real -advance on the true line of social progress, to be strolling about there, -taking unfeigned pleasure in the sight of two small shops doubtfully -illuminated with oil-lamps and candles, and in the sound made by perhaps -fifty people all told, as they clattered and chattered to and fro in a -single, narrow village street. There were folk, I knew, wandering just -as aimlessly in the crowded thoroughfares of great cities miles away, -whose ears were deafened with a prodigious uproar, and eyes blinded by a -myriad superfluous lights, but who were not half so entertained, so -thoroughly instilled with the sense of being one in a hustling, happy -Christmas multitude, as I. Then again, of all the thousands that the -city promenader meets in the crush of a London street between one -electric standard and the next, how many can he rightfully greet as -neighbour, or even remember to have seen before? While here was I, after -a good half-hour’s loitering up and down, who had encountered none but -old familiar faces, nor let one go by without the kind word or friendly -glance exchanged. Truly the scale, the mere arithmetic of life goes for -nothing: it is the proportional, the relative, that counts. There was -not so much folly as we imagine in the grave debate of the old -philosophers as to how many angels could stand upon a pin’s point. - -I tarried awhile in the broad beam of light that fell from the window of -the village store, and, in the company of a dozen other loiterers, -feasted eyes on its Yule-tide splendour. From where I stood on the -opposite side of the way, it seemed no less than a palace of glittering -beauty. Candles of all colours in little tinselled sconces shone amidst -the wares of everyday—bacon and worsted stockings, loaves of bread and -tin saucepans, butter, neckties, bars of mottled soap, and trousers in -moleskin or corduroy. The ceiling of the shop, which at ordinary times -is hidden by hanging festoons of boots, basket-ware, hedging-gloves, -coils of rope, was intersected now by chains of coloured paper and -threadled holly-leaves. There was a suspended roasting-jack in a corner -slowly twirling round a grand set-piece of Christmas knick-knacks; and -there were two copper coalscuttles, the one filled with oranges, the -other heaped high with bunches of green grapes that made the mouth water -a dozen yards away. All these I gazed upon, and at the jostling throng -of housewives, at least half a score, within, and at the red-faced, -perspiring shopkeeper overdone with business; and from the bottom of my -heart, I rejoiced that they sufficed for me, that I should go to bed that -night with as complete a sense of having looked on at the great world’s -Yuletide gladness as if I had tired out feet and eyes and nerves in the -roaring maelstrom at the Elephant, or the Messina Strait of the Strand. -For indeed life and its disciplines, its experiences, its outcomes, can -be no mere matters of dimension: when we come at last to find eternity -and the angels, they are as like to be on a pin’s point as out-thronging -all the labyrinth of the Milky Way. - -From the village store I moved on presently to the little sweetstuff -shop, and stood awhile looking in through the holly-garlanded door. -Susan sat in a wilderness of scalloped silver paper, presiding over a -lucky tub. There was no getting near her to-night for the mob of -children that surrounded her, and overflowed into the street; but she -bawled me an affectionate Christmas greeting, and passed me, by half a -dozen intervening hands—in exchange for a thrown halfpenny—a packet from -the lucky-dip, which proved to contain a cherubim modelled out of pink -scented soap. With this symbolic testimony to our old-time friendship -bulging my pocket, I went rambling on again, and in course of time -arrived at the Three Thatchers Inn. A tilt-cart was just driving away -from the door. A numerous company was gathered outside, speeding the -vehicle on its way with laugh and jest. - -‘Ye’ve not fared so bad,’ roared old Daniel Dray, as he spied me in the -darkness, ‘though ye didn’t come to th’ drawin’. Ye’ve got a topside, -an’ a hand o’ pig-meat. Stall’ard here, he’s got wan o’ th’ turkeys, an’ -young George Artlett th’ tother. A good club it ha’ been, considerin’. -An’ now the lot o’ us ha’ got to bide here ’til Dan’l gets hoame from -Stavisham wi’ th’ tack.’ - -This annual prize-drawing, and division of the Christmas Club funds, with -the subsequent wait in the cosy inn parlour while the things were fetched -from the town, was a great event in Windlecombe. On this one night in -the year, we cultivated as a fine art the pleasure of anticipation, and -each did his best to make the time go with mirth and neighbourly -good-will. The occasion was also, in some degree, a kind of benefit for -the landlord, to which all might contribute as a duty, if by any chance -the inclination lacked. Looking round the crowded room, I could think of -hardly one of the well-known faces that was missing. The old ferryman -was there—how he got there was a mystery; but there he was, in the corner -of the settle whence he had been absent so long. Even George Artlett had -stayed to await the arrival of his turkey, and now sat at my side -quaffing lemonade, his face as grave and thoughtful as ever, but his eyes -twinkling with a jollity I had never seen in them before. - -Young Daniel knew that no one would desire to curtail this part of the -prize-drawing ceremony, and there was little fear of his wheels being -heard in the sloppy street for a good two hours to come. We stretched -out our legs to the cheery blaze, and felt that for once we had succeeded -in wing-clipping old Father Time. - -‘Beef-club drawin’ agen, Dan’l!’ - -‘Ay! beef-club drawin’ agen, Tom.’ - -In a break in the general clamour, the two veterans exchanged the thought -slowly and pensively, looking down their long pipe-stems into the fire. - -‘An’ no one gone, Dan’l.’ - -‘Ne’er a wan, Tom, thank God.’ - -‘How quirk ’a do hould hisself, to be sure,’ said old Tom Clemmer after a -pause, and none doubted who he meant. ‘Ah! an’ how ’a do brisk along -still! Another year o’ him by—’tis another blessin’. Here’s to un, wi’ -all our love an’ dooty!’ - -It was a silent toast, but drunk deep. George Artlett’s glass was -lighter than any when he set it down. - -‘But ’tain’t been allers so,’ old Clemmer went on ruminatively. ‘How -many drawin’s ha’ ye seen, Dan’l, boy an’ man?—threescore belike, and I -bean’t fur ahent ye. An’ many’s th’ time as summun’s money ha’ laid on -th’ table wi’ only widder or poor-box to claim it; an’ he, poor soul, -quiet i’ th’ litten-yard up there. Ay! ’tis a lucky drawin’ wi’ nane but -livin’ hands to draw.’ - -Daniel Dray took up the prize-list and scanned it curiously, his white -head thrown back, his spectacles straddling the extreme tip of his nose. - -‘An’ what,’ said he, ‘will a single man, onmarried, do wi’ a whole gurt -turkey-burd? An’ him wi’ never a wife! ’Tis wicked waste, neighbours! -Him an’ th’ parrot, they’ll ha’ nought but turkey-meat i’ th’ house from -now to Lady-time.’ - -Stallwood’s beady black eyes disappeared in a wide smile. - -‘I knowed a man once,’ he said, ‘out in Utah State in Murriky, ’twur—as -got a brace o’ ostriches at a Christmas drawin’; an’ when it come to -carvin’ at dinner-time, th’ pore feller, he got no more ’n half a bite -fer hisself because—’ He stopped, suddenly recollecting George Artlett’s -lustrating presence, ‘Ah! he wur married, I tell ye, an’ never a wured o’ -a lie!’ - -‘What’ll ’a do wi’ it, Dan’!?’ The old ferryman leant from his corner -eagerly, staring at the wall as though he saw there the picture that rose -in his mind. ‘What’ll ’a do wi’ it? Jest think on ’t! Nobbut hisself -in a quiet kitchen o’ Christmas morning—his boots on, an’ nane to rate un -for spannellin’ about—click-clack from the roastin’ jack, an’ tick-tack -from th’ clock, an’ a good cuss now an’ agen from th’ ould parrot, but -never a wured o’ wimmin’s wrath. Ah, life!—’tis all jest a gurt -beef-club drawin’! Some on us draws peace an’ quiet an’ turkey-burds, -an’ some draws—’ - -His lips closed on his pipe-stem with a snap. A commiserate shake of the -head went round the company. - -‘An’ here,’ went on old Daniel, still conning the prize-list, ‘here be -Jack Farley wi’ bare money an’ fower ounces o’ tobacker—him as doan’t -smoke, an’ has sixteen i’ family. Lor’, Jack! how that there deuce-ace -do foller ye i’ life!’ - -Jack Farley sat in the draughtiest seat by the door, his invariable -modest choice of station. No one had ever seen him without a smile on -his emaciated, sun-blackened face; and now he was smiling more -determinedly than ever. - -‘I dunno’, Dan’1,’ he expostulated gently. ‘’Twur a real double-six when -’er an’ me come together all they years ago. An’ th’ chillern, they be -good throws, every wan. An’ that there noo little ’un, Dan’l—nauthin’ o’ -th’ deuce-ace about him, I tell ye! But them as putts to sea, Dan’l, -they must look fer rough weather, time and agen.’ - -He squared himself and gazed about him as though his weekly carter-wage -of fourteen shillings were as many pounds. Then he beat his mug upon the -table jovially. ‘An’ now,’ said he, ‘I’ll sing ye “Th’ Mistletoe -Bough!”’ - -It was the beginning of the real entertainment of the evening. Vocal -music in the Three Thatchers at ordinary times was accounted a rather -disreputable thing—a mere tap-room vulgarism—by the habitual parlour -company; but on certain rare nights in the year, of which this was one, -every man present was expected to sing. One by one now, in Jack Farley’s -wake, followed the rest of the assembly, and every song had a chorus that -shook the very roof-beams of the house. No man thought of looking at the -clock until, in the midst of a doleful melody from the landlord, old Tom -Clemmer suddenly sprang to his one available foot. - -‘’Tis th’ cart!’ he cried, and made for the door. In the general -stampede after him, I heard Captain Stallwood’s grumbling voice: - -‘Ut bean’t right nohow fer people as caan’t use tobacker to draw un away -from them as can. I means to ha’ that there fower ounces, Dan’l. An’ -Jack Farley—th’ ould swab!—’a must make out as best ’a can wi’ th’ -turkey-burd.’ - - - -IV - - -‘Yes, I can see it,’ said the Reverend, ‘plainer than the sun in a midday -sky.’ - -With a taper at the end of a long cane, I had just ignited the last of -the candles, and the great Christmas-tree stood up before us, clad, from -its bole to its highest twig, in a shimmering garment of light. We two -were alone in the schoolroom, but beyond the closed door, we knew, was -Mr. Weaverly; and, beyond him again, a sea of expectant faces filling the -wide porch, and stretching out half across the street under the still, -frost-bound night. Every child that was not whispering excitedly to its -neighbour, was crooning to itself with irrepressible joy; and the sound -came to us through the solid timber like the sound of a bee-hive just -going to swarm. - -‘Now open the door,’ said the Reverend, getting into his corner. ‘And if -you miss a single thing, I’ll haunt you when I am gone to the end of your -miserable life.’ - -I turned the key in the lock, and retreated hastily. The door flung -open. I saw the black form of Mr. Weaverly flicker aside, and expected -the whole room to be invaded in a minute by an avalanche of scrambling, -vociferating mites. But it did not happen so. - -‘Not one has come in yet,’ said I, over the Reverend’s shoulder. ‘They -are just peering in at the door. I can see thirty faces, perhaps, with -thirty mouths, and twice as many eyes, opened wide; but never a smile -among the lot. How quiet they keep! But now trembling fingers are -coming round the doorposts, and a boot or two has got beyond the -threshold. The reluctant vanguard is being pressed forward by those -behind. They are creeping in now at last. The crowd has divided, and -they are edging up the room right and left, keeping their shoulders -against the walls. And all the time every wide-open eye remains fixed -upon the tree in awestruck delight. You hear that low whispering note? -They are beginning to find their voices again, and the girls are at last -venturing to let go one another’s hands. They are all in now, I think. -At least the room could hardly hold another—’ - -And just as a failing mill-dam begins to ooze, then to trickle and spurt, -and finally, in a moment gives way before the pressing tide, so the -silence now broke down under the flood of child voices. Shouts and -hurrahs, shrill peals of laughter, a hubbub of delighted commentary, made -the rafters vibrate above us, and the window-glass tremble in its -quarries. Before the din had so far moderated that I could get my tongue -to work again in the old vicar’s service, Weaverly and his satellites -were forging ahead with the first joyful business of the night. - -It all comes back to me now—as I sit alone and late by my workroom -fire—clearer perhaps than when I was in the vortex of it all, with the -happy voices ringing about me, and the toy-drums and trumpets, the -mouth-organs and the whistle-pipes, each going to swell the already -deafening chorus the moment it was cut from the tree and put into some -eager, uplifted hand. I can see the great glittering pyramid of the tree -slowly giving up its treasures, until it bears nothing but the queen-doll -waving her star-tipped wand up among the flags and paper chains and holly -garlands of the ceiling. I see Weaverly, poised on the top of the -rickety ladder, gingerly dislodging her from her perch, while two -overdressed and over-perfumed ladies hold the ladder firm below, and gaze -up at him with fond and anxious eyes. - -Now at last I see the Christmas-tree deserted, forgotten, while the -tables at the end of the room are unloading themselves of their cakes and -oranges and the score of other items appertaining to the feast. This is -a silent time, save for the exploding crackers and occasional shrieks of -fearsome delight; but it is over at last. The games begin, and with them -reawakens all the old turmoil in redoubled fury. Though each of us has -eaten more than is credible in any but a Downland-bred child, this in no -way impairs our agility. We hunt the slipper; we sing ourselves hoarse -with ‘Green Gravel’; we play ‘Blind Man’s Buff,’ and the Reverend, being -caught, is allowed to go through the part of Blind Man, at his own jovial -suggestion, without the handkerchief over his eyes. - -And now two things come back to me more significant than all. But for -this busy quarter of an hour—when he is staggering to and fro, clutching -at pinafores and shock heads of hair—the Reverend has been rather a -silent and deliberate figure in the midst of all the madcap business, -more detached and quiet than I have known him at other Christmas gaieties -bygone. He has hovered about on the fringe of the merrymaking, -happy-faced as ever, yet with a certain slowness, a languor, that I have -never marked in him before. This is the one thing. The other is a -random glance I take over my shoulder at the Christmas-tree, when the fun -and frolic are at their highest. Pathetically forlorn and deserted it -looks, with bits of string clinging here and there to its drooping green -fronds, a single shining trinket hanging forgotten on one of its lower -branches, and half its glory already quenched. As I look at it, every -moment sees another candle gutter out and die. A few minutes more, I -think, and it will be nothing but a sombre and solemn fir-tree again, -ready to be carted down and set once more amidst the silent glooms of the -wood. Somehow, in spite of myself, the two things, the two thoughts, -blend themselves indivisibly together. I am glad now that, while through -the long evening I poured into the Reverend’s patient ear much idle -chatter and many feather-brained conceits, I said no word to him about -the dying Christmas-tree. - -While I have been sitting here, turning over these thoughts, my own -candles have burned low: the wood-fire has sunk to a few waning embers: -it must be growing late, how late I do not guess until I turn to look at -the clock. Almost midnight! Another minute or two, and then—Christmas -morning! Perhaps, as the night is so clear and still, I shall be able to -hear the hour chime in far-off Stavisham. I go to the window, throw back -the casement against the rustling ivy, and look forth. - -There is the glimmer of a lantern over by the Seven Sisters on the green, -and a sound of people talking quietly together. I think I can -distinguish George Artlett’s deep tones, and his brother Tom’s—the -Singing Plowman’s—higher, clearer speech, and an admonitory word or two -that might be Weaverly’s. The clock is striking now. Before its last -droning note dies on the frosty air, the darkness beneath me fills with a -living, joyous music: - - ‘Hark! the herald angels sing - Glory to the new-born King, - Peace on earth, and mercy mild, - God and sinners reconciled. - Joyful all ye nations, rise, - Join the triumph of the skies; - With the angelic host proclaim, - “Christ is born in Bethlehem.” - Hark! the herald angels sing - Glory to the new-born King!’ - - * * * * * - - * * * * * - - Printed by T. and A. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: Neighbourhood - A year's life in and about an English village - - -Author: Tickner Edwardes - - - -Release Date: August 19, 2020 [eBook #62978] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEIGHBOURHOOD*** -</pre> -<p>This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler</p> -<p style="text-align: center"> -<a href="images/n1.jpg"> -<img alt= -"‘Homeward Bound’" -title= -"‘Homeward Bound’" - src="images/n1.jpg" /> -</a></p> -<h1>NEIGHBOURHOOD</h1> -<p style="text-align: center">A YEAR’S LIFE IN AND -ABOUT</p> -<p style="text-align: center">AN ENGLISH VILLAGE</p> - -<div class="gapspace"> </div> -<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br -/> -TICKNER EDWARDES<br /> -<span class="GutSmall">AUTHOR OF ‘THE LORE OF THE -HONEY-BEE’</span></p> - -<div class="gapspace"> </div> -<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">WITH EIGHT -ILLUSTRATIONS</span></p> - -<div class="gapspace"> </div> -<p style="text-align: center">NEW YORK<br /> -E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY<br /> -31 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET</p> -<p style="text-align: center">1912</p> - -<div class="gapspace"> </div> -<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -v</span>CONTENTS</h2> -<table> -<tr> -<td colspan='3'></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span -class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td colspan='3'><p>INTRODUCTION</p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#pagexi">xi</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td colspan='3'><p>JANUARY</p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page1">1</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">I.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Hard Times—Wild Life and the Frost—The Thaw at -Last—Solitude and a Fireside—Cricket -Music—Fiction and Life—Wood versus Coal.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">II.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Truantry—Spring in January—Wind and Sun on the -Downs—A Shepherd Family—Brothers in -Arms—‘Rowster’—The -Folding-Call—Dew-Ponds and their Making—The Sign in -the Sky.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">III.</p> -</td> -<td><p>The Starling Host.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td colspan='3'><p>FEBRUARY</p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page27">27</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">I.</p> -</td> -<td><p>The Village Green—Daybreak—The Morning -Dew.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">II.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Under the ‘Seven Sisters’—Courting -Days.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">III.</p> -</td> -<td><p>The Elm Blossom—A Wild Night—By the -River—The Hazel-Wood—Meadow Life</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">IV.</p> -</td> -<td><p>The Coming of the Lambs—Night in the -Lambing-Pens—The Luck of Windlecombe—‘White -Eye.’</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td colspan='3'><p><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -vi</span>MARCH</p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page55">55</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">I.</p> -</td> -<td><p>The Woodland Clearing—Rabbit and Stoat—The -Rain Bird—‘Skugging’—The Lovers’ -Tree—An Adventure in Forestry.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">II.</p> -</td> -<td><p>The ‘Sea-Blue Bird of March’—The Old -Ferryman.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">III.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Lion and Lamb—The Churchyard Wall—Yew and -Almond-Tree—Evensong—A Prophet of Evil.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">IV.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Wild March—Rejuvenation—On the -Downs—River and Brook—The Long White Road—A -Mystery of Rubies—The Thrush.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td colspan='3'><p>APRIL</p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page82">82</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">I.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Sunday Morning—The Black Sheep—A Song in the -Wood.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">II.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Rain and Shine—The Wryneck—Bees and -Primroses.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">III.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Fulfilment—The Martins—The First -Cuckoo—Bluebells—Swallows and Nightingales.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">IV.</p> -</td> -<td><p>April on Windle Hill—Downland Larks.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td colspan='3'><p>MAY</p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page104">104</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">I.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Busy Times—The Forge—Two Ancient -Families—The Sweetstuff Shop—Silent Company—The -Three Thatchers.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">II.</p> -</td> -<td><p>The Long Back-Reach—In the Willow Bower—A New -Song and an Old Story.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">III.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Whitsunday—God’s House Beautiful—The -Soul-Shepherd.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">IV.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Ringing the Bees—An old-fashioned Bee-Garden.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">V.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Corpus Christi: an Impression.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td colspan='3'><p>JUNE</p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page132">132</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">I.</p> -</td> -<td><p>The Old Brier-Bush—Chaffinch and -Willow-Wren—The Mowing-Grass—The First Wild Rose.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><a name="pagevii"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. vii</span>II.</p> -</td> -<td><p>The Sheep-Wash.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">III.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Rainy Days—Old Times and New—The -Reverend’s Garden—Darkie and his Den.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">IV.</p> -</td> -<td><p>The Cotter’s Saturday Night—The Cricket -Committee—Summer Gloaming.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td colspan='3'><p>JULY</p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page161">161</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">I.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Summertide—The Teasel Traps—Bees in the -Tares—Poppies and Wheat—The -Oat-field—Swifts.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">II.</p> -</td> -<td><p>The Cricket Match.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">III.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Time and the Town—The Beginning of Harvest-Sport and -Nature—In the Seed-hay—The Storm.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td colspan='3'><p>AUGUST</p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page189">189</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">I.</p> -</td> -<td><p>The Tea-Garden—In Search of Change—The -Trippers—A Mysterious Company.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">II.</p> -</td> -<td><p>The South-west Wind—Talk on the Downs—In the -Combe—A Reconciliation.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">III.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Travellers’ Tales.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td colspan='3'><p>SEPTEMBER</p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page210">210</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">I.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Odd Man out—The Little Tobacconist—A Talk by -the River.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">II.</p> -</td> -<td><p>The Waning Summer—Threshing.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">III.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Two Old Maids—The Minstrels.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">IV.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Autumn Dawn—The Cub Hunt—Thistle-down.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td colspan='3'><p>OCTOBER</p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page234">234</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">I.</p> -</td> -<td><p>The Going of the Martins—Spider-Webs.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">II.</p> -</td> -<td><p>A Legacy—The Caravan.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">III.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Gossamer—The Berry Harvest—Autumn -Changes—The Brown Owl—Glowworms—Birds that Pass -in the Night.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td colspan='3'><p><a name="pageviii"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. viii</span>NOVEMBER</p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page257">257</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">I.</p> -</td> -<td><p>The Colours of Autumn—The Ivy Bloom—The Two -Painters—A November Nosegay.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">II.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Night in the Village—Tom Clemmer—Dinner at the -Farm.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">III.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Winter at Last—Capitulation.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td colspan='3'><p>DECEMBER</p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page283">283</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">I.</p> -</td> -<td><p>Gloom and Shine.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">II.</p> -</td> -<td><p>House-Bound—A Happy Village.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">III.</p> -</td> -<td><p>A Voyage down the Street—The Beef Club Drawing.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td></td> -<td><p style="text-align: right">IV.</p> -</td> -<td><p>The Christmas-Tree—Voices in the Night.</p> -</td> -<td></td> -</tr> -</table> -<h2><a name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. ix</span>LIST -OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> -<table> -<tr> -<td><p><span class="smcap">Homeward Bound</span></p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><i>Frontispiece</i></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td><p><span class="smcap">Old Friends</span></p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page28">28</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td><p><span class="smcap">Springtime</span></p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page48">48</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td><p><span class="smcap">The Rinders</span></p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page80">80</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td><p><span class="smcap">The Bee-Master</span> -(<i>missing</i>)</p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page122">122</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td><p><span class="smcap">The Sheep-Wash</span></p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page146">146</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td><p><span class="smcap">Southdown Ewes</span></p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page200">200</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td><p><span class="smcap">The Ferryman’s -Cottage</span></p> -</td> -<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a -href="#page280">280</a></span></p> -</td> -</tr> -</table> -<h2><a name="pagexi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -xi</span>INTRODUCTION</h2> -<p><span class="smcap">If</span> you love the quiet of the -country—the real quiet which is not silence at all, but the -blending of a myriad scarce-perceptible sounds—you will get -it in Windlecombe, heaped measure, pressed down, and running -over, year in and year out.</p> -<p>The village lies just where Arun river breaks the green -rampart of the Sussex Downs. To the west, the lowest -cottages dwindle almost to the water’s brink. -Northward and eastward, the highest buildings stand afar off, -clear cut against the blue wall of the sky; while in between, -filling the deep, steep combe, church and inn and every kind of -dwelling-house, little or big, huddle together under their thatch -and old red tiles, with the village green in their midst, and a -thread of white road rippling through them all and up the steep -combe-side till it is lost in the sunny waste of the hills.</p> -<p>But there is no way through Windlecombe. From the market -town four miles off, the road <a name="pagexii"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. xii</span>is good enough; and good it remains -until it reaches the highest human outpost of the village. -But there it suddenly changes to a mere cart-track, soon to -vanish altogether in the green sward of the Down. And -therein lies Windlecombe’s chiefest blessing. Far -away on the great main road, when the wind is southerly, we can -hear the motor-bugles calling, and see pale comet-beams careering -through the night. But these things come no nearer. -At rare intervals, perhaps, a stray juggernaut will descend upon -us, and demand of some placid rustic the nearest way to -Land’s End or Aberdeen, returning disgusted on its tracks -when it learns that there is only one road from here to anywhere, -and that the road it came. But these ear-splitting, -malodorous happenings are few and far between. At all other -times, Windlecombe wears the quiet of the hills about it like a -garment. The dust of the highway has no soaring ambition to -whiten the hedgerows, or fill the cottagers’ cabbages with -grit. It still keeps to its ancient, lowly work of -smoothing the path for man and beast; and our children can play -in it unterrorised, our old dogs lie in it at their slumberous -ease.</p> -<p>How wild and quiet the place is, you can only realise by -living in it from year’s end to year’s <a -name="pagexiii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xiii</span>end, as -has been my own privilege for longer than I care to compute. For -how many ages a human settlement has existed in this wooded, -sun-flooded cleft of the Downs, it is impossible to hazard a -guess. Windlecombe is mentioned in <i>Domesday</i>, but the -stones of the old church proclaim it as belonging to times more -distant still. Be that as it may, its clustered roofs and grey -church tower have long been reckoned in the traditions of wild -life as part and parcel of the eternal hills. Birds -frequent Windlecombe as they haunt the beech-woods that hang upon -the sides of the combe. They use the rick-yards and gardens, the -very streets even, as they use the glades in the woodlands or the -verges of the brooks. You may come out of a winter’s -morning and see a heron flapping slowly out of your paddock, or -listen to a pheasant’s trumpeting on the other side of the -hedge. And in early summer you can sit on the garden bench, and, -looking up into the dim elm labyrinth overhead, watch a green -woodpecker at work, cutting the hole for his nest straight and -true into the heart of the wood. That the thrushes sing all day -long from Michaelmas to Midsummer Day, that in June you cannot -sleep for the nightingales, that there is never an hour of -daylight all the year round when a lark <a -name="pagexiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xiv</span>is not -carolling against the blue or stormy grey above the -village—these things you take as part of your rightful -daily fare, and are content.</p> -<p>But life in an English village derives its charm only in part -from its intimacy with wild Nature and all her wonders and -beauties, indispensable as these are to the daily lives of most -thinking, working men. There is no error so disastrous, humanly -speaking, as that which leads a man to seek happiness or -sublimity out of the beaten track of his fellows. Neighbourhood, -the daily interchange of thought and word and kindly deed, is a -necessity for all healthy human life, and the natural medium of -all true advancement. And nowhere will you find it of such -sturdy growth, rooted in such nourishing, yet temperate soil, -than in the villages of modern England.</p> -<p>Yet here it is necessary to discriminate, to mark conditions. -If one’s duty towards one’s neighbour assumes a real -and prime world’s importance in village life, it is equally -true that all men are not alike fit to be villagers, nor all -villages to be accounted neighbourly. It is an essential part of -the life I would describe in these pages that both the people and -the place should depend for existence on the day’s work; -work done, as far as may be, on the soil from which all <a -name="pagexv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. xv</span>sprang, and -to which all some day must return. The show villages, the little -lodging-letting communities that are to be found here and there, -must be excluded from the argument. Nor can men of private means, -however modest, find a natural place in the true villager ranks. -Where to all men life is a series of laborious days, tired -evenings, dreamless nights, you, lolling in the sunshine, or -playing at work, or more fatal still, working at play, will be -for ever a public anomaly. You will get civility, a patient, -dignified tolerance from all. But you will not have a neighbour: -though you live until your feet have graven their mark into every -stone of the place, you will be a stranger in a strange land.</p> -<p>For my part, such as my work is, I have done it, every stroke, -in Windlecombe for half a lifetime back, and may claim to have -fairly won my villagership. And what it is worth to me—how -it is sweetened by daily touch of kind hearts and grip of clean -hands; what the country sunshine means, filtering through the -vine-leaves of my workroom window; and what the song of the robin -that sits on the ivied gate-post without, or, in winter-time, -comes fluttering and tapping at the old bull’s-eye panes -for crumbs; how the daily walk, in wood or meadow or by -riverside, <a name="pagexvi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -xvi</span>brings ever its new marvel or revelation of unimagined -beauty; and how, above all, the lives of the quaint, courageous, -clever folk, in whose midst Destiny has thrown me, overbrim with -all traits human, delectably mortal, divinely -out-of-place—these, and many other aspects of villagership, -I have here tried to set down in plain words and meaning, -believing that what has proved of interest and profit to one very -human, always erring, often doubting soul, may do the like for -others, though journeying by widely sundered tracks.</p> -<p style="text-align: right">T. E.</p> -<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -1</span>JANUARY</h2> -<h3>I</h3> -<p>I <span class="smcap">have</span> just been to the house-door, -to take a look at the winter’s night. A change is coming, -the long frost nears its end—so the old ferryman has told -me every morning for a fortnight back, and his perseverance as a -prophet has been rewarded at last. As I flung the heavy oak door -back, a breath of air struck upon my face warm, it seemed, as -summer. All about me in the grey darkness there was an -indescribable stir and awakening of life. The moon no longer -stared down out of the black sky, a wicked, venomous-bright -beauty on her full-fed, rather supercilious face: now she wore a -scarf of mist upon her brows, and looked nun-like, dim-eyed, and -mild. The stars had lost their cruel glitter. I stepped forth, -and felt the grass yield beneath my tread—the first time -for near a month past. And as I stood wondering and rejoicing at -it all, some night-bird lanced by overhead, a note of the same -relief and gladness unmistakable in its shrill, jangling cry.</p> -<p><a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>Hard -weather in the country has a thousand enjoyments and interests -for those who care to look for them; but when the frost holds -relentlessly week after week, as it has done this January, the -grimmer side of things comes obtrusively to the fore. There is -too much shadow for the light. It is as though you rejoiced in -the beauty of sunset beams on a wall, and it were the wall of a -torture-house. You lie awake at night, and in the death-quiet -stillness, hear the measured footfall of death—a dull, -reiterated thud on the frozen ground beneath the holly-hedge, -each sound denoting that yet another roosting thrush or starling -has given up the unequal fight. Roaming through the lanes in your -warm overcoat and thick-soled boots, you note the loveliness of -the hoar-frost, at one step dazzling white, and at the next aglow -with prismatic colour; and turning the corner, you come upon the -gipsy’s tent, and realise that, while you lay snug and -warm, nothing but that pitiful screen of old rent rags has stood -between human beings and the terror of a winter’s -night.</p> -<p>On one of the hardest days I met the old vicar of Windlecombe, -and regaled him with the story of how I had just passed along the -river-way as the tide was falling; how, at full flood, at the -pause of the waters, the frost had sheathed the river with ice; -and how, when the tide began <a name="page3"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 3</span>to go down, this crystal stratum had -remained aloft, held up by the myriad reed-stems; until at -length, loosened by the sunbeams, it had fallen sheet by sheet to -the wildest, most ravishing music, each icy tympanum, as it fell, -ringing a different, dear, sweet note. And, in return for my -word-picturing, the old man gave me a story of the same times to -match it; how he had just learnt that certain ill-clad, ill-fed -children—whom the law compelled to tramp every morning from -Redesdown, a little farming hamlet miles away over the frozen -hills, to the nearest school at Windlecombe, and tramp back again -every night—were given a daily penny between the three of -them for their midday meal; and how, as often as not, the bread -they needed went unbought from the village store, because of the -lure of the intervening sweetstuff shop. Later, in the red light -of sundown, I met those children going home, as I had often met -them, plodding one behind the other, heads down to the bitter -blast. Each wore a great new woollen muffler, and had his pockets -stuffed. I knew who had cared for them, and my heart smote me. -Somehow the pure austerity of the evening—the radiant light -ahead, the white grace of the hills about me, the star-gemmed -azure above—no longer brought the old elation. The jingle -of my skates, as they hung from my arm, took on a <a -name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>disagreeable -sound of fetters. Though I carried them many a time after that, I -never put them away without the honest wish that I should use -them no more.</p> -<p>But lucidly, these long spells of unremitting frost are rare -in our country. Ordinary give-and-take winter’s -weather—the alternation of cold and warmth, gloom and -sunshine, wind and calm—brings little hardship to any -living thing. Country children have a wonderful way of -thriving and being happy, even though their diet is mainly -bread-and-dripping and separated milk. As for wild life, we -need expend no commiseration on any creature that can burrow; and -while there are berries in the hedgerows, and water in the -brooks, no bird will come to harm.</p> -<p>It is curious to see how Nature ekes out her winter supplies, -doling out rations, as it were, from day to day. If the whole -berry harvest came to ripe maturity at the same season, or were -of like attractiveness, it would be squandered and exhausted by -the spendthrift, happy-go-lucky hordes of birds, long before the -winter was through. But many things are designed to prevent this. -Under the threat of starvation, all birds will eat berries; but a -great proportion of them will do so only as a last resource. At -first it is the hawthorn fruit that goes. The soft flesh of the -may-berry will yield to the weakest <a name="page5"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 5</span>bill, and the whole crop ripens -together in early winter. But even here Nature provides against -the risk of immediate waste, that will mean starvation hereafter. -The missel-thrushes have been given a bad name because each of -them takes possession of some well-loaded stretch of hedgerow, -and spends the whole day in driving off other birds. Yet, on this -habit of the greedy missel, depends not only his own future -sustenance but that of all the rest. For all his agility, he -cannot prevent each bird snatching at least enough to keep life -going, and while he is so busy, he has himself no chance for -gluttony.</p> -<p>Other berry supplies, such as the privet and holly, seem to be -preserved to the last because they are universally distasteful, -though nourishing at a pinch. But it is the hips, or -rose-berries, which provide the best example of Nature’s -way of conserving the lives of birds throughout hard weather -against their own foolish, squandering instinct. These berries do -not ripen all at once, whether late or early in the season. On -every bush, the scarlet hips soften in regular, long-drawn-out -succession, some being ready in early winter, and some not until -well on in the new year. When the hip is ripe, the tenderest beak -can get at its viscid fruit; but until it begins to soften, there -is hardly a bird that can deal with it. The rose-berries, with -their scanty but never-failing <a name="page6"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 6</span>stores, are really the mainstay of all -in hard times. It is doubtful, indeed, whether the birds that die -wholesale in prolonged frosty weather, are killed by hunger at -all. Probably their death is due rather to thirst. So long as the -brooks run, bird life can hold against the bitterest times. But -once silence has settled down over the country-side—the -only real silence of the year, when all the streams are locked up -at their source—then begins the steady footfall under the -holly-hedge, and you must needs turn from the crimson sunset -light upon the wall.</p> -<p>I have shut the heavy old house-door, and got back to my table -by the workroom fire. The thaw has come in earnest now. I can -hear the drip of the melting rime in the garden, far and near. -The warm west wind is beginning to sigh down the chimney. The -logs simmer and glow, but not with the greedy brightness of -frost-bound nights.</p> -<p>It is on these long winter evenings that Solitude comes into -her kingdom. Men are not all made alike, nor is solitude with all -a voluntary condition, at least a self-imposed necessity, as it -is with me—a something that I must fashion out of my own -will and abnegation, weave about me as the tunnel-spider weaves -her lair. In this ancient house the walls are thick, yet not so -thick but that an ear-strain will just trip the echo of <a -name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>far-off -laughter. If I but drew that curtain and set the door ajar, -I could catch a murmur of voices like the sound of bee-hives in -summer dark; and a dozen strides along the stone-flagged passage -would yield me what I may not take for hours to come—tried -and meet companionship, the flint-and-steel play of bandied jest, -my own to hold, if I can, in brisk exchange of nerving, -heartening thought. But these things in their season. -Mine now it is to dip the grey goose-quill, to gird up for the -long tramp over the foolscap-country before me—that -trackless white desert where I must lay a trail to be followed, -whether by many or few or none, or with what pleasure or -weariness, I may never certainly know. For the writer is -like a sower, that is ever sowing and passing on. He can -seldom do more than take a hurried, fleeting shoulder-glimpse at -the harvest behind him, nor see who reaps, if haply it be reaped -at all.</p> -<p>Scratching away in the cosy fireside quiet of the old room, -there comes to me at length a sound from the chimney-corner, to -which I must needs listen, no matter what twist or quirk of -syntax holds me in thrall. You often hear aged country folk -complain that the crickets no longer sing on the hearth, as they -used to do in their childhood. My own crickets have always -seemed to sing blithely enough, too blithely at times to <a -name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>help one -forward with a difficult task. But I had always been glad -to accept the statement as one more proof of the decadence of -modern times. Hobnobbing one winter’s evening, -however, with the old ferryman in his riverside den, and noting -how merrily the crickets were chirping in his chimney-corner, I -wondered to hear him give way to this same lament. Then, -for the first time, I realised that not the crickets, but his old -ears, were at fault. Though the little smoke-blackened -cabin rang with their music, the old man, who would, on the -loudest night, have heard a ferry-call from the other side of the -water instantly, failed now to grip the high-pitched sound. -And this set me to philosophising. When the crickets cease -to pipe in my own chimney-corner, then, and not till then, I will -admit I am growing old.</p> -<p>But though we speak of the chirp or pipe of the cricket and -grasshopper, it is well to remember that neither these, nor any -other insects, possess a true voice. It would be nearer the -fact to call the cricket a fiddler than a piper. For it is -by sitting and drawing the corrugated rib of his wing-case to and -fro over the sharp edge of the wing beneath, that his shrill note -is developed. And it is only the male cricket who can -chirp. The female carries upon her no trace of any fiddling -contrivance. When all things <a name="page9"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 9</span>were made, and made in couples, on the -females of at least one numerous species, it is pleasant to -remark, a significant and commendable silence was imposed.</p> -<p>Solitude by a fireside in an old country dwelling, the -murmurous night without, and, within, the steady clear glow of -candles made by your own hands out of wax from your own hives, it -would be strange if the evening’s work failed to get itself -done cleverly and betimes. Pleasant as it is to all penmen -to be achieving, there is no depth of satisfaction like that of -leaving off. Then, not to return incontinently to the -sober, colour-fast world of fact, but to stay in your -dream-country, idling awhile by the roadside, is one of the great -compensations of this most exacting of lives.</p> -<p>Your tale is done. You have scrawled ‘The -End’ at the bottom of the sheet, and thrown it with the -others. You have turned your chair to the fire, put up your -slippered feet on the andiron, and have filled your most -comfortable pipe. The end it is, in very truth, for all who -will read the tale; but for you there will never be an end, just -as there never was a beginning to it. Unbidden now, and not -to be gainsaid even if you had the mind, your dream-children live -on in the town or country nook you made for them; live on, -increase and multiply, finish their peck of dirt, add to the -world’s store either of folly or sanctity, <a -name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>come to their -graves at last, each by his own inexorable road, and each leaving -the seed of another tale behind.</p> -<p>To the enviable reader, when, after much water-spilling and -cracking of crowns, Jack has got his Jill, and the wedding-bells -are lin-lan-loning behind the dropt curtain, there is the -satisfaction of certainty that so much love, and one pair of -hearts at least, are safe from further chance and change in the -whirligig of life. But to the teller of the tale, there is -no such assurance. Just as his dream-children came out of -an immortality he did not devise, so will they persist through an -eternity not of his controlling; and for ever they will be -subject to the same odds of bliss or disaster as any stranger -that may pass his door. Yet, being only human, he will -nevertheless go on with his tales in the secret hope that Jove -may be caught napping, and a little heaven be brought down to -earth before its allotted time. For living in a world of -law and order—where even Omnipotence may not deny to every -cause its outcome—is too realistically like camping under -fire. The old fatalists had peace of mind because they -believed it availed nothing to crouch when the bullets screamed -overhead, nor even to dodge a spent shot. But to take -one’s stand in the face of the myriad cross-purposes and -side-issues of an orderly universe, needs a vastly <a -name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>different -temper. Perhaps it is just the secret longing in all hearts -to have at least a little make-believe of certitude—if -nowhere else but in the pages of a story—by which the art -of fiction so hugely thrives.</p> -<p>I have put out the candles, each shining under its little red -umbrella of paper, the better to see the joyous colour of the -fire. When drab thoughts come—those night-birds of -sombre feather—the pure untinctured glow from well-kindled -logs has a wonderful way of setting them to flight. Let -unassailable optimism make his fire of coals: for him of -questioning, craving, often craven heart, there is no warmth like -that from seasoned timber. Coals, with their dynamic -energy, their superfluity of smoke, their sudden incongruous jets -of flame, seem to be for ever insisting on facts you would fain -forget a while, much as you may admire them and depend on -them—the progress and competition of outer life. But -wood fires serve to draw the mind away from modernism in all its -phases. So that you burn the right kind of wood, and this -is important, your fireside thoughts need never leave the realm -of cheery retrospect. Good, seasoned logs of beech or ash -are the best. Oak has no half moods; it must make either a -furnace unapproachable, or smoulder away in dead, dull -embers. Elm gives poor comfort, and the slightest damp -appals it. <a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -12</span>Poplar is charity-fuel; burn it will, indeed, to good -purpose, but too explosively. There is no rest by a fire of -poplar: one must be for ever treading out or parrying the vagrant -sparks.</p> -<p>A joyous colour it is—the wavering amber light that -fills the old room now from the piled-up beechen logs; joyous, -yet having a sedate, ruminative tinge about it, like old -travellers’ tales of ancient times. Nor does the -colour appeal only to the eye: there seems to be a fragrance in -it. That this is no mere conceit but simple fact, I was -strangely reminded when I blew the candles out, and from the -smouldering wicks two long white ribbons of vapour were borne -away on the draught. The fragrance of the smoking wax -brought up a picture of the summer nights when the bees lay close -to fashion it. Round about the cluster in the pent-up hive -were thousands of little vats of brewing honey, each giving off a -steam that was the life-spirit of clover-fields and blue borage, -and sainfoin which spreads the hills with rose-red light. -All these mingled scents had got into the nature of the wax, and -now they were given off again in sweet-smelling vapour, such a -fragrance as you may rarely chance upon in certain foreign -churches, where the old ordinances yet prevail, and the candles -are still made from the pure product of the hives.</p> -<p>And it is the same with burning logs. Each <a -name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>kind of wood -has its own essential odour, which pervades the room as though it -were soul and body with the light. You cannot separate the -two; no riding down of fancy will dissociate the flickering -gipsy-gold of the embers and the perfume of the simmering -bark. If these do not fill your mind with memories of the -green twilight of woodlands, of hours spent in leafy shadows of -forest-glades, then—then you are not made for a country -fireside, and were happier hobnobbing with Modernity by his -sooty, coal-fed hearth.</p> -<h3>II</h3> -<p>It is not difficult to understand why indoor work is at most -times tolerable in cities, fair weather or foul. For in -cities earth and sky have long been driven out of their ancient -comradeship. Stifled by pavements and masonry, the earth -cannot feel the touch of the sunbeams, nor the air enrich itself -with the breath of the soil. The old glad interchange is -prevented at all points. There is no lure in the sunshine, -no siren voice in the gale. Summer rain does not call you -out into the open, to share the joy of it with the drinking grass -and leaves. Amidst your dead, impenetrable -bricks-and-mortar, you can plod on with your scribbling or -figuring without a heart-stir; no vine-leaf will tap at <a -name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>your window, -no lily-of-the-field taunt your industry, nor song of skylark -dissipate your dreams.</p> -<p>But indoor work, carried on in a village deep in the green -heart of some beautiful country-side, is on an entirely different -plane. At times, perhaps, it becomes the hardest work in -the world. With one lavish hand life gives you the things -most necessary for close, unremitting application, and with the -other she ruthlessly sets all manner of obstacles in your -path. On such a day as now dawned crystal-clear over -Windlecombe, with the first warm wind of the year blowing new -life into everything, there was no stopping indoors for me. -I got down to my work punctually enough, even a little before the -wonted time. But good resolutions could make no headway -against such odds. The south-west wind boomed merrily in -the elm-tops. The sunbeams riddled my old house through and -through. Out in the garden robins and thrushes had formed -themselves into a grand orchestra; and when the breeze lulled for -a moment, I could hear the larks singing far overhead, as though -it were a summer’s day. An hour of half-hearted -tinkering saw my fortitude break like a milldam. Five -minutes later I had shut the house-door behind me, and was off up -the village street, gulping down deep draughts of the sweet -morning air.</p> -<p>I chose the path that led to the Downs. <a -name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>Mounting the -steep, chalky track in the arms of the gale, with the misty green -heights looming up before me against the blue of the -winter’s morning, one fact was borne in upon me at every -step. Though I must needs write winter—for January -was but three parts done—it was no longer winter, but -spring. A few days’ sunny warmth had worked what -seemed like a miracle. In the hedges and trees the buds -were swelling. Birds were pairing. Young green spears -of grass showed underfoot. Across the path clouds of midges -danced in the sunshine. I heard the first low love-croon of -a wood-dove; and, when I stopped for breath in the lee of the -hazel-copse, there drifted out upon me a song never yet heard on -winter days—the mellow voice of a blackbird calling for a -mate.</p> -<p>But the more we study Nature out of doors, the more we come to -disbelieve in winter altogether. Winter is in truth a -myth. From the moment the old year’s leaves are down, -the earth is in vigorous preparation for the new year’s -life and growth. Nature lies by quietly enough during the -cold spells, but each awakening is a stronger and more joyous -one. While they last, the long frosts seem to hold all the -life of things suspended. Yet, with every return of the -south-west wind, it is easy to see that this is not really -so. Though the visible sunbeams have had no power <a -name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>for progress, -those stored in the earth have been slowly and steadily at -work. And when the thaw comes, Nature seems to take up the -slack of the year in one tremendous forward pull.</p> -<p>I reached the crest of Windle Down, and made over the springy, -dew-soaked grass, content to go wheresoever the tearing wind -should drive me. The long, billowing curves of the hills -stretched away on all sides until they lost themselves in distant -violet haze. Here and there flocks of sheep made a grey -patch in the sunlit solitude, and a low clamour of bells was in -the air blent with the unending song of the larks. On the -combe-sides the gorse spread its darker green, and, near at hand, -I could make out its gold buds already bursting under the touch -of the sunbeams The next hill before me was topped with a ring of -fencing, near which stood a solitary figure, clear cut against -the tender blue of the north.</p> -<p>Shepherding on the South Downs is an hereditary family -calling, and old George Artlett, the shepherd at Windlecombe -farm, had trained up two at least of his four sons to follow in -his own tranquil steps. In village life, though the essence -of neighbourliness is that it must be exercised impartially to -one and all, worthy or unworthy, there are ever some about you -with whom the daily traffic of genial word and deed comes more <a -name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>aptly than -with the rest. In all the years I had known the Artletts, -there had been scarce a day when I had not encountered one or -other of that sturdy clan, and generally to my profit. If -it was not the old shepherd himself placidly trailing along in -the rear of his flock with his shining crook, it was -‘young’ George, the fifty-year-old under-shepherd, -his pocket bulged out with a Bible; or Dewie, the -shepherd’s boy; or John, the sporting handy-man, tramping -off to covert with his pack of mongrels; or quaint -‘Mistus’ Artlett, carrying her household basket to -and from the shop. Of Tom Artlett—the ‘Singing -Ploughman,’ as he was called in the neighbouring market -town—I got a glimpse sometimes in the early grey of -morning, or more often of late afternoon, as he journeyed between -home and farm. He ploughed his acre a day conscientiously, -walking the usual twelve miles in the doing of it; and all the -while his rich, powerful voice made the hills about him echo with -the songs he loved.</p> -<p>Why he sang these songs, and why young George’s pocket -always bulged, would have been at once evident to you if you -could have looked out of window with me any Sunday morning about -eight of the clock. Punctually at that hour, the two -brothers strode by in their scarlet guernseys and blue, braided -coats, on their way <a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -18</span>to the town; and there they passed a seventh day more -toilsome than all the other six, coming home at nightfall hoarse -and weary, yet plainly as happy as any men could be.</p> -<p>Young George Artlett stood on the hill-top, leaning upon his -crook. The wind fluttered his coat about him, and lashed -his haversack to and fro. He stood with his back in my -direction, bare-headed, his grey hair streaming in the -breeze. It was not until I had almost come up with him that -I marked his uplifted face, his closed eyes, his moving lips; and -then I stopped irresolutely, ashamed of the blunder I had -committed. But before I could turn and retreat, the dog at -his side had signalled my presence. The old tarpaulin -sou’wester hat was returned to its place. Young -George wheeled round, and looked at me with eyes of welcome.</p> -<p>‘I knowed by th’ bark o’ him, who -’twur,’ he said, in his slow, deep, quiet -voice. ‘Rowster, ’a has a name fer all o’ -ye. That there little happy shruck, ’tis yerself -an’ nane other. When ’a perks up an’ -bellers, ’tis th’ poodle-dorg an’ Miss -Sweet. An’ when ’a grizzles, I an’t no -call to look around; there be a black coat no gurt ways off, sure -as big apples comes from little uns.’</p> -<p>He smiled to himself, as though the memory of some recent -encounter with the black coat had <a name="page19"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 19</span>returned to him. Then he took a -quick glance at the sun.</p> -<p>‘Drinkin’-time!’ said he.</p> -<p>His sheep were all on the far hill-side, half a mile off -perhaps, feeding—as sheep always do on windy -days—with their heads to the breeze; and shouldering -together in long, straight lines, roughly parallel—as, -again, sheep generally will, in spite of the prettily ordered -groups on painters’ canvases. It is only on days of -perfect calm that grazing sheep will head to all points of the -compass, and on the South Downs such days are rare indeed.</p> -<p>George Artlett put his hands to his mouth funnel-wise, and -sent the shepherd’s folding-call ringing on the breeze.</p> -<p>‘Coo-oo-oo-o-up! Coo-oo-oo-o-up! Coom -along—coo-oo-up!’</p> -<p>The shrill, wild notes pealed out, drawing an echo from every -hill far and near. At once all the ewes on the distant -sunny slope stopped their nibbling, and looked round. Again -the cry rang forth. This time the foremost sheep moved a -step or two in our direction, hesitated, then came slowly -on. A moment later the whole flock was under way, pouring -steadily up the hill-side and filling the air with a deep, -clamorous song.</p> -<p>But two or three of the younger sheep had stayed behind in a -little bay of grass beyond the <a name="page20"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 20</span>furze-brake. Rowster looked -inquiringly at his master, got a consenting wave of the arm, and -was off with the speed of light. We watched him as he raced -down the hill in a wide semicircle, and, taking the malingerers -in the rear, drove them helter-skelter after the rest. -Yelping and snapping behind them, he brought the whole flock up -to the dew-pond at what seemed an entirely unnecessary pace.</p> -<p>‘’Tis allers so wi’ dorgs,’ observed -young George reflectively. ‘Ye can never larn them as -shepherd work ought to go slow as the sun i’ the sky. -All fer hurry an’ bustle they be, from birth-time to -buryin’—get the hour by, sez they, the day over, life -done, an’ on wi’ the next thing!’</p> -<p>We turned our shoulders to the blustering wind, and leant over -the rail together, watching the sheep drink. These -dew-ponds on the Sussex Downs are always a mystery to strangers -coming for the first time into the sheep country; and they are -never quite bereft of their miraculous quality, even among the -shepherds themselves. That in a land, where there are -neither springs nor natural pools of water, man should dig -hollows, not in the lowest sink-points of the valleys where one -would reasonably make such a work, but on the summits of the -highest hills, and then confidently expect Nature to fill them -with water, keeping them so filled year after <a -name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>year, in and -out of season, no matter what call was made on their -resources—must appear little else than downright ineptitude -to one who has never had the feasibility of the plan demonstrated -under his very eyes. Yet the seeming wonder of the dew-pond -has a very simple explanation. It is nothing more than a -cold spot on the earth, which continually precipitates the -moisture from the air passing over it; and this cold spot is -formed on the hill-top because there it encounters air which has -not been robbed of its vapour by previous contact with the -earth.</p> -<p>The best dew-pan makers are the men of Wiltshire, as all -flockmasters know. The pond, having been excavated to the -right depth and shape, is lined first with puddled clay or chalk, -then with a thick layer of dry straw; finally, upon this straw a -further substantial coating of clay is laid, and well beaten -down. Nothing is needed then but to bring a few cart-loads -of water to start the pond, and to set a ring-fence about it to -keep off heavy stock. The action of the straw, in its -waterproof double-casing, is to intercept the heat-radiation of -the earth at that particular point, so that the pond-cavity and -its contents remain colder than the surrounding soil.</p> -<p>How the dew-pond came to be invented has often been the -subject of wondering speculation. No doubt there have been -dew-pond makers for <a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -22</span>untold centuries back, but at one time, however far -distant, a first discovery of the principle underlying the thing -must have been made. Probably the dew-pond, in some form or -other, had its origin in those remote times when all the -high-lying chalk-lands of southern England were overrun by a -dense population. But then, as now, the region must have -been waterless; and the people, living there for security’s -sake, must, nevertheless, have been constrained to provide -themselves with this first daily necessity of all life. We -read of the manna given in the Wilderness, and the water struck -from the Rock. These were miracles worked, as miracles ever -are, for children: they were grown men, evidently, in mind and -heart, to whom the dew-pond was given. For though the -thing, in essence, was set to shine about their feet wherever men -trod, so that none could forbear seeing, its adaptation to human -need was left to man’s own labour and thoughtful -ingenuity. To-day, as in those far-off ages, the dwarf -plume-thistle studs the sward of the Downs, each circle of thick, -fleshy leaves, matted together and centrally depressed, forming a -perfect little dew-pond, that retains its garnered moisture long -after all other vegetation has grown dry in the heat of the -mounting sun. Even if there were no such thing as a -dew-pond on all the Downs to-day, and every flock must perforce -be <a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>driven -miles, perhaps, down into the valley to be watered, it is -inconceivable that no one of prime intelligence, wandering the -hills alive to the need of the thirsty thousands around him, -would mark the natural reservoirs of the thistles, reason out the -principles they embodied, and straightway set brain and hand to -work on the first dew-pond—using perchance, in earliest -experiment, the actual thistle-leaves for the indispensable -heat-retarding layer.</p> -<p>I had often talked the matter over with George Artlett, and -now we drifted into the old subject. But he was never to be -cajoled out of his belief in the miraculous nature of the -affair.</p> -<p>‘Him as sent th’ fire down to th’ could -altar,’ he said, his long arm going up to heaven, and his -voice taking on that deep, vibratory chime so familiar to Sunday -loiterers in Stavisham marketplace, ‘He knaws how to send -watter to faith an’ a dry pan. Ay! but I ha’ -seed it comin’, many’s the time. An’ -th’ first time, I ’lowed as ’twur High Barn -ricks burnin’. We was goin’ hoame to fold, and -there afore me, right agen th’ red night-sky, I seed a gurt -topplin’ cloud o’ summut as looked like smoke ahent -th’ hill. Sez I, ’tis High Barn ricks -afire! But it warn’t. It wur jest Gorramighty -gatherin’ together His dew from the fower winds o’ -heaven, an’ pourin’ it into Maast’ -Coles’s pond.’</p> -<h3><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -24</span>III</h3> -<p>One afternoon, when the month was all but at its end, I came -home through the riverside meadows. The sun had just dipped -below the misty earth-line. Before me, in the east, the -darkness was spreading up the sky, and the larger stars already -shone with something of their nightly lustre. But behind me -it was still day. From the horizon upward, and far -overhead, the sky was a pale, luminous turquoise, overflecked -with cloud of fiery amber—the two colours a perfect harmony -of cold and heat. As I trod the narrow field-path, facing -the dusk, with all that glorious enmity reconciled at my back, I -became aware of a mysterious sound somewhere in the chain of -tree-girt meadows on ahead. A missel-thrush had been -singing hard by, but now his clarion had ceased, and this other -far-away note forced me suddenly out of my musing. It was -not a single song, but a deep, continuous outpouring, a medley of -music like the splashing and tumbling of mountain brooks. -With every step forward it grew in volume. At last, in a -belt of elm-trees that bordered one of the farthest fields, I -came upon the cause of it; and though I had many times seen vast -congregations of starlings, I had never before encountered so -huge a company as now met my gaze.</p> -<p><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>The -trees stretched across the entire field, and every twig on every -branch had its perching songster, the combined effect being as -though the trees had suddenly shot out a magic foliage, -coal-black against the deepening blue of the sky, heavy and thick -as leaves in June. Now the mountain brooks had swollen to -Niagaras. The hubbub was literally deafening. I -shouted my loudest, hoping to set the gargantuan host to flight, -but I could scarce hear my own voice. For a full ten -minutes I stood in that great flood-tide of melody, and all the -time fresh detachments of birds were continually arriving to -swell the multitude, and add their voices to the chorus. At -length I saw two birds break away from the mass, and fly straight -off side by side. Immediately the tumult ceased, and there -followed a sound like the long, rumbling roll of thunder. -The whole concourse had taken wing together, the tree-tops, -released from their weight, lashing back as though struck by a -flaw of wind. Now the army swept over my head, darkening -the sky as it went. The thunderous sound grew less and less -as the flock made for the distant woods. A moment more, and -an uncanny silence had fallen on everything. Then, half a -mile away in the misty dark, I heard the rich, wild voice peal -out again, where the starling host had taken up their quarters -for the night.</p> -<p><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>Thus it -happened every evening for a week after, when they passed on out -of the district and I saw them no more. Probably no single -stretch of country could support such incredible numbers for more -than a few days together, and they must be for ever trekking -onward, leaving behind them a famine-stricken land, and making -life all the harder for our own native birds. For there is -little doubt that these vast hordes of starlings that sweep the -country-side in winter, are foreigners in the main.</p> -<h2><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -27</span>FEBRUARY</h2> -<h3>I</h3> -<p><span class="smcap">From</span> where my old house stands, -behind its double row of lindens at the top of the green, you can -see well-nigh all that is happening in Windlecombe. Sitting -at the writing-table in the great bay-window, you get an -uninterrupted view down the length of the village street. -From the windows right and left—through a trellis of bare -branches in winter, and, in summer, through gaps in the -greenery—you overlook the side-alleys where dwell the less -profoundly respectable, the more free-and-easy, of Windlecombe -folk. And in the rear, beyond my garden and little orchard, -there is the farm—rickyard and barn and dwelling-house all -crowded together on the green hill-side bestrewn with grazing -cattle, cocks and hens innumerable, all of the snow-white breed, -gobbling turkeys, and guinea-fowl that cry ‘Come back, come -back!’ every waking moment of their lives.</p> -<p>All the oldest houses in Windlecombe are gathered round the -village green. Here, amidst <a name="page28"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 28</span>its thicket of live-oak and yew, the -church tower rears its bluff grey stones against the sky, its -clock-face with the one gilded hour-hand (minutes are of no -account in Windlecombe) turned to catch the last light of -evening. The parsonage, the village shop, the forge and -wheelwright’s yard, a dozen or more of ivy-smothered -tenements, stand at easy intervals round the oblong of the -green. There is the little sweetstuff shop at the far -corner, side by side with the cobbler’s den; and, beyond -them, the inn juts boldly out half across the roadway, -silhouetting its sign against the distant, bright patch of river -which flows at the foot of the hill.</p> -<p>I often wonder how other villages get on without a -green. In Windlecombe all the life of the place seems to -culminate here. On summer evenings every one drifts this -way at some time or other for a quiet stroll, or a chat with -friends on the seats under the ‘Seven Sisters,’ a -group of gnarled Scotch pines almost in the centre of the -green.</p> -<p style="text-align: center"> -<a href="images/n2.jpg"> -<img alt= -"‘Old Friends’" -title= -"‘Old Friends’" - src="images/n2.jpg" /> -</a></p> -<p>Even in winter I seldom look forth and see it entirely -deserted. Except in school-hours, there are always children -playing upon it, and the old men, whose work in the fields is -done, hold here daily a sort of informal club whenever the sun -shines. But the old women I never see. All their -lives long, their activities and interests have been centred in -the home, and now they <a name="page29"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 29</span>spend the dusk of their days -consistently by the firesides. On week-days, the fairest -summer weather has no power to tempt them abroad. Up to -seventy or so, they can be seen creeping over the green towards -the church on Sunday mornings; but it is duty, not desire, that -has drawn them from their burrows. For the rest of the week -they sit, most of them, stitching tiny scraps of silk and cotton -together. It seems to be an indispensable condition of -future bliss with all the old women in Sussex, that each should -finish a patchwork quilt before she dies.</p> -<p>There comes a morning in the year, generally in early -February, when the fact that the days are getting longer is -suddenly driven in upon your consciousness, as though the change -had come about in a single night at the touch of some -magician’s wand.</p> -<p>A long spell of gloomy weather ends in a crisp, bright -dawn. Through the chinks in the blind, the sun casts -quivering spots of gold upon the wall. You wake from your -dreams, and immediately know that life has become a different -thing from that of yesterday. Throwing the casements back, -there comes in upon you a flood of new light, new air, new -melody. It is barely eight o’clock, and already the -sun is high over Windle hill. The thrushes have given up -their winter piping, and have begun to sing in the old <a -name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 30</span>glad way, -linking half a dozen sweet notes in a phrase together, and -pouring it out over and over again. The air has the savour -of warm earth in it, the scent of green growth; and, looking down -at the flower-borders in the garden, you see sheaves of snowdrops -breaking up through the soil, and the first crocuses yielding -their treasure to the first bees.</p> -<p>To-day, though it was only the first of February, just such -another morning startled me from sleep, and sent me out of doors -tingling to the finger-tips with this new spirit of wonder at a -changed order of things. Over Windlecombe, in the level -sunlight, half a hundred violet plumes of smoke rose into the -calm air. From the smithy came the steady chime of Tom -Clemmer’s anvil. The pit-saw was droning in the -wheelwright’s yard. Up at High Barn they were -threshing wheat, and the sound might have been that from a great -cathedral organ, so far off that nothing but the deep tones of -the pedal-pipes could reach the ear. But though all these -sounds denoted humanity astir, and busy at the day’s task, -to the eye there was no sign of any one abroad. I was as -much alone as Crusoe on his island, and just as free to wander -where I would.</p> -<p>I skirted the green, and turned in at the churchyard -gate. Everywhere between the crowding <a -name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>stones, the -grass was white with dew. Glittering water-bells rimmed -every leaf, and trembled at the tip of every twig. The old -yew dripped solemnly in its shadowed corner. Down the face -of each memorial-stone, tiny runnels coursed like tears.</p> -<p>It was strange to see how the dewdrops obliterated all vestige -of natural colour in the grass, and yet lent it a thousand alien -hues. As I moved slowly along, sparks of vivid green and -crimson, orange and blue, flashed incessantly amidst the frosted -silver. Turning my back to the sunshine, all these colours -vanished, and the glittering quality of the dew was lost. -Now it was just a dead-white field, crossed and re-crossed with -lines of emerald where the foraging birds had left their -tracks. But all round the head of my shadow, that stretched -giant-like before me, there was still a shining circle of -light. I remembered to have read somewhere of one of the -religious painters in the Middle Age, who accounted himself -divinely set apart from his fellows, by reason of a halo which, -he said, appeared at certain seasons about him as he walked in -the fields. Probably he saw then what I saw this morning; -but, being an artist, he won inspiration, new freshets of saintly -energy, from what, to the ordinary unemotional sinner, would be -no more than an interesting, natural fact.</p> -<h3><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -32</span>II</h3> -<p>Towards afternoon, quite a little throng of ancient folk -gathered on the benches under the Seven Sisters, drawn thither by -the sunny mildness of the day. Sauntering about on the -green hard by, I could hear the low hum of their voices; and at -last I took a place, almost unobserved, on one of the outer seats -a little distance from the group.</p> -<p>Eavesdropping, even in its most innocent form, hardly comes -into the category of virtues; but, in any serious attempt to -study country life and character, it must be reckoned almost a -necessary vice. I confess, in this respect, not only to -having yielded to it as a lifelong, irresistible habit, but to -having cultivated it on many occasions as an art. The -English peasant under open observation is no more himself than a -wild bird in a cage; and these old folk, in particular, needed as -much wary stalking-down as any creature of the woodland. -Settled myself quietly now behind a newspaper in the corner, my -presence, if it had been marked at all, was soon forgotten; and -the talk began again among the group in the usual desultory, -pondering style—talk in the ancient dialect of Sussex, such -as you will hear to-day only in the most out-of-the-way villages, -and <a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>then -only among those with whose passing it also must pass irrevocably -away.</p> -<p>Daniel Dray, the old wheelwright, was tapping his stick -reflectively on his boot-toe, keeping time with the song of the -pit-saw in the neighbouring yard, where young Daniel was mightily -at work. By his side sat Tom Clemmer the elder, his bleak -grey eyes far away in space. All the rest of the company -were studying the horizon in much the same distraught, silent -fashion. A very old, but still hearty man, in a wide blue -suit, was chipping at a plug of sailor’s tobacco with a -jack-knife, and smiling to himself. At length the smile -developed into a rich chuckle.</p> -<p>‘Dan’l,’ said he, ‘now you ha’ -spoke a trew wured, if never afore! So they be, -Dan’l, so they be! Ay! an’ all round the wureld -’tis th’ same wi’ ’em! Doan’t -I know?’ He made a telling pause at the question, and -then—‘Not ’aaf!’ he added in solemn -irony, as he struck a match on his hindermost serge.</p> -<p>The old wheelwright stretched himself luxuriously in the -sunshine.</p> -<p>‘I knows naun o’ Frenchies, an’ blackamoors, -an’ sech-like,’ said he. ‘But a Sussex -maid!—Ah!’</p> -<p>The exclamation, long drawn out, was echoed round the -circle. Old Tom Clemmer turned argumentatively in his -seat.</p> -<p><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -34</span>‘Ay! real purty, Dan’l!—purty -enough!’ he agreed. ‘Ye wur i’ -luck’s way, as I minds well wur said by all th’ folk, -forebye ’tis so long ago. But, Fegs! man! We -han’t all had your fortun’ i’ bright -eyes! What sez Maast’ Grimble there?’</p> -<p>A thin high voice quavered out from the end of the -bench. For full five minutes it hovered in mid-air, like a -long-drawn-out treble note on a violin.</p> -<p>‘Ay! trew, Tom! Never a wured o’ a lee, -Tom! But ’twur nane o’ my doin’, as -many’s th’ time I ha’ tould ye. Stavisham -Fair, ’twur, i’ Fifty-three, as I first seed her, all -i’ sky-blew an’ spangles; wi’ th’ lights -flarin’, an’ th’ drooms bustin’, -an’ th’ trumpets blowin’; an’ sech a -crowd o’ gay folk as never got together afore, i’ -th’ wureld. Wunk, ’a did, at me; an’ I -wunk back. Then ’a wunk agen, an’ ’twur -all ower, neighbours! We got church-bawled th’ -follerin’ Sunday; an’ hoame I fetched her all within -th’ month. An’ then, Tom, ye knowed how’t -fell out. Six weeks o’ it, we had together; an’ -then off ’a goos after ’a’s ould carrawan agen, -an’ I goos fer a souldger. An’ nane but -th’ gurt goodness knows whether I be married man or -widder-man to-day.’</p> -<p>The faint, shrill voice ceased. A lean, old man, with a -chubby face and eyes of so pale a blue, that they seemed almost -colourless in the rich, <a name="page35"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 35</span>yellow light of the afternoon, had -been intently listening, a trembling hand to each ear. He -wore a spotless white round-frock, and was punctiliously, -unnaturally clean in all other respects. Now he brought his -finger-tips softly together, and stared at the sky in an ecstasy -of reminiscence.</p> -<p>‘Eighteen thousand happy days,’ said he -triumphantly, ‘agen six weeks o’ rough an’ -tumble—pore George! Ah! well-a-day! But -’tis so, neighbours. Th’ Reverend, ’a -figured it out fer Jane an’ me laast catterning-time. -Eighteen thou— Gorm! but I should ha’ lost -’em all, if she hadn’t up an’ spoke out! -I ne’er had no thought on’t, trew as th’ sun -goos round th’ sky. But Jane, ’a gie me a red -neckercher wan Hock-Monday. Thinks I, “Wat’s -that fer?” An’ then ’a gie me a bag -o’ pea-nuts, an’ sez I to mysel’, -“’Tis a queer maid surelye!” An’ -then ’a cooms along at harvest-time, an’ sez she, -“’Enery Dawes, I ha’ jist heerd as ould Mistus -Fenny ’ull gie up th’ malthouse cottage at Milemas, -an’ seein’ as how you warnts me an’ I warnts -you, ’twould be a pity to lose it; so let’s get -arsted i’ church directly-minute,” sez she. -Wi’ that, ’a putt both arms around th’ red -neckercher, as I wore; an’ gie me wan, two, -three—each chop, an’ wan i’ th’ -middle. Lor’ bless ye! I knowed then what -’a meant, I did! I wur allers <a -name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>th’ -sort as could see through a brick wall fur as most folk: never -warnted no more ’n an ’int.’</p> -<p>‘There agen!’ said old Tom Clemmer, after a -pause. ‘Ye wur another o’ th’ lucky wans, -’Enery. Th’ best o’ wimmin plunked -straight into your eye, in a manner o’ -speakin’. Ah! but courtin’ days warn’t -all pea-nuts an’ red handkerchers wi’ some o’ -us, ’Enery! Dear! oh Lor’! what trouble I did -ha’, surelye!’</p> -<p>He stopped, and sat for a while smiling down into the bowl of -his pipe, and shaking his head.</p> -<p>‘But ye got her at laast, Tom!’ said Daniel Dray -softly. He stole a commiserate glance round at the other -members of the company, and had a silent, meaning nod from -each. Old Tom Clemmer blushed, then laughed outright.</p> -<p>‘Trew, Dan’l! An’ well I reckermembers -th’ day as ’a first come to Windlecombe—up to -th’ farm-us yonder, though ’tis forty year ago. -All o’ a heap, I wur, soon as I sot eyes on her. -“Churn-maid?” sez I to mysel’, -“’twunt be long afore y’are summut -better’n that, down at th’ forge-cottage ’long -o’ me!” Come Sunday, I runs agen her on -th’ litten-path. “Marnin’, Mary!” -sez I, an’ gies her th’ marigolds I’d picked -fer her out o’ my own gay-ground; an’ down ’a -throws ’em in th’ mud, an’ off wi’out so -much as wured or look. Ah! a proud, fine maid ’a -wur!—to be sure an’ all!’</p> -<p><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>Tom -Clemmer knocked out his pipe upon his crutch. Then he threw -an exultant glance about him.</p> -<p>‘What might a man do then, ye’d think? Well, -as marigolds warn’t no good, I tries laylocks. Not a -bit on it! Jerrineums—wuss an’ wuss! -Roses—never so much as a sniff! Summut useful, thinks -I; but they little spring onions as I tied up in a bunch -wi’ yaller ribbin, an’ hung on th’ dairy gate -fer her, there they hung ’til they was yaller too. -Then I has a grand idee. Off I goos to Stavisham, an’ -buys a gurt big hamber brooch; an’ a silver necklace wot -weighed down my pocket, carryin’ of it; an’ a -spanglorious goulden weddin’-ring. “Now, my -gel, we’ll jest see!” sez I all th’ way -hoame. I bides quiet ’til Sunday, then I hides ahent -th’ gurt elver-tree, an’ pops out upon her -suddentlike, as ’a cooms along. I offers her -th’ brooch. “Get out o’ my way!” -sez she, “’tis jest a common ha’penny -fairin’— No, ’tis hamber, ’tis real -purty!” ’a sez, an’ brings up -stock-still. Then out cooms th’ necklace, an’ -down went ’a’s good book slap i’ th’ -dirt. “Oh! ’tis kind o’ ye, -blacksmith!” sez she, ketchin’ hould -on’t. “Ah! but what thinks you o’ this -here?” sez I; “but I mount gie it ye yet awhile, -’cause ’tis unlucky fer a maid to ha’ th’ -ring afore th’ day.” Lor! what eyes ’a -had, surelye! ’A thought a <a name="page38"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 38</span>bit, then sez she, “Thomas -Clemmer, how much ha’ ye got laid by?” -An’ soon as I’d tould her, sez she, “I’ll -ha’ ye, Tom, darlin’, fer I never loved nane but -you!” Ah! well, well! Most onaccountable, -’tis, how th’ very wureds cooms back to ye, arter -years an’ years!’</p> -<p>He fell into a brown study, out of which he presently came -with a jerk.</p> -<p>‘Fower o’clock? Never! Gorm! how high -th’ sun be! I must be getten hoame-along!’</p> -<p>He rose upon his one serviceable foot, fitted the other foot, -a shapeless bundle of linen, into the sling that hung from his -neck, seized his crutches, and stumped placidly away. There -was a direct path from the Seven Sisters across the green to Tom -Clemmer’s cottage, but he always came and went by the -roundabout route through the churchyard. For the excellent, -but frugal-minded Mrs. Clemmer had lain there, under a home-made -iron cross and a carefully tended bed of marigolds, these twenty -years back.</p> -<h3>III</h3> -<p>Living year after year in Windlecombe, I have come by old -habit to associate with each month that passes its own -characteristic changes and events. February always stands -in my mind for three great ebullitions of the year’s life, -<a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>equally -wonderful in their several ways—the coming of the elm -blossom, the earliest clamorous music from the lambing-pens, and -the first rich song of the awakening bees.</p> -<p>Through my study window, all this week of warm, glittering, -showery weather, I have watched the elm-trees about the -churchyard gradually lose their sharp, clear-cut outline of -winter, and dissolve into the misty softness of spring. -Already the tree-tops are so dense that the blue sky can barely -penetrate them. This change is not caused by the expanding -leaf buds, but by the opening of the myriad blossoms, which come -and go before the leaf. Their colour is a magnificent, -sombre purple; and the whole tree stands up in the sunshine, clad -in this gorgeous raiment from its bole to its highest -twig—an imperial garment reminding you in more ways than -one of ancient Rome and its Cæsars; for there is little -doubt that the elm is no British tree, but was brought to us by -the Romans, all those centuries ago, with so many other good -things.</p> -<p>In the deep pockets of rich soil which have sifted down to the -valleys, and in the shallower soil of our chalk hills, almost -every species of forest tree makes generous growth. But -perhaps nothing takes so kindly to highland Sussex conditions as -the elm. The village gardens are fringed about with its -beautiful, wide-spreading <a name="page40"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 40</span>shapes, and, in summer, griddled over -with its long blue shadows. But no tree stands within a -distance of its own height from any dwelling. Hard -experience has taught men that the elm is undesirable as a near -neighbour. Of all trees it is the most comely, because it -is never symmetrical, but it owes this picturesque trait to a -habit intolerable in a close acquaintance. Not only does -the elm cast its great branches to earth at all times and without -creak or groan of warning, but during the season of the -equinoctial gales, you never know when the whole tree may not -come toppling over in a moment, measuring its vast length on the -ground with a sound like the impact of the heaviest wave that -ever thundered against Beachy Head.</p> -<p>It was so that the King of Windlecombe, the oldest and -mightiest elm through half the county, came down one pitch-black, -tempestuous night in a September of long ago. None of the -children, nor many of the younger folk in the village, now -remember the King, where he towered up beyond the east wall of -the churchyard, and every sunset threw his vast shadow half way -up the combe. But they are all familiar with the story of -his downfall. A wild night it was. Every window shook -in its frame; every chimney was an organ-pipe for the -wind’s blowing; the sound of the rain on roof and wall was -like an incessant hail of <a name="page41"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 41</span>musketry. Thatches were -stripped off. The inn-sign went clattering down the -street. The gilt weather-cock on the church tower took a -list that it has kept to this day. No one dared go abroad -that night, but families sat close at home, keeping shoulder to -shoulder in timorous company, and dreadfully wondering what it -was like at sea. Had you need to speak, you must shout your -words, so great was the din of the hurricane. All night it -raged undiminished, and no one slept; some even would not venture -to bed, not knowing but the roof might be plucked off any moment -as they lay, and let the drenching torrent in upon them. -Then, as the first grey tinge of dawn blanched in the eastern -sky, high above the voice of the storm came one tremendous -booming note, as though the earth had split asunder. And -with the light, people looked out and saw that the King of -Windlecombe was down.</p> -<p>To-day, as I settled myself to work with the lattices tight -closed, to shut out the lure of the songful morning, there came a -patter of earth upon the glass. At first I thought it was -one of the martins’ nests broken away from the eaves above, -being stuffed too full of hay by interloping sparrows. But -the sharp volley sounded again, and looking out, there on the -path below I beheld the old vicar in wide-brimmed hat and tartan -shawl.</p> -<p><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -42</span>‘How now, old mole!’ cried he, shaking his -stout oak cudgel at me. ‘The sun shines, the west -wind calls, all the brooks are laughing over their beds! -Yet there you hide in your burrow, grouting among dead words, -warming up stale, cold dreams a twelvemonth old! Shame on -you! Come out, and let the air and sunbeams riddle your -dusty fur! Come and lend me your eyes for a long -morning. I have seen to Mrs. Dawes’ rheumatics. -I have done the school. Old Collup has had his bedside -talk. I am free for a ramble, and I want to go everywhere -and hear tell of everything. Come this moment, or -I’ll huff and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your -house down!’</p> -<p>With his jolly, wrinkled face turned upward, his long white -beard wagging, and his kind eyes steadily meeting mine, it was -difficult to believe that he could see only the faintest shadow -of all before him; that for years past he had lived and worked in -a world of deepest dusk, wherein the very noontide sun of summer -was no more than a pale spot in never-ending gloom. I got -my thick boots, and was soon trudging down the hill with him -towards the riverside woods and meadows, every yard of which had -been familiar to him in his days of light.</p> -<p>Arun was running high, with three spring tides yet to -come. Much rain had fallen of late. It <a -name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>looked as -though the floods would soon be upon us, unless the wind changed, -and drier, colder weather set in. We skirted the -river-bank, with the wind whipping light ripples almost to our -feet, and the sun making a broad path of gold along the -waters. Beyond the river stretched level green pastures -intersected by deep dykes, and beyond these again lay the misty -blue sierra of wooded hills. The old parson strode easily -forward, his face turned up to the sky. His step never -faltered, but his stick hovered incessantly about the path as he -went.</p> -<p>‘Hark to the wind in the trees!’ he said. -‘That is a new voice: the elms must be in full bloom, and I -can guess what they look like. And the sound is different -in that clump of beeches there: the leaf-buds must be getting -long and green now. Only the ash and the oak keep their -winter voice in February.’</p> -<p>Thus it always was on our walks together. What he heard, -he told me of; and what I saw, I gave him as well as I was -able.</p> -<p>‘Listen!’ he said presently. ‘Did you -hear that? That is the first chaffinch-song of the -year. And there is the great-tit clashing his silver -cymbals together, and the bullfinches blowing over the tops of -their latchkeys, and a green woodpecker laughing—he never -laughs in that grim, scornful way until the year is well on the -wing!’</p> -<p><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>Then I, -not to be behind him:</p> -<p>‘I see grass—fresh new growth pushing up -everywhere. Young nettles too: they are coming up green -amongst the old dead stems. But they cannot sting -yet—yes, they can! and badly! Stop here a moment, -Reverend! The celandines are out thick on the -bank—you remember their shining, yellow, five-rayed stars, -set in dark green leaves like the spade-blades of Hamlet’s -diggers. Below on the bank, where it is too steep for -anything else to grow, there are coltsfoot flowers. The -drab earth glows with them—no leaves at all, but just long, -curved, scaly stems, each ending in a tuft of golden -fleece. And then there is—’</p> -<p>‘I know, I know! I can look back a dozen springs, -and see them all as well as you. But listen to that -thrush! That is his honeymooning note, and the pair must be -nesting not far away. I have found thrushes’ nests in -February many a time. See if you can find this -one.’</p> -<p>‘Your singer has flown. And there goes the hen, -out of the other side of the bush; if the nest is anywhere, it -will be here under this tangle of clematis. Yes, two eggs -already! I wish you could see their clear greenish-blue, -with the dapple-marks on it.’</p> -<p>I guided his hand to the nest, and his fingers wandered -lightly over it.</p> -<p><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -45</span>‘Cold!’ said he. ‘She will not -begin to sit yet. Perhaps never on this clutch. There -is frost and snow ahead of us still, though all of us forget it -this weather, bird, beast, and man.’</p> -<p>The path led us into the hazelwood; hazel below, and overhead -soaring columns of beech, whose branches touched finger-tips -everywhere across the white-flecked blue of the sky. As we -went along, the sound of our footsteps in the fallen leaves was -like the sound of wading through water. I must read off to -him what I saw about me as though it were from a book.</p> -<p>‘The hazel-catkins were never so fine, I think, as they -are this spring. The wood is full of them, like showers of -gold-green rain falling. Whenever we brush against them, -clouds of pollen drift off in the wind. It is the wind that -makes the hazel-nuts which we gather by and by. What -millions upon millions of spores only to make a few bushels of -nuts! I struck a single bush with my stick just now, and, -for yards ahead, the sunshine was misty with the floating green -dust. Then, here and there on every -branch—’</p> -<p>‘Yes! I can see it all! There are little -green buds each with a torch of bright crimson at its tip, -flaming in the sun. Why should they be so vividly coloured, -if only to catch what the wind brings—floating pollen as -blind as I? No, no! The hazel-nut was made for the -bees <a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -46</span>originally, depend upon it. Nature never uses -bright colour unless to attract winged life.’</p> -<p>We came out of the wood on the south side. Stopping just -within the shade of the last trees, we had a view over a chain of -sunny, sheltered meadows that lay between the riverside willows -and the first steep escarpment of the Downs. Here the wind -was only a song above our heads. Scarce a breath stirred -where we leaned upon the gate in the sunshine. I must be at -my living book again, yet knew not where to begin, so crowded was -the page.</p> -<p>‘March is still three weeks off, and yet the hares are -already as mad as can be. Over there under the Hanger, a -mile away, I can see them racing and tumbling about -together. There are more celandines and coltsfoot blossom -everywhere. I can see daisies wherever I look, and there is -a disc of dandelion by the gate-post just where you stand. -What clouds of midges! Thousands are dancing in the air -above our heads, and I can see their wings making a hazy streak -of light all down the hedgerow, where the elders are in -flourishing green leaf. Did you ever hear so many birds all -singing at the same time? And there goes an army of rooks -and jackdaws overhead! What a din!—the high, yelping -treble of the daws, and the deep-voiced rooks singing bass to -it.’</p> -<p><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>The -Reverend put a hand upon my arm to stop me.</p> -<p>‘I can hear something else,’ he said. -‘A dandelion, did you say? Then she will come -straight for it.’ And as he spoke, I heard the old -familiar sound too. It was a hive-bee, tempted abroad by -the glad spring sunlight. She came straight over the -meadows. Passing all other blossoms by, she settled on the -single flower half-hidden in its whorl of ragged green leaves -close beside us, and forthwith began to smother herself in its -yellow pollen.</p> -<p>‘And there she goes again!’ said the old vicar, as -the soft, rich sound mingled once more with the myriad other -notes about us. ‘High up into the -air—doesn’t she?—making ever a wider and wider -circle until she gets her first flying-mark, and then in the -usual zigzag course, home to the hive! A bee-line! -People always make the words stand for something absolutely -straight and direct. But a true bee-line is the easiest way -between two points, not necessarily the shortest. To take a -bee-line, if folk only knew it, is just to fly through the -calmest, or most favouring airs, judge the quickest way between -all obstacles, dodge the ravenous tits and sparrows, and so get -home safe and sound to the hive.’</p> -<h3><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -48</span>IV</h3> -<p>This spring, the Artletts have built their lambing-pens on the -sunny slope of Windle Hill in full view of the village. -When, at threshing-time last autumn, the waggons toiled up the -steep hillside with their shuddering loads of yellow straw, and -the ricks were fashioned end to end in a curving line against the -north, strangers wondered why a farmer should carry his -bedding-down material so far from its main centres of -consumption, the stables and cowsheds. But the reason for -the work is clear enough at last. Behind the solid rampart -of straw, the lambing-pens lie in cosy shelter, and every day now -sees them more populous; day and night, as the month wends on, -there arises from them a fuller and fuller melody.</p> -<p>Alone, perhaps, of all other rural occupations, shepherding -remains unaffected by the avalanche of machinery and chemistry -which has descended upon agriculture. Here and there may be -found a flockmaster who talks of shearing-machines, but it is -rare to find anything but the old hand-clippers in use by the -old-fashioned, wandering gangs of shearers. Flocks are -larger, and so bring the modern shepherd more anxious care; but -in all essential ways, his year’s round of work is the same -as in that time of old when the <a name="page49"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 49</span>shepherds watched their flocks by -night near Bethlehem.</p> -<p style="text-align: center"> -<a href="images/n3.jpg"> -<img alt= -"‘Springtime’" -title= -"‘Springtime’" - src="images/n3.jpg" /> -</a></p> -<p>For the first time, in near upon fifty years, old Artlett has -had no hand in the pen-making. Rheumatism, the life-long -foe of the shepherd, has got him by the heels at last; and, if it -turn out with him as with nearly all his kind, he will never -again leave the chimney-corner, until he is carried thence and -laid to sleep beside his long line of forbears up in the -churchyard. But young George is as good a shepherd as any -of his line, in this, as in all other branches of the -craft. Wherever you go among the neighbouring sheep-farms, -you will hear tell of the amazing good luck of Windlecombe at -lambing-time. George Artlett views the matter from a -different standpoint.</p> -<p>We sat together in his cosy hut on the hillside, towards -twelve o’clock of a gusty, moonlit night. The -coke-fire burned in the little stove with a steady brightness, -casting its red rays through the open door, and far out into the -resounding night. Overhead a lantern swung gently to and -fro, rocking our shadows on the walls. From the -lambing-pens hard by there rose a ceaseless yammering chorus, and -from the outer folds a confusion of tongues deeper still, mingled -with the tolling of innumerable bells. George Artlett sat -on the straw mattress in the corner, his knees drawn up to his -chin.</p> -<p><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -50</span>‘Ah! luck!’ said he, a little scornfully, -peering at me through the cloud of tobacco-smoke—all from -my own pipe—which hovered between us. -‘An’ how be it then, as them as believes in luck, -gets so onaccountable little on’t? Gregory, over at -Redesdown yonder—’a wunt so much as throw a hurdle on -a Friday, an’ ’a wears a bag o’ charm-stuff -round’s neck, an’ ’a wud walk a mile sooner -’n goo unner a laadder—well, how be it wi’ -un? Lambs dyin’ every day, folks say; ah! an’ -yows too—seven on ’em gone a’ready! -“’Twill be thirteen,” ’a sez, -“thirteen, th’ on-lucky number, an’ then -’twill stop. ’Tis Redesdown’s -luck!” sez he; “ye can do nought agen -it!” An’ next year, ’a’ll goo on -feedin’ short an’ poor, jest as ’a allers doos; -an’ putten th’ yows to th’ ram too young; -an’ lambin’ i’ th’ hoameyard agen, where -’tis so soggy an’ onhealthy, jest because ’tis -near to ’s bed. When a man doos his -night-shepherdin’, swearin’ at th’ laads -through ’s windy, ’a may well look fer bad -luck!’</p> -<p>He rose, and drew on his great blanket-coat, and pulled his -sou’wester over his eyes. Then he took down the -lantern from its hook, and together we plunged out into the -buffeting wind to make the round of the folds for the sixth time -since my advent, although the night was but half over.</p> -<p>The moon was nearly at the full. In its flood <a -name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>of pure white -light, the lambing-yard, with its surrounding folds, looked like -some extensive fortification, so high and impregnable seemed the -walls that hemmed it in on every side. These walls were -made of sheaves of straw, standing on end, shoulder to shoulder, -of such girth and density that not a breath of the unruly wind -could penetrate them. Within, the lambing-yard was floored -a foot deep with the same straw, and on all sides were the pens, -little separate bays flanked and topped by hurdles covered in -with the like material. The whole place was crowded with -ewes and lambs; the newest arrivals still in the pens with their -mothers, the rest almost as snugly berthed out in the mainway of -the yard. Outside this elaborate stockade were two great -folds, the one containing the ewes still to be reckoned with, the -other thronged with those whose troubles were happily over, and -with whom already the cares and joys of motherhood were verging -on the trite.</p> -<p>Shepherd Artlett took no chances at any stage of his -work. At the entrance to the lambing-yard, he carefully -covered up the lantern with his coat, and thereafter allowed its -light to fall only where he need direct his scrutiny.</p> -<p>‘Nane o’ Gregory’s luck fer me!’ he -said. ‘There bean’t no wolves on th’ Hill -nowadays, but sheep, they be jest as much afeared o’ <a -name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>summat as -’twur born in ’em to dread. ’Tis in their -blood, I reckons. Now look ye! A naked light carried -i’ th’ haand, an’ let sudden in upon -’em—see how it sets th’ shadders dancin’ -an’ prancin’ all around! Like as not, -’tis so th’ wolves came leapin’ round th’ -folds ages an’ ages back; an’ so it bides in -th’ blood wi’ all sheep—a sort o’ -natur’s bygone memory. Froughten wan yow, an’ -ye be like to froughten all. Set ’em -stampedin’, an’ that means slipped lambs, turned -milk, an’ trouble wi’out end—Gregory’s -luck agen!’</p> -<p>On these rounds, every pen in the yard was visited, and its -denizens critically examined: not a sheep of the huddled, -vociferating crowd through which we threaded our difficult -course, but had her share in George Artlett’s swift-roving -glance. Here and there we came upon a newborn lamb, and -then George took its four legs in one handful and carried it head -downwards through the throng to the nearest vacant pen, its -frantic mother bleating her expostulation close in our -rear. There were the feeding-cages to fill with hay, and -mangold to be carried in and scattered amongst the crouching -sheep. Sometimes there was a sickly lamb or ewe to doctor, -when we went trudging back to rifle the medicine-chest in the -hut; and rarely a weakling, who refused its natural food, must be -taken <a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -53</span>under George’s coat, a silent shivering woolly -atom, and restored to life and voice by the warmth of our fire -and the bottle.</p> -<p>In how great a measure the luck of Windlecombe or any -sheep-farm depends on the foresight and tender care of the -shepherd, was well brought home to me as, in the first ghostly -light of morning, something like a crisis came to vary the -monotonous round of our task. I had dozed off as I sat in -my corner, and woke to find grey dawn picking out the tops of the -hills, and George away on his unending business. Presently, -through the little window at my side, I saw him coming back over -the rimy grass, his coat bulged out with the usual burden. -He set the lamb down on the straw by the fire. Limp and -lifeless it looked, and past all aid; but George fell patiently -to work swabbing it. As he worked, he talked.</p> -<p>‘’Tis White-Eye agen—a fine yow, but a -onaccountable bad mother, ’a be, surelye. Purty nigh -lost her lamb laast season, an’ now agen ’tis -ne’ersome-matter wi’ un. Wunt gie suck. -Butts th’ little un away, ’a do. That, -an’ th’ could, ’tis. Terr’ble hard -put to ’t, I wur, laast time, to save un! An’ -this—well: if ’a cooms round, ’twill be a -miracle—’</p> -<p>He stopped to fetch his breath, then set to more vigorously -than ever.</p> -<p><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -54</span>‘Lorsh! I do b’lieve! . . . Ay! -I’ll do ’t!—better ’n a score o’ -dead uns, ’a be, a’ready. Now, shaap wi’ -th’ bottle!’</p> -<p>But the wretched mute morsel of woolliness was too weak to -suck. And then George Artlett did what I had never seen -done before.</p> -<p>‘Well, well!’ he said confidently, ‘we must -try th’ ould-fangled way wi’ un!’ He took -a gulp of the warm milk, and bringing the lamb’s mouth to -his own, tenderly fed it. Again and again this was done, -until life began to flicker up strong once more in the little -creature’s body.</p> -<p>‘But mind ye!’ said George, as presently he stood -looking down on the resuscitated lamb, and regaling himself with -its pitiful bleating, ‘No more o’ White-Eye! -Off to Findon Fair ’a goos wi’ th’ -draught-sheep next May, sure as she’s alive!’</p> -<h2><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -55</span>MARCH</h2> -<h3>I</h3> -<p><span class="smcap">The</span> charm of Sussex woods, though -you may frequent them at all times in and out of season, is that -they are never the same woods from year to year. The great -trees, indeed, keep their old familiar forms and stations, but -the undergrowth of hazel, ash, larch, or silver-birch is -periodically cleared away. This year, a certain hillside or -deep hollow may be hidden under a thicket of growth impenetrable -not only to the casual wanderer, but to the very sunlight itself; -and next year the wood-cutters may have swept it clean, leaving -only the forest trees to cast their shadows over a sunny -wilderness that your eyes, though you have journeyed this way -scores of times, have never yet beheld. Clearings wherein -the children gathered primroses by the thousand one spring, are -overgrown and all but impassable the next. The very paths -and waggon-ways change their direction, as the woodmen vary the -scene of their labours from year to year. And in the track -of the copse-cutters, <a name="page56"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 56</span>arise all manner of new plants; new -birds come to nest; new sights and sounds throng about the way at -every turn—so, in nearly all seasons, a strange new land is -brought to your very feet, in the midst of things familiar, -maybe, for a score of years.</p> -<p>In the dead deeps of winter, nothing seems so remote, so -hopelessly unattainable, as the March sunshine; yet here it is at -last, and here I am, sitting on a hazel-stole softly cushioned -with ivy, alone and deliciously idle, in a clearing I have just -discovered in the heart of Windle Woods.</p> -<p>All this part of the wood has lain untouched for a decade, -perhaps, given over to the jays and magpies, and other wildest of -wild nesting things. There is a green lane only a few -hundred feet distant, and along it I have journeyed many a time -during the past year, never dreaming that the clearing -existed. And yet, no later than last April, the woodmen -must have been here with their bill-hooks, hacking and hewing, -and letting in the living sunlight where the earth had known no -more than green gloaming on the brightest day.</p> -<p>It is strange how quickly the fertile soil awakens from such a -lethargy of long, dark years. From where I sit, high upon -the sunny slope, I can see nothing but greenery. All that -remains of the dense growth of hazel, that covered this part of -<a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>the wood, -is gathered into great square piles, looking like windowless -houses set here and there on the sunny declivity. Primroses -shine everywhere; truly not in the abundance of April, but still -there is no yard of ground without their sulphur sheen. Red -deadnettle makes a rosy flush in the grass at my feet. -There is ground-ivy round the base of each hazel-stole, with its -pale violet flowers, so minute, yet making such a brave show by -sheer strength of numbers. And hovering everywhere over -this still mere of sunshine, with its sunken treasure of blossom, -are butterflies—great sulphur-yellow -butterflies—flapping idly along, little tortoiseshells and -peacocks that have laid up through the winter, and one gorgeous -red-admiral, also a hibernator, veering about in the sunshine -with outspread, motionless wings.</p> -<p>To this secret nook of woodland I came but an hour ago, yet in -that one hour of still March sunshine, I have seen and heard more -things than could be chronicled, perhaps, in a day’s hard -driving of the swiftest pen. To set down only the things -that dwell foremost in the memory is not easy. I had been -here only a few minutes when a rabbit came racing across the -clearing, dodging in and out of the hazel-stoles in tremendous -hurry and fear. On seeing me, he turned off at a sharp -angle, then scurried away into the wood. A full <a -name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>five minutes -after came a stealthy rustling from the same direction, and a -ruddy-furred stoat drew into view, his snake-like head -alternately poised high in the sunshine and lowered amidst the -grass, as he carefully picked up the rabbit’s trail. -He was going at only a tithe of the rabbit’s pace, but -going without an instant’s hesitation. Where the -rabbit had turned off at seeing me, the stoat also veered sharply -round. He went straight for the wood, entering it, as far -as I could judge, at exactly the same spot. So he would go -on, I knew, until at last his blood-thirsty cunning and -pertinacity had outworn the rabbit’s speed.</p> -<p>Then a woodpecker came over the clearing, his crimson cap and -tarnished jerkin of lincoln-green looking strangely tawdry and -theatrical in the brilliant sunshine. He flew heavily yet -swiftly, arresting the motion of his wings at every four or five -beats, much as a finch flies. As he passed over, he uttered -his weird call-note, that sounds something like ‘Ploo-ee, -ploo-ee!’ wherein, however, there is a tang of crafty -cynicism indescribable. Not far from where I sat was a -beech-tree, and to this tree I watched him go. He climbed -up the smooth bark like a cat, taking the trunk -spiral-wise. Then, when almost at its summit, he stopped -and beat out of the hard wood, with his pick-axe of a <a -name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>bill, such a -note as can be likened to nothing else in nature. So fast -fell the blows of his beak, that between them no interval could -be distinguished. They ran together into one smooth, -continuous volume of sound. Extraordinarily musical it was, -with a plaintive quality and a variableness of tone, now loud, -now soft, that could not fail to impress the dullest ear. -The note was prolonged for half a minute or so, and then the bird -stopped to listen. Far away over the wood-top I heard the -answering sound. For this woodpecker-music in springtime is -a true love-call, and you will hear it onward through the months -until the last pair of birds is mated in the wood.</p> -<p>This is the time when the queen-wasps come out of their winter -hiding-places, and the first bumble-bees appear. Of the -hive-bees very few seek out these isolated clearings; they have -all gone to the riverside where the sallows and willows are in -bloom. But as I sat listening to the medley of birds and -insect-voices around me, trying to pick out one after the other -from the chaos of song, I heard the soft note of a honey-bee down -in the blue veronica close at hand. Yet she touched none of -the flowers. She passed all by, and went scrambling down -among the moss and dead leaves. Knowing that the honey-bee -never wastes time, and anxious to find out <a -name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>what she -might be doing there, I watched her as she painfully went over -the moss-fronds one by one, sending forth a shrill, fretful note -at intervals, very like an interjection of disappointment at not -finding what she needed. At last her search came to a -successful end. It was a dew-drop she had been seeking, one -of the few that had escaped the thirsty glances of the sun. -Silently she drank. And then, as she rose into mid-air with -her burden, there was no mistaking the triumphant quality of her -song. At this time, water is the all-important factor in -the prosperity of the hive; and the bee knew well she was -carrying home something of greater worth even than a load of the -purest honey.</p> -<p>Leaving the clearing at length, I went homeward by a -roundabout way, through the oldest part of the wood. -Traversing one of the shadiest paths, where the oaks grew thick -together overhead, I came to a turn in the way. Just -beyond, there was a single spot of sunshine lying on the -moss-green path, and in it a squirrel gambolled, as though he -were taking a bath in the yellow pool of light. Often -throughout the winter I had come upon squirrels thus, tempted out -of their warm winter-houses by some day of exceptional -mildness. For the squirrel is no true hibernator. He -sleeps through the cold spells, often for weeks at a -stretch. But, like the hive-bees, warm <a -name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>weather at -once rouses him from his dray, and sends him forth ravenous to -his secret store of acorns or beech-mast.</p> -<p>Old Tom Clemmer once told me of a custom regarding the -squirrel which, in his boyhood, was rife in most Downland -villages. On Saint Andrew’s Day, towards the end of -each November, most of the Windlecombe men and boys used to -foregather on the green, armed with short sticks, shod at one end -with some heavy piece of metal. The party would then go out -into the woods for this, the annual squirrel-hunt, or -‘skugging’ as it was called. The weighted -sticks were thrown at the squirrels as they leaped in the -branches overhead; and some of the folk, Tom Clemmer himself -among the number, were famous for their skill at this -pastime. Skugging, however, being essentially a poor -man’s brutal sport, has been long ago suppressed.</p> -<p>My squirrel in the pool of sunshine blocked the path, and -there was no way round. I must perforce disturb him. -I watched him clamber upward into the wilderness of budding -oak-boughs, his glossy red-brown coat gleaming in the sunshine as -he went.</p> -<p>Presently, coming into a spacious valley of beeches, where the -eye could wander far and wide, between the grey-green trunks, -over a bare, undulating carpet of last year’s -leaves—for <a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -62</span>scarcely anything will grow under beech—I caught -sight of an object which drew my steps over to the near -hillside. It was a spot of shining white painted about -breast high on the smooth bark of one of the trees. I knew -what it meant. It was the White Spot of Doom—the -token of the woodreeve to his men that the tree was to be felled; -and this was the time, when the sap was beginning to run strong -and rinding would be easy, for the death sentence to be carried -out.</p> -<p>I looked at the white spot, and if I could have saved the tree -by obliterating it there and then, I would have done so -gladly. Carved deeply into its wood, and so long ago that -the characters were all but illegible, was a double set of -initials, and, between them, two hearts at once united and -transfixed by the same arrow. Below these roughly-hewn -signs a date appeared. I had often come upon the legend in -my walks, and stopped to ruminate over it. Who had cut it I -never knew, nor indeed whether C. D. and L. E. W., if they were -alive to-day, would have joined with any enthusiasm in my desire -for its preservation. But somehow it came to me at the -moment as an infinitely pathetic thing, that the tree should be -cut down after all those years, and the record destroyed—it -had been done so obviously for perpetuity. What kind of -stony-hearted villain must the woodreeve have been, <a -name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>I thought to -myself, who could daub that patch of white paint so callously -near to the silent eloquence of such an inscription?</p> -<p>Out of the far distance now, as I lingered over the carving in -that mood of moralising sentimentality, there came creeping up -the hollow stillness of the glade a murmur of voices, and, in a -little, the tramp of heavy feet. I recognised the gang of -woodmen carrying the tools of their craft; and behind them a -little rabble of village-folk, mostly children. I drew off -some way up the hillside, and sat me down on a stump, to look on -at the now imminent, as well as inevitable spectacle.</p> -<p>To watch a great tree felled, especially when such a giant as -this lovers’ tree was in question, is one of the most -exciting things to be met with in country-life. There is -ever growing suspense for the onlooker from the moment when the -first axe-blow sends its echo ringing through the aisles of the -wood, to that last stunned feeling after the mighty tree is -down. The speed and workmanlike dexterity with which the -gang now got to their task only served to intensify this -sensation. One buckled on a pair of climbing-irons and -carried aloft two long ropes, securing them to the trunk at its -highest point of division. While he was still up there, -like a perching crow black against the sky, another took a great -glittering <a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -64</span>axe, and, stepping slowly round the tree, dealt it a -succession of downward and inward blows, cutting out a deep ring -all round the bole some six or eight inches above -ground-level. On the side towards which the tree was to -fall, this cut was now widened and deepened until it laid bare a -good foot breadth of the solid heart of the wood. And while -the amber chips were still flying under the axe, the rest of the -gang were carrying the ropes away at two sharp angles, and -binding them securely to neighbouring trees.</p> -<p>And now began the crucial part of the business. The -great wood-saw was got to work, with four strong men at it. -Cutting close to the ground on the far side of the tree, the -shining blade tore its way steadily into the wood. Inch by -inch it drove its ragged teeth forward, and at every lunge it -gave forth a savage gasping scream, and a spume of yellow sawdust -spirted from the cut, gathering in an ever-growing heap on either -side. No other sound broke the stillness of the glen for a -full ten minutes or more. No one among the mute, expectant -crowd, nor any of the woodmen, seemed to move hand or foot. -All watched and waited, as it appeared, breathlessly. There -were just these four strong men labouring to and fro, the flash -of the hungry saw-blade in the sunlight, and the harsh sudden -screech of the direful thing every time it ripped at the vitals -of the tree. The <a name="page65"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 65</span>gang of woodmen had divided at a sign -from their chief, and stood, three or four of them bearing on -each rope. The leader watched the saw, a hand on each -hip. Once he raised a hand the saw stopped; a row of steel -wedges was driven in behind it; the saw began once more its old -rasping melody. At last the hand went up again. The -work was done. I could see the black line of the cut -reaching within an inch or so of the deep axe-cleft on the face -of the tree.</p> -<p>Long ago, on shipboard, I had been present at the firing of -one of the heaviest guns that ever put to sea; and what followed -now reminded me strangely of that deafening experience. The -leader marshalled his men, and directed operations with short, -sharp words of command, much as the gun-lieutenant had -done. There was the same busy preparation and skurrying to -and fro, the same moment of suspense, the same terrific -outcome. Every available man was now set to haul on the -ropes, while the leader of the gang himself took a mallet and, -with mighty blows, drove the wedges in. Thick and fast the -blows fell, and their echoes went chevying each other down the -ravine. The vast-spreading tree quaked, lashed its branches -wildly about overhead. The crowd of waiting children and -old women were ordered farther back from the zone of -danger. Now the great mallet redoubled its <a -name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>blows, and -the two gangs of men bore on the ropes with all their might and -main. Still, though the commotion overhead increased to the -force of a hurricane, no other sign of movement other than a -faint shudder, was visible in the trunk of the tree. One -last blow of the mallet, and one last pull all together, and then -a sharp crack sounded, as it were, from the bowels of the -earth. The ropemen leant back in one huge final effort, -then dropped the ropes, and ran for their lives. There came -a slithering, tearing noise as the mighty beech toppled forward, -tearing itself from the clinging, cumbering embrace of its -age-long fellows, then down it came to earth with one long, -rolling, thunderous, crackling roar.</p> -<p>Where I stood, I felt the solid earth quake and shudder. -Between the moment when the uppermost branches of the great tree -began to force their way in a wide, descending arc through the -thicket of intercepting branches, and the moment of the last -terrific boom, as the trunk struck the earth, there seemed a -strangely long interval of time. Another thing struck me -with all the force of unimaginable novelty. All the -undermost branches of the tree as it fell were splintered into a -thousand fragments, and these, flying upward and outward, in a -great cloud, gave an effect as if the mighty trunk had fallen -into water.</p> -<p>And now I learned for the first time why all the <a -name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>poor folk had -followed the woodmen with their baskets. The tree was no -sooner prone on the ground, and the last soaring splinter come -rattling out of the sky, than a rush was made to the spot by -all. Here was firewood in plenty for every one, as much as -each could gather or carry. And it was firewood already -chopped.</p> -<h3>II</h3> -<p>It was Tennyson who first set us looking for kingfishers in -March, though, indeed, the ‘sea-blue bird’ makes the -riverside beautiful at all seasons. There is a little creek -here, winding away from the main current of the river through a -thicket of willow and alder, where, coming stealthily along the -shadowed footpath, you can always hear the shrill, creaking pipe -of the bird, and generally catch the glint of his gay plumage as -he darts down-stream, or sits on some branch overhanging the -clear, brown water.</p> -<p>But it was from the stern-seat of the old ferryman’s -boat that I learnt whatever I know about kingfishers and river -life in general; and these secret excursions seldom began until -March was well under way. For me, therefore, the -kingfisher, as for all Tennyson lovers, is most clearly -associated with the still barren hedgerows and brakes, the song -of the thrush mounted high <a name="page68"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 68</span>amidst leafless branches, and that -wonderful array of crimson tassels and brown bobbins, all set in -a mist of pale green needles, which at this time makes the larch -one of the sights of the country-side.</p> -<p>I have said secret excursions; and, indeed, all my relations -with old Runridge during recent years have necessarily taken on -this furtive character. It was not always so. In -happier days, when the old man was a widower, I used to drift -down to his cabin by the water-side for a quiet pipe at all -seasons of the day and openly, whenever the mood seized me. -Then, if tide and the weather served, we would take the little -skiff and go off for hours together exploring the shiest nooks of -the river, either with or without the ancient fowling-piece that -hung over his kitchen hearth. At these times the ferry was -left to take care of itself, which it did sufficiently well, -there being often quite a little collection of pennies on the -thwart of the boat when the old man got back from these -unpremeditated truantries.</p> -<p>But, one fateful day, a distant cousin of Runridge’s -arrived on a visit—a sedate, ponderous woman, very black as -to brows and eyes, and with a hard, shiny face whose colour -seemed all on the surface, like red paint. She never went -away again, for within the month she became <a -name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>Mrs. -Runridge. From that day, for peace and quiet’s sake, -the old ferryman and I pursued our ancient courses only by -stealth. Fortunately Mrs. Runridge had a genius for -household economy, which led her to eschew the village shop, and -took her off with her basket at least once a week to Stavisham -and its cheaper wares. This was always our opportunity; and -regularly on the town market-days, when Mrs. Runridge and her -basket had been safely stowed into the carrier’s cart and -it had turned the distant bend of the lane, the little green -wherry set forth over the shining tide with its -self-congratulatory crew, bent on visiting the -‘harns,’ or looking for reed-warblers’ nests, -or anything else that might fit the occasion.</p> -<p>To-day we went up on the full tide, and turned into the little -creek where the kingfishers have their nests. It has been -one of those dead-still, cloudless days, that so often come in -mid-March just before the gales of the equinox—a halcyon -day, in very truth. As our little craft sped up the -glittering pathway of the waters, hardly a whisper sounded in the -dense jungle of reeds that flanks the river here on either -side. The treetops stood motionless against the -sky—one clear, blue arch except where just above the -horizon a series of white clouds peered over the hill-tops like a -row of beckoning hands. The willows on <a -name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>the banks -were full of yellow blossom in which the bees crowded; their soft -music was with us wherever we went. Larks carolled -overhead. Thrushes, blackbirds, hedge-sparrows sang in -every bush. There was a great cawing and dawing from the -rookeries, where the black companies had returned for the season, -and were busy furbishing up their nests. We drove our -boat’s prow through the willow branches that all but hid -the entrance to the creek, then let her drift idly down the -narrow way until we gained the broader basin near the footbridge, -and moored her to an overhanging branch.</p> -<p>Keeping quiet and still in our corner, we had only a few -minutes to wait. The familiar, high-pitched cry rang out -from the sunny breadth of the river. And then, into the -cool, grey light, came what looked like a flying spark of emerald -fire. The bird pitched on a wand of sallow that drooped -nearly to the water just opposite our retreat. Here he sat -awhile carelessly preening his magnificent feathers. Below -him the water lay glassy-still and clear, reflecting his tawny -breast and the rich chequer-work of gold blossom and blue sky -overhead. The kingfisher did not watch the stream with that -motionless vigilance that one reads of in the nature books. -He seemed to give the gliding water scarce a thought, but to be -intent only on the contemplation of his <a -name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>own finery, -as he twirled on his perch, reaching now and again over his -shoulder to set straight a feather that had gone awry.</p> -<p>But suddenly he stopped in this popinjay performance, pointed -his bill downward, and plunged like a stone. The glittering -emerald vanished. On the mirror of the waters there spread -ring within ring of light. What seemed like whole minutes -passed in waiting and silence. And then all the brilliant -green and blue and amber burst into view again, as the bird came -up in a scatter of diamonds, and lanced straight back to his -perch. Now we could see he held a minnow, a little writhing -atom of silver, crosswise in his beak. He struck it to and -fro on the hard wood until he had killed it. Then, at a -single gulp, it was down his throttle. Again the kingfisher -sat preening his gorgeous plumage, with the same dilettante touch -and light carelessness, as though the shining treasury of the -waters below concerned him not a jot.</p> -<h3>III</h3> -<p>I often wonder how it is that the old saying, about March and -its leonine or lamb-like incomings and outgoings, should have -kept so sturdily its place in popular credence. Looking -through a pile of old note-books ranging back over a <a -name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>couple of -decades or so, I find that, in the majority of years, March has -both begun and ended in the lamb-like character. The lion -appears only in the rôle of an interloper, a go-between; -for, almost invariably, there has been a period of chilly, -riotous weather sometime after the middle of the month.</p> -<p>So it has come about this season. Yesterday was a day -without a flaw; and as the sun began at last to mellow and -decline, dragging a net of shining golden haze behind it over the -western hills, I gave up a day-long, though still unfinished -task, and went to sit awhile on the churchyard wall.</p> -<p>The north-west wall is the last rampart of Windlecombe. -It is made of flint, with an oval, red-brick coping of generous -breadth: there is none in the parish, as far as I know, but can -be comfortable upon it. Sitting thereon side-saddle-wise, -you have a view, on the one hand, of the grey stones and -evergreenery of the churchyard, and, on the other, your glance -can wander unchecked straight down the combe to the river, then -forward over the brook-country to the far-off Stavisham -woods. As yet the light had abated scarce a jot of its -dynamic brilliance. Shadows were long, and the white -house-fronts had taken on a leaven of rosy sweetness; but in the -most retiring nooks it was still broad day. <a -name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>I turned my -back on the serene prospect of level plain, where here and there -the sunlight picked out a glittering coil of river, and set -myself to the contemplation of a remarkable fellowship near at -hand.</p> -<p>Close by the wall stood an almond-tree, its wide-spreading -branches covered to the tips with pink blossom, and behind it -glowered and gloomed a venerable yew. The one tree, as it -were, reached out glad, welcoming arms to the spring, squandering -its all to make one hour of joyous festival at the return of the -prodigal light; the other turned but a niggardly side-eye on all -the inflowing radiance of the season. It seemed to be -trying to do its least and worst, to discount the extravagant -jubilation of its neighbour. For very shame it could not -wholly resist the call of the sunshine. Grudgingly it put -forth, at the tip of each sombre green frond, a sparse sprig of -lighter green. And because the almond-tree threw down its -spent blossom in largesse of rosy litter upon the grass below, -this dour-natured vegetable, turning its necessities to virtuous -account, now shed the dead brown buds of the foregoing year, -sending this rubbish fluttering to earth with the same hesitant, -sidelong action with which the almond petals fell, as though in a -mockery of imitation.</p> -<p>As I sat on the wall with my back to the <a -name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>declining -sun,—humouring this, and many similar far-fetched, vain -conceits as the best antidote I knew against the day’s long -overstrain of fancy,—high overhead in the church tower hard -by, the bell began its quiet summons for evensong. Through -gaps in the thicket of ilex and laurel, I saw, first, the tall, -gaunt figure of the Reverend go by on the litten-path with his -vast, confident stride, the pallid threadpaper of a curate -flickering at his heels. After them came Miss Sweet, the -rich and lonely spinster up at the great house, mincing along -under a puce sunshade, with an extended handful of ivory books; -then Mrs. Coles from the farm, as ever, hot and out of breath; -finally, at a respectful interval carefully calculated, three or -four of the village women dribbled through, and disappeared into -the north porch after the rest.</p> -<p>The usual weekly congregation being now complete, the bell -stopped. The harmonium gave out one low, sonorous note, -which on weekdays was the beginning and end of its share in the -service. For the next twenty minutes, no other sound -drifted over to me but the clucking and whistling of the -starlings on the chancel roof. And then, having become -again immersed in the affair of the yew and almond trees, both -now alike steeped by the setting sun in the same rose-red dye, I -was startled by a hand on my <a name="page75"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 75</span>arm. The Reverend stood at my -side, ruddy-faced, red-bearded, the very blackness of his clothes -changed mysteriously to the like glowing hue. His kind eyes -looked straight into mine, just as if he could see them.</p> -<p>‘A fine evening, isn’t it?’ he said, -‘just one rich flood of crimson without form—only a -great light spreading up the sky from where the sun has -disappeared; spreading up and gradually paling and changing until -there is nothing but pure blue, with one silver peg of a star -sticking in it—is it not so?’</p> -<p>‘Why, no, it is not quite that,’ said I, -considering, ‘the star is there sure enough, and the great -red light. But the red does not merge into blue, it melts -gradually into a wonderful, luminous, metallic green, with the -star, almost white, swimming in the midst of it. Far -overhead the sky is blue enough, and up there more stars are -blinking out every moment. But the green! If you -could only see its—’</p> -<p>‘Snow!’ interrupted the old vicar placidly.</p> -<p>‘What!’</p> -<p>‘Snow. Wind first, a gale perhaps; and then the -snow. You will see. What says the almond-tree -here?’</p> -<p>‘It says,’ I contended, ‘but one word. -Spring!—abounding new life and growth; sunshine kindling -stronger and stronger every day; <a name="page76"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 76</span>the winter gone and already half -forgotten. With every pink bloom it promises nightingales, -and white flannels and straw hats and—’</p> -<p>‘Ah! And you never will grow up now: you’re -too old. The almond-blossom?—it lies in my memory -always side by side with the snowdrop and the -Christmas-rose. Snow-flowers, all three! Wait a -little, and be convinced. But now look, and tell me which -way the chimney-smoke is blowing.’</p> -<p>‘Blowing! There is not a breath -of—’</p> -<p>There was more than a breath down there in the fair-way of the -combe, although here we could feel nothing of it. Under the -deep red dusk I could make out the smoke-plumes from the village -chimneys all driving off at a sharp right-angle to the -south. Even as I looked, there came a sudden flaw of wind -overhead that set the yew boughs rocking, and its voice was the -old-remembered voice. The north wind again! Somewhere -in its black tangled depths the yew-tree creaked -derisively. The Reverend put his arm through mine.</p> -<p>‘But it is mercifully late,’ he said, as we turned -homeward together. ‘Artlett need not fear for his -lambs now, nor I for mine. Is the sky already -overcast? Or am I only blinder than usual?’</p> -<h3><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -77</span>IV</h3> -<p>After that day I was house-bound for near upon a week. -Later than its wont by a good hour, the dawn broke every day; but -as in darkness so with the grey wan light, the wind never abated -one iota of its whistling fury; the soft thud-thud of the flying -snow reverberated on the panes; the white drifts at the street -corners mounted steadily higher and higher; in the fireplace, -where I already thought soon to start my summer fernery, I had -the logs crackling and glowing with more than their old wintry -might. Poor almond-blossom! I thought to myself again and -again, as I sat industriously scratching away in the strange -dumbness and the thin, queer light that fills the room in snowy -weather.</p> -<p>Yet this was not so ill a wind but that some good was blown my -way. I found myself overhauling arrears of work at a -surprising rate. When the wind fell at last, backing -steadily to west, then to south-west, and there came a night of -drenching rain—rain that felt like hot tea to a hand held -out in it—I was ready for any sort of idleness and any -wandering company.</p> -<p>Two long days and nights the world lay under that simmering, -steaming cataract. And then such a morning—almost the -last morning of the month—rose over Windlecombe as made the -<a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>mere -awakening in one’s bed seem like a sort of first act in a -miracle play.</p> -<p>The sun had hardly breasted Windle Hill before I was out and -clear of the village: its last red tinge had faded into night -when I turned my tired steps homeward, and so to bed once -more.</p> -<p>Lying there cosily, with the delicious ache of thirty miles in -my bones, and in my ears the lilt of a thousand melodies, all the -glad day’s journey projected itself like swiftly changing -pictures thrown upon the screen of the starry night. The -Downs first—the green sea of hills that seemed to heave and -subside as the violet cloud-shadows lazily drove from crest to -crest; the unending sheep-bell music, and lark-song, and the -playing of the gulls high up in the blue, like scraps of white -paper fluttering in the breeze. Then down the steep -hill-side to the sunny flats, where the plovers were at their -love-play—each pair rising and falling, somersaulting -together, crying continually, coming to rest a moment, then up -again at the old interminable gambols.</p> -<p>Here in the deep ditches the frogs croaked. There was a -golden rim of marsh-marigold to every strip of water, over which -you must peer if you would study the submerged life below. -And what a life there was down in each crystal deep! Queer -water-beetles wove a bright pattern on the surface of the -slow-moving, almost stagnant <a name="page79"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 79</span>stream; and their shadows made just -the same pattern on the sunlit weed of the bottom, though here it -was black instead of bright. Down there were mimic forests -or jungles of ferny, bronze-green growth, all in gentle -undulating motion as the water glided imperceptibly by. -Shoals of minnows cruised about in the sunny open, or lay in wait -singly in the shadowy glades. These single fish seemed to -be for ever quarrelling; either making sudden raid on the lairs -of their neighbours, or being attacked in their turn. When -they banded themselves together, evidently making common peace -the better to rout a common enemy, and swam boldly in the -sunshine, I could see that each fish was faintly tinged with blue -and green and orange-red, the identical colours, although vague -and subdued, of the kingfisher, their traditional foe.</p> -<p>Then came up the vision of a long white road barred with -tree-shadows, flowing between thorn-hedges already full of a -green promise of leafage, and edged with butterfly-haunted -flowers. Little cottages passed by, ankle-deep in blue -forget-me-nots, and aflare with blossoming creepers. Deep -pine-woods took the road and folded it in fragrant gloom, then -set it forth in the sunshine again to wander over gorse-clad -heaths, or amidst spangled meadows. I saw the inn, where I -sat awhile in a company of <a name="page80"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 80</span>travelling -‘rinders’—men who strip the bark from the -felled oaks for the tanneries-who would now be camping, like -Robin and his merry rascals, a month long in the woods.</p> -<p>I dozed off, and woke again where, in the drowsy afternoon -sunshine, I had rested under a great pollard ash weighed down -with ivy. Upon the grass about my feet there shone an -infinity of small, rounded objects, much as if Aladdin had passed -by and thrown down a handful of superfluous rubies. -Everywhere their soft carmine lustre gemmed the sward. Year -by year I have found the like on meadow-paths, wood-rides, by the -church tower, sometimes in the very streets of the village, and -have never known how they came into being. You may have -broken asunder the ivy-berries a hundred times, and noted the -pale-hued seeds within, yet never guessed that here was the -mining-ground for your treasure. It is the sun and air that -make rubies of the fallen ivy seeds.</p> -<p>And, for a last vision, as I lay watching the starshine -travelling across the square of the window, I saw within it a -picture, and heard again a note of music, perhaps the most -wonderful thing in the whole day’s idle round. It was -a keeper’s cottage at the entrance to a wood. On the -steep thatch, white pigeons hobbled amorously; and behind, in a -green bower of <a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -81</span>elder, a wild bird sang. I could see the bird; I -knew it to be a common song-thrush; but the song was the song of -a nightingale—not the loud, silver-toned warble that the -poets love, but the low, slow, sorrowful keening that always -seems as if torn from the very heart of the bird. And here -is a pretty problem. If the nightingale were already with -us, singing in every brake, there would be nothing strange in the -thrush—prone as he is to imitation—borrowing a stanza -from the new melody here and there. But it is more than -strange that he should do so at the present time, seeing that, -for eight or nine months back, there has been no nightingale -music in the land. Yet we, who are mute fowl, are all -thinking of April now, and what it has in store for us: can the -thrush be thinking of April too? And, as with us, can old -memories of nightingales be stirring in him?—in him that -alone can sing his thoughts aloud?</p> -<p style="text-align: center"> -<a href="images/n4.jpg"> -<img alt= -"“The Rinders”" -title= -"“The Rinders”" - src="images/n4.jpg" /> -</a></p> -<h2><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -82</span>APRIL</h2> -<h3>I</h3> -<p><span class="smcap">Sunday</span> morning in Windlecombe, -especially when the season is early April and the weather fine, -is, of all mornings, the one not to be spent indoors.</p> -<p>To-day, until the church-bell had ceased its quiet tolling, -and the last belated worshipper had hurried up the street, I -stood just within the screen of box-hedge that divides my garden -from the public way, so as not to obtrude my old coat and pipe -and week-day boots on those more ecclesiastically minded. -And then, bareheaded, hands thrust deep into trouser-pockets, and -pipe leaving a grey trail of smoke behind on the tranquil air, I -lounged out upon the green—deserted and still in the sweet -April sunshine—to study Windlecombe under one of its most -inviting aspects—its seventh-day spirit of earned sloth and -unstrung, loitering ease.</p> -<p>Though the old vicar has held his post here for nearly half a -century, and is better acquainted with the parish than almost any -other, there is <a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -83</span>just this one aspect of life in Windlecombe which must -be to him for ever a sealed book. When once he has got his -little flock together for morning service, with the church-door -shut upon them, the village and all its doings pass, for the time -being, out of his ken. On wet Sundays, and on the great -church festivals, he knows that many accustomed corners—my -own included—will be as infallibly occupied as they are at -other times unvaryingly empty: and thereof he never makes either -complaint or question. He goes on his way, never doubting -but there is some saving good somewhere in the worst of us, and -whole-heartedly loving us all; while we, the black sheep, who -would sacrifice for him our right hands, our money, our very -lives even, anything but our fine Sunday mornings, go our ways -too, satisfied—if there is meaning in looks—of his -secret sympathy. For there never was human man, whether lay -or clerical, who, of a fine Sunday morning, believed himself so -nearly at one with his Maker on his knees in a dusty pew, as -abroad in the vast green church of an English country-side.</p> -<p>I had gone no more than a dozen paces over the level, worn -grass of the green, when I stopped to look about me, knowing well -what I should see. Like rabbits coming out of their burrows -after the gunner has passed on, the non-churchgoing folk began to -appear. I saw young Daniel Dray <a name="page84"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 84</span>and young Tom Clemmer go off with a -bag of ferrets and their faithful terriers at their heels. -Dewie Artlett arrived at the well-head—the traditional -meeting-place for Windlecombe lovers—and stood waiting -there with a big nosegay of primroses in his hand and another in -his cap. He was joined a moment later by one of the girls -from the farm, and off they went together for a morning’s -sweethearting in the lanes. At the far end of the green, -the inn-door came clattering open, and that genial reprobate, the -inn-keeper, appeared in his shirt-sleeves, blinking up at the sky -as though but lately out of his bed. Other doors here and -there were thrust back, each giving egress to some happy loiterer -in his Sunday best. Within five minutes, almost every -garden-gate had a pair of brown arms comfortably resting on it, -and voices began to pass the time of day to and fro in the whole -sunny length of the street. By easy stages, stopping for a -word here and there by an open door, or a chat with some old -acquaintance sunning himself amidst his cabbages, I got to the -foot of the hill and so to the river. The ferryman sat in -his boat, but as he returned me for my greeting only a stare and -a scarce-perceptible shake of the head, I knew that our common -enemy was in ambush close by. I made off along the -river-path, and turned into the woods.</p> -<p><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>There -was a blackbird singing somewhere in the budding thicket, and I -managed to get quite close to his perch without being seen. -To the songs of birds like the thrush, the skylark, the robin, -you may listen for five minutes; and, beautiful as they are, in -that short space of time you will have learnt all that the song -has to tell. But the blackbird’s song is very -different. It has an endless succession of changes in -rhythm, power and quality. You may listen to it for an -hour, and never hear a phrase repeated in its exact form. -The difference between the blackbird’s song, and that of -nearly all other birds, is the difference between the singing of -a happy schoolgirl and that of a prima donna. While both -have melody, one alone has finished artistry. Until you -have stayed in a wood with a blackbird a whole sunny April -morning through, and got from him the truth of things as he alone -can tell it, you do not really know that spring is here.</p> -<p>Now, by the riverside copse, as I leaned on the old, -lichen-gilded timbers of the fence, listening to the pure, -unhurried notes, the fact that it was really April at last was -suddenly borne in upon me. In the daybreak and eventide -choruses of birds, the thrushes, by dint of sheer numbers and -vehemence, easily overpower all other singers. Now and -again you can catch and isolate a matchless phrase of blackbird -music; <a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>but -to hear the song in perfection, you must wait until the day is -wearing on towards noon, and he seeks solitude for his -singing.</p> -<p>If bird-song is a language, then the blackbird must be the -supreme orator of the woods. Though you understand not a -syllable of what he is pouring forth, there is no doubt of its -ever-varying meaning. In the midst of a succession of quite -simple phrases, each consisting of three or four notes at the -most, he suddenly gives you a passage whose melodious complexity -is almost bewildering. He constantly varies the pace of his -delivery. He embellishes his song with -grace-notes—beautiful silver-chiming triplets in the midst -of his lowest, most leisurely strains. There is emphasis, -attack, a sort of blustering use of sheer power of utterance; or -he may run over a slow, quiet tune at his lightest -tongue-tip. At times, indeed, it is well-nigh impossible to -believe that you are not listening to two birds together, of -totally different qualities of voice, alternating their -melodies.</p> -<p>How long I should have tarried there, furtively renewing this -old acquaintance, I know not; but it seems my cover was -incomplete, and the song came to its usual termination. It -stopped short in the midst of one of its brightest stanzas, and I -knew my presence had been observed. The blackbird made -off. There was first the <a name="page87"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 87</span>defiant, yet fearsome -cluck-cluck-cluck until he was clear of the bushes and free to -fly, and then away he went through the sunshine to the far bank -of the river, hurling over his shoulder as he went the usual -mocking laughter-peal.</p> -<h3>II</h3> -<p>A week of April has gone by—a week of rain and shine, -and the singing of the south wind by day; and, at nights, an -intense dark calm full of the sound of purling brooks.</p> -<p>The river runs high. All the streams are swollen. -The low-lying meadows are half green grass overspread with a pink -mist of lady’s-smock, and half glittering pools of water -that bring down the blue of the sky under your feet as you -go. You can never forget the rain for an instant. On -this page, as I sit writing at the open window, the morning sun -was streaming a minute ago: now a ragged grey rain-cloud has come -tumbling over the hills, and I cannot see across the green for -the torrent. It is by almost as quickly as I can set down -the words; and now the sunbeams are pouring in at the window -again: the whole village lies before me drenched and sparkling, -the street one long river of blinding light.</p> -<p>Tom Artlett, going by early this morning to his work and -spying me in the garden, called <a name="page88"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 88</span>out that he had heard the cuckoo -twice already; and it may well be so. The ringing note of -the wryneck—the ‘cuckoo’s mate’—has -been sounding in the elm-tops all the morning through, and the -cuckoo is seldom far behind her messenger. Nightingale and -swift, swallow and martin, they are all on their way northward -now, and any day may bring them. But time spent at this -season in looking forward to the things that will be, is always -time wasted. Every hour in early April has its own new -revelation, and common eyes and ears can do no more than mark the -things that are.</p> -<p>Yesterday, in a blink of sunny calm between the showers, I -took my midday walk through the hazel-woods. The young -leaves already tempered the sunlight to the primroses and -anemones that covered the woodland floor, giving all a greenish -tinge. Though the whole wood was full of primroses, it was -only by the edges of the fields, where they grew in full -sunshine, that their rich yellow colour had any -significance. Here under the hazels this was so diluted and -explained away by the white of the anemones, and again by the -leaf-filtered sunbeams from above, that the primroses no longer -seemed yellow. At a few yards distant, in the dimmest -spots, you could scarce tell one flower from another but for its -shape.</p> -<p><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -89</span>Wherever I went in the wood, the soft droning song of -the bees went with me. You could hardly put one foot before -the other without dashing the cup from the lip of one of these -winged wanderers. But though the anemones and primroses -grew so thick, so inextricably mingled together, the honey-bees -kept to the one species of flower. They clambered in and -out of the star-like anemones, sometimes two and three at a -blossom together. But the primroses were always passed -over, by hive-bee and humble-bee alike. Here and there, I -picked one of the sulphur blossoms, and tearing it apart, made -sure that there was nectar in plenty—its presence was plain -even to human eye. The truth was, of course, that the -sweets of the primrose were placed so far down the trumpet-tube -of the flower, that no bee had tongue long enough to gather them, -even if they were to her mind.</p> -<p>Yet though the bees might scorn the primrose for much the same -reason as the fox contemned the grapes in the fable, there was -one creature specially told off by Nature to do the necessary -work of fertilisation. Now and again in the general low -murmur of voices about me, I could distinguish an alien -note. This came from a large fly, in a light-brown fluffy -jacket, with transparent wings fantastically scalloped in -black. He jerked himself to and fro in the air from one <a -name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>primrose to -another, hovering a moment over each before settling and -thrusting a tongue of amazing length down the yellow throttle of -the flower. His name I have never heard, but I know that, -until recent times, he continued to conceal, not only his means -of livelihood, but his very existence from the vigilance of -naturalists: Darwin himself failed to identify this -primrose-sprite with his special mission in fertilising work.</p> -<p>It is strange how familiarity with the commonest natural -objects may exist side by side with a pitiful ignorance about -them. I had gathered primroses every spring for half a -lifetime through before I realised that I bore, not one, but two -kinds of blossom in my hand. The discovery, I remember, -came with something like a shock of surprise. Yet there was -no blinking the fact: the wonder, indeed, was that in all the -thousands I had gathered, as boy and youth and man, the thing had -never before occurred to me. There was no difference in the -sulphur-hued faces of the flowers. But while the deep, -central tube of some was closed with a little whorl of pale buff -feathers, in others this tube was open, and there stood just -within it a slender stem topped with a small green globe—it -seemed at first sight, then, that the sexual principle in the -primrose was divided, each plant bearing only male, or only -female flowers. But investigating farther, I <a -name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>found that -this was not so. Each flower was truly hermaphrodite, only -in one the male feathery anthers were uppermost, and in the other -the green pistil of the female appeared above.</p> -<p>Thirty years it took me to discover these simple, obvious -facts about a thing I had handled every spring since childhood: -how many decades more, I wonder, must pass ere I shall clear up -the final mystery about them, a matter now to me dark as -ever—how, with the primrose alone, this came to be so; and, -above all, why?</p> -<h3>III</h3> -<p>If I tell the plain, honest truth about the day which has just -ended, and call it a day of adventure and excitement from its -first grey gleam to its tranquil golden close, I am not sure that -there are many who will understand me, save the one who shared it -with me almost hour by hour.</p> -<p>For nothing really happened on this day, as the world -estimates events. Over an obscure Sussex village, a -mid-April sun shone out of a cloudless sky; certain migrant birds -arrived in the neighbourhood; certain wild flowers and insects -were observed for the first time; there was nothing more. -No wandering stranger appeared in the street, to bring us all to -our <a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>doors; -no big-gun practice was going on thirty miles away at Portsmouth, -outraging our blue sky with incongruous thunder; nor did even the -gilt arrow on the church-clock slip an hour at midday, as it -often does, and send us scurrying home to dinner before the -time. To all save two in Windlecombe, the day was just an -ordinary working week-day; but, to these, it was no less a day -than the one on which the year comes suddenly into its full young -prime.</p> -<p>For me it began when the grey eastern sky took its first tint -of morning rose. There is no sweeter sound than the song of -the house-martins, and this it was that roused me now. In -the darkness they had come, straight to their old nesting-site -under the eaves; and now they filled the room with their quaint, -voluble melody, and wove a mazy pattern against the sky as they -circled to and fro.</p> -<p>While I dressed, I watched them dipping and crying in the -sunny air; and, peering out through the window now and again, I -could see them all along under the eaves, clinging to the rough -bricks of the wall, where they had left their mud-houses last -October. But of these none remained now. Not to break -down the martins’ nests in early spring, before the -sparrows begin to stuff them with grass, is to prepare for the -little black-and-white voyagers’ war instead of <a -name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -93</span>welcome. And they seem quite as happy and content -if, returning, they find nothing but a clay-mark on the wall.</p> -<p>Later, by an hour at most, I had the Reverend by the arm, not -so much to guide, as to restrain him, for he went ever a little -before me through the meadow with the sure, swift stride of a -mountain-goat. There was but one thing that could betray -his affliction to a close observer. While I went blinking -in the intolerable glory of the sunshine above us, and the scarce -lesser glory of the buttercups below, he strode onward, his calm -old face turned straight up to the sun, his blue eyes meeting it -unflinchingly from under their shaggy arches of white. He -might be Gabriel looking into the very focus of heaven, I -thought, as I stole a glance at him a little fearsomely. -Indeed, I never quite limited his vision to that of his poor, -purblind, human eyes.</p> -<p>‘It will be down in the little birch-clump near the -Conyers,’ he said. ‘That is where the first -nightingale always comes. It will take us a good five -minutes, and why are you not talking to me? Come! do not -keep all the brave, beautiful things to yourself!’</p> -<p>How to tell him of all the things I saw in a single yard of -meadow about us! But I got to work with the will, if not -the power.</p> -<p>‘We are walking,’ said I, ‘through -buttercups <a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -94</span>a foot high; and almost with every step we send a cloud -of little blue-and-copper butterflies chevying before us. -Listen to the grasshoppers piping! The buttercups make a -sort of thick scum of gold as on the surface of a green -lake. Down below, like pebbles on the lake-bottom lie the -daisies—their white discs touch each other in all -directions; nay, they overlap, they are heaped upon one -another. An insect might crawl over them from side to side -of the great meadow and never tread on anything but -daisy-white. And the dandelions! There are millions -of them, I think, filling the air with a perfume like choice old -wine. And smell these, Reverend! Do you know what -they are?’</p> -<p>‘Cowslips! They must be in full bloom now: they -were always fine cowslips in this field. But you should -pull them—never pick them. Then you get all their -beauty, the crimson at the base of the stem, and— -Hark!’</p> -<p>From the oak-clad hill-side to the northward, clear and slow -on the gentle air, came the cuckoo’s double chime. -The old vicar faced about, and took off his hat -ceremoniously. I did the like. It was no -superstitious greeting of the bird on its first appearance. -We were not thinking even of the ancient Sussex legend—that -an old witch goes to Heathfield Fair every fourteenth day of -April, with all the year’s cuckoos in her bag, <a -name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>and there -lets them fly. On our part, it was merely a precautionary -measure against a very ancient rustic pleasantry. Farmer -Coles of Windlecombe loved his joke, and that was Farmer -Coles’s wood. Though we had no real doubt that we -were listening to our first cuckoo, it was well to be on the safe -side.</p> -<p>The path now left the full fair-way of the meadow, and -meandered along by the edge of the wood. I was bidden to go -on with my chronicle.</p> -<p>‘The bluebells are out as thick as ever I saw them, -Reverend. Under the shadow of the trees they look like -purple smoke stealing up the hillside; and where a bar of -sunshine pierces through, the colour seems to leap into the dim -air like a tongue of flame. How the rabbits play! -Every moment they break cover and dart across the open spaces, -two or three together. There goes a spotted -woodpecker!—I saw his black-and-white coat and crimson -plume as he swung through the bar of light. They are scarce -here. Here comes something flitting along that I wish you -could see—you know how the orange-tip—’</p> -<p>‘The butterfly with his wings on fire? Don’t -grizzle over me, man! I <i>can</i> see it!—lazily -looping along, though you think he will fall to earth a cinder -any moment at your feet. He is <a name="page96"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 96</span>like Nero fiddling, I always -think. There must be chervil growing close by.’</p> -<p>‘Yes, a great bank of it, and the butterfly has -gone.’</p> -<p>‘Well: he is only settling there. Look how the -mottled green and white on the under side of his wings, now he -has closed them, exactly match the colours of the chervil. -All his fire is quenched till you disturb him, and then off he -goes, burning himself up as unconcernedly as ever.’</p> -<p>We rounded the corner of the wood, and came upon a little open -stretch of heathland. The sulky sweet fragrance of the -gorse so loaded the air as to make one’s breath come -hard. Over the gorse, linnets sang their slender, tweeting -melody. The blossom-laden bushes spread away before us like -great heaving waves of gold, flowing up to the hill-brow and over -out of sight. Where the crests of yellow bloom stood -against the sky, they made the sky a deeper blue. But -between the gorse-brakes the heather showed no sign. It -crouched low upon the earth, looking black and dreary and dead, -as though a forest fire had lately swept by.</p> -<p>‘Dead!’ cried the Reverend scornfully. -‘Turn up a frond of it, and look at the under side of the -leaves. Each leaf is black above, but see how green and -sappy and full of life it really is, if you <a -name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>look at it -aright. One misses a lot in life by taking too lofty a -standpoint. The heather in April may be black to you, but -it is green enough to the hiding mice.’</p> -<p>We went along in silence for a minute or two.</p> -<p>‘And what about the trees?’ he asked -presently. ‘Is it death or life there? The -cuckoo never will wait for his green leaves, you know.’</p> -<p>‘Green leaves I see, but leafage nowhere. All the -wood-top is chequered into different clear zones of green, or -grey, or russet, or soft sad yellow—buds bursting and -leaves just promising everywhere; but leaves, as I want them, -none. How slow it all is! I can understand the -cuckoo’s impatience. Flying all the way from Africa -only to find—’</p> -<p>He had ceased to listen. He had turned swiftly towards -the sun-bathed meadows. He put up a thin -hand—blue-veined, almost transparent—against the -light. He visibly started.</p> -<p>‘I heard the throb of a wing—a new sound. It -must be—’</p> -<p>‘Yes, there it is! The first swallow! -Wheeling and darting over the buttercups yonder, like a bit of -bright, blue-tempered steel!’</p> -<p>And as I uttered the words, there drifted out of the -thorn-hedge hard by us the note we had come to seek. All -the ringing music of the woodland seemed to grow mute at the -sound. Wild <a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -98</span>and pure, with a force and a lingering sweetness -indescribable, the nightingale’s song poured out of the -thicket, dwelling upon the one silver, clarion note, moment after -moment, as though it would never cease. At my side two -gaunt arms rose tremblingly into the sunshine:</p> -<p>‘They are all here!’—the voice was husky, -faltering—‘All! all! I have heard them again, -every one of them, the good God be praised! Though I never -hoped to— Yes, one by one, I bade them all a long -farewell last year!’</p> -<h3>IV</h3> -<p>Down in the village, when I left it this morning, hardly a -breath was stirring under the warm April sun; but the wind is -never still for more than an hour or two, here on the top of -Windle Hill. At first, there was only a gentle wayward air -out of the blue south-west. But already the wind is -freshening as the sun lifts; and, with the growing heat, it is -sure to strengthen. Midday may find half a gale singing in -the long grass-bents around me, the gold tassels of the cowslips -lashing to and fro in the grip of a madcap breeze.</p> -<p>To get the true spirit of the Sussex Downs, you must become a -lover of the wind, loving it in all its moods. There are -rare moments, even on Windle Hill, when the sun glows in a -halcyon <a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -99</span>sky, and the blue air about you lies as still and silent -as a sheltered woodland mere. But this is not true Downland -weather. A calm day in the valleys may stand for -tranquillity, and be well enough; but here it savours rather of -stagnation. The very life of the Downs is in their flowing, -ever-changing atmosphere—the sweet pure current coming to -you unwinnowed over a visible course of twenty miles. When -the wind is still, it is good to keep to the lowlands, under -their green canopies of whispering leaves, within sound of their -purling undertone of brooks; for the valley has its own -companionable voices of earth, even under silent skies. But -the Downs are as a strung harp, that will yield no music save to -the touch of the one gargantuan player. Their very essence -of life is in the careering air. You must learn to love the -wind for its own sake, or you will never come to be a true Sussex -highlander—to know what the magic is that brings Sussex -men, meeting by chance in some far-off nook of the world, to talk -first of all of the Downs, when, in the stifling heat of a tropic -night, or by northern camp-fires, pipes are aglow, and tired -hearts wistfully homing.</p> -<p>Out of the blue south-west comes the gentle wind, bringing -with it the colour of the skies to every dell and shady woodland -track in the far-spreading vista. Violet-hued the lazy <a -name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -100</span>cloud-shadows creep over the hills, or travel the -lowland country to the south, dimming the green of blunting corn -and the rich brown of new tilth, with their own soft scrumbling -of azure. Where the village lies, far below at the foot of -the hill, the elm-tops seem full of green: but this is only the -scale of the bygone blossom. It will all fall to earth in -tiny emerald discs, each with its crimson centre, before the true -abiding green of the leaf appears. In the cottage -gardens—looking, from the heights, like patchwork in a -quilt—the cherry-trees make snow-white wreaths and -posies. The lane that leads to the hill is flanked with -ancient blackthorn hedges whiter yet. Blackthorn and sloe, -and bright festoons of marsh-marigold weave a dwindling pattern -over the low brook-country beyond, where the grey-blue thread of -Arun river winds in and out on its long journey towards the -sea. And, far beyond all, glistens the sea itself—one -vivid streak of blue, incredibly high in the heaven—a long -broad band as though made with a single sweep of a brush charged -with pure sapphire, and fretted here and there with a few scarce, -dragging, crumbling touches of gold.</p> -<p>Swallows go by overhead in the sun-steeped air chattering -pleasantly. Every bush and branch, it would seem, below in -the combe, must have its singer; for how else to account for such -<a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>a -bewildering, dim babel of song? All the larks in the world, -you think, must be congregated in the blue region above the -hill-top, and to be giving back to the sun a dozen gay trills for -every beam he squanders down. While there is daylight, -there will be this incessant lark-song, here on the green -pinnacle of the wind-washed hill. With the first light of -dawn the merry round began: it will hardly cease with the last -red glimmer of the highland evening, when, an hour before, the -leaf-shrouded combe has grown silent in the blackness of -night. The stars will hear the last of it then, just as -they will hear again its earliest music before they are quenched -by the white of morrow. And if a drab, forbidding sky -lowers over everything, or the rain-clouds wrap the hills about -with mist of water, still the larks will sing. Nothing -daunts the little grey highland minstrel. So that there be -light enough to guide him upward, he will soar and sing, carrying -his music indifferently up into the glory of this perfect April -morning, or the gloom of the winter torrent and whistling winter -blast.</p> -<p>Human fret and worry have a habit of keeping to the lowlands, -as all lovers of the Downs know well. You cannot climb the -hill-top, and bring with you all the care that burdened your -footsteps down in the dusty shadow-locked vale. Somehow or -other, every stride upward over the <a name="page102"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 102</span>springy turf seems to lighten the -load; and once on the summit, you seem to have lifted head and -shoulders far above the strife. The hurrying mountain -freshet of a breeze singing in your ears, and the rippling -lark-music, have washed the heart clean of all but gladness; and -you see with awakened eyes. You have soared with the lark, -and now must needs sing with him. You cannot help looking -over and onward, as he does, at the brightness that is always -pressing hard on the heels of human worry and care.</p> -<p>It is the great wide expanses in Nature that have most effect -on the hearts and lives of men. The sea has its own -intrinsic influence; but it is too fraught with echoes of old -wrath and unreasoning violence, overpast yet still remembered, -even in its quietest moods. You cannot forget its grim levy -on human lives, and the stout ships beaten to splinters -uselessly. The leviathan lies crooning, inert, under the -hot April noon, all lazy benevolent gentleness; yet you owe it -many bitter grudges rightfully, and see the silken treachery -lurking deep down in its placid depths. But the story of -the Downs is one long tale of harmless good. They have no -record of strife and disaster. Their tale of the ages is a -whole philosophy of life without its terror:—Nature’s -great good gift to world-worn souls, the bringing of calm into -human life, with calm’s inherent <a -name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>far-seeing; -reason working through worry towards hope and trust for the -best.</p> -<p>The blithe spring day wears on; the sun lifts higher and -higher; and the blue tree-shadows, that span the village down at -the foot of the hill, have shrunk to half their former -length. With the ripe heat of midday, the wind has -freshened to a surging, roistering gale; but its rough touch is -full of kindly warmth and jollity. The cloud-shadows that, -in the serener mood of the morning, crept so stealthily over hill -and dale, now stride from peak to peak in a wild chevy-chase -after the sunbeams; leaping the valleys in their path, and -filling them with rollicking grey and gold. The sky, with -its griddle of white cloud, has come strangely near, and the -Downs have risen suddenly to meet it. You seem buoyed up on -an ever-lifting tide of green hills, that rock and sway as the -broad bars of sun and shadow drive onward under the goad of the -breeze. It is all sheer exultation—the changing -light, and the song of the gale, and the lark’s unceasing -challenge above you. Now, of all times, you must learn how -good a thing it is to be out and about on these Sussex highlands, -washed in the sun and the rain and the pure salt breath of the -sea.</p> -<h2><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -104</span>MAY</h2> -<h3>I</h3> -<p><span class="smcap">Sometimes</span> for days together, a -whole week, perhaps, I may never set foot outside the area of the -village. These are generally times when the tide of work -runs high, and one must keep steadily pulling to make any real -headway against it. They are days, and nights too, of -necessarily close and constant application, varied, however, by -odd half-hours of quiet loafing hither and thither about the -village—delicious moments pilfered recklessly from the -eternal grindstone of the study, to be remembered for their pipes -smoked and their talks with old acquaintance at street corners, -long after the labour which sweetened them has passed, maybe -fruitlessly, away.</p> -<p>So it has happened this last week, during which the season has -journeyed out of April into May. At one time or another in -the chain of busy hours, I have renewed acquaintance with all my -favourite bits of old Windlecombe, and the personalities from -which they are inseparable.</p> -<p><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -105</span>Getting out into the sunshine, I usually find my steps -turning, first of all, towards the smithy. It stands just -behind the Clemmers’ cottage, its yawning black doorway -wreathed about with elder branches full of white blossom, and -deep green spray reminding one of the foliage in old paintings, -which looks as if it were compounded of indigo and gamboge. -I never knew a smith who could beat out such ear-assuaging music -from an anvil as young Tom Clemmer. If you hear it in -passing, you are bound to turn aside, and stand for awhile -looking in at the door, and fall adreaming under the spell of its -quiet melody. But standing out there, with the sun across -your eyes, you can see nothing at first save a sputtering red -spot of fire, and hear nothing but the chime of hammer and anvil, -to which the gruff, wheezy bellows add a sort of complaining -undertone. When you catch sight of young Tom Clemmer, it is -to make him out as one of great height, immensely broad in the -shoulder and lean of hip—a peg-top figure of a man. -Through the smoke and flying sparks he shows you a black face -with a pair of grey eyes, deep-set, glittering, mirthful, and a -great head covered with crisp flaxen curls. He is of the -old South-Saxon blood through and through.</p> -<p>But at the wheelwright’s yard, a little farther along -the green, you are confronted with quite a <a -name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>different -breed of Sussex peasant. The Drays are thickset, of middle -height; and dark, almost swarthy of feature. Up in the -churchyard, you come upon the two names at every step. You -read Clemmer, Dray, Dray and Clemmer, everywhere amidst the -moss-grown stones, in varying degrees of illegibility back for -hundreds of years. The two families are by far the oldest -in Windlecombe. You note that the Clemmers were nearly -always Thomases, and the Drays for the most part Daniels; while -the females of both races were, and are still, either Marthas or -Janes. Looking over the ranks of this silent company, it is -impossible to think of any member of the former clan as other -than long-limbed, grey-eyed and fair; and a Dray, even though he -were a serf under Harold, who was not dark of glance and visage -would be an anomaly unthinkable. Young Daniel now—as -you pass by and see him bending to and fro over his cavern of a -sawpit, with the red elm-dust spurting up fountain-like in the -sunshine between his gaitered legs—must be the very -counterpart of the Dray who, doubtless, fought at Hastings; or -him of older times who, daubed in blue war-paint, might have -watched with wrath and wonder from his seaside ambush the first -Phoenician galley that came adventuring after Cornish tin.</p> -<p>When it rains, though work and the house <a -name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>have for -the nonce become alike intolerable, I have several havens wherein -I can be sure of finding just that quiet anchorage that the -moment needs. The little sweetstuff shop is foremost among -them. Over the long, low window, with its curious lattice -panes of bull’s-eye glass, there runs a legend, in one -uniform character and without stop or break:—‘<span -class="GutSmall">BERLIN WOOLS TOYS SUSAN ANGEL ALL KINDS OF -SWEETS</span>.’ And within at her fireside behind the -little counter, sits Miss Angel, always busily knitting, and -always ready for a chat.</p> -<p>I reserve Miss Angel and her flute-like under-flow of -small-talk, for moments of placidity. But at unruly seasons -of mind, I go to the cobbler’s den, and getting my elbows -upon the half-door, look in upon him, often without spoken word -on either side, for ten minutes at a stretch. It is dark in -there, with a penetrating smell of tanned leather wonderfully -soothing in certain states of the nerves. My own -taciturnity is real enough at these times; but that of the -cobbler, a garrulous old soul by nature, is usually forced upon -him by circumstances. His mouth seems to be permanently -full of brass brads, which come automatically through his closed -lips one by one, and always miraculously head-first, to be ready -when his quick left hand needs them. With his right hand he -keeps up an incessant <a name="page108"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 108</span>monotonous tattoo on the boot -between his knees; and to watch the shining brass pins flowing -from his mouth into symmetrical rows on the leather is pure balm -for eyes tired of staring at paper and ink. I know the -cobbler means to talk directly he has finished his -mouthful. Now and again he looks up with premonitory gleams -of politics or ground-bait in his eye; or, worse still, with that -slow double-wink which I know presages a story ancient even in -his great-grandfather’s time. So I watch the flow of -the brads, and when I judge the supply to be nearly exhausted, I -generally execute a stealthy retreat.</p> -<p>The parlour of the Three Thatchers Inn is, I know of old, an -unrivalled place for the rejuvenation of a jaded faith in the -reality of life, at times of idleness and dismal weather. -It is not the talk of the old landlord behind his bar—talk -at once serenely simple and shrewdly worldly-wise; nor the -unending volley of song from the three canaries, each in its -crinoline-like cage overhead; nor even the quality of the liquor, -that draws me to this cosy, sawdust-carpeted, crimson-curtained -nook. It is the furniture of the bar itself, all that -stands upon its shelves and hangs upon its old wainscoted walls, -that attracts me at these odd, unemployable moments—a -collection of articles never to be got together, I think, <a -name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>in less -than four generations of like-minded men.</p> -<p>All the woodwork is of oak, planted, grown, and felled, no -doubt, within an arrow-flight of the village. On the walls -of the parlour hang various framed and coloured prints, -disreputable by tradition, yet so embrowned with varnish as to be -long ago relegated into harmless indecipherability. There -is a picture of a bird of dubious species, from whose open beak -issue the words—‘<i>As a bird is known by his song, -so is a man by his conversation</i>.’ Opposite the -door, where all entering must immediately observe it, hangs -another picture, this time of a dog lying upon its back with all -four legs rigidly pointing upwards, and a very long red tongue -lolling out of its mouth; and, underneath, the -inscription—‘<i>Poor Trust is dead</i>: <i>bad pay -killed him</i>.’</p> -<p>Behind the bar, the walls are lined with shelves, backed up by -scrolled looking-glass, wherein all the treasures that crowd -before it have their blurred and distorted counterparts. On -the uppermost shelves, hard against the smoke-blackened ceiling, -stand rows of pewter-pots, kept scrupulously clean and bright, -but never taken down for use within living memory. Below -these is a regiment of cut-glass bottles in different rich -colours, quaintly fluted, each with a gilt vine-leaf upon it; and -between the bottles <a name="page110"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 110</span>stand inverted wine-glasses, every -one upon a little mat of gaudy wool, and balancing a lemon upon -its upturned foot. Other shelves are taken up with -toby-jugs, curious old snuff-boxes and tobacco-jars, row upon row -of earthenware mugs, ringed with brown and blue, and stamped with -a mysterious ornament like black seaweed. There are three -large wooden kegs with brass taps, marked respectively with the -letters—O.T., J.R., and C.B. The local pleasantry has -it that these are needed to store the special liquor of three -devoted patrons of the inn. The ferryman and Bleak the -cobbler reject the insinuation with contumely; but O.T., as I -have the best of all reasons for knowing, regards it as a -compliment of subtle hue.</p> -<p>But perhaps the most fascinating item in the whole collection -is a certain ancient puzzle-mug of blue crockery-ware, with a -suspiciously heavy handle and an elaborately perforated -lip. A stranger is invited to drink from this, but, by -reason of the open lattice-work all round the rim, it appears an -impossible feat. The trick, however, is easy to one in the -secret. The handle of the cup is hollow, and communicates -with the interior at its lowest extremity. By setting the -mouth to a small hole in the handle-top, the liquor can be slowly -sucked through.</p> -<h3><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -111</span>II</h3> -<p>It being the day of the fortnightly market at Stavisham, and -the weather fair, Runridge and I took the little green punt from -its moorings this afternoon, and set out to explore the Long -Back-Reach.</p> -<p>The Reach is just a winding side-alley of the river, overgrown -with willows and reeds—a mere crevice of glimmering water -hiding itself in the heart of the wood. Coming into it from -the dazzling sunlight of the main river, it strikes at first -almost chill and gloomy, for all it is an afternoon in May. -But this is only an illusion that soon passes. After a -minute or two you get its quiet keynote; the green dusk becomes -deliciously tempered sunlight, the cool air something finer and -more delicate than the sun-scorched breath of the open -river-way.</p> -<p>Runridge pulls a long clean stroke, and dips his oar-blades -with a perfect rhythm. He is silent company, as far as -words go; but he has an eloquence of look and gesture which more -than takes the place of speech. And there is something -about his mute system of comradeship that irresistibly impels -itself on others. With his tanned, wrinkled face sedately -smiling under the brim of his battered old felt hat, and his -thoughtful eyes for ever roaming over the <a -name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>landscape, -you feel that the ordinary human method of conveying ideas by -sounds is somehow out of place in the little green wherry. -Over and over again to-day, when a scarce bird or uncommon flower -showed itself on the river bank, and I would direct his notice -thither, I found myself insensibly adopting his silent way of a -waved hand or an inclination of the head, when, in other company, -my tongue would have been set agoing on the instant with less -sufficing words.</p> -<p>Out on the broad water-way the tide was still running up, but -here in the Long Back-Reach the drift of the current was hardly -perceptible. The old ferryman had laid by his oars, and now -sat filling an ancient pipe with tobacco that looked like chips -of ebony. As for me, I lay back in the boat, head pillowed -on clasped hands, dimly recalling a dream I had had, ages and -ages back, of a world without green leaves or -nightingales—a weirdly impossible world of nipping frost -and firesides, the sob of the winter wind, and the dreary deluge -of winter rain.</p> -<p>The reeds stood high on either hand: above, the old yellow -reeds, with their nodding mauve-grey plumes, and below, the fresh -green growth, wherein the reed-warblers would soon be -building—a living emerald thronging up amidst the old dead -stems. Over the solid rampart of the reeds the willows -reached down, trailing their <a name="page113"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 113</span>ferny branches in the water. -And beyond these, the great forest trees hemmed us in, oak and -elm and beech in two vast cliffs of verdure towering above us, -and interlocking their laden boughs against the far blue sky.</p> -<p>The little sugar-scoop of a boat drifted on. Everywhere -about us the martins were skimming over the clear water, -chattering as they went. The seeding willows sent down tiny -flecks of white, that hovered and dwelt in the dim air, like -snow-flakes; and from the beeches overhead there was a constant -rain of light fine atoms, the discarded sheaths of the leaf-buds, -that fell upon the waters and gathered into all the little nooks -and bays among the reeds like pale, dun foam.</p> -<p>Somewhere far in the distance a cuckoo sang. Runridge -took his pipe from his mouth, and gave it a rocking motion. -Never a word he said, but his thought passed to me just as if he -had spoken it: a see-saw melody it was, and will be until the hay -is down. There were willow-wrens singing far above in the -tree-tops. A chiff-chaff went looping by with his soft, -broken note. To count the nightingales that we heard as the -boat stemmed onward were almost to count the white-budded -hawthorns that shone out through every gap in the reeds. -And now the old ferryman put out an oar, and turned the <a -name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span>little -craft towards the bank, where a great willow-tree drooped half -across the stream. The boat-prow clove its way into the -heart of this leafy shelter, and we came to rest. The pipe -went up warningly. In the dense reed thicket hard by there -was a new maytide song.</p> -<p>Of all utterances of wild birds, perhaps none attains to a -human-like quality more nearly than that of the -sedge-warbler. It is not so much a song as a continuous -complaint, and that of a characteristically feminine kind. -To me the little sedge-bird, restlessly flitting from stem to -stem through the waving jungle of reeds, and singing as she goes, -inevitably suggests a type of dutiful, laborious womanhood, all -affection and unselfishness, but ever ready alike with sharp -words and an aggressive tearfulness that disarms as completely as -it maddens. And the sweetness, the occasional sudden bright -abandon of the song only serves to strengthen the -comparison. You can picture the bird stopping in the midst -of her most fretful, self-commiserate strain, bravely to estimate -her compensations. The sun shines, the nest is well-built -and furnished, the larder easy to be filled. Material good -is unlacking; but— And then the singer goes -hopelessly under again. Now the song is nothing but sweetly -lachrymose expostulation, voiced grief all the more intolerable -<a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>for its -tunefulness,—an epic of melodious woe.</p> -<p>Turning over in my mind this fantasy about the sedge-bird, as -we lingered under the willow bower, I found the old ferryman -looking at me with a strangely reminiscent eye. It flashed -across me that long ago, when all days were as good as market -days to us, I had put before him just these thoughts, and had -received his silent, amused concurrence in them. Then there -had been no chance of inconvenient application; but now—I -sat bolt upright and looked closer at him. I was beaten at -this talk of eyes. I harked back to the old safe path with -which I was familiar. He had turned away now, and did not -revert his glance though my hand was upon his arm.</p> -<p>‘Why, why did you do it, Runridge?’ I blurted out, -almost as forlornly as the sedge-bird. ‘You never -minded living alone! You were happy enough! And -I—I—’</p> -<p>He was looking at me straightly enough now.</p> -<p>‘Do it?’ His breath whistled in through his -set teeth. ‘Do it—did ye say? I do -it?—never! ’A did it hersel’! Kind -o’ mesmerised, I wur. Never rightly knowed as -’twur done, till ’twur all ower. But there -’tis i’ th’ book, an’ no gettin’ -ower it now. Ah! well, well! purty near time we was -skorkin’ hoame-along, <a name="page116"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 116</span>bean’t it? Gie tired -women-folk a could kettle for welcome, an’ ’tis -trouble wi’out end.’</p> -<h3>III</h3> -<p>Whitsuntide has fallen early this year, and that seems to me -always the fittest thing. It should come, as it has come -now, at the full fair tide of the spring, when the apple-blossom, -last ebullition of the year’s youth, is at the zenith of -its glory, and summer is still only a promise yet to be -fulfilled.</p> -<p>Whitsunday in Windlecombe, to all average folk, at least, -excels in importance every other day in the year, Christmas Day -alone excepted. There is neither man, woman, nor child in -the parish, with the ability to get to church, but arrives there -somehow and sometime during the day. For the old vicar, -from his early communion service to the time he gives the -benediction at close of evensong, it is a day of ceaseless action -and exaltation. Every Whitsunday—when, in fulfilment -of an ancient compact between us, I go to the vicarage to share -the last light of day with him alone—I find him sitting in -the little summer-house at the foot of the garden, radiantly -happy, yet tired as a navigator, and hoarse as a crow. What -befalls the curate at the end of this arduous day no one knows; -for <a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>he -is never visible after the final service. But Miss Sweet is -said to pervade the neighbourhood of his lodging like an unquiet -ghost far into the twilight, waylaying his housekeeper with -offers of night-socks and eau-de-cologne.</p> -<p>On this fine Whitsunday morning I got to my corner in the grey -old church earlier than my wont, before, indeed, the bell began -its measured tolling. The school children were in their -places in the south aisle, a whispering, nudging crew. The -curate flitted about the chancel in his long black cassock like a -bat disturbed from its dreams. The little organist sat at -her harmonium. No one else as yet had come to church.</p> -<p>It was good to sit thus in the cool and quiet before the -service began, letting the heart go back over all the other -Whitsuntides I had spent in Windlecombe, and letting the eye rove -here and there through the hollow, sun-barred twilight of the old -place, comparing the garlands that beautified it now with those -that, in former years, had registered the attained prosperity of -the season. For though, wherever you looked, from the -window-ledges of the sanctuary to the multi-centred arch of the -west door, there were flowers and greenery in profusion, no -garden blossom shone amongst them. They were all -wildflowers. Every child, most of the women, and many of -the men, who could spare an hour from work the <a -name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>day before, -had been busy in the woods and fields to make this House -Beautiful. The old vicar’s ambition was known to -all—that in the church to-day every wild Maytide blossom -should have its place. I looked hither and thither, but -could think of none that was missing. The altar was golden -with cowslips, primroses, buttercups, every flower that bore the -colour of gold. Bluebells hid the old oak carving of the -pulpit, and with them others that were blue or purple, violet and -veronica, forget-me-not and pimpernel. On all the -window-ledges, not to vie with the richness of the painted glass, -white flowers alone were assembled—chervil and elder, -daisies that are snow-white in the mass, sprays of silver -stitchwort, wreaths of hawthorn entwining all. The chancel -screen was hung with festoons of pink herb-robert and deadnettle; -and the steps beneath it flanked with those wild growths that -bear greenish flowers as well as green leaves—the -woodspurge and the paler green of arum and bryony. No -colour was crowded unthinkingly upon another. Each blossom -held by its kinsfolk of a like complexion, and a hundred forms -and shades of verdure underflowed them all. Gladly I marked -that there were no roses anywhere, and this it was that gave the -day its special meaning. Last year I remembered how the -wild dog-roses lorded it over everything, making <a -name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>Whitsun a -summer feast, which it never should be. But this year we -are weeks in front of the roses and the may is scarce -half-blown.</p> -<p>Now the bell commenced its slow rhythmic chime, and in the -south porch, where the surplices hung, the choir boys began to -assemble. The west door stood open, and, mingling with the -songs of the birds and the joyous note of the wind in the trees, -footsteps sounded on the churchyard path. At first they -came singly, then in twos and threes. After awhile their -shuffling note became continuous, and the church began to fill on -all sides. I could no longer look about me, but must sit -straight in my pew, contenting myself with rare side -glances. I heard the stump of old Tom Clemmer’s -crutches afar off in the street, heard it grow gradually louder -and nearer, until it ceased on the floor of the pew behind me, -and Clemmer set himself to subdue the hurricane of his -breath. Mrs. Runridge fluttered up the aisle, with the tall -old ferryman so close behind her, and his head so decorously -lowered, that he seemed to be regaling himself with the smell of -the roses in her new bonnet as they went. Farmer Coles and -his retinue arrived, blocking the aisle for a full minute, until -hot and flurried Mrs. Coles, by much pointing and nudging, and a -hubbub of whispered directions, had succeeded in packing all her -family into the two great pews. <a name="page120"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 120</span>With astonishing suddenness the -erstwhile empty church had become a crowded building. All -Windlecombe was there, every woman or girl in her new Whitsuntide -bonnet and gay new cotton frock.</p> -<p>And now the bell stopped; a few late stragglers came hurrying -up the path, and into the rustling silence of the church with but -half-restrained momentum; a sonorous Amen came from the south -porch; the little harmonium uplifted its voice afar off in the -chancel; the white-robed choristers began to pour up the nave, -singing as they went; the curate followed, and last of all the -old vicar, as upright as any, with his sure, unfaltering -stride. No stranger, seeing him keep the true centre of the -way, and pass unhesitatingly to his desk in the chancel, would -have dreamed that he walked in almost utter darkness; nor when he -faced about, and began the service with that deep-toned serene -voice of his, did any one of us believe it, though we had known -him all our lives. Not a word halted, not a word went -awry. Only when the time for the Bible lessons came did he -give place to his helper; and even at these times we were not -always delivered over to the sad-voiced, diffident curate. -How much of the Bible he knew by heart not even he himself could -say; but often he would come down to the lectern, and with a face -of inspiration turned <a name="page121"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 121</span>upon us, recite the whole lesson as -though he who wrote it ages back stood whispering at his -side. Many a time, as he ceased, and turned back to his -chancel seat with unerring step, and every man fetched his breath -in the silence, I have marvelled at the force of habit that, when -all hearts were inwardly exclaiming, could hold us mute of -voice.</p> -<p>The same thought came to me when, a little later, he stood in -the pulpit, his deep tones rumbling in the rafters over our -heads; and most of all it pressed itself upon me when, at close -of the long service, I beheld him afar off in the radiant -flower-garden of the sanctuary, a towering white figure, with arm -uplifted, nebulous, uncertain, in the multitudinous lights. -But, with the thought, came always a kind of fear, a sensation -that we were all living recklessly outside our defences, going -our ways like children sheltered, aided, and -irresponsible:—what would happen to Windlecombe, and to us -all, when the strong arm failed and the voice no longer -guided? At these times my comfort was always in a word of -Susan Angel’s, spoken with a cheery, quiet conviction from -behind her rows of sweetstuff bottles and knick-knack -trays. With her young, almost girlish eyes shining out of -her crabbed, ancient face, she pointed a knitting-needle at me -for emphasis.</p> -<p><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -122</span>‘Depend on ’t, my dear,’ said she, -‘’a wunt goo far, when th’ call comes. -Him as has christened, an’ married, ay! an’ buried -well-nigh all i’ th’ place, an’ been more -’n a faather to us, what ’ud ’a be doin’ -aloane up there i’ the skies? Na, na! Man or -sperit, ’a belongs to Windlecombe. Here -’a’s treasure be, an’ here ’a’ll -bide.’</p> -<h3>IV</h3> -<p>I heard a weird, tom-toming somewhere in the village to-day, -and going forth, soon tracked the sound down to cobbler -Bleak’s garden that lay at the far end of the green.</p> -<p>The old man was ringing his bees. Through a gap in the -hawthorn hedge, I could see him standing under his apple-trees -surrounded by the hives, and beating on a saucepan with a -door-key, while the air above was alive with flashing wings, and -resonant with the high shrill music of the swarm. This was -the first swarm of the season, although it was well on in -May. Most of the Windlecombe folk kept a few hives in some -odd nook or other of the garden, and these were nearly all of the -ancient straw pattern. He who could get the earliest swarm -was accounted at once the luckiest and most astute of beemen; and -the old cobbler’s face glowed with <a -name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>pride -through its encircling fringe of ragged white hair and whisker, -as he pounded away with his key, never doubting for a moment that -the noise would soon induce the swarm to settle.</p> -<p>But the bees were in no hurry to end this one mad frolic of -their laborious lives. They rose higher and higher into the -blue air and sunshine, drifting to all parts of the compass in -turn. They veered out far over the roadway; swept back -towards the cottage, hovering awhile like a grey cloud over the -chimney-tops; took an indecisive turn round the next garden; -reappeared in their old station above the orchard, as little -inclined as ever, apparently, to make a permanent halt. And -all the time their high tremulous music burdened the air, every -dog in the village barked, and every goose quacked its sympathy, -and the old cobbler beat steadily on his pan.</p> -<p>I got my elbows comfortably into the gap in the hedgerow, the -better to enjoy the scene. The garden was completely -surrounded by the hawthorn-hedge, a glowing wreath of white, -against which shone masses of blooming lilac and laburnum and red -garden-may. The little cottage at the back of the shop -stood up to its window-sills in bright colour, every -old-fashioned flower crowding about it. The winding -red-tiled paths ran between borders of the same rich living -hues. And beyond in the orchard, splashed over <a -name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>with -blue-grey shadows and quivering gold, as the sunshine filtered -through the leaves, were innumerable hives, old-fashioned skeps -of straw, each with its little chanting company of bees.</p> -<p>The old cobbler spied me in the hedgerow gap, and beckoned me -to join him. He was without hat or coat, and wore his -leather apron. A half-mended boot thrown down on the path -showed how hastily he had been summoned from work. As I -came up, he managed somehow to extract from the saucepan an -exultant, almost jeering tune.</p> -<p>‘Ah, ha!’ cried he, blinking up at his whirligig -property, ‘can ye show th’ like o’ that -’n?—you as keeps bees in patent machines? Naun -like straw, there be; as I allers telled ye! These yere -new-fangled boxes!—ye’ll ha’ ne’er a -swarm this side o’ Corp Christian, I’ll lay a pot -o’ six!’</p> -<p>It wanted still four or five days to the date of the great -Roman festival of Corpus Christi in Stavisham, which annually -drew all village sightseers from far and near. I reflected -sadly, and rather shamefacedly, that not only was a swarm from my -modern, roomy frame-hives little to be expected during that -interval, but that it was the last thing I had hitherto -desired. Working at home among my trim, up-to-date hives, -with all the latest scientific methods in apiculture at my -finger-tips, it seemed a fine thing to possess bees <a -name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>that had -almost forgotten how to swarm, and that could bring me in a -double or treble harvest of honey. But here in the -beautiful old bee-garden, I began dimly to perceive another side -to the argument. Whether courage or ignorance had led him -to resist the tide of progress in beekeeping that has all but -engulfed this gentlest, most picturesque of village crafts, the -old cobbler might be right after all. My honey was better -and more abundant than his; but it might well be dear at the -price.</p> -<p>The swarm was coming lower now, and the wildly flying bees -closing their ranks. Above our heads the air grew dark with -them. It was plain that they would soon be settling. -Of a sudden the clanging key-music ceased. Bleak pointed -triumphantly to a bough in a tree hard by. A little knot of -bees had fastened there, no bigger than a clenched fist. -But as I looked it doubled its size with every moment. From -all the regions of sunny air above us the bees thronged towards -the cluster. In a short five minutes hardly one remained on -the wing; and in place of the wild trek-song, a dull, uncanny -silence held the air. From the drooping apple-bough the -whole multitude hung together in a dark brown mass, looking -strangely like a huge cigar, as it swayed idly to and fro in the -gentle breeze.</p> -<p><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>And -now the old cobbler went about the work of hiving the swarm in -the old way, punctiliously observing all the traditional rites of -the craft. A jar of ale was brought out, from which we must -both drink, to sweeten our breath for the coming ceremony. -Then, having washed his hands, Bleak set about the dressing of -the hive. It was a new skep, one of many he had himself -made during the long winter evenings bygone. He gathered -first a handful of mint and balm and lavender, and with this he -carefully scrubbed out the skep. Then he made a syrup of -brown sugar and beer, wherewith he gave the hive a second -thorough dressing. Finally, having cut two or three leafy -boughs of elder, he took the skep with its baseboard under his -arm, and approached the swarm on tiptoe and with bated -breath.</p> -<p>The bees hung in the sunshine, as silent, as inert as ever; -except that a dozen or so were hovering about the cluster, -humming a drowsy song. The note contrasted oddly with the -wild merry music of the flying swarm, when all had seemed mad -with excitement, as though they were setting forth on some fierce -neck-or-nothing adventure, instead of the rather tame business in -which they were at present absorbed.</p> -<p>The old beeman stepped warily towards them, <a -name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>and holding -the skep mouth upwards beneath the cluster, gave the branch a -vigorous shake. Like so many blackcurrants, the entire mass -of bees rattled down into the hive, when the baseboard was -swiftly clapped over them, and the whole inverted and placed upon -the ground. Waiting a minute or two, the old man then -gently raised one edge of the skep, and propped it up with a -stone. A few hundred bees came tumbling out with a sound -like the boiling-over of a cauldron; but the greater part of the -swarm remained within the hive. Before half an hour had -passed, they had completely accepted the situation, and the -worker-bees were lancing busily off in all directions in search -of provender for the new home.</p> -<p>The old cobbler’s prediction that I should have no swarm -by Corpus Christi, fell true enough. Every day I watched -until the hours for swarming had passed by eventlessly. And -then, on the great Stavisham feast-day, in the sunny calm of -afternoon, I followed the straggling line of sightseers by the -river-way to the town.</p> -<h3>V</h3> -<p>A hush is over the little precipitous market-town. The -hot May sun beats down on the waiting lines of people, on the <a -name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>fragrant -linden-trees shading the quiet street, on the fluttering banners -and pennants everywhere.</p> -<p>The air is full of dim sound; wild drift of far-off -bell-music, the deep hum and stir of the expectant people, the -voice of the wind, sweet and low, in the green lime labyrinth -overhead. Every glance is turned up the street, where the -church of Saint Francis of Assisi lifts its bluff sandstone tower -against the blue. The great west door stands open. -Straining the eye, the nearest watchers can just make out a glint -of altar lights through the cavernous dark within—the rich -uncertain glow of candles given back from a thousand gleaming -points of silver chalice and golden cross and glittering -filigree.</p> -<p>And now the last rumbling harmony of the organ dies -away. For a moment a deeper silence than ever fills the -Gothic gloom. Then the thin fine note of a clarinet lifts -up its trembling signal in the darkness. The brazen -trombones join in with their passionate, deep-voiced music. -The lights begin to move and dance, growing nearer and -stronger. ‘They are coming!’—to the -remotest end of the waiting line the whisper spreads.</p> -<p>Slowly the procession winds its way through the great church -door, and down the precipitous street. First the gilded, -jewel-encumbered cross, borne aloft by a young priest in a black -cassock and snowy, deep-laced surplice. Then the <a -name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>singing -multitude of schoolgirls, all in white, with wreath-crowned veils -like so many Lilliputian brides. Now the boys from the -convent seminary in crimson shoulder-sashes, with their fussing -marshals; and the elder women after, in their doleful, decorous -black. Banners swaying; rainbow streamers flying; the -shrill child-voices blent with the sound of the wind in the glad -green leaves overhead.</p> -<p>Now the trumpets and clarinets have turned the bend of the -street. The singing gives way to deeper music. More -banners come flinging and flaunting into the sunny vista. -The gay procession takes on a darker tinge. Sisters in -black, sisters in brown, sisters in grey; weary faces, sad faces, -comely faces; winter and glowing spring and ripe calm autumn, all -in the same cold livery of sorrow, all with the like abandonment -to destiny so plainly fettering the innate unrule of will.</p> -<p>The musicians pass on: the deep blurring melody fades: the -pageant changes.</p> -<p>Monks and friars now. An old Capuchin father totters by -in his rough brown frock, carrying a candle on a brazen -stick. After him a score of his own degree, all bearing -lights that glimmer and blink superfluously in the sunshine, and -all chanting a long slow antiphon in a minor key. Old men -reeking of the cloister, bent nearly <a name="page130"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 130</span>double with their weight of years; -sturdy young friars, ruddy-jowled, tonsured, with only half an -eye to their book; suave-faced, grey-headed superiors, eyes in -the sky, calm, transfigured, the vanquished world behind every -man’s broad back.</p> -<p>And now a weird, dirge-like note creeps down the sun-bathed -street, and a murmur follows it through the craning, nudging -crowd. The end, the crown, of the pageant is suddenly in -view. It is all shining celestial white now, as the -choristers sweep slowly by in their spotless lawn and lace, -chanting their pseudo-requiem as they move. Behind them a -bevy of major priests, of comfortable figure, gorgeously -caparisoned. Little scarlet-robed acolytes walking -backwards and strewing the way with rich-hued flowers; swinging -censers vouchsafing their hallow of dim smoke upon the common -air. And then at last—under the great square -baldacchino—the old Roman bishop himself, holding aloft the -precious monstrance, like a glittering captive star.</p> -<p>A vision now of billowing white and gold; and the low, sad -chant swelling, falling; and the languorous fragrance of the -incense and the trampled flowers. Wrapped to the eyes in -his heavy, gilt-encrusted cope, the old priest grasps his -cherished burden with all the little might of his trembling -blue-veined hands. His eyes are on the gold-rayed -treasure-casket, held but an <a name="page131"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 131</span>inch or two beyond his flushed, -illuminated face. A trance-like stupor seems to be upon him -as he moves, guided on either side by those other two, almost as -splendidly robed as himself, who keep a grip on the fringe of his -silken coat, and lead him onward in his passionate ecstasy, -treading thin air, enrapt, magnificent with other-worldly -light.</p> -<p>It is over now. The great canopy has moved on, its -bearers keeping ceremonious step and step. More richly -accoutred priests follow in a holy rear-guard. Then the -crowd closes up eagerly behind, and surges after them, -bare-headed, jostling together; catching now and again a phrase -of the mournful melody, and giving it an echo that sobs away into -silence far in the sunny length of the street.</p> -<p>As I stand apart, here in the deep shadow of the convent wall, -the thronging multitude sweeps by, growing thinner with every -moment. The gleaming star of the monstrance sends back a -last clear flash of sunlight as it turns the distant foot of the -hill. Soon the straggling human fringe of the procession -vanishes after it. A debris of blossom litters the long -deserted way. Flags and streamers wave their bright hues -over the dusty solitude. The street is forsaken, quiet -again; save for the bells in the upper air, and the wind in the -trees.</p> -<h2><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -132</span>JUNE</h2> -<h3>I</h3> -<p><span class="smcap">This</span> morning, for the first time in -the year, I found myself unconsciously taking the shady side of -the way. It was a small thing, truly; but it stood as an -index of something great, perhaps the most portentous thing that -happens annually in the life of him who is a countryman at heart -and not merely by name. Summer had come in. It was -not only that the calendar told me the month was June. I -felt it in the sunbeams, saw it in the hedgerows and trees, read -it in the pure azure of the summer sky. I took the shady -side of the lane unthinkingly, and laughed because I did -it;—not that I laughed for that alone, but because gladness -was welling up within me unbidden, irresistible: I laughed for -the same reason that the nightingale sang in the green -brier-thicket hard by.</p> -<p>I stopped to listen to the song. It was June, and the -nightingales would not be singing much longer. Perhaps in a -week’s time, at the worst, <a name="page133"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 133</span>their music would be done. I -silenced my footfall in the long grass by the wayside, and crept -up close to the nightingale’s bower.</p> -<p>Every year a nightingale came to this brier-bush, and sang -there as she was singing now. The hedge was a very old one, -lifting its dense green barrier ten feet or more against the -sunny southern sky; and, in all the years I could recall, the -brier-bush had never been without its nightingale. This one -must have her nest close by, where all her ancestors must have -built their nests, for how many generations back, who can -say? The life of this old hedge, towering far above me, and -nearly as broad as it was high, could not be compassed by a -man’s life. It was thick and tall when the oldest in -the village was but a child. At long irregular intervals of -years it had been trimmed, cut back; but the growth of the -gnarled old stems, where they sprang from the ground, had not -been checked. There its age stood recorded; and it would be -little wide of the truth to think of it as already thick and -tall, already the traditional singing-place of this race of -nightingales, a full hundred years ago.</p> -<p>The brier-bush stood on the shady side of the way. The -nightingale had her perch in the sunshine beyond, so that the -song filtered down to me through the tangle of intervening -leaves. <a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -134</span>And yet it was not so much a song as a detached, -occasional reverie on the summer’s morning. There is -always this about the music of the summer migrant birds. -They are creatures of eternal sunshine. Their life is no -give-and-take of good and evil, like that of the birds who stay -with us all the year through. They have no need to hearten -themselves with memories of bygone sunbeams, to bring brightness -from within when all without is lowering and grey. Wisely -following the sun about the world from season to season, they -ensure for themselves that the joy they sing of is never a -memory, but always the expression of the moment’s living -fact: they have but to turn the vision, the aspect of the hour, -into its equivalent of music.</p> -<p>More than all, you see this truth exemplified in the songs of -chaffinch and willow-wren, which are so much alike in form, yet -so strangely different in the spirit. The hardy chaffinch -began his bubbling, rollicking song with the first warm day in -March, and it was more than half a fiction: to-day it has the -same hard, set quality, like a petrified laugh in the -woods. But the little willow-wren is the slave of no long -habit of pretences. She has followed the sun from the -south, keeping up with his youth; and now, from the glowing -wood-top, she sends down her slender echo of chaffinch music, as -if, <a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -135</span>though she would fain be silent, she must sing for very -joy of the light. There is in it all the verve and gaiety -of the chaffinch, yet infinitely softened and etherealised. -And the long bowling phrase is never finished: it falls away and -fails in the end, as if the singer suddenly realised her -impotence to convey in melody one fraction of the morning’s -loveliness and light.</p> -<p>Invisible through the dense tangle of the brier-bush, to me a -voice and nothing more, the nightingale sat in her nook on the -sunny side of the hedgerow, pouring out her song on the already -song-burdened morning as a gilder lays gold upon gold. All -its sweetness, its wild purity, its slow, sorrowful strength, and -its sudden overtripping, overmastering joy, drifted out upon the -sunshine of the meadow, the varied phrases coming turn and turn -about with long intervening silences, as though the singer -ruminated on all the beauty before her, and unconsciously sang -her thoughts aloud. It was good to stand there in the cool -shade, and listen, and take the facts of the thronging meadow -life and colour beyond the hedgerow at such tuneful -second-hand. But at length the nightingale put such a call, -such an insistence into her music, as sent me to the meadow-gate -a little way down the lane, just to see with my own eyes what -manner of beauty could be to her so great an inspiration. -Shading my eyes <a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -136</span>with my hands, I looked out over the mowing-grass, and -thanked God it was June.</p> -<p>Knee-deep, almost, the grass stood under the morning sun; -intensely green below, and above, white with the white of -countless marguerites; and, higher still, rich rose-red with -myriads of tremulous sorrel-plumes. A little way over the -meadow, the green of the grass-blades was lost, and the eye saw -only the white of the great moon-daisies, and the -sorrel-red. Farther still, these two merged into one -surface of formless pink, upon which the breath of the slow -western air drew a rippling pattern like watered silk.</p> -<p>I passed through the gate, and waded into the grass to the -farthest limit of the oak-shadow. All round the meadow -these shadows lay upon the mowing-grass, blue and cool in the -universal glare. It mattered nothing which way the sunshine -fell. The green oak-boughs stretched out so far and so low -that there was shadow beneath them everywhere. Just where I -stood there was a patch of poor and stony soil. The -tall-growing plants had shunned it, leaving it a little haven -where the unconsidered trifles could see sunshine and flourish in -their little might. Faced with the rich bewilderment of -summer growth, a spot like this offers irresistible -attraction. To look for long on great magnificence -unwearied is a power not given to all. I know with what -relief and <a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -137</span>pleasure, in other times, I have turned my back on -snow-pinnacled mountains and soothed dazed eyes with a spot of -grey-green lichen on a common stone. And now I turned from -the boundless meadow radiance before me as from glory -intolerable, and knelt to look awhile at the tiny, creviced -beauties that lay among the clods.</p> -<p>There were scarlet pimpernel and lily-bind, gold-eyed -cinquefoil and blue veronica—a score of nameless atoms -starring the drab bare soil. Stooping lower, I noticed what -I had never marked before—how the red of the pimpernel was -centred with a crimson heart; crimson and scarlet—the -military colours that I had always thought execrable, because -unnaturally blended—here they were brought together, -justified by the infallible artistry of the sun. The -veronica seemed all pure cobalt blue as I stood gazing down upon -it; but, looked at closely, each minute flower revealed a -complication of colour. The blue of its petals was not a -simple tint throughout, but was striped with a darker blue down -in the cup. From its centre of sulphur-yellow three spires -uprose, the one rich purple, the other two of a pale mauve. -And, as if this were not enough beauty for so small a thing, the -slender stalk upon which each blossom trembled was a shaft of -delicate, translucent crimson, feathered over with white.</p> -<p><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 138</span>The -cinquefoil was just as minutely wonderful in its way. -Studded with little flat golden blossoms, its ferny growth -mingled everywhere with the other rich-hued things, but it held -itself aloof from them all. Even under the full noontide -sun it preserved its chilly, star-like quality. Its pale -silvery fronds seemed to quench the very sunbeams as they fell, -and to make a cold spot on the earth in the midst of all the -glowing soaring meadow-colour, like frost in fire. Many a -time, in former years, I had looked at the cinquefoil thus, and -marvelled at the ice-cold virtue of a thing that could so repel -the fierce Tarquin of a summer sun. Nursing the fancy, I -would grant it nothing at length but a senseless chastity done up -in silver paper; as zealously guarded as little worth. But -now I took the pains to pluck a few of its flowers, and -discovered something new about it, something that raised its -value to me a hundredfold. In all the meadow there was -scarce another blossom with so sweet a scent; it was like the -may, but at once more poignant and delicate. And, thinking -of the may, I straightway forgot all about the cinquefoil, and -turned to wander along the hedge.</p> -<p>The time had gone by when the hawthorn overran all the -country-side with its billows of white blossom. These -blinding masses of white—snow-white and cold as -snow—are wonderful to look <a name="page139"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 139</span>upon for a moment or two; but to me -the hawthorn is always more lovely at the beginning, and, most of -all, towards the end of its flowering life. At neither of -these times is it really white. The new-opened blossom of -the may is full of pink anthers that, in the aggregate, colour -the whole bush. At this hour, for it is no more than an -hour, the hawthorn-hedge is besieged by hordes of honey-sippers; -hive-bees for the most part, but also every insect that can -fly. Each flower keeps its rosy blush only so long as it -remains unfertilised; and then colour and song forsake it -together. The full-blown hedges of hawthorn have nothing -for the ear, as they have little abiding solace to the eye.</p> -<p>But now again, as I roved along the narrow green way between -the hedgerow and the tall grass of the meadow, the may, as of -old, was beautiful to look upon. The pink anthers were -dead, brown, shrivelled in their drained chalices; but the petals -themselves, as they faded, had taken upon themselves a rich -flush—the hectic of decay. Everywhere the hedgerow -was wreathed and posied with this soft tint, the colour of -old-rose. It was the colour of death, and that was often -gay and bright enough, I knew. It seemed an ill thing -wherein to delight on such a brave June morning. But the -truth stuck fast in the mind, for all that: these festoons of <a -name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 140</span>dying may -were nearly as beautiful as the best that youth and life could -show.</p> -<p>Nearly—yet as I wandered on, creeping from bay to bay of -green shadow, and edging round the great jutting promontories of -hedgerow-growth, I came at once upon a sight and a sound that -brought me to a more wondering halt than ever. It was my -brier-bush again, and the nightingale was still singing, as I had -heard her from the lane an hour ago. But now I no longer -stood outside her concert-hall. I was here with her on the -meadow side of her bower, and understood at last the full import -of her singing. While on the shaded northern flank of the -hedge there was nothing but greenery, here, on the sunny side, -the brier-sprays were putting forth antlered buds, and one of -them, close to my hand, had opened into the perfect flower. -It was the first wild rose. If I had been Rip van Winkle, -there and then waking from an age-long sleep, I should have known -the day of the month, almost the very hour. Rarely, six -days of June may pass in southern England, but never a seventh, -without this master-sign of summer. Though storm and chill -hold back the music of the migrant birds, they cannot daunt the -English roses.</p> -<h3><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -141</span>II</h3> -<p>A stranger observant of trifles, coming into Windlecombe any -time during early summer, might note one common feature of the -place, not remarkable at other seasons. All the -garden-gates were kept carefully closed; and all houses abutting -on the street had their doors either shut altogether, or replaced -by low boards or fence-bars. Even the gate of the -churchyard, open day and night at other times, was now closed as -heedfully as any; and, more curious still, the entrance to the -inn, where there were no children to come wandering out and none -dare intrude, was as cautiously barriered as the rest.</p> -<p>Plainly these obstructions were not set up against absconding -babies, for the tiniest of them was invariably out-of-doors -playing in the dust of the street. And yet there was no -other visible explanation of the phenomenon. It was a -puzzle of a mildly interesting kind, giving just that gentle spur -needed by the tired brain of a citizen holiday-maker, escaped -into villagedom for awhile, and lolling there, genially, yet -rather contemptuously, agape at the silence and sloth of country -things.</p> -<p>But if tide and weather served, any moment of the day might -bring the desired solution of the mystery. From afar over -the hills, a deep low <a name="page142"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 142</span>clamour would begin to invade the -songful village quiet. Then, on the crest of the nearest -hilltop, a column of white dust would suddenly spurt up against -the blue, and spread slowly downwards, marking the winding course -of the lane as with smoke from a travelling fire. Now by -degrees the tumult would grow louder and deeper, revealing itself -at last as the hoarse medley of voices from a flock of sheep; a -flock so vast that, while the first ewes were already charging -into the village, the last ones had not yet breasted the top of -the hill.</p> -<p>There would be no doubt now of the wisdom of the gate-shutting -policy. Any of these that by chance had remained open, -would be hastily clapped to; and all about him the stranger would -see the children scramble into corners, and mount upon doorsteps -out of the way of the tornading host. He himself, indeed, -would be glad to take shelter in the nearest doorway, where he -could look on at a spectacle, stirring even to a nature dulled by -the din of a town.</p> -<p>Now the hoarse note has swelled to a veritable hurricane of -sound. The whole village bids fair to be submerged and -swept away by an avalanche of wool. In the forefront -marches a shepherd-boy, straw knapsack on back and blue cotton -umbrella under arm. Behind him the street is packed with -the jostling, vociferating crowd of <a name="page143"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 143</span>sheep, a solid mass of woolly life -extending as far as eye can penetrate the cloud of dust. At -intervals in the throng walk the under shepherds, each with his -dog, all—dogs and men—adding their voices to the -general uproar. And at the end of the procession, when at -length it has stormed its way past, comes the master-shepherd, a -figure shadowy, indistinct in the dust-laden air; nothing certain -about him but the glint of the sun on his crook, and his easy, -hearty replies to the shouted greetings of old acquaintance by -the way.</p> -<p>Every day in June, while the tides last, and there is water -enough in the river for the work of sheep-washing, these great -flocks pour through Windlecombe, some of them coming from lonely -farmsteads miles away over the Downs. Today it was the -Ambledown wash, one of the largest of the year; and when the -sheep had gone through, and the dust had cleared from the -sunshine, I set off myself, in oldest garb and thickest boots, to -join the string of onlookers drifting from all parts of the -village towards the washing-creek. But on these sheep-wash -days, there is much more to do than look on at one of the most -fascinating and exhilarating sights in all the round of farm -work. A helping hand from every man used to the task is -alike expected and freely given as a point of honour <a -name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 144</span>at these -times. Each of us has his favourite wash, in which, as a -matter of old custom, he takes his share of the heat and burden -of the day; and to me, when Ambledown’s turn comes round, -is given, now by old-established and hard-won right, the long -crook by the plunge.</p> -<p>As life journeys on, we tend to make ever less and less of our -rare moments of swelling pride and self-satisfaction, or even to -abrogate them altogether. But on this one day of the year, -when I exchange a less noble tool for the long crook at Ambledown -sheep-wash, and feel the cares of my office gathering upon me, I -go back nearer to the child’s pure joy in a paper -cocked-hat and tin epaulettes than at any other moment of my -life. If you have never stood wide-legged, like a -ship-captain in a gale, on a rickety hurdle six feet above a -chaos of swirling, glittering water, crowded with the bobbing -heads of sheep, your charge being not only to keep each ewe -swimming down the wash to the tubmen, but to sustain a constant -watch on the weaklings and prevent them drowning—you have -never known responsibility’s true zest. Picture to -yourself an old chalk-quarry on the river’s brink, long -disused and abandoned to every form of wild life—a shy, -green place overgrown with brier and bramble, merged at all other -times of the year in eternal quiet, but now the scene of brisk <a -name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 145</span>activity, -crowded with busy folk and innumerable sheep, and echoing with -voices and laughter. The washing-creek is a sort of bay of -the river, a long strip of water caged in by lofty fences, topped -by a platform of hurdles, whence the crookmen manœuvre the -struggling, gasping sheep in the water below. At one end of -the creek is the plunge, where the sheep are thrown in; midway -down the wash two tubs are sunk to within a foot of the -water’s level, wherein stand the washers; and at the far -end appears a gradually rising slope up which the dripping, -water-logged ewes struggle inch by inch towards safety and the -green feed awaiting them beyond.</p> -<p>It is nearing the top of the tide, but the work has not begun -yet, nor will it begin until the flock has rested and cooled from -its long journey over the Downs. As I come down the zigzag -path into the chalk-quarry, the place seems almost as shy and -still as ever. There is the multitude of sheep, a thousand -or more, quietly nibbling in the great pen. The shepherds, -the washing-gang, the little crowd of onlookers, are lounging on -the green river-bank, chatting idly together as if there were no -more weighty business in hand than to enjoy the summer -morning. The dogs are mostly asleep on their chains. -Only the old captain of the wash is astir. He roves about, -here tightening up a girth in his tackle, <a -name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 146</span>and there -straightening a crooked hurdle; and every minute or two he goes -and looks over the plunge, measuring the depth of water with his -eye. At last he gives the signal, every man goes to his -post, and the silence of the old quarry breaks as with the crash -of a sudden storm.</p> -<p>For it is nearly impossible to convey a real idea of the -hubbub and turmoil of the scene under any less decided -simile. From the moment the first sheep is thrown in, until -the last terrified, bedraggled ewe staggers up the slippery -incline at the other end of the creek, there is one long, -unceasing babel of sound. Often a score of sheep are in the -water at the same time, each one rending the air with her piteous -calling. Those that have passed through the ordeal crowd -together on the bank above, still lifting to the skies their -mingled note of indignation and alarm; and those as yet dry in -the great pen anticipate their sufferings with a like deafening -tumult. The yapping chorus of the dogs punctuates the -entire symphony; and every man engaged in the work joins in a -general running fire of comment and mutual encouragement, -although hardly any sound less forceful than the bellow of a bull -can be heard above the din.</p> -<p>Not the least onerous and responsible part in a great -sheep-wash is the element of danger to the sheep—the risk -of drowning always present <a name="page147"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 147</span>when a large number have to be put -through the creek at a swinging pace. The head shepherd, -and often the flock-master himself, stands at the plunge and -keeps a vigilant eye on the whole proceedings. Yet, even -with the greatest care, sheep are sometimes drowned. It is -a lucky day, for washers and shepherds alike, if the flock gets -back to the farm without a single casualty.</p> -<p style="text-align: center"> -<a href="images/n5.jpg"> -<img alt= -"“The Sheepwash”" -title= -"“The Sheepwash”" - src="images/n5.jpg" /> -</a></p> -<p>But there is a humorous as well as a tragic side to -sheep-washing. The continual splashing of the water soon -drenches all the approaches to the creek, making them as slippery -as ice. The platform of hurdles running the whole length of -the wash is a particularly hazardous place from which to look on -at the fun; and many a spectator, venturing too near, has -received an impromptu ducking. This is an accident to which -the throwers-in, as well as all the crook-men, are specially -liable; and the day is hardly complete unless some one has -succeeded in dipping himself as well as the sheep. The -time-honoured joke then is to force him down the creek with his -woolly companions in misfortune, and send him under the bar with -all the rest.</p> -<h3>III</h3> -<p>For days past now the rain has been steadily falling, hour -after hour, from dark to dark. <a name="page148"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 148</span>Rain and wind together are always -disconcerting, and often melancholy in the last degree; but -still, soft summer rain like this, not heavy enough to obscure an -outlook, yet sufficient to serve as an excuse for stopping -indoors, has all sorts of commendable qualities. Much of -the time, both in daylight and darkness, I have spent lolling out -of a little dormer-window high up in the roof of this old house, -and I have got to know many small things about life and work in -Windlecombe that I have never known before.</p> -<p>It would seem that the cat and I are almost the only -able-bodied creatures, feathered, four-footed, or human, that are -not out and about in the rain, and I alone because the indoor -mood happens to possess me. If I shed that craze before the -weeping weather is done, I may be squelching about with the rest -all day long in the sodden lanes; or slithering joyfully over the -green turf of the Downs miles away, barefoot and bareheaded, -absent-mindedly whistling the first halves of innumerable tunes -as I go. But of that in its season. The cat and I are -of a mind now. The comforts of a dry coat appeal to each of -us for the moment irresistibly; and we lean out over the -window-sill no farther than will afford me a view of the village -doings, and her an eye-feast on the martins chattering about the -roof-eaves below.</p> - -<div class="gapspace"> </div> -<p><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 149</span>I saw -Farmer Coles go by in his gig to-day, and heard him call out to -his bailiff on the footway, ‘If ’tis fine, George, -i’ th’ marnin’, get all th’ tackle down -to th’ Hoe-field, an’ make a start first -thing.’ The word brought my heart into my -mouth. The Hoe-field is the field where the first wild rose -opened to the spell of the nightingale’s music; and it -meant that haying-time had come round at last. To-morrow -there might be a new sound in Windlecombe, the high ringing note -of the mowing-machines; and I knew then there would be no hour of -daylight free from it, until the last meadow lay shorn and -desolate under the summer sun.</p> -<p>In modern village life, the lot of the sentimentalist is no -easy one, especially if he love his neighbour. Though he -may secretly repine for the old days, when the grass came down to -the rhythmic song of the scythe, and the corn to the tune of the -sickle, he cannot blink the fact that, in farm life, prosperity -and machinery go hand-in-hand together. The true, indeed -the only, way for him now is to realise that not all the beauty -of country things belongs to old times, and not all the hard, -ugly utilitarianism of nowadays has come in with machinery. -Honestly considered, there is no mechanical farm-implement of -to-day essentially at variance with the spirit of beauty. A -threshing-mill or a <a name="page150"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 150</span>reaper-and-binder owes its form and -parts to the same designer that made the sickle. The lines -of a sailing-ship are unvaryingly lines of grace, because they -are dictated by wind and water. And the unchanging needs of -earth that made sickle, scythe, and ploughshare what they are, -are as unchanging and imperious as ever.</p> -<p>It was hard to conceive the nightingale’s song without -the loveliness of the mowing-grass—the green dragon-flies -cruising over its sea of blossom, the shadows of the -swallows’ wings upon it, and the grumbling bees like -pearl-divers at fault down in its emerald depths. But now, -listening to the songs of the birds in the village gardens round -about, songs that seemed all the more joyous for the grey light -and the unceasing patter of the rain, the truth fell cold upon me -that the nightingale’s was no longer among them. But -a few days past, she was keening as sorrowfully as ever. In -the one glimpse of soused moonshine last night I had thought to -hear her plaint far down by the river; but I could not be sure of -it, and the sound had not returned. Maybe her song is done -at last, and I could wish it so, now that the grass is to -fall.</p> -<p>With a little neck-craning, I can contrive a view of the -Reverend’s garden, or as much of it as is discernible -through the crowding trees. On the smooth fair lawn I can -see his white doves <a name="page151"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 151</span>strutting, but they are there alone -to-day. Generally, when I look forth, there is the gaunt -black figure pacing to and fro, with these snow-white atoms -fluttering about its feet. At the end of the lawn an arm -goes out, and the figure pulls up at the first touch on the -rose-covered trellis. There is the bank of mignonette at -the other end, and here he halts and turns, warned by the music -of the bees. But I have never been able to guess what -guides him unerringly between the rippled edges of the -flower-beds; nor why, when walking under the wall, hung from end -to end with blue racemes of wistaria, he goes no farther each way -than the limit of the blossoms’ reach. The gleaming -white turrets of syringa, of acacia, of guelder rose, these I -know are just visible to him; and his doves lighten the darkness -a little about his feet. But there are whole stretches of -the garden given over to deep-hued things—rhododendrons and -peonies, canterbury-bells and flaming tiger-lilies; amidst these -he must pass with eyes as little aware of their passionate colour -as I of the tiger-moth’s scarlet when he burrs in my ear at -night. Yet is glowing colour of a truth a thing that -reaches us through one sense alone? I have doubted it ever -since—</p> -<p>An angry shout struck up to me just now from a side alley -below the green, where some of the <a name="page152"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 152</span>poorest and prettiest of the -cottages are jumbled together. It is strange how far sounds -carry on these still, rainy mornings. The shout was -followed by the shrill tones of a woman, and the thud of -something being hurled into the street. Presently, through -the alley-mouth, appeared a man with a basket on his back. -He came up the street through the rain, bent and lurching, his -black beard wagging with imprecations he was at no pains to -subdue. It was Darkie, the tramp, fern-seller, -ne’er-do-well; a familiar figure in Windlecombe. As -usual, he was pretty far gone in liquor. He took the middle -of the way, addressing himself to all passers-by -indiscriminately.</p> -<p>‘Wimmin,’ he cried, in his fine deep voice with -the violoncello quality in it, ‘wimmin? ye may live -’til crack o’ Doom, sir, and then never larn how to -take ’em! “I’ll ha’ two!” sez -she, only laast Saddaday, ma’am, “an’ bring -another brace, Darkie,” she sez, “when ye happens -along agen,”—all as nice as nice could be, sir. -An’ now, soon as ’a sot eyes o’ me, ’a -hups wir futt, an’—’</p> -<p>He turned the corner of the house, and I heard no more.</p> -<p>I wonder, now, how Darkie fares this weather in his Downland -eyrie. It has always been a mystery in Windlecombe as to -where he passes <a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -153</span>his nights. At all times, winter or summer, he is -to be met with, tramping up the lane towards the Downs; using the -last light of day apparently in putting himself as far as may be -from the chance of a night’s lodging; and, in the early -mornings, you meet him trudging down again from the heights, his -basket full of odd hedgeside garnerings for sale in the -town. The mystery is a mystery to me no longer, although it -was quite by chance I lit upon him in his secret nook.</p> -<p>Coming over the Downs one winter’s morning, I saw a thin -blue spiral of smoke rising from the very centre of a great patch -of gorse on a hill-side; and threading my way through the -wilderness, bent on elucidating this phenomenon, I came at length -upon a queer little scene. At the mouth of a sort of cave -cut deep into the solid green heart of the gorse thicket, burned -a little fire of sticks; and over it hung a pot that gave forth a -savoury steam. Behind the fire lay Darkie on a snug couch -of hay and old sacking, fast asleep, with a pipe in his -mouth. Evidently he had dozed off in the midst of his -preparations for a meal. I took one swift look round his -castle, noting various old tins, old coats, and the like hanging -over his head; several sugar-boxes filled with odd lumber behind -him; and a shepherd’s folding-bar—a deadly weapon, -twenty pounds or so of solid iron—lying conveniently <a -name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 154</span>to his -hand; and then I crept away, as silently as I had come. Not -that I feared any violence from him. In all the years we -had been acquainted, I had never known him harm a mouse. -But many was the time I had turned him away from my own door, -unceremoniously enough; sometimes with hard words, once or twice, -indeed, with threatenings of his natural enemy, the -constable. And I feared now reprisals of a kind that would -hurt almost as much as the folding-bar heftily wielded—I -feared to see Darkie stagger to his feet and pull off to me one -of my own long-discarded caps, hear him give me generous and -courtly words of welcome, and a kind look out of his -mastiff’s eyes, making me as free of his snug, green-roofed -dwelling as I had so often made him free of the street.</p> -<p>Towards the hour of sunset I went up to the little attic -window again, and looked out over the drenched housetops for any -sign of a break in the weather. The rain had ceased, and -the western sky had lightened somewhat, taking on an indefinable -warmth of hue. There was no sunshine, nor any hope of -sunshine; but there was a light abroad that picked out all the -browns and reds and yellows in the landscape, wondrously -intensifying them, while leaving all other hues as grey and cold -as ever.</p> -<p>Past eleven o’clock, and a cloudless night of <a -name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>stars, with -the wood-larks singing high over the village, and the cuckoos -calling in the hills as though it were broad day. -Yes—the change has come: Farmer Coles is never far out in -his prognostications. It will be cutting weather to-morrow; -and to-morrow I must be up with the earliest of them, and away to -the Hoe-field.</p> -<h3>IV</h3> -<p>Of summer evenings in Windlecombe, all through haying and -harvest time, you see men lounging about the village, one and all -obsessed by the same trance-like, serenely dilatory mood. -All have pipes well alight, leaving a trail of smoke behind them -on the dusky golden air. All have hands thrust deep in -trouser-pockets, carry their unshaven chins high, are tired as -dogs, and look as somnolently happy as noontide owls. And -of all the days of the week, there are more of these placid -optimists abroad, and these characteristics are most to be noted -in them, on the evening of the last working day.</p> -<p>To-night I went up and down the green—the most uncertain -of a deliberately irresolute company—half a dozen times, -perhaps, before, by common but unvoiced consent, we turned our -lagging footsteps towards the inn. All the while <a -name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 156</span>I was -rejoicing in a possession, priceless indeed, yet hard-won as -might be—a heart and mind filled with the spirit of the -<i>Cottar’s Saturday Night</i>. You cannot get this -chief of all country pleasures in exchange for money. It is -to be had in only one way, at the cost of long laborious days in -the fields; and every tired muscle, every aching joint in my -body, stood then as witness that I had done my best to earn what -I had of it, if it might be earned at all. The old oak -window-seat, in the parlour of the Three Thatchers, was as softly -welcome as the Chancellor’s woolsack: I would not have -exchanged that mug of home-brewed ale for a draught of ambrosia -at the feet of the gods.</p> -<p>The crimson sunset light streamed hot upon me, as I sat on the -window-ledge half among the parlour company, and half among those -congregated on the benches under the virginia creeper -outside. Every moment or two some other tired haymaker -strolled up, and added his solid breadth and his tobacco smoke to -the throng. But we were not all field-workers in the Three -Thatchers to-night, nor had only the common causes of tired limbs -and sun-parched throats brought us together. Young Daniel -Dray was knitting his dark brows over some papers and -account-books at the trestle-table; and young Tom Clemmer sat -close by, <a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -157</span>thoughtfully swinging a cricket-bat pendulum-fashion -between his outstretched legs. A silence fell upon the -company.</p> -<p>‘Well,’ said Tom Clemmer at last, ‘I -dunno. ’Tis ne’ersome-matter awk’ard fer -Windlecombe. Wi’ young Maast’ Coles -hayin’, an’ Tim Searle hayin’; an’ George -Locker, an’ Tom an’ George Wright, an’ Bill -here all hayin’, how i’ fortun’ be us to make -up a team?’</p> -<p>You could pick out the members of the cricket-club committee -amidst the crowd by reason of their grave, troubled faces; -whereas all other faces wore the easy contented smile of the -village Saturday night. We had weighty business to -consider. The annual challenge had arrived from the -Stavisham club. They were a cocksure, overweening lot, the -town-eleven; and we had set our hearts on beating them at next -Saturday’s match. But there was the hay to carry, if -the weather held. Many of our best players would be in the -fields. It looked as though the town were to add -Windlecombe again to their long list of village victories. -Secretary Dray gnawed savagely at the butt of his pen.</p> -<p>‘I knows how ’twill be,’ he said. -‘Five men an’ a tail o’ boys—the ould -story! Tom here ’ull knock up his couple o’ -score; and then ’twill be hout, hout, hout, fer th’ -rest o’ us i’ two <a name="page158"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 158</span>hovers. An’ I can jest -hear they chalk-headed town chaps larfin’!’</p> -<p>It was a dismal picture. The fragrance went out of our -tobacco, and no man thought of his ale. The three canaries -carolled so joyously in their cages overhead, that I could have -wrung their necks with all the pleasure in life. Young -Daniel stared straight into the eye of the setting sun with the -very face of disaster.</p> -<p>‘But ’tis th’ bawlin’,’ he went -on. ‘Ne’er a change o’ bawlers, -there’ll be; an’ me an’ George Havers -caan’t go on fer ever. Na, na! ’tis all over -agen, I tell ye! The boys ull ha’ their fun, -an’ Windlecombe another smashin’!’</p> -<p>He swept the club papers into his pocket, and rose to fill a -pipe.</p> -<p>‘But mind ye!’ he added, looking grimly round on -the company, ‘I’ll ha’ that there flitter-mouse -grocer-chap’s wicket this time, or I’ll -be— Ah! you see if I doan’t, if I ha’ to -throw at his ’ed!’</p> - -<div class="gapspace"> </div> -<p>Long after night had fallen, and all the village was quiet -under the dim half-moon, I came out again upon the green, to -wander and ruminate over the week that had gone by. I bared -my arm to the biceps, and even in that disguising light I could -see the sunburn dark upon it. Yawning and stretching -involuntarily, a delicious <a name="page159"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 159</span>ache spread over me from top to -toe. The Seven Sisters loomed hard by, and I went and lay -down at full length on one of the seats, looking up through the -black wilderness of boughs at the flinching starshine, and -watching the nightjars as they wheeled and whirred above me -through the scented dark.</p> -<p>They are a merry company, the nightjars. Perhaps there -is no other sound in Nature that comes nearer to pure mirth and -jollity than this rhythmic, spinning-wheel chorus of -theirs. Up there, where the dense pine foliage made a sort -of black coast to the dark blue ocean of the summer night, a -whole nation of them was astir. They did not utter their -peculiar note when on the wing; but every moment or two one of -the concourse came to rest on a branch with a sudden snap, and -forthwith set his spinning-jenny blithely going.</p> -<p>There is another sound which you hear of summer evenings, -often far into the night, and which is nearly akin to that of the -nightjar. I heard it only a minute ago in one of the garden -hedges as I came across the green. But when the two songs -occur together, there is no confusing them. They are both -continuous, mechanical sounds, and each is curiously varied in -tone, speed, and intensity. But while the nightjar’s -music is a rich full tremolo, uttered from some <a -name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 160</span>high point, -generally the branch of a tree, the grasshopper-warbler sings -always close to earth. His note is thinner, shriller, -faster. If your fingers were as deft as his slender throat, -you could imitate the sound exactly by the rapid chinking -together of two threepenny-bits.</p> -<h2><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -161</span>JULY</h2> -<h3>I</h3> -<p><span class="smcap">In</span> the spring of the year, July -seems as far off as middle-age seems to youth, and almost as -undesirable. But when midsummer-day is past and gone, -whether in human life or the year’s progress, we look at -things with clearer, more widely ranging eyes. The man in -his prime strength, the season at the summit of its -beauty—these are fairer things than the childhood and the -springtime that have gone to make them. For the greater -must be all the greater and more wonderful, because it contains -the wondrous less.</p> -<p>Here is the first day of July come, and ever since sunrise I -have been straying about the field-paths and lanes, wending home, -indeed, only when the fierce noontide heat and a ravening hunger -combined to drive me thither. There was this fierce, tropic -quality in the sunlight from the very first. Though the -gilt arrow on the church dial pointed barely to four -o’clock, the level sunbeams struck hot and bright on the <a -name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 162</span>face; and -the dew in the grass by the laneside was shrinking visibly with -every moment. In an hour the last water-bell was gone from -the shadiest nook in the wood. Only the teasels could defy -the thirsty sun, and these kept their water-traps over-brimming, -as if fed from a magic source, far into the heat of the day.</p> -<p>There are many common things of the country-side—small -facts to be learned for the trouble of a glance—which are -little known because the glance is seldom given. As I -passed along the hedge where the teasels stood up straight as a -row of church spires, the glitter of the water in their leaf-cups -caught my eye, and I stopped to look at them. I had always -thought of the teasels as natural drinking-places for the bees, -and other flying or creeping things; but now I saw that their use -was very different. Studying the plant carefully, the whole -meaning of the thing dawned on me at last. The teasel must -be a flesh-eater, more greedy and destructive than any spider in -the land. In the cups a host of creatures lay drowned; and -upon the green, translucent leaves and stems there crawled -multitudes of others, all destined for the same fate. There -were in the water not only small insects, but bumble-bees, large -caterpillars and slugs, even broad-winged night-moths that had -fallen to the teasel’s snare. I saw also that the <a -name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 163</span>pools of -water insulating every stem served not as traps alone, but -actually as digestive cells, wherein the carcases of the -teasel’s prey were gradually resolved into the slime that -lay at the bottom of each cup. Somehow, I conjectured, this -must be absorbed into the tissue of the plant; and cutting one of -the stems asunder, just where the water-holding leaves embraced -it, I came upon what seemed proof of this—a ring of -apertures at the base of each cup—sink holes, in -fact—leading into the substance of the stem.</p> -<p>The path wound up a hill-side over a field of tares, rippling -away before me through the sea of purple blossom until it ended -abruptly against the blue sky far above. And here another -minute wonder brought me to a halt. Though it was so early, -the hive-bees were out and about in their thousands. The -great field was besieged by them. The air throbbed with -their music. A madness for honey-making seemed upon them -all; and yet, of all the busy thousands upon thousands set loose -amidst what seemed illimitable forage-ground, nowhere could I see -a hive-bee upon a flower. I went down on hands and knees -for a closer view, believing at first that my eyes were playing -false with me. But there was no doubt about it. -Though on every side the great furry bumble-bees were seizing -upon, and <a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -164</span>dragging open the purple blooms of the tares, the -hive-bees never touched these, for all they were in so huge a -heat and flurry of work.</p> -<p>Now I knew that, while every other insect under heaven has its -times of relaxation, deeming moments given over to dancing in a -sunbeam or basking on a wall as moments not ill-spent, the -honey-bee allows herself no such wasteful delights. If she -were here in this tare-field in her thousands, and here she was, -she came for no other purpose than a useful one. Clearly, -therefore, the hive-bees were getting nectar in abundance: yet -how, if they were not seeking it in the flowers?</p> -<p>Another minute’s careful watch resolved the -mystery. The tare-plant can almost rank with the -slug-devouring teasel as a curiosity of the country-side. -Knowing well that the hive-bee’s tongue is not long enough -to reach the sweets at the bottom of its flower-cup, the tare -provides a special feast outside. At the base of each -leaf-and flower-stalk, just where these join on to the main stem, -will be found a little green flap or fin. In the centre of -this fin is a valve, from which exudes a thick sweet -liquid. If you are quicker than the bee, you may see the -tiny globule shining in the sun as you turn the plant up. -But even as you look, a bee fusses in between your fingers, -drinks up the liquid in a <a name="page165"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 165</span>moment, and hums off to the next -stalk. If we can extend no more sympathy to the bee in her -folly of never-ending labours than to a lily-of-the-field at -toil, we must at least concede something for her -fearlessness. A peep into her own looking-glass is not -always all of virtue’s reward.</p> -<p>Over the field of purple tares, and on through the -cornfields—wheat waving high and green, with the scarlet -poppies flushing midway down in its murmuring depths. Who -would have hawthorn and buttercups, the bridal white and gold of -spring, when he can have poppies by the million, and roses, a -wagon-load to be gathered from every hedgerow, if he will? -Where I stood, breast-high in the wheat-field, the poppies -crowded thick together among the green stems, making one unbroken -sheet of colour that I could hardly look upon in the full light -of the summer sun. A little way onward, and this blood-red -flare was softened instantly: a dozen yards away there was -nothing but the rustling green of the wheat. Every moment a -lark rose out of the corn, singing, or dropped into it like a -stone silently out of the blue. The hedgerow on the far -side of the field shone with the roses, tremulous, uncertain, in -the heated air. Beyond, in the blue mist of woodlands, a -blackbird chanted his joy of the morning; and all round me in the -distant ring of hills, there were cuckoos <a -name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 166</span>chiming, -each note clear but double, some of the songs perfect still.</p> -<p>From the wheat, the path led me presently into the oat-fields, -green too, but of a cooler, greyer tinge; and full of a stealthy -motion and the sound of wind, though scarce a breath was moving -overhead. There is something eerie, mysterious, about a -field of oats on a hot summer’s morning. It is as -though the ears bent together and whispered to each other, -passing the word on unceasingly from plant to plant. -Looking over the plane of grey-green awns, stretching away under -the still sunshine, you see low wavelets rise and fall, furrows -come and go; the light changes; or, suddenly, the whole expanse -grows mute and still. A gentle, inconstant breeze would -produce exactly this effect; but you see it when not a leaf moves -in the highest treetops, when even the aspens have hushed their -quivering music under the noontide glare. No doubt, in a -minor degree, all plants show this movement, whether it be caused -by the travelling heat of the sun, or be simply due to the -varying impetus of growth. In a great field of corn closely -drilled, there are always the separate individualities of the -plants comprising it to be reckoned with. That these exist -in fact, as well as in fancy, is difficult to demonstrate. -But that each field has a communal spirit—often different -<a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 167</span>from, or -wholly antagonistic to, that of its near neighbour—is -evident. For how else to explain why all the ears of corn -in one field lean eastward, and all the ears in the next field -may incline normally to the west?</p> -<p>Coming homeward at last, surfeited of sunshine, eyes and ears -outwearied with the brilliance and the melody of the day, I -stopped awhile in the shadow of the church tower to consider an -old familiar, yet perennially interesting thing. Just as I, -at fiercest noon, was returning to the shelter of my own cool, -ivy-mantled nest, the swifts that built in the tower were lancing -back to their homes in the gloom of the belfry. Singly, in -twos and threes together, every moment saw them arriving and -disappearing through the jalousies; but now none went forth -again, though they had been coming and going all the morning -long. There they would remain, I knew, quiet in the -temperate dark of the old tower, until the sun had got out of its -furnace-like mood. And then they would be out and about -again, yet filled with a wholly different spirit. And -towards sunset they would be tearing round the sky in a madcap -chevy-chase, screaming like black imps let out of Inferno.</p> -<h3><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -168</span>II</h3> -<p>Windlecombe Mead, where the village cricket matches have been -played from time immemorial, lies on the gently sloping ground -between Arun river and the hills. It was the day of the -great annual match with Stavisham, and most of the older -villagers had congregated on the benches round the scoring-tent, -when, in the sweltering heat of early afternoon, I hurried down -to the field with pencil and book. The townsmen, it seemed, -had won the toss, and had elected to put the home-team in. -Young Tom Clemmer and young Daniel Dray were already at the -wickets, taking middle. I looked round at the glum, set -faces of the spectators, and felt tragedy in the air.</p> -<p>‘Fower men an’ a parson,’ whispered the old -cobbler to me behind his hand, ’a ould rickety chap as -caan’t run, an’ five bits o’ lads! Drat -that there hay! Heough! Now they’re -aff!’</p> -<p>The umpire had called Play. The fast Stavisham -bowler—we knew him of old—retired into open country, -wheeled, and bore down on the crease like a bull at a gate. -Young Daniel ducked, then turned up a face of indignant -scarlet. But the ball had gone by for two, and a chuckle of -relief spread through the crowd. The bowler prepared to try -again.</p> -<p>‘Dan’l’s got th’ sun in ’s -eyes,’ said old Dray <a name="page169"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 169</span>anxiously, as he watched. -‘’A never can bide that top wicket! Steady now, -Dannie, an’ keep a straight bat!’</p> -<p>He roared out the last words. And then, in a moment, we -were all on our feet in consternation. The ball had never -left the bowler’s hand—that much we were sure -of. Daniel stood at his wicket safe and sound, but Tom -Clemmer was coming back to the tent, followed by a derisive -chorus from the whole field.</p> -<p>‘Hout, Tom? Never hout!’</p> -<p>‘What i’ th’ wureld houted ye, -lad?’</p> -<p>‘Hout! Never!—’tis a swindle, -Tom!’</p> -<p>Amidst the eager exclamations of his friends, Tom Clemmer -strode into the tent, and began slowly to unbuckle his -pads. All the time he stared fixedly into space.</p> -<p>‘I could ha’ hup wi’ my fist,’ he -said, after a moment’s wrathful silence, addressing no one -in particular, ’an’ I could ha’ gi’en -that there grocer-chap sech a— But there! ’tis -no sense yammerin’! Doan’t ye run out, sir, or -’a ’ll ha’ ye, same as ’a had -me!’</p> -<p>He spoke now to the curate, who was preparing to go to the -wicket, and the truth dawned upon us at last. The bowler -had played Tom a very ancient and very mean-spirited trick. -Old Clemmer, regardless of the agony it caused him, stamped his -swaddled foot upon the ground.</p> -<p><a name="page170"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -170</span>‘An’ to think, Tom!’ he groaned, -‘as ye lit up th’ forge-fire special for ’un -only laast Sunday, ’cause his ould mare—’</p> -<p>But we had no thought for anything but the disaster that had -befallen us, and all that was now imminent. With Tom -Clemmer, the one hope of Windlecombe, out of the fight, what -might happen to the rest? With bated breath we watched for -the third ball. Young Daniel drove it over the -bowler’s head, and with a trembling pencil I put down two -to his name. Playing with desperate care, he added two more -before the end of the over, and we began to pluck up heart -again. Young Tom came and stood behind me. His big -thumb travelled down the list of names on the scoring-book.</p> -<p>‘’Tis not lost yet!’ he said with reviving -cheerfulness. ‘Dan’l may do well, wanst -’a gets set. An’ belike Mr. Weaverly ’ull -bide out a bit. Then there be Huggins wi’ his luck; -an’ who knaws but what the boys ’ull account fer a -dozen or so atween ’em?’</p> -<p>I had now time, as the fielders were accommodating themselves -to the left-handed batting of the curate, to glance down the -list. The last name came upon me as an utter surprise.</p> -<p>‘What? Never old Stallwood! Why, he must be -seventy, if he’s a—’</p> -<p>‘Ay! Cap’n Stall’ard sure enow! -’Tis a joke, <a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -171</span>more ’n anything. But ne’er another -livin’ sowl there wur, as cud— Oh, -Jupitty! Mr. Weaverly’s hout leg-afore!’</p> -<p>But it was not Mr. Weaverly’s leg. With a white -face, his body bent to the shape of an inverted letter L, and -both arms clasped about his middle, the curate came tip-toeing -back to the tent. He sat down silently in a corner. -Huggins—a lean, red-whiskered giant in -moleskins—burst out into the sunshine and made for the -wicket, waving his bat like a war-club and murmuring imprecations -as he went.</p> -<p>‘Now ’tis jest touch-an’-go,’ said -young Tom in my ear. ‘If ’a hits ’em, -they’ll travel, you mark me! ’Twill be eether -th’ river, th’ town, or Windle Hill.’</p> -<p>Huggins stood at the wicket, legs wide apart, and bat held -high over his head. The bowling now was swift, stealthy, -underhand. The ball sped down the pitch, never leaving the -grass for an inch. A crack rang out in the dazzling July -sunshine. Daniel Dray started to run, but the batsman waved -him back. Huggins stood watching the skied ball until it -came to ground in the next field. He laughed -uproariously.</p> -<p>‘What d’ye think o’ ee?’</p> -<p>It was another four, and that made eleven in all. -Huggins swung up his bat, and spread his great <a -name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 172</span>hob-nailed -boots for a still mightier effort. The ball hissed down the -pitch. Huggins caught it as it hopped from a tussock. -Like a lark it soared up into the blue, and we heard a clear -musical plunk as it dropped into the river. A roar of -delight burst from the crowd.</p> -<p>‘Lost ball!’ shouted Tom behind me. -‘Hooroar! Seventeen!’</p> -<p>Huggins spat upon his hands, took a reef in his leather belt, -and lifted his bat again. The little underhand bowler came -crouching up to the crease, and launched the new ball almost from -his knees. Wide and wild it flew this time. But there -was a sound of crashing timber; Huggins’s wicket scattered -into space, stumps and bails whirling together half-way up the -pitch. He had hit the wrong thing.</p> -<p>‘An’ now,’ wailed poor Tom Clemmer, -‘’tis as good as finished. Dan’l wunt -ha’ no chaance. Jest as well declare, an’ -ha’ done wi’ it. Th’ -boys?—they’ll be all done in a hover, -an’—’</p> -<p>‘Well, an’ what about th’ Cap’n, -Tom?’</p> -<p>It was the voice of the Captain himself, and we all turned to -look. He was leaning comfortably against the tent pole, the -very picture of an old, superannuated forecastle-hand. He -wore his usual vast faded blue suit. A seaman’s cap -with hard shiny peak gripped his bald head from the rear. -His red face swam in joviality and <a name="page173"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 173</span>perspiration. Tom regarded him -with mingled respect and doubt.</p> -<p>‘Ye caan’t run, Maast’ -Stall’ard.’</p> -<p>‘Trew, Tom!’</p> -<p>‘An’ ye ha’ant touched a crickut bat fer -thirty year.’</p> -<p>‘Trew agen,’ returned the Captain serenely.</p> -<p>‘Ha, hum! well! a good plucked-un ye be, anyways. -Now then, Dickie!’</p> -<p>The first small boy set forth over the sunny stretch of grass -that lay between the tent and the waiting team. Very small -and insignificant he looked in his school-corduroys, and leg-pads -that reached well-nigh up to his waist. His advent was -greeted with ribaldry from all parts of the field. We heard -Daniel Dray admonishing the boy as he came smiling up to the -pitch.</p> -<p>‘Now, Dickie, doan’t ye dare run ’til I -shouts to ye, an’ then run as if <i>He</i> wur after -ye. Hould your bat straight, ye young varmint! Now -then, look hout! There! what did I tell ye?’</p> -<p>Dickie’s wicket was down, and Dickie himself was running -back to the tent vastly relieved.</p> -<p>‘Out wi’ ye, Georgie Huggins! An’ do -as well as your faather!’ cried Tom Clemmer -encouragingly. ‘’Tis hover, an’ -Dan’l’s got th’ play now. Oh, -Dan’l, Dan’l! if only ’twur you an’ -me!’</p> -<p>But, playing with the ingenuity as well as the <a -name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 174</span>courage of -despair, young Daniel Dray now began to show his true -mettle. Odd runs he refused, taking only even numbers, so -that each time the bowling fell to his lot again. At the -end of the over, he stole a desperate single with the same object -in view. He reached home safe enough, but Georgie was run -out. Boy Number Two had been disposed of at the cost of a -gallant six.</p> -<p>Following the same tactics, young Daniel eked out the -remaining three boys with still more crafty skill. When at -length old Stallwood, the last man, launched out into the -sunlight to show the town what he remembered of cricket, the -score had risen to forty-nine, and our spirits with it. We -cheered him lustily as he went.</p> -<p>‘Wan more,’ quoth Tom Clemmer, ‘jest wan, -an’ I’ll light me pipe. There be allers a -chaance wi’ fifty. Lorsh! Look at th’ -Cap’n!’</p> -<p>Three times on his way to the pitch he had stopped, turned, -and waved his cap in acknowledgment of the ovation given -him. And now he was greeting the Stavishamites each by -name, and shaking hands with the wicket-keeper. He got to -the crease at last and grounded his bat. The next moment -the whole field had left their places and run for the tent, -leaving the Captain standing alone and amazed at his wicket.</p> -<p>‘’A doan’t knaw ’a be hout,’ -said Tom. ‘D’ ye <a name="page175"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 175</span>onnerstand? ’A never -heerd th’ bawler shout, an’ never seed th’ ball -acomin’. Belike ’a thinks they be all gone fer -a drink, to hearten ’em at the sight o’ sech a -crickutter!’</p> -<p>And being free for a time, I took upon myself the task of -walking out to the Captain, and breaking the news to him as -gently as I could.</p> -<p>It was now Windlecombe’s turn to take the field, and Tom -Clemmer led out his team with a good heart, in spite of its tail -of juveniles. Daniel Dray and the Rev. Mr. Weaverly were -our first, indeed our only bowlers. One of the first -batsmen for Stavisham was Daniel’s ancient foe, the grocer; -and we watched the beginning of play with breathless interest, -for we knew Daniel would aim to kill. He grubbed savagely -in the sawdust, then sent the first ball hurtling down the -pitch.</p> -<p>The old men were still upon the benches outside, and in that -quarter sympathy with Windlecombe was as staunch as ever. -But in the scoring tent I sat amidst enemies now. The -townsmen crowded behind me, a humorously sarcastic crew.</p> -<p>‘Fifty to beat? My ould Aunt Mary! D’ -ye reckon we’ll do it, Bill?’</p> -<p>‘Dunno. ’Tis ser’ous fer -Stavisham. Only eleven on us, there be. Likely March -wunt do ’t off his own bat—no, not -’arf!’</p> -<p><a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -176</span>‘That there tinker-cove’s agoin’ to -bowl fust. There ’ee goos! Wot a -—’</p> -<p>The rest was drowned in a thunderclap of shouting. There -was a general stampede among the spectators. For the grocer -had driven Daniel’s first ball clean into the tent.</p> -<p>It was a bad beginning for Windlecombe, and bad rapidly -changed to worse. Young Daniel bowled steadily and coolly -for the first over, in spite of continuous punishment; but -thereafter he lost first his temper, and then his head. The -smiling grocer played him to all points of the compass; and the -more the grocer smiled, the more wildly erratic Daniel’s -bowling grew. As for the Rev. Mr. Weaverly, he could do no -more than send meek, ingenuous balls trundling diffidently up the -pitch; and he was skied with heartrending regularity. The -batsmen kept continually running. The little tent seemed to -belly out on all sides with the cheering, as a sail with -wind.</p> -<p>‘Thirty up!’</p> -<p>‘Thirty fer nauthin’!’</p> -<p>‘Thirty-one! And another’! -Thirty-two! Garn, March! Wot a wazegoose! -Thirty—’</p> -<p>‘Five! ’Ooray!’</p> -<p>The shout went off in my ear like a punt gun. And then -there fell a sudden silence about me, as all strained eyes and -ears out to the field. <a name="page177"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 177</span>Some altercation was going on, but -not between members of the opposing sides. ‘Drop ut, -ye ould fule!’ I heard Tom Clemmer roar; and, peering over -the crowd, I saw Captain Stallwood, ball in hand, walking up to -the pitch. He rolled up his sleeves as he came.</p> -<p>‘Drop ut, I tell ye!’ cried Tom once more, -‘’tis crickut we be playin’, not maarbles, -man! Gimme that ball, Stall’ard, or -I’ll— Lorsh! what be come to th’ -ould—’</p> -<p>The rest was a confused wrangle amongst the whole team. -Presently, to our amazement, we saw all drift back to their -posts, and old Stallwood take his place triumphantly at the -bowling-crease. In the dead quiet that followed, I heard -the grocer chuckle richly, as he got ready to smite the Captain -all over the field.</p> -<p>The old man stood stock still on the crease, eyeing the -batsman solemnly, the ball held low down between his knees. -So long he remained in this posture, that at length impatient -exclamations began to break out on all sides.</p> -<p>‘Well! now ye ha’ got un, Stall’ard, let -’n goo, mate!’</p> -<p>‘’Tain’t i’ church ye be, -Cap’n. ’Tis crickut!’</p> -<p>‘Bawl up, gaffer! We warnts to get hoame afore -daark!’</p> -<p>And from the grocer, leaning with exaggerated weariness on his -bat:</p> -<p><a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -178</span>‘Doan’t ye be i’ no sorter hurry, -ould bluebottle! But when y’ are ready, just send us -a postcard, will ye?’</p> -<p>The Captain’s hand went slowly up, the ball held -curiously against his wrist. He launched it with a sudden -sidelong twist. As it rose high into the air, I could see -that it went wide and off, even from my position in the -tent. With a laugh the batsman strode out half a dozen -yards to meet it. A moment later he was gazing back aghast -at his splayed wicket. The Captain’s rich husky voice -pealed out above the din:</p> -<p>‘There be a poun’ o’ butter fer -’ee!’</p> -<p>And now we were the frantic spectators of a drama that gained -in thrilling interest with every moment. The new batsman -arrived at the wicket, and again old Stallwood sent the ball -sailing down the pitch, wide as ever, but this time to leg. -I watched it more carefully now. Though it made a high -curve, it rose not a hair’s-breadth after touching ground, -but shot straight in. Again we saw the glint of a falling -bail behind the wicket. The Captain thrust both bare arms -deep in his trousers-flap, and silently grinned. The third -man did little better. He succeeded in blocking a couple of -the balls; but the next, more crooked than any, sent him -dumbfounded back to the tent.</p> -<p>There was no more ribaldry about me now. <a -name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 179</span>The fourth -batsman sallied out amidst a rustle of whispered apprehension and -hard-drawn breaths, and returned almost immediately to the same -tense atmosphere. Outside on the benches, the old men were -rocking on their seats with delight, like trees in a wind. -Bleak, the cobbler, was careering up and down, beside himself -with joy.</p> -<p>‘Fower in a hover!’ he shouted. ‘I -reckons I knaws summat about leather, but I ne’er seed it -do the like o’ that! ’Tain’t -bawlin’, I tell ye: ’tis magic!’</p> -<p>And now young Daniel Dray was bowling again, and bowling with -renewed courage and skill. All his old command of length -and break had returned to him. By the end of his over, -another wicket had fallen, and the score had risen no higher than -forty-three. The Captain took the ball once more, this time -without any opposition. At once the fearsome whispering in -the tent grew still. Almost we forgot to breathe, as the -great dark hairy fist came slowly up into the sunlight.</p> -<p>But the Captain had changed his tactics. Instead of the -leisurely, high-curving delivery with which he had done such -execution hitherto, the ball left his hand straight and low and -as quick as light. It pitched no more than an inch or two -in front of the waiting bat, then struck <a -name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 180</span>vertically -upward. A crack resounded through the field. The -batsman staggered—clapped a hand to his head. A -moment more and he was picking an uneven course towards the tent, -thoroughly satiated with the Captain’s magic.</p> -<p>Very slowly the next man set out for the pitch. He -stopped on the way to tighten a strap of his leg-guard, and again -unconscionably long to adjust his batting-glove. Once he -turned back a tallowy face, and seemed to be in two minds about -something. But at length he got to the wicket and grounded -his bat. The long arm uprose again, and the ball -sped. It proved to be the last bowled that day. For -once more that terrible upward break ended with a thud and a -yell, echoed from nine panic-stricken men about me. The -luckless batsman fled with as gory a visage as his companion had -done, and none would take his place, though the grocer charmed -and stormed never so wisely. Windlecombe had won by -six.</p> -<p>Later by an hour the victorious eleven gathered in the parlour -of the Three Thatchers Inn, old Stallwood grimly smiling in their -midst. Tom Clemmer shook his fist at him, delight in his -eyes.</p> -<p>‘But ’twarn’t crickut, -Stall’ard!’ he said reproachfully.</p> -<p>‘Noa,’ returned the old man, ‘not crickut, -<a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -181</span>leastways not all on’t. That there -sing-chin-summat or other—Red Hot Ball, I calls -un—that wur a trick as I larned in Chaney.’</p> -<h3>III</h3> -<p>How fast time flies you can never truly estimate until you go -step and step with it through the summer woods and fields. -In a sense, town-life—where there is so much of permanence -in environment—puts a drag on time, and not seldom pulls it -up altogether. Moreover, in towns time is estimated by -events, by experiences. You hear a great musician, see a -great play, look on at some magnificent pageant, or are shocked -by some catastrophe; and straightway there is half a lifetime of -emotion thrust between two strokes of the clock. By so much -in very truth your life has been lengthened; for it is the -intensity of living that counts in the civic tale of years. -If you find an old man not only declaring that he has lived long, -but believing it, it is a great chance but he tells you so in the -close-clipped cockney tongue of the town.</p> -<p>And yet it is better to live in some far-away country nook -like Windlecombe, and be reminded with every gliding summer hour -that time flies and life is short, if only because of the -undoubted fact that such a frame of mind carries a belief <a -name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 182</span>in eternal -youth as a necessary implication. Between life’s dawn -and the dusk of its western sky, there is literally no time to -grow old in a natural, aboriginal environment. So -inextricably interwoven are the threads of human existence and -that of the green world round about, that the annual rejuvenation -of the one infallibly communicates itself to the other. -With every spring we start life afresh. Though we may live -to threescore years and ten, we are children still; and come upon -death at last like an unexpected gust at a corner, old age -unrealised to the very end.</p> -<p>In the weeks that are closing now, I have heard and seen more -of the galloping hoofs of this swift, high-stepping jade, summer, -than is good for entire peace of mind. Years ago I made a -vow that I would never again eke out the fleeting golden days, -like a miser to whom spending is not pleasure but only -pain. I vowed that I would always squander time at this -season; let it drift by unthinkingly; get my fill of sunshine, -and fill and fill again to my heart’s content; yet do it as -a strayed heifer in the corn, wantoning over an acre to each -mouthful. But this time, as ever, the good resolution has -been forgotten. The old parsimony has dogged the way at -every step. I must be up with the sun in the small hours of -each morning, fearful of losing a single <a -name="page183"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 183</span>beam from -the millions. To waste in sleep the blue, spangled summer -nights, when all the country-side is resonant of life and -fragrant with the scent that comes only with the darkness, has -seemed like sacrilege. Yet, for all my industry, July is -nearing its end, and I know that I have drunk but a drop or two -out of its vast ocean. And already I have renewed the old -vow, to be disregarded as ever, doubtless, when July again comes -round.</p> -<p>On all the high-lying corn lands now, harvest has begun; and -the fields in the valley are fast taking on that deep tinge of -gipsy-gold which is the sign of full maturity. Scarce had -the shrill note of the mowing-machine stilled in the meadows, -when the deeper voice of the reaper-and-binder began on the -hill. All day long I sat in this cool quiet nook of a -study, and the steady jarring sound came over to me from the -hillside, filling the little room. I saw the machine with -its pair of grey horses, waiting at the field-gate, while the -scythe-men cut a way for it into the amber wall of the -grain. Steadily hour after hour it worked round the field, -until at last, looking forth towards noon, I saw that only a -small triangular piece remained uncut in the middle of the -field.</p> -<p>Now there were a score or so of the farm folk waiting hard by, -each armed with a cudgel; <a name="page184"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 184</span>and with them seemingly every dog in -the village. As the machine went round, every time making -the patch of standing corn smaller, I could see rabbits bolting -in all directions from the diminishing cover; and there uprose -continually a hubbub of voices from dogs and men. Towards -the end, the stubble became alive with the little dark scurrying -forms, fleeing to the surrounding fields, the most of them -escaping harmlessly for want of pursuers. But even then, as -I afterwards learned, some eight or nine dozen were killed.</p> -<p>I have always kept away from these harvest battues, as indeed -from all scenes of sport and congregations of sportsmen. I -am willing enough to profit by these activities, and receive and -enjoy my full share of the furred and feathered spoil admittedly -without one humanitarian qualm. But this much confessed, I -would gladly welcome the day when everywhere, save in the rabbit -warrens, the sound of the sporting gun should cease throughout -this southern land. Rabbits must be kept down to the end of -time; but, for the creatures that require preservation, too great -a price is paid, and paid by the wrong class. It is not the -owner of game-preserves who bears the main cost of his thunderous -pleasuring. It is the lover of wild life, who sees the -hawks and owls and small deer of the woodlands growing scarcer -with every year; and the children who, <a -name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 185</span>in the -springtime, are cheated out of their right to wander through the -primrose glades.</p> -<p>To many this may seem a wearisomely trite point of view, -affecting a grievance as old as the hills, and even less likely -of obliteration. But though the point of view is ancient -enough, the grievance is no longer so. Of late years the -ranks of village dwellers have been very largely reinforced from -the classes who care little for sport and a great deal for all -other allurements of the country-side. Rural England is no -longer peopled by sportsmen and the dependents of sportsmen; but, -slowly and surely, a majority is creeping up in the villages, -composed of men and women both knowing and loving Nature, and to -whom the old-time local policy of endurance under deprivation of -rights for expediency’s sake, is an incomprehensible, as -well as an intolerable thing. All the vast-winged, -beautiful marauders of the air that I love to watch, are -ruthlessly shot down by the gamekeepers on a suspicion -presumptive and unproved; but the fox that, in a single night, -massacres every bird in the villager’s hen-roost, must go -scatheless because poor profit may not be set before rich -pastime.</p> -<p>One day, almost the hottest so far, I was out in the meadows, -and came upon a curious thing. The path, or rather green -lane, ran between high <a name="page186"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 186</span>hedges. On either hand there -was a great field of flowering crops, the one red clover, the -other sainfoin. There must have been twenty or thirty acres -of each stretching away under the tense still air and light, much -of a colour, but the sainfoin of a softer, purer pink. Both -fields seemed alike attractive to the bees; but while, to the -right, the sainfoin gave out a mighty note of organ music, the -red clover on my left was utterly silent. Looking through a -gap in the foliage, I could not see there a single butterfly or -bee. The truth, of course, was that the nectar in the -trumpet-petals of the clover was too far down for the honey-bee -to reach; nor would even the bumble-bees trouble about it, with a -whole province of sainfoin hard by, over-brimming with choicer, -more attainable sweets.</p> -<p>As I wandered along, between these great zones of sound and -silence, the air seemed to grow hotter and more oppressive with -every moment. There was something uncanny in the stillness -of all around me. The green sprays in the tops of the -highest elms lay against the blue sky sharp and clear, as though -enamelled upon it. Not a bird sang in the woodland. -Save for the deep throbbing melody from the sainfoin, all the -world lay dumb and stupefied under the noontide glare. And -then, chancing to turn and look southward, I saw the cause of -it. A storm was coming up. <a -name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 187</span>Close down -on the horizon lay a bank of cloud like a solid billow of -ink. It was driving up at incredible speed. Though -not a leaf or grass blade stirred around me, the cloud seemed -tossed and torn in a whirlwind’s grip. Every moment -it lifted higher towards the sun, changing its shape incessantly, -black fold upon fold rolling together, colliding, giving place to -others blacker still. And flying in advance of all this, -borne by a still swifter air-current, were long sombre streamers -of cloud rent into every conceivable shape of torn and tattered -rags.</p> -<p>And now, as the dense cloud-pack got up, the brilliant light -was blotted out at a stroke, and this startling thing -happened. Every bee, apparently, at work in the vast field -of sainfoin, spread her wings at the ominous signal, and raced -for home. They swept over my head in numbers that literally -darkened the sky. Again, literally, the sound of their -going was like a continuous deep syren-note, striking point-blank -in the ear. For a minute at most it endured, and then died -away almost as suddenly as it came. A bleak ghostly light -paled on everything around me. Little cat’s paws of -wind flung through the torpid air. Afar the harsh voice of -the oncoming tempest sounded. Slow hot gouts of water began -to fall, and every moment the inky pall of cloud lit up with an -internal fire.</p> -<p><a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 188</span>At -first, as I made off homeward in the track of the vanished -bee-army, I tried to emulate their speed. But the torrent -came surging and crying up in my rear, and in a dozen yards I was -waterlogged. Thereafter, going leisurely, I came at last -into the village, and so to the house. And here, in spite -of the deluge, I must stop and look on at more wonders. It -seemed almost impossible for any bird to sustain itself on wings -under such a cataract. But there above me the martins were -at their old incessant gambols, circling and darting about, -hither and thither, high and low, in a whirling madcap crew; and -higher still, right in the throat of the tempest, I could make -out the swifts, hundreds strong, weaving their old mazy pattern -on the sky, as though in the pearl and opal dusk of a -summer’s evening.</p> -<h2><a name="page189"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 189</span>THE -TEA-GARDEN<br /> -AUGUST</h2> -<h3>I</h3> -<p><span class="smcap">Old</span> Runridge’s misadventure -in wedlock has proved a trouble to more people than one in -Windlecombe. In former years, though boating parties from -the town were continually to be seen on the river, when the -August holiday season began, they seldom pulled up at our ferry -stairs. From the waterside the village had a somewhat -inhospitable look, while a mile farther on there were the North -Woods, Stavisham’s traditional picnicking ground, where, at -the gamekeeper’s cottage, all were sure of a welcome. -Such wandering holiday-makers as found their way into Windlecombe -came usually by road, and were of the tranquil, undemonstrative -breed, like pedestrians all the world over. There would -seem to be something about sitting long hours in a rowing-boat -which is detrimental, even debasing, to a certain common variety -of human nature. The tendency to run and shout and skylark -on reaching dry ground again appears to be irresistible to this -numerous class. And it is at <a name="page190"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 190</span>Mrs. Runridge’s door that we -must lay the blame of submitting Windlecombe to a pestilent -innovation.</p> -<p>‘Look ye!’ said the old ferryman from his seat in -the boat, waving a scornful hand towards his garden, as I chanced -along the river bank one fine Saturday afternoon. -‘’Twur me as painted un, an’ me as putt un up, -jest fer peace’s sake; but I’d ha’ taken -an’ chucked un in th’ river if I’d only -ha’ knowed what sort o’ peace ’ud come on -’t!’</p> -<p>A great white board reared itself on ungainly legs above the -elder-hedge of the garden, and on it, in huge irregular -characters, appeared the single word, ‘TEAS.’ -By the side of the ferry-punt half a dozen town rowing-boats lay -moored. And from the green depths of the garden there arose -a confusion of voices, shrill laughter, and an incessant clatter -of crockery. I had hardly realised what it all meant, when -Mrs. Runridge showed a vast white apron and a hot perspiring face -in the gateway. She bore down upon us with upraised hand, -as though she intended bodily harm to one or both.</p> -<p>‘Here, Joe!’ cried she, giving the old ferryman a -coin. ‘Change fer half a suvverrin, an’ shaarp -’s th’ wured! Try th’ Thatchers, or Mist. -Weaverly, or belike— Doan’t sit starin’ -there, looney! Dear, oh Lor! was there ever sech a <a -name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 191</span>man! -An’ us all run purty nigh off our legses, we be!’</p> -<p>‘Th’ seventh time,’ gasped Runridge, as we -hurried together up the steep street, ‘or like as not -th’ eighth—I dunno! An’ ut bean’t -as though ’a warnted money. Money?—th’ -bed bean’t fit fer Christian folk to sleep on, wi’ -th’ lumps in ’t! An’ to-morrer ull be -wuss, if ’tis fine. Lor’ send a hearthquake, or -Noah’s flood, or summat!’</p> -<p>When a naturally silent man attempts self-commiseration in -words, his case is sure to be a desperate one. But we are -all fated to share in his trouble now. On any fine Saturday -or Sunday in the month, Runridge will be a familiar figure, -hunting down from door to door the change that, in villages, is -so scanty and so hard to discover. On Mondays we shall all -suffer from our foolish kindness in allowing this reckless -exportation of bullion. Only Susan Angel at the sweetstuff -shop, and her small customers, will be unincommoded; for the -handful of battered farthings that has served them as currency -during whole decades past will be necessarily saved by its -insignificance, and will remain, no doubt, in the village for -service amidst generations yet unborn.</p> -<p>But disturbing visitors to Windlecombe do not all come by the -river. There is an iniquitous <a name="page192"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 192</span>job-master in Stavisham who has long -had the village in his evil eye; and at intervals, fortunately -rare, he descends upon us with charabancs drawn by three horses, -and filled with heterogeneous human gleanings—the flotsam -and jetsam of holiday-land strayed for the day into Stavisham -from contiguous seaside towns.</p> -<p>They come in families, in amorous couples, in collective -friendships of each sex and every number and age. They -bring baskets of provisions, cameras, balls wherewith to play -rounders on the green; and of musical instruments many weird -kinds—concertinas, mouth-organs, babies, and often yapping -terriers that set all our own dogs frantic on their chains. -An altruist, whose convictions have grown up amidst the quiet -slow neighbourliness of the country, never finds his principles -less easy of application than when he must atune himself to the -holiday moods of people escaped from the town. There is no -harm in all the shouting and laughter and fatuous -horseplay. Inebriety is practically extinct among those who -make summer the season, and the country the scene, of their -year’s brief merry-making. And yet it all seems -mistaken, reprehensible, on the same principle that a blunder is -worse than a crime. It is futile to tell him so, unless he -already knows it, and then <a name="page193"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 193</span>it is equally unnecessary; but when -the day-tripper learns to enjoy himself on the green country-side -in the true spirit for which the sun was made to shine and the -flowers to grow, he will have found the Philosopher’s Stone -that is to change, not mere lead and iron, but Time and Life -themselves into gold.</p> -<p>On most mornings in August the more careful of us will go -about thrusting greasy paper-scraps out of sight under bushes, -flicking the incongruous yellow of banana-peel into obscure -corners, lamenting stripped boughs, and marvelling at nosegays -thrown heedlessly away, as if the joy of them had lain in the -mere plucking. But all the strange folk that use the -village for their pleasuring at this time, do not leave these -unlovely tokens behind them. Only yesterday, as I sat on -the edge of the old worked-out, riverside chalk-pit -here—whence you have a view north and south of the -glittering water for miles—there came a new sound in the -air, and I must throw aside my sheaf of galley-proofs to -listen. The sound came from the river, and was still afar -off. Many voices were joined in singing one of the old -catch-songs, which go round a circle of three or four phrases, -and to which there is never an end until you make an end of its -beginning in slow time.</p> -<p>The sweet medley grew louder and clearer, and <a -name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 194</span>presently -there was united to it the rhythmic plash of oars. A great -tarry old sea-boat came round the water’s bend, holding a -party of a dozen or so. At last the labouring craft and the -music came to a halt together, and the singers clambered -ashore. I should have forgotten all about them now, for -they soon passed out of sight amid the waterside foliage. -But as I was coming homeward up the village street, I heard the -voices again; and there, under the Seven Sisters on the green, -the little company were standing together, singing apparently for -their own solace and delight. It was a strange thing, here -in unemotional England, and many of the village folk had been -drawn wonderingly to their doors. Yet the singers did not -seem to remark this, nor to regard their action as anything out -of the common. For, the song finished, they broke into -several parties and sauntered on, talking quietly amongst -themselves as if to make music were part of the daily -conversation of their lives.</p> -<p>All that afternoon, from the quiet of my garden, I heard the -voices at intervals, and from different points about the village, -near and far. Once I saw the party right on the top of -Windle Hill, strolling about in twos and threes, looking like -foraging crows on the heights. After a while I saw them get -together in a little circle; and then, <a -name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 195</span>right at -the ear’s-tip, I could just catch the higher notes of their -singing—a strange wild song, much like the song of the -larks that must be contending with them up there against the blue -sky.</p> -<p>The last I saw of this mysterious company was at sunset, from -my perch over the chalk-pit again. They had already -embarked when I arrived, and had got their little ship well under -way. The oars were dipping steadily to the same old -catch-song that had brought them hither: there was still a faint -throbbing echo of ‘White Sand and Grey Sand’ upon the -air long after the sun had plunged, and the pale half-moon was -beginning to enter a timid silver protest against the lingering -crimson in the sky.</p> -<h3>II</h3> -<p>Near upon half a century I have lived in the world, and cannot -yet say of the wind whether I hate it or love it most.</p> -<p>It is a dilemma that comes only to the dweller in the country, -for in a town no sane man can be in two minds on the -matter. With a careering, mephitic dust choking up all -organs of perception, and the risk of being cloven to the chine -by a roof slate or lassoed by a loose electric wire, no one can -think of wind, hot or cold, <a name="page196"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 196</span>without heartily wishing it -gone. But in the country, though for my old enemy, the -northeast wind, I have nothing but fear and detestation at all -seasons, warm gales, whether in winter or summer, come as often -in friendly as in inimical guise. Like certain of the Hindu -gods, the wind must be content to be treated according to the -outcome of its activities, and receive laudation or revilement as -this prove fair or foul.</p> -<p>All through to-day the south-west wind has been volleying up -the combe, and everywhere in the village there has been a hubbub -of slamming doors and rattling casements, and the flack and -clutter of linen drying on the garden lines. People fought -their way step by step down the hill against the wind, and -tripped lightly up it, the oldest and feeblest forced into a -smart jog-trot. Aprons were blown over faces, and hats -snatched off at corners. The trees overshadowing the -village have been lashing together, and roaring out a deep -continuous song. The three thatchers on the inn sign, each -with a gilded hod of straw, have been flashing signals up to my -window every time the sun broke through the flying storm-wrack; -and a hundred times in the long day some riding witch of a -rain-cloud has tried to drench us, but each time the south-west -gale has seized it by the tattered skirts <a -name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 197</span>and chevied -it away over the hills before it could shed a dozen drops.</p> -<p>But it has been a good wind all through, and fine heartening -weather; and I have been glad to be abroad in it whenever I could -spare or steal an hour. Said the old vicar, as we climbed -up Windle Hill together this morning, his long white beard -flowing out before him as he lay back on the blast:</p> -<p>‘I know what you would have done, if I had let you -choose the way. You would have struck deep into the woods, -like the butterflies, and missed all the healthy buffeting of -it. But there is only one place for a man to-day, and that -is on the open Down. It never pays in the long-run in life -to study how to keep out of the way of hard knocks.’</p> -<p>The sunshine raced ahead of us, vaulted the hilltop, and was -gone. A scatter of warm rain drove out of the grey -heaven. I turned up my coat-collar just in time to -intercept the returning sun.</p> -<p>‘True,’ said I, ‘but the good of hard knocks -depends not on their frequency, but on the profit you extract -from them. I get and keep designedly as much of this as I -can, so a little goes a long way with me. And I love the -quiet and stillness of the deep wood, when the wind is roaring -out in the open. If we had gone there to-day, we should -have found the rosebay <a name="page198"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 198</span>willowherbs in full bloom, and more -butterflies upon them than you could find in a week -elsewhere. Besides, the ups in life are just as good for -one as the downs. I can admire the old Scotch pine that -clings to the bare hill-top through a century of winter storms, -but I must not be inconsiderate of the lilies.’</p> -<p>The old Windlecombe vicar has a way of dealing with notions of -this kind which is good for his hearer, whether he allow himself -convinced, or consider his dignity affronted. He ventilates -such ideas as he would let light into a room, by dashing a rough -hand through the dust-grimed window. It is a method -unpicturesque and often brutal, but effective and salutary in the -main. I owe him gratefully many a pretty rainbow bubble of -conceit exploded.</p> -<p>‘Pluck your head out of the sand,’ quoth he, -‘for your ragged hinder-parts are visible to all the world -of honest eyes. The pine and the lily are not choosing -creatures. To them is their environment allotted, but to -you is given the wilful fashioning of it. A man may be -either gold or iron—made either for beauty or for -use. But the one will not decorate, nor the other uphold -the world, if he shirk the fires that must first refine or temper -him. So away with your foolish Sahara tricks, and get on -with the work the moment brings you.’</p> -<p><a name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span>By -this he meant I was to look about me, and tell him what I saw as -we went along, a duty in which I was too often an unintentional -malingerer.</p> -<p>‘Yesterday a Londoner was in the village,’ I told -him, for a start, ‘and he was scoffing at our Downs. -“Where,” said he, “are the green highlands of -Sussex I have read so much about? Why, the hills are not -green, but brown!” And it was quite true at this -season, and from his standpoint down in the valley. Up here -we can see what gives the Downs their rich bronze colour in -summer-time. From below they looked parched and sunburnt, -as though nothing could grow for the heat and drought. But -now I can see that the general brown tone is really a mingling of -a thousand living hues. Looking straight down as you walk, -the turf is as green as ever it was; but a dozen paces onward all -this fresh verdure is lost under the greys and drabs of the -seeding grass-heads. Then again, the brown colour is due -just as much to the blending of all other colours that the eye -separates at a close view, but confuses from afar. We are -walking on a carpet of flowers; we cannot avoid trampling them, -if we are to set foot to the ground at all. Yellow -goatsbeard and vetchling, and the little trefoil with the -blood-red tips to its petals, and golden hawkweed everywhere; for -blues, there <a name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -200</span>are millions of plantains, and sheepsbit, and -harebells; and the wild thyme purples half the hillside, making -the bright carmine of the orchids brighter still wherever it -blows. But I have not reckoned in half the flowers -that—’</p> -<p>‘Hold, enough! I am sick of your Londoner, and of -every human being for the moment. Listen to the free, -glorious wind! Down in the valley there we always think of -the wind as a creature with a voice—something striding -through the sky and calling as it goes. But up here we know -that it is the earth that calls. Hark to it swishing, and -surging, and sighing for miles round! The sound is never -overhead on these treeless wastes, but always underfoot. -You keep head and shoulders up in the soundless sunshine, and -walk in a maelstrom. Did you ever think that the larks -always sing in the midst of silence, no matter how hard the wind -blows? Those are George Artlett’s sheep we are coming -to, are they not? I ought to know the old dog’s -talk!’</p> -<p>I scanned the hills about me, but could see no sign of sheep, -shepherd, or dog. But as we drew to the edge of the wide -plateau we were traversing, and got a view down into the steep -combe beyond, there sure enough were all three. The sheep, -just growing artistically presentable after their June shearing, -were scattered over the deep <a name="page201"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 201</span>bottom, quietly nibbling at the -turf. Far below, in the shadow of a single stunted -hawthorn, sat young George Artlett scribbling on his knee. -No doubt Rowster had been lying by his master’s side, until -our shadows struck sheer down upon him from the brink of the -hill. But now he was up and pricking his ears sharply in -our direction, growling menaces and wagging a welcome at one and -the same time. I gave the Reverend what I saw in few -words. To my surprise he began to descend the steep -hill-side.</p> -<p style="text-align: center"> -<a href="images/n6.jpg"> -<img alt= -"“Southdown Ewes”" -title= -"“Southdown Ewes”" - src="images/n6.jpg" /> -</a></p> -<p>‘After all,’ said he, ‘George Artlett and I -never really fell out. But we agreed to differ, and that is -the most fatal, most lasting disagreement of all. I should -have known better. I think I will risk a hand to him -again.’</p> -<p>As we clambered down the precipitous slope, into the shelter -of the combe, the wind suddenly stopped its music in our -ears. There fell a dead calm about us. At the bottom, -we seemed to be walking between two widely separated, yet almost -perpendicular cliffs of green, with a great span of blue sky far -above, across which the heavy cumuli raged unceasingly. -George Artlett got to his feet at our approach, thrust his paper -into his pocket, and gravely clawed off his old tarpaulin -hat. He took the hand held out to him with wonder, and a -little hesitation.</p> -<p>‘And how fares the good work, George?’</p> -<p><a name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -202</span>Artlett was silent a moment. He tried to read the -sightless eyes.</p> -<p>‘Shepherdin’, sir? ’Tis allers slow -goin’, but goin’ all th’ time. We did -famous with th’ wool, an’—’</p> -<p>‘George, leave the wool alone. You know what I -mean.’</p> -<p>George Artlett swung round on his heel, and swung back -again. He counted the fingers on his gnarled hand slowly -one by one.</p> -<p>‘Be ut priest to lost runagate, or be ut man to -man?’ he asked, looking up suddenly.</p> -<p>‘It is just one child in the dark way putting forth hand -to another. For, to the best of us, George, comradeship can -be no more than a heartening touch and sound of a footstep going -a common road, and the voice of a friend. Do you see a -light at the end of your path?’</p> -<p>‘Ay! I do that!’</p> -<p>‘Look closer. Is not the light just the shine of a -Beautiful Face, very grave and sorrowful, but with a great joy -beginning to spread over it, and—’</p> -<p>Though the deep voice stemmed on in the sunny quiet of the -combe, I could distinguish the words no longer; for something, -that was by no means part of me but of a more delicate nurture, -had set my feet going against my will. I was halfway down -the long alley of the combe before I <a name="page203"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 203</span>stopped to wait for the old -vicar. And then, looking backward, I fell to staring with -all my eyes.</p> -<p>‘Reverend,’ said I, after he had rejoined me, and -we had walked on together in silence for a minute or two, -‘I wish you could see what is before me now.’</p> -<p>I had brought him out of his reverie with a jerk. -‘Well: on with it!’</p> -<p>‘I see a green sunlit space, with the shadow of an old -hawthorn upon it. And in the shadow I see two men kneeling, -bareheaded, their faces turned up to the sky. And with all -my heart I wish there were a third with them; but there is not -another fit for such company, to my certain knowledge, within ten -thousand miles.’</p> -<p>He seemed to weigh his reply before he uttered it. -But:—</p> -<p>‘You’re a good fool,’ said he, ‘and I -love you. And there were three there, nay! a -Fourth,—all the time.’</p> -<h3>III</h3> -<p>In winter-time, ‘when nights are dark and ways be -foul,’ I can conceive of no pleasanter aspect of village -life at any season than the indoor, fireside one; but when the -long radiant August evenings are here, there is equally no other -time for me. More and more, with every <a -name="page204"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 204</span>year that -glides by, life in Windlecombe at this season seems to focus -itself round the Seven Sisters’ trees upon the green. -All the summer day through, the old folk gather there; and always -a low murmur of voices comes drifting up to my window from their -garrulous company. But it is after the day’s work is -done, and all, able or disable, are free for recreation, that the -true life of the place begins.</p> -<p>There is something about the ease-taking of men physically -tired after a long day’s work in fresh air and sunshine, -that fascinates one who is only mind-weary, and that alone from -much chaffering with pen and ink. Though you have but -cramped limbs to stretch out over the green sward, and, by -comparison, but a torpid, attenuated flow in your veins, somewhat -of your neighbour’s healthful, dog-tired humour over-brims -upon you; and after a pipe or two, and an hour’s slow -desultory chat, you can almost forget the tang of the study, the -reek of old leather burdening imprisoned air, and congratulate -yourself on a man’s work manfully done, albeit -vicariously—the day-long tussle with the good earth, -mammoth ‘nunches’ and ‘eleveners’ -devoured under hedgerows, a shirt a score of times soused with -honest sweat, and as many dried by the thirsty harvest sun.</p> -<p>All the old Windlecombe faces were there <a -name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 205</span>to-night -under the drooping pine boughs, and most of the middle-aged -ones. The younger men and boys were down on the Mead at -cricket practice, and there they would stay as long as a glimmer -of daylight remained in the sky. But the sun had still a -fathom to go before it would lie, red and lusty, caught in the -toils of the far-off Stavisham hills. I evaded with what -grace I could the cake of ship’s tobacco held out to me by -Captain Stallwood, accepting as fair compromise a charge from the -tin box of old Tom Clemmer, his dearest friend. Gradually -the talk got back to the point where my coming had intersected -it.</p> -<p>‘’Tis trew,’ said the Captain now, -‘trew as I sets here on a plank o’ th’ ould -<i>King</i>, as ye cut an’ shaped yersel’, -Dan’l.’</p> -<p>I followed his glance round the circle of benches. There -was not a head among the company but was wagging dubiously. -Old Daniel Dray’s face was an incredulous, a horrified -blank.</p> -<p>‘What!’ said he, ‘a human critter swaller -seventeen live—’</p> -<p>‘I seed it,’ interrupted the Captain, pointing his -pipe-stem solemnly at us for emphasis, ‘I seed it wi’ -my own pair o’ eyes. Little lirrupy green chaps, they -was, all hoppin’ an’ somersettin’ i’ -th’ baasket. An’ th’ blackamoor, ’a -putts ’a’s mouth to th’ lip o’ it, -an’ “hap! hap!” sez he, an’ every time -’a sez it, wan o’ ’em jumps <a -name="page206"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 206</span>in. -An’ when they was all down, ’a gies a sort o’ -gruggle, an’ skews ’a’s head ower th’ -baasket, an’ “hap! hap!” sez he agen, an’ -every time ’a sez it, out pops— But there! -’tis no sense tellin’ ye! Folks sees naun -o’ th’ wureld i’ little small village places, -an’ an’t got no believes.’</p> -<p>He was silent a while, then brought out a tobacco-box like a -brass halfpenny bun, and held it up to the common view. It -was old and battered, and had certain initials scratched on the -lid. The Captain fingered it in mournful reminiscence.</p> -<p>‘Lookee now,’ he said, ‘I doan’t -rightly know as I ever telled ye. “G.B.” -That bean’t Tom Stall’ard, be ut? Ah! No, -sez all on ye, ready enow. ’Twur George’s, ould -George Budgen as— Dan’l, what year war’t -as I went aff to sea?’</p> -<p>Daniel Dray’s lips moved in silent calculation.</p> -<p>‘Seventy-three belike, or maybe seventy-four, -’cause ye’d been gone, Joe, a year afore -Harker’s coo slipped the five-legged heifer, an’ that -wur—’</p> -<p>‘Ay! trew, Dan’l. An’ George Budgen, -’a wur shipmate along o’ me purty soon arter I gooed -away. Well: an’ this here baccy-box—th’ -least time as I seed ut i’ George’s haand, ’a -took a fill out av ut, jest afore ’a went on watch. -An’ ut come on to blaw that night—Gorm! <a -name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 207</span>how -’t did blaw! An’ <i>rain</i>, not aarf! -An’ i’ th’ marnin’ never a sign o’ -pore George Budgen to be seen! Well now, full a fortnit -arter that, what ’ud we do but ketch a gurt thresher on a -trail-line, an’ inside o’ th’ crittur what -’ud we find but a halibut, big as a tay-tray, all alive -an’ lippin’, ’a wur. Sez th’ -cappen—I wur ship’s-boy then—“Joe,” -sez he, “git an’ clane un, an’ I’ll -ha’ un fer me supper,” ’a sez. Now then, -Dan’l, ye’ll never believe ut, but trew as ye sets -there, clink goes my knife agen summut inside o’ th’ -halibut, an’—’</p> -<p>‘Goo on, Stallard!’</p> -<p>‘He, he! We all knaws what be acomin’, -cap’n!’</p> -<p>‘An’ there wur—ah! but ye’ll -ne’er believe ut, not if ye was Jonah hisself—there, -inside o’ th’ halibut wur a gurt rusty hook -as— What-say, Dan’l?’</p> -<p>‘Doan’t ’ee say ut agen, Dan’l! -You a reg’lar prayers-gooer, too!’</p> -<p>The Captain filled his pipe from the box, tragically -ruminating in the silence that followed.</p> -<p>‘Ah! pore George Budgen! ’A little knowed as -’twould be th’ laast time as ’a ’d pass -his tobaccer-box to a friend!’</p> -<p>The sun had long set, and the dusk was creeping up -apace. Here and there in the shadowy length of the street, -lights were beginning to break out.</p> -<p><a name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 208</span>Where -we sat under the dense canopy of pine-boughs, night had already -asserted itself, and to one another we were little more than an -arc of glowing pipe-bowls. Old Stallwood chuckled richly -from his corner. A sort of inspiration of mendacity seemed -to have come over him to-night.</p> -<p>‘But Lor’ bless ye!’ he went on, ‘that -bean’t nauthin’!—not when ye’ve been -five-an’-thirty year at sea. I knowed a man wanst as -worked in a steam sawmill way over in Amurricky somewheres; -an’ what did ’a do wan fine marnin’ but get -hisself sawed i’ two pieces; an’ wan piece -died—th’ doctor cud do nought to save ut. But -t’other piece kep’ alive for ten year -arterwards—ah! an’ did a man’s work every -day!’</p> -<p>Old Daniel bounced to his feet. He breathed hard for a -full half-minute.</p> -<p>‘Joe Stall’ard!’ he said at last, severely, -‘shame on ye fer a reg’lar, hout-an’-hout, ould -leear! A man cut in two? An’ lived ten year -arter—leastways th’ wan part o’ him? Fer -shame, Joe! ’Tis traipsin’ about i’ all -they heathen countries, I reckons, as has spiled ye! Ah, -well, well-a-day! There they be, lightin’ up at -th’ Thatchers! Coom along, Tom Clemmer!’</p> -<p>Three squares of red shone out amidst the twinkling dust of -the street, denoting the <a name="page209"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 209</span>curtained windows of the inn. -It was the signal for which all had been waiting, and a general -stir took place in the assembly. At length none remained -about me but the old seaman. He had said nothing while the -dismemberment of the group was in progress, but had sat shaking -in silent merriment. Now he, too, got slowly to his -feet.</p> -<p>‘’Tis wunnerful,’ he observed, moving away, -‘real onaccountable, th’ little simple things as some -folks wunt b’lieve. There be a thing now, -as—’</p> -<p>But this story of partitioned, yet still living humanity, even -though it came from America, was too much also for me; and I told -him so. He stopped in his easy saunter towards the inn.</p> -<p>‘’Tis trew!’ he averred as stoutly as -ever. His rich, oily chuckle came over to me through the -darkness. ‘Mind ye! I didn’t say as -th’ man wur sawed into two ekal parts: ’twur but -th’ thumb av him as wur taken off. Belike I’ll -jest step acrost to th’ Thatchers now, an’ tell that -to Dan’l.’</p> -<h2><a name="page210"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -210</span>SEPTEMBER</h2> -<h3>I</h3> -<p><span class="smcap">August</span> holiday-makers in -Windlecombe are mainly of the normal, obvious kind, the people -for whom guide-books and picture postcards are produced, and by -whom the job-masters and the boat proprietors gain a -livelihood. But September brings to the village a wandering -crew of an altogether different complexion. There is -something about the temperate sunshine and general slowing up and -sweetening of life during this month, that draws from their -hiding-nooks in the city suburbs a class of man and woman for -whom I have long entertained the profoundest respect. With -every year, as soon as September comes round, I find myself -looking out for these stray, for the most part solitary, folk, -and, in quite a humble, unpretentious spirit, taking them beneath -my avuncular wing.</p> -<p>That they seek the quiet of an inland village in September, -and not the feverish, belated distractions of the seaside town, -is an initial point in their favour. But almost invariably -they <a name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -211</span>bring with them a much more subtle -recommendation. They are down for a holiday, but they have -come entirely without premeditation. Suddenly yielding to a -sort of migratory impulse, they have locked up dusty chambers, or -left small shops to the care of wives, or begged a few precious -days from niggardly employers; and come away on a spate of -emotional longing for country quiet and greenery, irresistible -this time, though generally the impulse has been felt and -resisted every autumn for twenty years back. Indeed, there -must be some specially fatal quality about this period of time, -for I constantly hear the same story—no holiday taken for -twenty years.</p> -<p>At noon to-day, after a long tramp through the fields, I came -up the village street, and paused irresolutely outside the Three -Thatchers Inn. The morning had been hot, and the walk -tiring; moreover, it was the first of September, and the guns had -been popping distressfully in all the coverts by the way. I -knew that before sundown a brace or two of partridges would be -certain to find their road to my door; but this did not prove, -and never has proved, compensation for the flurry and disturbance -carried by the noise of the guns into all my favourite -conning-places, or arenas for quiet thought. The whole -world of wild life was in a panic, and I with it.</p> -<p><a name="page212"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 212</span>The -red-ochred doorstep of the inn glowed in the sunshine at my feet, -and from the cool darkness beyond came a chink of glasses and -murmur of many tongues. It all seemed eminently consolatory -for the moment’s mood. Within there, no one would -fire a gun off at my ear, nor stalk past me with a shoulder-load -of limp, sanguinary spoil, nor warn me out of my favourite -coppices with a finger to the lip, as though a nation of babies -slumbered within. I was a lost man even before I began to -hesitate. I stood my stout furze walking-stick in the porch -beside a drover’s staff, a shepherd’s crook, and -three or four undenominational cudgels; and plunged down the two -steps into the bar.</p> -<p>Now, before my eyes had accustomed themselves to the subdued -light, and I could see what company was about me, I had become -aware of a strange odour in the air. It was the scent of a -tobacco, happily unknown in Windlecombe: neither wholly Latakia -nor Turkish, not honeydew alone nor red Virginia, cavendish nor -returns, but a curious internecine blend of all these. I -knew it at once to be something for which I have a constitutional -loathing—one of the new town mixtures, wherein are confused -and mutually stultified all the good smoking-weeds in the -world.</p> -<p>Looking more narrowly about me, after the <a -name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 213</span>usual -greetings, I discovered a vast and elaborate meerschaum pipe in -the corner, and behind it a little diffident smiling man. -But this could not entirely account for the overpowering exotic -reek in the room. I missed the familiar smell of our own -good Windlecombe shag, although there were half a dozen other -pipes in full blast round me. And then I realised the -situation. The stranger had seduced all the company to his -pestilent combination; and now, as I lowered at him through the -haze, he was holding out his pouch even to me, who would not have -touched his garbage if it had been the last pipe-fill left on -earth. But he took my curt, almost surly refusal as if it -were an intended kindness.</p> -<p>‘Ah! you do not smoke? Well: it does seem a kind -of insult to the pure country air. But in towns, you know, -what with the din and the dust, and the strain on one’s -nerves, everybody— And of course I must not quarrel -with my bread-and-butter!’</p> -<p>I produced my own pipe and pouch, and filled brutally under -his very nose. Serenely he watched the operation, and -without a trace of offence.</p> -<p>‘I am in the trade, as I was telling these gentlemen -here when you came in. Do you know the Walworth Road, in -London? My shop is just behind the Elephant, and any day -you are <a name="page214"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -214</span>passing, I— But wasn’t I glad to get -away, if only for the few hours! And I do assure you, sir, -I haven’t been out of London for -nearly—nearly—’</p> -<p>‘Twenty years, I suppose?’</p> -<p>He looked at me in placid surprise.</p> -<p>‘Lor’, how did you know that now? But it is -quite true. Being single-handed, you see, it isn’t -easy to— But I was glad, I tell you! And I had -never seen a real country village in my life, until I got out of -the train at Stavisham and walked on here. Isn’t it -quiet! And how funny it seems—no asphalt-paving, and -no wires running all ways over the house-tops, and the -singing-birds all loose in the trees! And flowers! I -suppose there is a law to prevent people picking ’em: there -were no end along by the road I came.’</p> -<p>Somehow my heart warmed to this inconsiderable by-product of -civilisation that had strayed amongst us; and presently, as much -to my own surprise as his, I found myself loitering down the hill -again, with him at my elbow, having promised to show him that -there were other flowers in the country beside the dust-throttled -daisies and dandelions of the roadside.</p> -<p>We took the path that runs between the river and the -wood. He soon let his pipe go out, for he moved in -open-mouthed wonder all the way, <a name="page215"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 215</span>which rendered smoking -impracticable. At last we came to a bend in the river, -where the bank sloped gently down to the water-side covered with -all the rich-hued September growths, and we sat down to -rest. I did not plague him with the names of things, nor -with any talk at all; but lay, for the most part silently, -watching the effect of the place upon him, as one might study the -demeanour of a dormouse let loose amidst the like surroundings, -straight from Ratcliff Highway.</p> -<p>He took off coat and hat, and sat quite still for awhile with -legs drawn up, and his chin upon his knees. But presently -he fell to wandering about like a child, ducking his pallid bald -head over each flower as he came to it, but keeping his itching -fingers resolutely clasped behind his back. It was a brave -show, even for this brave time of year. Though other months -afford perhaps a greater variety in colour and kind, Nature in -early autumn seems more forceful and impressive because she -concentrates her energies into the dealing of the one blow, the -urging of the one appeal upon the colour sense. It was the -Purple Month. Look where we would, the same royal colour -filled the sunshine. Purple loosestrife edged the river, -and purple knapweed, thistles, heather, purple thyme and -willowherb and climbing vetch hemmed us in on every side. -<a name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 216</span>Paler of -hue, yet still of the same regal dye, the wild mint and -cranesbill, marjoram and calamint, crowded upon one another; and -close to the water’s edge, the Michaelmas daisies were -already in full flower—under both banks the soil was tinged -with their pure cool lilac, mirrored again yet more faintly in -the drowsy water below.</p> -<p>For half an hour, perhaps, the little tobacconist wandered up -and down this enchanted place; and then he came back to me, -treading on tiptoe, hushed, and solemn-eyed, as if he were in -church.</p> -<p>‘You live hereabouts?’ he asked, in a voice little -above a whisper, ‘all the year round, don’t -you? And nothing to do but just put on a hat whenever you -want to come here, and in ten minutes here you are! Nothing -to pay, and no trouble. Oh, my stars!’</p> -<p>‘And it is not always the same, you know. I pass -this way nearly every week, and there is always something -different. The flowers change with every month. You -hear different birds singing, according to the season. The -leaves on the trees come and go, and the sky shows you a new -picture every time you look at it. Even the river -changes. It is the top of the tide now: that log, floating -out there, has not moved a dozen feet in the last five -minutes. But in an hour’s time the water will be -driving down swift and strong, and all the reeds and rushes, that -<a name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 217</span>now -stand up quite straight and still in the sunshine, will bending -and trembling in the flow.’</p> -<p>‘Ah!’ He crowded a perfectly bewildering -variety of emotions into the breathed monosyllable. -‘Is that a nightingale singing over there?’</p> -<p>‘No; you are too late for nightingales: they have done -singing these two months and more. That is a robin. -The robins have just begun to sing again after their summer -silence; and when that happens, you know the summer is almost -done.’</p> -<p>He sat now mute at my side for so long, that at last I must -steal a glance at him. I saw him brush a hand hastily -across his eyes.</p> -<p>‘I—I am glad I came, of course,’ said he, -musing, ‘but—but I have been the worst kind of fool -all the same. Just think of going back there -to-night! Lor’! just think of it! Yesterday -morning I watered the geraniums in the window-boxes, and gave the -canary his seed; and, says I, “Here’s singing-birds -and flowers, as good as any you’ll get in the -country!” Then I went to the shop door, and saw a -cart full of straw going by, and another of green cabbages for -Boro’ Market. “Lor’!” I says, -“the country comes on wheels to your very door in -London! London for me!” And now I’ll -never get that <a name="page218"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -218</span>feeling back again, no, never! The very worst -kind of fool, I <i>don’t</i> think!’</p> -<p>Close by us there grew a great tuft of valerian. As he -sat staring tragically at its disc of deep red blossom, -butterflies came to it with every moment, sipped awhile, then -passed on. Painted ladies, red admirals, little -tortoiseshells always in twos or threes; finally a peacock -butterfly sailed over to the valerian and settled there, her rich -colours aflare in the sunshine. She spread out her great -vanes, the upper covering the lower. Then she gently slid -her upper wings forward, and gradually the wonderful spots on the -lower wings appeared, like a pair of slowly opening, drowsy, -violet eyes. The little tobacconist breathed hard.</p> -<p>‘I can see it all clear enough,’ he said -tremulously. ‘A man gets a real chance here. -Come worry, come sickness, come bad luck, come anything you -like—all you have got to do is to open your eyes and ears, -and off it goes like the bundle of sins in the <i>Pilgrim’s -Progress</i> book. But in London—’ He -stopped short; then, in a tone of deep, despairing disgust, -‘Geraniums!—Canaries!—Cartloads of cabbages! -bah!’</p> -<p>I had not found myself confronted by so difficult a -proposition for many a long day. If only the Reverend had -been there! But there was <a name="page219"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 219</span>nothing for it but to try a joust -with the situation alone.</p> -<p>‘Depend upon it,’ said I, ‘if coming amongst -the beautiful natural things of the world has made you despise -the mean, ugly, necessary parts of your life, then you have been -a fool indeed—one of the worst kind. But are you -really the sort of fool you think? And have you not -overstated both cases alike? In neither town nor country is -there all of good, or all of evil. There are plenty of -geraniums and cabbages in Windlecombe, -and—alas!—canaries. And in London there is -plenty of beauty, if you look for it with the right -eyes.’</p> -<p>‘Beauty?—in London?’ he repeated -incredulously.</p> -<p>‘Yes, truly; and the people who see it, and enjoy it -most, are just those people who have the deepest knowledge of, -and love for, the natural things of the country-side. Now, -shall I tell you what sort of a fool you really are?’</p> -<p>He thought a moment, eyeing me in some perplexity. -‘Well—yes,’ said he at last, ‘if it -isn’t too much trouble.’</p> -<p>‘It is a lot of trouble, and I am not sure I can do -it. But I will try. Did you ever hear of the saying, -“Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be -wise?”’</p> -<p>‘No: I can’t say that I ever—’</p> -<p><a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -220</span>‘Well, you have fallen right into that -trap. You have given yourself twenty years of that kind of -bliss, and now you have got to pay for it. But what was it -made you start off this morning in such a hurry to get to the -country, when only yesterday you were quite content with your -window-boxes and your screeching yellow gewgaw?’</p> -<p>He considered a little, then blushed to his eyes.</p> -<p>‘It was an old book,’ he said mysteriously, -looking round apparently to make certain we were alone, -‘nothing but an old book on a bookstall. I picked it -up just out of curiosity as I went by last night, and there were -some dried flowers in it—dog-roses, I think. And then -I looked up and saw the moon shining very small and bright high -up in the sky; and it came over me that though she kept one eye -dutifully on the Walworth Road, with the other eye she might well -be looking down on the country lane where those roses grew years -ago. And thinks I, all of a creep, like, Why can’t a -man look two ways at once; and if he must give one eye to -business, why can’t he give the other to just what he -likes? And then I—’</p> -<p>‘And then you certainly left off being the kind of fool -I mean—left off for ever. Well: that saves us both a -lot of trouble, for we are both <a name="page221"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 221</span>wrong about your case, it -seems. You need not fear to go home to-night. You -will find those geraniums as fresh and sweet as the valerian -there, and just as populous of butterflies. And the -canary—you will hear in his song every morning the notes of -all the wild birds that have sung to you to-day. And when -next a wagonload of straw goes by your shop, it will not be mere -straw, but a field of wheat under the country sunshine: the sound -of the wind in the Walworth telephone wires will be for you only -the rustle of wind in the corn. That is what I meant by -London beauty.’</p> -<h3>II</h3> -<p>That summer is drawing to its end, and autumn close at hand, -one need not look at the calendar to know. Throughout a -morning’s walk, signs of imminent change crop up now at -every turn. The wild arums that you have forgotten since -last you saw them turning their pale green cowls from the light, -give out a bold glitter of scarlet in the shady deeps under every -hedgerow. Each day sees the hips and haws growing -ruddier. Though September is scarce half gone, the green -bracken-fronds in the woods are already alight at the tips with -crimson and gold; and the heather on the combe-side has lost its -<a name="page222"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 222</span>clear -rose-red. The song of the bees in it seems as loud as ever, -but for every tuft of living blossom there are two that are faded -and brown. The good times are nearly over for the -honey-makers, and each day the gathering of a full load of nectar -means travelling farther afield.</p> -<p>I wonder why it is I always look forward to the renewal of the -year’s life with so much eagerness and impatience, and yet -meet its decline with such surpassing equanimity. Am -I—I have often asked myself lately—the same being who -industriously searched the river bank for a whole bleak February -morning in quest of the first coltsfoot, greeting it with an -unconscionable extravagance of rejoicing: I who now tread the -same way in nowise perturbed, nor even unelated, at the obvious -fact of each day’s lessened ardour? The truth that -the year is already on the long downward road, riding for its -winter fall, awakens in me not a pang of regret. Indeed, I -neither remember the departed magnificence of June as something -lost, nor regard the ever-diminishing September days as portent -of penurious times to come. With autumn, as with advancing -age, when once each is assured, irrevocable, the natural tendency -seems to be towards a looking neither backward nor forward, but -towards a joyful acceptance of the things that are. And so, -at these times, whatever our <a name="page223"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 223</span>declared principles, we one and all -develop, or degenerate, into optimists.</p> -<p>But, of a truth, it needs very little of this mental condiment -to be happy in a Sussex Downland village in September. -Perhaps none but the very old can, at any time, sincerely avow a -repugnance towards machinery in farming: certainly, at this -season of the year, the whole spirit of village life receives -benefit from it. They have been threshing up at the farm -to-day, and from sunrise to sunset, all through the still, quiet, -golden hours, the voice of the threshing mill has permeated -everything, blent itself with the song of the robins in the -garden, with the chime from the smithy, with all the other sounds -of labour that go to make up the silence of country -dwelling-places. I have come to look upon this sound as the -veritable keynote of autumn, and to believe that it has an -influence on all hearts at this season, entirely underrated by -those whose business it is to study rural affairs.</p> -<p>It is the fashion to contemn the old melodramatic trick of -still-music; but, for my own part, I have never been able to -resist the low sobbing and sighing of the violins when the -stage-story is being cleared up, all wrongs righted, and the -villain given his due. The speech itself is nothing to -me. It is seldom regarded, and remembered never. I -should be just as deeply <a name="page224"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 224</span>moved if all that leashed, melodious -passion went as setting to ‘Old Mother Hubbard’ or -‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’ And on the -same principle, when this beautiful, solemn voice of the -threshing mill dwells in the autumnal air, I find myself doing -the commonest things with a sense of high Fate and speeding of -the world’s progress. But, indeed, Nature works -throughout largely on this still-music plan, and therein lies one -inestimable advantage of living in the country. Bird song, -to all intents and purposes, unceasing throughout the -year—the songs of stream, river, and sea—the songs of -the four winds—all work together for good on the hearts of -those men and women who, by their own design, or by external -destiny, have been led to keep their thread of life running by -green woods and fields.</p> -<p>As the sun went down behind the hills, and left the world -afloat in wine-coloured mist, every sound of work ceased in the -village, save this rich throbbing voice of the threshing mill up -at the farm. I went out into the dreaming light to listen -to it. From where I sat on the churchyard wall, I could -make out that they were prolonging the work into the dusk, so -that the last rick might be finished now, and the threshing gang -move on to-night to the next farm. There was the deep sound -of the mill itself, one <a name="page225"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 225</span>tremendous baritone note succeeding -another, each held for a moment, and then suddenly changing to -one higher or lower in the sonorous clef. Apart from this, -I could distinguish the fuss and fume of the engine, as it drove -its white breath in little unsteady gusts up against the violet -calm of the sky. And there was another sound—the -flapping song of the driving-belt—a note that punctuated -everything, as though some invisible conductor were beating time -to the general symphony. But the combined effect of all was -infinitely harmonious and restful.</p> -<p>Yet I had come out, in the main, to hear, not this familiar -part of the music, but something about it that I loved to hear -most of all; and this was the stopping of the machine. It -was almost dark before the last sheaf went to the mill, and steam -was shut off. And then the wonderful note began. The -machine took an appreciable time to run down. But now there -was no upward inflection in its voice. Note by note, each -note more drawn out and quieter, the rich tones fell through -every stage of an octave, until at last they died away in the -profoundest, softest bass. Even then I fancied I could feel -the solid earth still shuddering with a music too deep for human -ear.</p> -<h3><a name="page226"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -226</span>III</h3> -<p>I think the last of the summer boating parties to Windlecombe -has come and gone; at least for a week I have seen and heard -nothing of revelry. But the thin stream of odd folk still -dribbles into the village from road or Down.</p> -<p>There were two elderly ladies, obviously sisters, wandering -about the place one day, who afforded material for commentary to -most curious tongues. Severely and sparely clad in grey -tweeds, wearing black felt hats each wrapped about with a wisp of -grey gauze, and gold spectacles, over the shining hafts of which -little tight glossy-white ringlets depended, pink serene faces -inclined to be downy, and voices low and gentle yet -extraordinarily penetrating and clear—they crept about the -village all day long in an ecstasy of enjoyment, peering into -cottage doorways, looking over garden fences, watching the -children at play on the green and the mothers hanging out their -linen, gazing with timorous delight down into the -wheelwright’s sawpit, and into the black deeps of Tom -Clemmer’s forge. And all the while, though they kept -up an incessant low interchange between themselves, they accosted -no one. Apparently Windlecombe was to them a sort of -spectacle, half peep-show and half <a name="page227"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 227</span>menagerie, where everything might be -looked at, but nothing touched. The last I saw of them, -they were standing at the far end of the green, looking towards -the seats under the Seven Sisters where two old rustics slumbered -peacefully in the sun. The pair were in earnest -consultation, and obvious, though wholly affectionate difference -on some point. At length one, apparently the more ancient -by a year or two, raised her hands with a gesture of reluctant -consent. And then the other timidly approached the old men, -presented each with what, at a distance, appeared to be a surplus -sandwich drawn from a reticule, and returned to her companion, -giving her—before they made off down the street -together—a grateful, childish little hug.</p> -<p>On another day a very different pair dropped down from the -skies amongst us. They were two men scarcely of middle age, -the one with a swirl of coppery hair topping a high forehead, the -other sombre-locked, low-browed and swarthy; both alike shabby, -unshaven and unkempt. They came swinging down the hill-path -together, hatless and barefooted, laden up with certain dusty -travelling-gear, the one of them carrying in addition a -leather-cased violin. As they strode through the village -street they made the place resound with their laughter, jovially -greeted all and sundry that chanced in their way, <a -name="page228"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 228</span>and finally -disappeared through the door of the Three Thatchers Inn.</p> -<p>Thereafter, sitting at work by the window, I forgot all about -them, until a far-off strain of music gradually forced itself -upon my ear. I could make out the violin, played as though -it were three instruments at least, and above it such a voice as -I had heard only once in my life before. I saw that -passers-by were halting in the roadway to listen. Some were -crowded round the inn window, craning over one another’s -heads. Then the music stopped, the pair of harmonious -vagabonds reappeared, and made straight for the Seven Sisters, -all the folk jostling at their heels. A moment later, the -violin struck into an air that sent my pen clattering to the -paper, and my feet speeding towards the house-door. It was -the ‘X—,’ the tenor song from -‘Q—,’ played by a master hand. Before I -reached the fringe of the little crowd—taking the old vicar -by the arm as I went—the copper-haired man had mounted upon -the seat and had begun to sing the incomparable melody, hurling -it over the heads of the crowd with a passion, a force, yet with -a surpassingly delicate sweetness of tone, that drew the people -spellbound closer and closer with every moment round him. -The old parson’s grip tightened on my sleeve.</p> -<p>‘What is he like?’ he whispered. And when <a -name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 229</span>I had told -him—‘Strange that he should come here -and— But there can be few with a voice like that: it -must be— Ah! listen! Don’t you know -now?’</p> -<p>For the song had changed. The violin had slowed down -into a simple quiet undertone. And then there pealed out -upon us an air that a year ago had been made famous by one man -alone, and he almost the greatest in his art. As he sang, -his great chest heaving in the sunshine, I watched him, and once -he looked swiftly in our direction. He gave us the whole -piece, that finishes on a note incredibly high, yet is not really -an end to the song, for the note is one picked out, as it were, -at random in the scale. Then, to my amazement, he got down -from the bench, took the hat from the head of the nearest boy, -and went gravely about among the folk, collecting pennies. -From me he levied toll as from the rest, but instead of holding -out the hat to the Reverend, he placed it, money and all, into -his hands, adding to the goodly store a shining piece from his -own pocket. ‘You will know what to do with it,’ -said he, his grey eyes twinkling merrily.</p> -<p>A minute later the pair were trudging off together down the -street, as they had come, with their dusty, travel-stained -satchels swinging behind them, and their long hair blowing in the -breeze.</p> -<h3><a name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -230</span>IV</h3> -<p>Yes, the summer is gone, in very truth. With every day -now, and every hour of the day, the writing on the wall shows -plainer. While the hushed, hot times endured, it was still -possible to believe red autumn as far away as ever; for not a -leaf in oak or elm has changed, nor will change, perhaps, for -weeks to come. But the tell-tale winds of the equinox are -upon us, bringing the very voice of autumn with them; and the -acorns are falling by the river, and the thistle-down drifting -white upon the hills.</p> -<p>I began this day badly—badly, that is to say, from my -own private point of view; which is a point, it may well be, like -Euclid’s, having position but no dimensions, yet a point -nevertheless. Chancing to wake with the dawn, I saw that -the day was beginning with a beautiful smoke-pearl trellis in the -east, behind which welled up an ever-strengthening fountain of -silver white. Coming presently out upon the green under -this pure pale glow of morning, I was startled by a cry that came -echoing from the misty twilight of the hills.</p> -<p>‘Hi-up! Hi-up! Voller, voller, -voller!’</p> -<p>Hoarse, harsh, undeniably brutal it sounded in the sweet, -snow-white lustre of the virgin light. And then came the -shrill blare of the <a name="page231"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 231</span>huntsman’s horn, the confused -yelping and baying of the pack, and the dull thunder of beating -hoofs, as the hunt drove over the hill-top, and fell to drawing -Windle coverts.</p> -<p>At once the silent village awoke. Windows were thrown -open and heads appeared. Dark figures burst from cottage -doors and went pounding up the lane that led to the hills. -Round the covert the horsemen gathered in a motionless ring, -while the huntsman drove his pack through the undergrowth, for -ever urging them forward with that fierce guttural note, which -was more like the cry of a wolf than a man. At length a -fine cub fox broke cover, and led the whole company a ding-dong -chase over the hills, and out of sight and hearing for good.</p> -<p>Some hours later, I met Farmer Coles and his two sons -returning from the sport, the youngest, a mere schoolboy, mounted -on a pony, his head, as he rode, reaching scarce to his -father’s saddle-peak. He was in huge high spirits, -displaying the brush, his share of the spoil, to all acquaintance -as he passed. And the face of this yellow-haired, chubby -child was bedaubed with blood, thick zebra-like streaks of it -smudged across his smooth forehead and rosy baby cheeks. He -was going home delighted, to show to an admiring mother how he -had been ‘blooded’ at his first cub-hunt; and in all -that country-side, I thought <a name="page232"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 232</span>to myself as I passed on, there was -scarce a man or woman of station and breeding who would not have -applauded son of theirs returning home in such a plight.</p> -<p>Nor, though at the time the thing filled me personally with -genuine horror and loathing, did I condemn it, nor wish to see -its like made impossible in the land. For the sybaritish, -lotus-eating danger is too imminent in our midst for any such -fabian trifling: it will be a woeful day for England when we have -bred out of our young manhood the last instincts of the healthy -brute.</p> -<p>I got into Runridge’s skiff, in the absence of its -owner, and pushed off into mid-stream, letting the little craft -drift whither it would. Wind and tide together were setting -strongly up-country. Swiftly the reedy banks glided by, as -we bore through the meadows that lie at the foot of the -hills. The summer was gone, indeed; and gone with it that -sense of striving towards achievement. The year seemed to -be resting upon its oars, as I was doing. All its fruit was -set: there remained nothing now but to wait and let it -ripen. It was just this waiting and resting that made up -autumn’s greatest charm.</p> -<p>I set my elbows on my knees and my chin on my hands, and let -the little boat choose a destiny for the idle pair of us. -The bank was high to windward. We drifted in an almost -unruffled <a name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -233</span>calm, while overhead there sailed by an unending cloud -of thistle-down, tiny verticals of sunlit silver, each gleaming -star-like against the morning blue. Most of them took the -broad river at a stride, disappearing over the opposite bank, but -many fell upon the water. Thousands of them floated around -me, and as far as eye could reach the water was grey and misty -with them. And this was only one nook of earth in -innumerable miles. How was it, I asked of the wind above -me, that with such inexhaustible store of thistle-seed, she could -not sow the whole land thick with thistles in a single season, -and drive all other things from the fields? The answer was -to be obtained for the mere raising of a hand. For it is -not the thistle-seed that flies, but only the harmless -thistle-down. Moreover, among the millions of air-ships -that each thistle-patch sends off upon the wind throughout a -breezy autumn day, not one in fifty ever bore a seed, or, if -bearing it, contrived to carry its burden more than a yard or -two. The curved seed-pod of the thistle is attached to its -feathery volute only by the slenderest thread, and is brushed off -by the lightest touch of the first grass-blade as it sails low -over the sward. But the thistle-down, lightened of its -counterpoise, bowls on for ever.</p> -<h2><a name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -234</span>OCTOBER</h2> -<h3>I</h3> -<p><span class="smcap">With</span> each October in every year for -a long time past, I have watched for the going of the martins, -but have never yet contrived to witness the moment of their -flight. It has always happened in the same way. One -day they have been as busy as ever about the roof-eaves, their -chattering song pervading the house unceasingly from dark to -dark. And then a morning comes, generally towards the end -of the first week in the month, when I awaken to a curious sense -of strangeness and loss. First I mark the unwonted silence -outside the windows, and then I guess what has come about. -Looking forth, I see that the little mud-houses, huddled together -in a long row under the eaves, are deserted and silent at -last.</p> -<p>But to-day, though I missed the departure of the martins as -usual, I was not wholly disappointed. Getting up in the new -silence and throwing the windows back, I looked along the -roof-edge. Save for the chippering and fluttering <a -name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 235</span>of a few -sparrows, there was nothing to be seen or heard in the dim grey -light. But it seemed the little army could have been away -only a few minutes before me, for while I looked, I saw the last -of them depart. One single note of the remembered song -broke out overhead; there was a whir of wings, and the little -black-and-white bird lanced straight off, going due south -unhesitatingly, as though the vanished throng of her companions -was yet visible far away in the skies.</p> -<p>It was a still, grey, warm morning. There had been no -dew. Everything, as presently I went along by the -wood-side, was quite dry; and though it was barely eight -o’clock, all the spiders in the bushes were hard at work -weaving their snares. It was almost perfect spinning -weather. On windy mornings, though the webs must be made, -the task is difficult and the work seldom properly carried -out. But to-day there was only a vague air moving from the -south-west, and all the spiders had got to work betimes, and with -light hearts.</p> -<p>The great charm in all nature study is to find out the truth -for yourself at first hand. There are few things in my life -I regret so keenly as the reading of nature books. This has -robbed me of many a moment of pleasurable surprise; for to -recognise a commonly accepted fact is <a name="page236"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 236</span>poor substitute for its original -discovery, although this discovery may have been made by others a -thousand times before. Looking back over twenty -years’ poking and prying in the woods and fields round -about Windlecombe, I rejoice not so much at the many things I -have found out, but at the fact of so many things still unread -of, and still remaining to be discovered. This morning, as -I went along by the bushes in the lee of the wood, and saw the -spiders at work, it suddenly occurred to me that I knew little or -nothing about them; and the recognition of this ignorance came to -me as truest bliss. I fell to looking on at the ingenious, -complicated work with almost as much anxiety and interest as the -male spiders themselves.</p> -<p>For it appears to be only the female who spins a web. -The big-bodied spider, so industriously occupied in every gap of -the thicket, is always the female, though the male is never far -off. You are sure to find him peering out from under one of -the adjacent leaves, or treading timidly on the circumference of -the web, trying to attract the attention, and thereafter, -perhaps, the regard of its maker.</p> -<p>Spider nets and their weavers have, I think, never been given -quite their place in the world of wonders. As far as human -profit is concerned, spiders are useless things; and have -therefore <a name="page237"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -237</span>missed, because, from that standpoint, they have not -merited, popular favour. But no doubt their ingenuity as -craftswomen stands very nearly on a level with that of the worker -honey-bee. The waxen comb of the bee, whose perfection is -due to the combined arts of engineer, mason, and geometrician, is -very little superior in design and carrying-out to the -spider’s web.</p> -<p>On these still, grey autumn mornings, the tendency of the eye -is not to wander far afield, but to concern itself with the -little things of the wayside close at hand; and so, more than at -any other time of year, perhaps, the spiders and their ways come -in for narrow scrutiny. And here is something, in the first -loving investigation of which the uninformed, unread observer is -much to be envied.</p> -<p>He notices in the outset that these fine silken snares, hung -by the spiders in the hedgerows, are of two kinds—the one -placed vertically across a gap in the surface of the thicket; the -other placed horizontally, closing up some shaft or upward -passage-way in the heart of the green bush. The vertical -net is seen to be composed of a number of threads radiating from -a common centre, and upon these threads an ever-increasing spiral -line has been laid, forming a regular, meshed net. But the -horizontal web has none of this geometric neatness. It is a -mere expanse <a name="page238"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -238</span>of fine tissue irregularly woven into a sort of crazy -pattern, and slung hammock fashion, completely closing the -chimney-like hollow wherein it has been made. From a view -of the finished webs, two other facts will be noted—the -vertical net is supported only by lines springing from its -circumference, and the spider sits at its centre in front; the -horizontal net is suspended by numberless fine lines attached at -all points in its upper surface, while the spider clings to the -under side as she lies in wait for her prey.</p> -<p>But it is in the actual weaving of the nets that the interest -of the onlooker will be chiefly centred. The maker of the -vertical, or cartwheel, pattern of web begins operations in -various ways, according to the conditions imposed upon her by the -weather and the spot she has selected. Webs made in calm -seasons, or when only light airs are stirring, will have few -mainstays, and these may be of considerable length; but in windy -times the spider will stretch her snare on only short hawsers, -using as many as may be necessary to make assurance doubly -sure. But in either case she will commence the work in much -the same way.</p> -<p>First she goes to the highest point on the windward side of -her gap, and turning her head to the current, begins to pay out a -line behind her. As this floats out, she continually tries -it with her <a name="page239"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -239</span>leg until she knows that the end of the line has caught -in the opposite twigs. Then she runs to the middle of this -horizontal line, dragging after her another thread which she has -previously attached to her original starting-point. From -the centre of the first line she lowers herself vertically, -always dragging the second line in her rear, until she reaches a -twig below. Here she draws her second line tight and -fastens it, after which she climbs to the horizontal line and -repeats the manœuvre, only this time from its leeward -end. Thus the triangle of mainstays—the first -essential in all spider-web making—is complete.</p> -<p>The weaving of the net within this triangular frame is the -next work undertaken. The spider, when she first dropped -from the centre of her uppermost thread, made a vertical line in -descending. Some point on this line marks the centre of the -future cartwheel pattern of web, and this central point the -spider now finds unerringly, and begins to put in one by one the -radiating spokes of the wheel. When all these spokes are in -place, she returns to the centre, and revolving her body quickly, -she forms upon it a close spiral of four or five turns. -This is to be her seat and watch-tower, whence she will keep the -whole web under observation. Having done this, she -now—if the morning is at all breezy—carries <a -name="page240"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 240</span>temporary -stay-lines from spoke to spoke all round the web, these isolated -circles of thread occurring at intervals of an inch or so between -centre and circumference. But on still mornings this part -of her work is omitted as unnecessary, and she proceeds at once -to the main spinning of the net.</p> -<p>The construction of the cross-threads between the spokes of -the web is always commenced at the extreme outer edges of the -space to be filled; and the spider works inwardly, carrying the -thread round and round from spoke to spoke until she arrives -within half an inch or so of the central small spiral. But -the two are never joined: an interval is always left where the -web consists of nothing but bare radiating lines. The snare -is now finished. The spider takes up her station in the -middle of the net, with no more to do for the rest of the day but -take what fair chance, and her own crafty ingenuity, may -provide.</p> -<p>Yet, having thus watched the making of a spider-web from start -to finish, and having noted all the details of construction here -set down, there is something more about the matter which, if it -escape the observer, will leave him in the rather disgraceful -plight of having missed the most wonderful thing of all.</p> -<p>The spider’s snare is not woven throughout of <a -name="page241"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 241</span>the same -kind of thread. Two kinds are used, and the difference -between them is apparent even to eyes of very moderate -power. While the triangle and the radiating lines are made -of plain silk, the cross-threads are corrugated, and look like -strings of tiny, transparent beads. A touch of the finger -will prove that these beads are really adhering drops of some -glutinous fluid, whose use is not difficult to guess. But -how do the beads get on the line, seeing that this, when first -drawn from the spider’s body, is visibly nothing but a -plain filament of silk, like the rest of the web?</p> -<p>The question has been asked many times, and the answer -commonly given is, I have come to believe, an entirely erroneous -one. We are told that the thread used for the cross-bars in -a spider’s web, when it first emerges from the -creature’s body, is only smeared, not beaded with the -gluten; but that after attaching each segment of the spiral to -the spokes, the spider gives it a twang with her foot, thus -causing the gluten to separate into beads. Here then is a -fact such as one would read in the nature books, and -unquestionably accept. But a little independent experiment -with various kinds of strings, elastic or non-elastic, and -smeared with different glutinous substances, reveals the fact -that no amount of twanging will induce the latter to <a -name="page242"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 242</span>divide into -beads, such as one sees in the spider line. In every case, -the tendency of the gluten in the experiment is to fly off -altogether, or to gather to one side of the string.</p> -<p>But to any that desires to know the truth of the thing, the -spider herself will speedily resolve the difficulty. Watch -her at work, and it will soon be seen that the beads are formed -on the line not by twanging, but by stretching. At the -moment each length of sticky thread is drawn from the -spider’s spinnerets, it is destitute of beads. But -the spider quickly stretches it out to nearly double its original -length, and then as quickly slackens it; whereupon, before she -has well had time to fasten the thread in its place, the beads -will be seen to have formed themselves throughout its entire -length.</p> -<h3>II</h3> -<p>Said Miss Susan Angel this evening, as I leant over the -counter of her little dark shop, studying the rows of sweetstuff -bottles beyond: ‘Th’ chillern here, ’tis real -astonishin’ how changeable they be. One time -’tis all lickrich wi ’em, an’ next ’tis -all sherbet-suckers, an’ then maybe ’tis nought but -toffee-balls for weeks on end. But you!’—she -turned me a glance full of smiling, proud -approbation—‘You!—come <a -name="page243"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 243</span>winter or -summer, come rain or shine, I allers knaws ’twill be nobbut -black-fours!’</p> -<p>She reached down the ancient glass jar, and stabbed at its -contents ruminatively with an iron fork.</p> -<p>‘Black-fours—ah!’ she mused, as the shining -magpie lumps rattled into the brass scale-pan. -‘An’ I never smells ’em but I thinks o’ -my ould missus as— Lorey me! how many long year -ago! Fond on ’em, wur she? Ah! an’ -scrunch ’em up, ’a could, quicker ’n e’er -wan wi’ a nateral jaw!’</p> -<p>‘What kind of jaw, then, had she, Susan?’</p> -<p>‘Ah! I believe ye! My dear! th’ money as ut -costed! All gold, an’ ivory like, an’ red -stuff! An’ when ’a died— Did never -I show ’em to ye?’</p> -<p>She disappeared into the little kitchen behind the shop. -I heard a drawer unlocked; there was a sound of rummaging, -accompanied by asthmatic interjections; Miss Susan Angel came -forth again bearing a bulky parcel. This, as she removed -various coverings, became smaller and smaller until, from a final -wrapping of tissue-paper, there appeared a beautiful double set -of false teeth. Miss Angel held them up to my gaze -admiringly.</p> -<p>‘Left ’em to me, ’a did! ’Twur -all writ in her will—“To my faithful servant -an’ friend, <a name="page244"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -244</span>Susan Angel, I give an’ -bequeath”—an’ all th’ rest on -’t. Ah! bless her an’ rest her sowl!’</p> -<p>It seemed rather an appropriate legacy, for Miss Angel had -possessed not a single tooth of her own in all the years I had -known her. But the display of the treasure provoked a very -natural commentary.</p> -<p>‘How long have you had these put by, Susan?’</p> -<p>‘Nigh upon thirty year, my dear.’</p> -<p>‘And never used them yourself all that time, although -you—’</p> -<p>‘What!’ The old lady drew herself up, the -youthful blue eyes in her wrinkled face flashing -indignation. ‘What d’ ye say!—me use -’em? <i>Me</i>? Th’ very same as my dear -ould missus chawed wi’? Shame on ye! Not if -there was nought to eat but cracking-nuts left i’ th’ -wureld fer us all!’</p> -<p>I took the rebuke in penitent silence. When she had -restored the revered relics to their locker in the back room, she -resumed her knitting in the great wicker chair behind the -counter. In a minute or two she had alike forgiven me and -forgotten the cause of her displeasure, as I knew from her -tone.</p> -<p>‘How the evenin’s do draw in, to be sure!’ -she observed, laying down her work. ‘A’most -dark, ut be, though ’tis no more ’n six -o’clock.’</p> -<p>The ancient timepiece in the corner promptly <a -name="page245"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 245</span>droned out -eleven. Miss Angel clapped her hands.</p> -<p>‘What did I tell ye?’ she said triumphantly. -‘Wunnerful good time ’a keeps, when I recollects to -putt un back reg’lar.’</p> -<p>She rose and reversed the hands for a circle or two.</p> -<p>‘That’ll do till mornin’,’ said she -placidly. ‘Ye warnts to be a little particler -i’ country places: ut bean’t like i’ towns -where—Gipsies! I do believe! An’ this time -o’ night, to be sure!’</p> -<p>I followed her sudden glance to the doorway. A heavy -grinding of wheels had sounded outside, and across our field of -view, silhouetted against the deep turquoise blue of the night, -there passed what looked like a gipsies’ caravan. A -bony horse toiled in the shafts, and a long lean man walked in -front, dragging at the animal’s bridle with almost as much -apparent effort. Lights shone from the windows of the -vehicle, and its chimney smoked voluminously against the -stars. As it went by, we could see another man sitting upon -the steps in its rear, his squat bulky form entirely blocking the -open door-place. The caravan pulled up about midway over -the green.</p> -<p>‘Now, that wunt do!’ observed Miss Angel -decisively. ‘We warnts nane o’ they sort -traipsing about Windlecombe after dark, <a -name="page246"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 246</span>leastways -not them as keeps chicken. ’Tis on your road hoame: -jest gie ’em a wured as you goos by, my dear. Tell -’em as you warnts to save trouble fer th’ -policeman.’</p> -<p>In nowise intending to disturb the gipsies, I nevertheless -took the short cut over the green, passing in the darkness close -by their queer, spindle-spanked, top-heavy dwelling. As I -cut through the beam of light that poured from the doorway, a -suave voice hailed me.</p> -<p>‘Hi! my man! Just a moment! Now, Grewes, -your difficulty is at an end. I have intercepted one of the -inhabitants, and doubtless he will— Yes: inquire of -him—very politely now—where we may obtain -water.’</p> -<p>The long lean man had blundered into the light beside me, -carrying two pails. He was clothed in little better than -rags from head to foot. A massive gold watch-chain -glittered across his buttonless waistcoat. He turned upon -me two gaunt, diffident eyes.</p> -<p>‘Water,’ he hesitated, holding out the pails -helplessly before him. ‘Water, you know! Could -you be so kind as to—’</p> -<p>The suave, flute-like voice sounded again from the depths of -the caravan.</p> -<p>‘Now, Grewes! if I am to carry out the little supper -scheme I explained to you, no time must be lost. When once -they are peeled, potatoes <a name="page247"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 247</span>should never—’ The -owner of the voice appeared in the doorway. ‘Dear, -dear! My good fellow! there you are, still standing there; -and I fully impressed it upon you that if rabbit is permitted to -bake one moment longer than— Grewes! give me those -pails!’</p> -<p>But the long lean man had drawn me precipitately away. -As we hurried across the green together in the direction of the -well-house, he seemed to consider himself under some necessity of -explanation.</p> -<p>‘It is his caravan,’ he said, -‘Spelthorne’s, you know. And I am travelling -with him for a bit, because I was run down, and—and other -things. One of the best fellows breathing, he is, though -you mightn’t—I mean I so often forget what -I— Of course, I really don’t wonder that -sometimes he— Why! I have forgotten to unharness the -horse! Do remind me—will you?—when we get back; -but quietly, you understand? Spelthorne, he is the best -fellow breathing, but— Oh, is this the well? It -is most kind of you, I’m sure!’</p> -<p>He seemed in so strained and nervous a mood that I did not -trust him to handle the heavy bucket and chain, nor to return -unaided to the caravan with his burden. When we drew into -the beam of light again, I could see Spelthorne inside, stooping -over the little cooking-stove in <a name="page248"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 248</span>his shirt-sleeves and a great -sombrero. If anything, his clothes were even more tattered -and soiled than his companion’s. At sound of our -clanking pails he turned, stared, then swept me a low bow with -the sombrero.</p> -<p>‘Thoughtless, very thoughtless!—indeed, most -selfish of Grewes!’ he said confidentially, for the long -lean man had hurried away to attend to the horse. ‘A -good fellow, such a good fellow, you cannot think! But he -has this little failing of sometimes taking advantage of any -kindness that— But excuse me: I must get the potatoes -on!’</p> -<p>I had hardly gone a dozen paces towards home, when I heard him -pounding after me.</p> -<p>‘What is—the name,’ he asked breathlessly, -‘of—of this village?’ And when I had told -him: ‘There are beautiful old cottages here, are there -not? And quaint people? And charming country round -about? Such a spot—isn’t it?—where two -artists could find incessant inspiration, -and—and—’</p> -<p>But the question had been put to me before, and too often.</p> -<p>‘Well, I don’t know,’ said I -discouragingly. ‘The place is very quiet and humdrum, -and most inconvenient—no railway and no roads to anywhere -and—’</p> -<p>‘The very place!’ he broke in delightedly. -<a name="page249"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 249</span>‘I -shall persuade poor Grewes to remain here with me a -month.’</p> -<p>And when I took a last look at the night some hours after, I -beheld the faint glow, from the windows of the caravan upon the -green, with dismal foreboding. A month of that -prospect! And not only that, but something worse; for, upon -the wings of the slow night wind, there drifted over to me the -mournful thrumming of a guitar.</p> -<h3>III</h3> -<p>As it has turned out, the caravanners have proved very little -trouble to any, and to myself least of all. In a day or -two, they moved down to the riverside, choosing one of the -wildest and leafiest corners of the old abandoned chalk-quarry; -and for a week past I have seen nothing of them but a wisp of -blue smoke from afar.</p> -<p>And, indeed, October in the country, if your design is to keep -step and step with the month through all its bewildering changes, -leaves you but scanty leisure for social traffic with your -kind. Every day now there is something new to wonder at, -and ponder over.</p> -<p>To-day the gossamer was flying. If you stood in one of -the low-lying sheltered meadows, and turned your back to the -light, the air seemed full <a name="page250"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 250</span>of these ashen-grey flecks, some -only the merest threads, others of the breadth of a finger and -several inches long. I have always believed that the -gossamer spiders sit in the hedgerows spinning these fairy -draperies, and letting them go upon the breeze to little more use -and purpose than when a child blows soap-bubbles for the mere -delight of watching them soar. At least, what end could -possibly be served by them, other than the sufficient and obvious -one of bringing a note of austere, chilly delicacy into the -riotous colour of an October day? But idling along this -morning with literally thousands of these grey filaments -tempering the rich gold of the sunshine far and near, I chanced -to stretch forth a hand and capture one of them. Between my -fingers there hung a shred of fabric infinitely finer than -anything that ever came from loom devised by man; and within it -sat the gossamer spider herself, a shining black atom, evidently -vastly surprised and alarmed at the sudden termination of her -flight. After that I pulled down a score or so of these -gossamer air-ships, and although a few were tenantless, the most -of them bore a passenger embarked on, who shall say how long and -how hazardous a voyage? Yet, while none fell to earth as I -watched, but seemed to have the power of rising ever higher and -higher, it is certain that the gossamer <a -name="page251"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -251</span>spider’s flight must end with each day’s -sun. The heavy autumn dews must sweep the air clear of them -at first tinge of dusk.</p> -<p>If there is anything in the old saying that a plentiful berry -harvest foretells a hard winter, then have we bitter times in -store. The hedges are loaded with scarlet wherever you go, -and yet in all this flaunting brilliance there seems to be no two -shades of red alike The holly-berries approach more nearly than -any to pure vermilion. Then come the hips, the -rose-berries, with their tawny red; and the haws that are richer -of hue than all others, perhaps, yet of a sombreness that -quietens the eye for all its glow. Ruddy are the bryonies -and the bittersweet. The rowans love to hold aloft their -masses of pure flame, the rich rowan-colour that is always seen -against the sky. Along the edge of the hazel copse, where -the butcher’s broom grows, its curious oblong fruit gives -another note of red. But they are all essentially different -colours. Nature often duplicates herself in blues, yellows, -and particularly in a certain shade of pale purple, of which the -mallow is a common type. But among red flowers, red -berries, finding one, you shall not find its exact counterpart in -hue in all the country-side.</p> -<p>In southern England, the general lurid effect due to change of -leafage in the forest trees <a name="page252"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 252</span>belongs of right to November, but -already there are abundant signs of what is coming. Though -the woods, on a distant view, still look gloriously green, a -nearer prospect reveals a touch of autumn in almost every -tree. In the beech-woods nearly all the branches are tipped -with brown. The elms have bright yellow patches oddly -dispersed amidst foliage still of almost summer-like -freshness. The willows by the river are full of golden -pencillings. Only the oaks remain as yet uninfluenced by -the changing times. The temperate autumn nights, that have -checked the sap-flow of less hardy things, have had no influence -on the oak-woods. They wait for the first real -frosts—the knock-down blow.</p> -<p>And strangely, though October is nearing its end, the frosts -do not come. The nights are still, moist, dark; and full of -the twanging note of dorbeetles, and now and again the steady -whir of passing wings. This is the sound made by the hosts -of migrant birds, all journeying southward, travelling in silence -and by stealth of night.</p> -<p>Coming out into the darkness, and hearing this mighty rushing -note high overhead, you get a queer sense of underhand activity -and concealed purpose in the world, as though scenery were being -swiftly changed, a new piece hurriedly staged, under cover of the -blinked lights. It tends towards a feeling that is rather -foreign, not <a name="page253"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -253</span>to say humbling, to your desires—that of being -made a spectator rather than a participant in the great earth -play. Or it may have another and a stranger effect. -The sound of all that strenuous motion, the deep travel-note high -in the darkness, may come to you with all the urging inspiration -of a summons: you may restrain only with difficulty, and much -assembling of prudence, the impulse to gird up and be off -southward in the track of the flying host. The old nomadic -instinct is not dead in humanity, as he well knows who keeps his -feet to the green places of earth, and his heart tiding with the -sun.</p> -<p>Now, too, the brown owl begins his hollow plaint in the -woodlands. ‘Woo-hoo-hoo, woohoo!’ comes to you -through the fast-falling dusk, the direction and intensity of the -cry varying with astonishing swiftness, as you stop to listen on -your homeward way. This is conceivably the -‘to-whoo’ that Shakespeare heard; and there is -another note, which seems to be an answer to it, and which sounds -something like ‘Ker-wick,’ and might by a stretch be -allowed to stand for the ‘to-whit’ in the song. -But ‘to-whit, to-whoo!’ in a single phrase, from a -single throat—that seems to be a piece of owl language that -has become obsolete with the centuries.</p> -<p><a name="page254"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 254</span>There -is a stretch of lane here, running between high grassy banks -densely overshadowed by trees, which is always dark on the -clearest nights of any season, but of a Cimmerian blackness on -these moonless evenings in late October. As if they knew -their opportunity for service, the glowworms often light up the -place from end to end, so that it is possible, steering by their -tiny lamps alone, to keep out of the ditch that yawns invisibly -on either hand. I came through the lane this evening, and -counted near upon a score of these vague blotches of greenish -radiance hovering amidst the dew soaked grass, each bright enough -to show the time by a watch held near. As long as I can -remember, glowworms have been plentiful in this stretch of dark, -overshadowed lane, and very scarce in all other quarters of the -village. New colonies of glowworms seem difficult to -establish, although single lights do appear in places where they -have not been seen before, and in ensuing year appear again and -again, generally in slowly increasing numbers. It is not -wonderful that glowworms should keep to the same grassy bank -season after season, because, as all countrymen know, it is only -the lampless male that flies. The female, who bears the -light, and on whom the persistence of the race depends, lives and -dies probably within no more than the same few square yards <a -name="page255"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 255</span>of tangled -herbage. What seems really wonderful is that single -glowworms of the female sex should occur in places far removed -from old resorts of their kind, seeing how feeble are their -means, and how slow their rate of travel.</p> -<p>I have said that the flocks of birds that can sometimes be -heard in the quiet of October nights, passing seaward over the -village, are generally silent, save for the dull, pulsating roar -of their wings. As I lifted the latch of the garden-gate -to-night, and stood a moment listening in the darkness, the old -sound grew out of the silence of the hills, and there went -swiftly by what seemed only a small flock; but now and again, as -they passed, I could hear a note bandied to and fro in the -company, a chuckling, voluble note, which I recognised -instantly. They were fieldfares, the first-comers of their -species. From now onward, I knew, their queer outlandish -cry would mingle with the common sounds of the fields; and not -only theirs, but the notes of all other foreign birds that winter -here; for the field-fare is generally the last to come.</p> -<p>This cry in the darkness above me, however, was strange in a -double sense; because, while the silent hosts were emigrants, -only at the commencement of their long, perilous journey, this -chattering company had safely arrived at its bourne, all the -hazards of the voyage happily <a name="page256"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 256</span>past. And it seemed only in -the way of Nature, for bird or man, to set forth mute of voice -upon a difficult and dangerous enterprise; while to win through -safe and sound must provoke each alike to -self-congratulation. My fieldfares were halloaing because -they were out of the wood.</p> -<h2><a name="page257"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -257</span>NOVEMBER</h2> -<h3>I</h3> -<blockquote><p>‘No mirth, no cheerfulness, no healthful -ease, <br /> -No comfortable feel in any member;<br /> -No warmth, no shine, no butterflies, no bees—<br /> - - -November!’</p> -</blockquote> -<p><span class="smcap">It</span> was the old vicar of Windlecombe -who ironically quoted the lines, as we went along our favourite -path together—the path that runs between Arun river and the -woods.</p> -<p>The first frosts had come and gone, and left us in the midst -of the usual revolutions and surprises. In a single day, -the ash-trees had cast their whole weight of foliage to earth, -green as in summer prime. Though as yet not a single leaf -had fallen from the other forest trees, all had changed -miraculously. The beech-woods looked like vast smouldering -fires. Every elm stood up clothed to its finger-tips in -shreds of gold-leaf. Here and there in the wood a dash of -vivid scarlet showed where a sycamore had been found and struck -by the frost. Larch, willow, maple, birch, each added to -the glowing <a name="page258"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -258</span>prospect its individual shade of tawny brown, or drab, -or yellow. We walked in a land where, for once, the -sunshine seemed a superfluous thing. To turn the eye away -for a little while from all that intolerable radiance, and rest -it on the oak-woods where alone a vestige of summer greenery -endured, or on the cool grey stems of the stripped ash-trees, was -a pleasure I found myself furtively snatching as we went along, -although I left the sentiment discreetly unexpressed. The -old vicar stopped, removed his great white panama, and mopped his -forehead luxuriously.</p> -<p>‘No warmth, no shine!’ he repeated. -‘Now where in the world could the poor soul have lived who -wrote that? And no bees! Why, I can hear them -now—thousands of them!’</p> -<p>It was true enough, and with the bees were the November -butterflies too, if he could only have seen them. In a -sunny corner by the path-side stood an old pollard ash, its trunk -rearing up out of the thicket high over our heads, like a huge -doubled fist thrust into a green gauntlet of ivy. It was -only one tree among innumerable others in the wood, and the same -stirring scene was enacting round each of them. Though with -everything else the season was autumn, for the ivy it was the -heyday of spring. The great tree above us was smothered in -golden blossom, the nectar glistening in the sunshine, a rich -honey <a name="page259"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -259</span>scent burdening the still air. There were not -only hive-bees and butterflies rioting at this, the last outdoor -feast of the year, but bumble-bees, wasps, drone-flies, every -other creature that could fly and had escaped the chills of the -November nights. The air was misty with the glint of their -wings, and full of a deep sweet song. As we passed along by -the wood, we were always either drawing into the zone of this ivy -music or leaving it behind us, and never once did it forsake our -path all the morning through.</p> -<p>We came at last to a spot where the woods fell back from the -waterside, and a stretch of wild, hillocky grassland, overgrown -with brier and bramble, bordered the stream. Between the -willows that stood upon the bank dipping their yellow autumn -tresses in the flood, I could see the placid breadth of the -river, with its topsy-turvy vision of the glowing hills -beyond—hills that, by reason of the interlacing boughs -above, were directly invisible. A lark broke up almost from -under our feet, and went slanting aloft into the blue sky, -singing as though it were April. The Reverend put a hand -upon my arm.</p> -<p>‘Well: what do you see?’ he asked. -‘Everything must be changed since we were here last, -and—’</p> -<p><a name="page260"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -260</span>‘I see,’ said I, rather disturbed, ‘a -painter’s easel straddled in front of your favourite -creek—an easel with a three-legged stool before it, but no -painter. I see also, a little farther on, a big white -umbrella, with the top of a sombrero just showing above it, and a -great cloud of tobacco smoke drifting out of it, but here again -no other sign of painter or man. Shall we go -back?’</p> -<p>But he was for pushing on. As we approached the -umbrella, a throaty tenor voice was uplifted to a weird foreign -strain:—</p> -<blockquote><p>‘En passant par Square Montholon,<br /> -La digue-digue donc! la digue-digue donc!<br /> -Je rencontre une jeune tendron!<br /> -La digue-digue—</p> -</blockquote> -<p>‘Superb! <i>Su</i>-perb! If only I could -excite myself to— Ah! if only that tumultuous thrill, -which I know always presages—</p> - -<blockquote><p> ‘la -digue-digue donc!<br /> -J’offre tout de suite ma main—ye<br /> -La brigue-donc-dain-ye—’</p> -</blockquote> -<p>Or at least so the gibberish sounded. But now it -suddenly left off. A palette went rattling to the -ground. The short squat figure of the owner of the caravan -burst into view.</p> -<p>‘Grewes! I cannot do it, I really cannot! I <a -name="page261"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 261</span>am not -sufficiently inspired to-day! I am not great enough! -I— Oh! I beg your pardon! I thought it was my -friend’s step. Why! the water-bearer, to be -sure! How do you do?’</p> -<p>It was my first glimpse of Spelthorne by light of day, and I -owned to myself frankly that the night had been kind to -him. A fringe of yellow-grey hair escaped in all directions -beyond the brim of his hat. He had a florid, puffy, -indeterminate face, eyes at once selfish and sentimental, and a -week-old beard still further ostracised a chin already too -retiring. Like his companion, he wore a gold watch-chain of -heavy calibre, with a bunch of seals and trinkets upon it; but -his clothes, that in the darkness had seemed much tattered and -torn, now appeared entirely disreputable. They were, -moreover, covered with finger-marks of paint, to which he was now -adding, as he ceremoniously welcomed us.</p> -<p>‘Art—what is it?’ he cried, removing his -hat, and running his fingers through his hair, when presently, at -his earnest invitation, the Reverend had sat himself down before -the easel, and was making a grave show of inspecting the canvas -on it. ‘And the artist—where is -he?’ He made a dramatic pause.</p> -<p>‘Where indeed?’ quoth the Reverend, grimly staring -before him.</p> -<p><a name="page262"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -262</span>‘You see this picture?’—wagging a -chrome-yellow thumb over the canvas—‘nine-tenths of -it are the work of one exalted day: the rest the unilluminated -toil of a week! Strange that we should be made so! At -one moment, like Prometheus, stealing the very fire from heaven, -and at the next— Ah! but only an artist can really -comprehend!’</p> -<p>He filled his pipe, with a resigned, quiet sadness.</p> -<p>‘Now Grewes—that is my friend who is travelling -with me—’ he went on; ‘Grewes, poor fellow, he -never realises the difficulties in his path -because—because— Let me put it in the kindest -way. Because—well, the truth is, poor Grewes has -mistaken his calling. No better fellow in the world, you -know! A hard plodder: always trying, always doing his best; -but—but— You see, that brings us back to what I -said just now: art and the artist—where will you find them? -and what are they?’</p> -<p>A slight cough sounded in our rear. Looking round, I saw -that the long lean man had returned to his easel unmarked by any -of us. The Reverend got abruptly to his feet.</p> -<p>‘Well,’ said he, ‘you have a great -responsibility. Supreme gifts in a man mean that much will -be required of him. So bend your back to it. Good -day!’</p> -<p><a name="page263"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 263</span>As we -passed by the other easel, its owner looked up pleasantly, but -his brush kept busily to work.</p> -<p>‘Don’t go yet,’ he entreated, ‘I am so -glad to— But you won’t mind, will you, if I go -on with— You see, I have not had very long at it this -morning. Spelthorne, he was getting so anxious about the -stew, that I—I had to run back to the caravan -and— Or else he would have— It -wouldn’t have done, of course, to let him go himself. -When once he has got into the mood, the slightest little -thing—’</p> -<p>He rambled on thus, scarcely ever finishing a sentence, and -all the while dabbing away industriously at his sketch. He, -too, I had never yet beheld in daylight; but, unlike his friend, -sunshine rather improved his appearance than otherwise. It -could not fill up the gaps in his coat, nor had it a lustrating -effect upon his linen; yet it revealed in his long, cadaverous -face, and in his mild, sad eyes, a delicacy, a sensibility, that -I had not remarked in them before. As he talked, the old -vicar studied his voice attentively.</p> -<p>‘Spelthorne,’ he went on, in his curious, -disjointed, breathless way, ‘Spelthorne, his work is so -immeasurably— He has such a demand for it -that— And I am always so glad, of course, to do any -little thing to save him trouble. <a -name="page264"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 264</span>I—I -really think no man in the world ever had a better -friend.’</p> -<p>The Reverend was standing close behind him now. He laid -a hand gently on Grewes’s dilapidated shoulder.</p> -<p>‘Don’t hurry,’ he said, ‘at least -don’t hurry with your mind. Above all, don’t -worry: it is all coming beautifully. When did you see your -doctor last?’</p> -<p>The question, unexpected as it was by myself, seemed to -surprise Grewes infinitely more. The blood got up into two -bright points in his cheeks. His brushes rattled against -his palette. He looked round at the old vicar -tremulously.</p> -<p>‘Doctor? Why, do you— What makes you -think I— Oh! I am very well indeed; never -better.’</p> -<p>He stopped, looking up into the sightless, kindly blue eyes -that appeared to be as steadily gazing down into his. There -was a moment’s silence. And then, if I ever saw real -untrammelled joy spring into a human face, I saw it in his.</p> -<p>‘Do you really think so?’ he cried. -‘You think I— Well, sometimes lately I have -thought myself that—’</p> -<p>Spelthorne’s voice grumbled out from behind the -umbrella.</p> -<p>‘Now, my dear Grewes, have I not frequently <a -name="page265"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 265</span>told you -that, though I am willing to lend you anything I have, I always -expect—’</p> -<p>Grewes sprang to his feet.</p> -<p>‘It is his cadmium,’ he whispered, -horrified. ‘I borrowed it, and never— How -very annoying for him!’</p> -<p>‘Now there is a strange thing,’ said the Reverend -musingly, as we trudged on our way together. ‘A man -well on in a rapid decline, and neither knowing nor caring about -it; as glad, indeed, to hear the thing confirmed as if some one -had left him a legacy! A month, did you say? Then he -may never go out of Windlecombe by the road.’</p> -<p>We made a long day’s round, taking meadow, riverside, -wood, and downland in our walk, and reaching home again only when -the lights were beginning to star the misty combe; for we had a -special object in our journey. To the townsman it may well -seem as fruitless a task to seek wild flowers in November, as to -go ‘gathering nuts in May.’ Well, here is a -list of what we found in one November day’s ramble about a -single village in highland Sussex—fifty-seven distinct -species, and of many we could have gathered, not single flowers, -but whole handfuls, had we willed. Nor is the list an -exhaustive one either for the district or the time of year. -Bringing more eyesight, leisure, and diligence to <a -name="page266"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 266</span>the task, -no doubt a fuller inventory could be made in any mild -season.—</p> -<table> -<tr> -<td><p class="gutlist">Dandelion.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Furze.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Red Dead-nettle.</p> -<p class="gutlist">White Dead-nettle. Knapweed.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Marguerite.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Poppy.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Musk Thistle.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Charlock.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Buttercup.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Red Clover.</p> -<p class="gutlist">White Clover.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Pimpernel.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Calamint.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Blackberry.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Mayweed.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Field Madder.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Sandwort.</p> -<p class="gutlist">White Campion.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Red Campion.</p> -</td> -<td><p class="gutlist">Hawkweed.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Penny Cress.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Hedge Mustard.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Dwarf Spurge.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Mallow.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Harebell.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Daisy.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Hogweed.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Yarrow.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Sheepsbit.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Marjoram.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Cudweed.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Groundsel.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Nipplewort.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Small Bindweed. Herb-Robert.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Ragwort.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Silverweed.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Persicary.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Mouse-ear.</p> -</td> -<td><p class="gutlist">Strawberry.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Teasel.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Sun Spurge.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Hedge Parsley.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Rock-rose.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Crane’s-bill.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Heather.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Betony.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Viper’s Bugloss.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Burnet Saxifrage.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Sow-thistle.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Wild Pansy.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Shepherd’s Purse.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Nonsuch.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Ivy.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Chickweed.</p> -<p class="gutlist">Veronica.</p> -</td> -</tr> -</table> -<h3>II</h3> -<p>There has come a spell of chilly, overcast weather, and the -long dark evenings have settled upon us at a stroke. At -twilight to-day, as I came into this silent-floored, comfortable -room, and lit the candles on my work-table, it seemed strange -that I should do so, and yet the ordinary life and traffic of the -village be still going on <a name="page267"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 267</span>outside. Hitherto, so it -appeared, the village quiet had fallen always before the need for -candlelight. I had looked out before drawing the curtains -close, and heard not a step stirring, seen the windows dark in -the lower storeys of the cottages, and here and there a pale -light glimmering behind the drawn blinds of upper rooms, for your -true Sussex villager hates to sleep in the dark. But -to-night some new order of things seemed to have been suddenly -ordained. Footsteps hurried or leisurely, voices old and -young, the rumble of wheels, even the distant chime of Tom -Clemmer’s hammer—all the sounds that go to make up -the common rumour of work-a-day life in a village, were abroad in -the air; though already the hills were lost in the gloaming: the -white chrysanthemums by the garden-gate were nothing but a dim -blotch on the murky autumn night.</p> -<p>I lit the candles—home-made candles of yellow -beeswax—and set them on their little mats of plaited green -leather. I got out a new quire of foolscap, sobering in its -empty whiteness, its word-hungry look. I arranged the -ruler, the old cut-glass inkpot, the painted leaden frog that -serves for paperweight, the elephant that carries a penwiper as -houdah, ash-tray and tobacco-jar and sheaf of favourite pipes, -all in their proper stations. I drew the old oak -elbow-chair <a name="page268"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -268</span>sideways to the table—sideways because that was -non-committal: too squarely business-like an approach in the -outset, as I know of old time and cost, often scatters the -fairies into the next county, and you may chew to shreds a whole -quiverful of goose-quills before they again come crowding and -whispering curiously about your ears.</p> -<p>But having made all these exact preparations, I chanced to -turn to the open window for a final look down the street, and -knew at once that I was lost. It was the steady far-off -song from Tom Clemmer’s anvil that overcame me more than -anything, and the red glow amidst the elder-boughs that overhung -the forge. But all else conspired in one basilisk-like lure -to get me forth. The busy wending to and fro, and the -cheery commerce of tongues in the darkness, footsteps and voices -that I knew as well as I knew my own; twinkling lights in -cottages, the illumined windows of the little sweetstuff shop, -the cobbler’s den, the inn, the village store; the church -lit up for evensong, and the bell quietly tolling, as it seemed, -somewhere far up in the black void of the sky; again, the smell -of the night, that moist, earthy fragrance of decaying leaves, -and tang of frost, and pungent scent of simmering fire-logs from -stacks new-broached on these first chilly evenings in -November—it <a name="page269"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -269</span>all ranged itself together before me as something, ever -present and constant in my life, that I too often disregarded, -took for granted—the jumble of thatch and red-tiled roof -and grey flint wall, sheep and lowing kine and cackling poultry, -bevy of kindly human hearts, sharp tongues and willing hands, all -wedged up together in one green crevice of the hills, and calling -themselves collectively by the old South-Saxon name of -Windlecombe.</p> -<p>I went first of all a few strides out over the green and -looked backward, rightly to estimate, if I could, my own part in -the little communal symphony. The bluff bulk of the house, -with its coven roof and many gables, stood dark against the -greyer darkness of the hills, and behind it rose sable elm plumes -fast thinning under the recent autumn chills. From its -windows shone lights of varying significance. There were my -own red-shaded candles with a corner of a crammed bookcase dimly -visible above them; there were naked kitchen lights with ware of -polished pewter and copper glinting behind, and a pleasant -clatter of crockery; there was a window where the light burnt red -and low and wavering as from a spent hearth, and a quiet ripple -of music from a piano keeping it congenial company; there was the -window high up in the great gable, whose flickering light cast a -bunch <a name="page270"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 270</span>of -head-shadows on the ceiling, suggestive of nursery bedtime, and -fairy-tales round the fire. It was all very reassuring and -enheartening. Yes: the old White House had its integral -part to play in this good English game of Neighbourhood, and -played it passing well.</p> -<p>Round Tom Clemmer’s forge a group of village lads was -gathered, all looking on at the work with an interest that -amounted well-nigh to fascination. As I came up, and stood -unobserved in the shadow of the elder-tree, there was before me a -picture in which two colours only were represented glowing -crimson and deep velvety black. Young Tom stood, pincers in -hand, watching the iron in the fire. Behind him his -apprentice laboured at the bellows. With every wheezy puff, -the furnace roared out an imprecation, and spat hot cinders upon -the floor.</p> -<p>It was a large piece of metal that Tom had in work, something -out of the ordinary run of his business, it seemed, and he turned -it and shifted it with an anxious eye. No one spoke a word, -for somehow we all knew that a crisis was coming, and we were -expected to hold our tongues until it was victoriously -past. At length the moment came. Tom thrust the -pincers into the blaze and drew the white-hot iron out upon the -anvil. Immediately the apprentice left the bellows, <a -name="page271"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 271</span>seized a -great hammer, and swinging it over his head, began to let fall on -the metal an unceasing rain of mighty blows. As Tom twisted -and manoeuvred the glowing mass about with all the strength of -his wiry arms, it lengthened, squared itself in the middle, -flattened out at each end, bent into complicated curves, then -turned upon itself and was united miraculously head to -tail. Still gripping the writhing thing with one hand, Tom -took a punch in the other, and pointed it to various parts of the -work; and wherever he pointed, the hammer drove a bolt-hole clean -and true through the rose-red iron. Finally Tom lifted the -finished piece above his head, and came striding to the door with -it. The crowd of onlookers scattered right and left. -Out into the darkness he plunged, and straight to the pool by the -roadside. We saw the thing poised for a moment like a -mammoth fire-fly over the water; and then, with a roar and an -angry splutter, it vanished into the pond.</p> -<p>It was scarcely six o’clock, and already the night was -pitch-black, with a creeping, chilly air from the north. It -was not loitering weather. People were moving briskly on -their several ways. Cottage doors were shut, and windows -diamonded with moisture. Roving about with no settled -purpose but to humour the neighbourly fancy, and to identify -myself with the evening life of <a name="page272"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 272</span>the place, I presently came full -tilt at a corner upon Farmer Coles.</p> -<p>‘The very man!’ said he, barring the way jovially -with his stout oak stick. ‘Didn’t ye promise me -that when I killed that four-year-old wether, ye’d come and -take a bite along o’ us? Well, ’tis a saddle -to-night, and I was on the road to fetch ye. Round about, -man, and straight for the faarm!’</p> -<p>Now, when a South-Down flock-master—whose pedigree sheep -are famous throughout the county—bids you to his table, -with the announcement that the principal dish is to be mutton, -there is only one thing to do, that is, if you are human, and of -sane mind. I turned and went along with him without demur.</p> -<p>‘Jane’s sister and her man be with us,’ said -Farmer Coles, as we left the village behind and mounted the steep -lane that led to the farmhouse. ‘And Weaverly -’ull be there; and the gells be home, so we wunt lack for -company. I don’t know as ye ever met Jane’s -sister’s man?—Parrett by name. No? -Wunnerful well-eddicated man, though, he be.’</p> -<p>We found the Rev. Mr. Weaverly, a shining gem of purest water, -set in the ring of hearty country faces that surrounded the -drawing-room fire. The broad-shouldered, broad-faced man, -with a mat of sandy beard and a very bald head, <a -name="page273"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 273</span>who -occupied the great armchair in the corner, I judged to be Mr. -Parrett. Mrs. Coles and her sister, both comfortable of -mien and rigidly ceremonious of visage, sat side by side in -flowing black silk gowns, knitting as for a wager. The -younger members of the household, who filled the interspaces of -the circle, fidgeted in a constraint of merry silence, exchanging -covert glances of boredom, and all obviously pricking ears for -the first sound of the dinner-gong. This clanged out behind -us almost at the moment of our entry into the room, -providentially cutting short the first amenities of greeting; and -before my fingers had done aching from Mr. Parrett’s grip, -I found myself sitting at the loaded board with Mrs. -Parrett’s voluminous drapery overflowing me on the one -side, and, on the other, her husband’s great brown -barricade of an elbow securely fencing me in.</p> -<p>‘Mutton,’ observed Mr. Weaverly presently, by way -of filling up a pause in the conversation due to our all watching -with secret anxiety Farmer Coles’s attack on the joint, -‘mutton, and on a Monday! You remember the little -game of alliteration we played at the school treat, Mrs. -Coles? Really, we could make an admirable sequence -here! Mutton, and Monday, and Miss Matilda sitting by my -side, and—and—if it were only March instead -of—’</p> -<p><a name="page274"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -274</span>‘And we’ll soon all be munchin’ of -it, sir!’ cried Farmer Coles. ‘Ha, ha, -ha! That’s the best Hem o’ all! Gravy, -George?’</p> -<p>At the inclusion of her name in the sequence, the eldest Miss -Coles had blushed, then let her glance demurely droop upon her -chrysanthemum-wreathed bosom. It was a moment of exceeding -pride and satisfaction to her, for here was Mr. Weaverly beside -her—an incontestable, a beautiful fact—while Miss -Sweet for once was half a mile away. Now she looked up -coyly.</p> -<p>‘I think,’ she hesitated, ‘I could suggest -a— Oh! I know a lovely one!’</p> -<p>Mr. Weaverly laid down knife and fork, to rub his hands -delightedly.</p> -<p>‘Do tell us!’ he murmured. ‘I am -positively longing to—’</p> -<p>The eldest Miss Coles turned him glamorous eyes.</p> -<p>‘Marmaduke!’ she said.</p> -<p>And I think I was the only one present to realise the whole -ingenuity of the manœuvre. For she had contrived -here, in the open family circle, before a dozen people, yet with -entire meetness and propriety, to address Mr. Weaverly by his -Christian name.</p> -<p>As the meal progressed, and tongues became generally loosened, -Mr. Parrett—whose silence, except as regarded his hearty -application to his <a name="page275"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -275</span>food, had so far remained unbroken—now essayed to -contribute his share of the talk. His first effort was a -startling one.</p> -<p>‘D-d-d’ he began, smiling over his shoulder at me, -‘d-do you l-l-l—’ He stopped, and gazed -helplessly towards his wife.</p> -<p>‘Like, dear?’ suggested Mrs. Parrett, softly.</p> -<p>‘N-no! I was agoing t-t-to ask ye if ye -l-l-l—’</p> -<p>‘Lend, then?’</p> -<p>‘Hur, hur! Emma, I don’t want to b-b-borrow -nauthin’ o’ the gentleman! It was just to ask -if he l-l-lived—there y’ are!—in -W-w-w— Whatsay, Jane?’</p> -<p>‘’Tis apple-pie, George. Or maybe ye’d -sooner try the—’</p> -<p>‘Pie, Jane! Pie, my d-dear! Pie, if -<i>you</i> please, mum! An’ a double dose o’ -sh-sh-shuggar. They allers says—don’t they, -sir?—as if a man has a sweet-t-t-t—’</p> -<p>‘Sweetheart, dear?’</p> -<p>‘Oo, ay!’ laughed Mr. Parrett, suddenly -inspired. He looked across the table roguishly at Mr. -Weaverly and Matilda, and all glances followed his. -‘Ah, well: n-n-never mind! We was all young once, -and—’</p> -<p>Mrs. Coles deftly drew the fire of attention away from the -absorbed, unconscious pair.</p> -<p>‘William, dear; Emma has nothing in her glass. <a -name="page276"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 276</span>And there -you sit, staring at the cheese as if—as if it were only for -show, and as wooden as you are! And do pray pass the old -ale to Mr.—’</p> -<p>‘Oh, deplorably, deplorably so!’ sighed Mr. -Weaverly to the rapt Matilda. ‘Over and over again I -have remonstrated with her, but all in vain, I fear. Each -time I have said, “Mrs. Gates, if you will feed little -children on new hot bread, and red herrings, -and”—only think of it!—“beer, you will -find not only their physical but their moral nature -entirely—”’</p> -<p>It is strange how, in a room full of heterogeneous talk, the -attention of a quiet listener flits uncontrollably from one -quarter to another. Much as I was interested in Mrs. -Gates’s domestic policy, I lost it here, to find myself in -the rick-yard, taking part, against my will, in some complicated -sporting affray.</p> -<p>‘And there were three of them, father, in the trough; -and I crept up and got the gun-barrel through a hole in the side -of the sty, and just as the old buck-rat—’</p> -<p>And then it was Mr. Parrett again.</p> -<p>‘Emma ’ull tell ye b-b-better ’n me, -Jane. It came hoot-tooting round the corner, and afore I -could s-s-s—’</p> -<p>‘Stop, George?’</p> -<p>‘N-n-nonsense!—afore I could -s-s-s—’</p> -<p>‘Seize hold o’ the—?’</p> -<p><a name="page277"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -277</span>‘Emma, do bide quiet!—afore I could s-s-say -Jack Robinson, the ould mare, she b-b-backed upon her harnches, -and she—’</p> -<p>And from Miss Matilda:</p> -<p>‘Oh! I should so love to, Mr. Weaverly! Is there a -very beautiful view? And could we walk there and back in an -afternoon, do you think?’</p> -<p>And from Farmer Coles, folding up his napkin: ‘Well, if -no one wunt have no more—’</p> -<p>The rest was lost in the rustle of Mrs. Coles’s skirts, -as she uprose.</p> -<p>‘And now, William dear, I think we ladies will leave you -to your smoke. And when you are quite ready, we will have a -rubber and a little music.’</p> -<p>In the drawing-room presently, the farmer and his wife, and -Mr. and Mrs. Parrett, sat down to a solemn, silent game of -whist. A ‘Happy Family’ party made a vortex of -merriment in a far corner. At the piano stood Mr. Weaverly, -translating into soft melodious trifles such songs as ‘The -Wolf’ and ‘Hearts of Oak.’ As for me, I -was happy in the great chair with the family portrait album, full -of early Victorian photographs, which I sincerely believe to be -amongst the most fascinating and informing productions of all -that fertile reign. But after an hour of this inspiring -occupation, I was suddenly roused to <a name="page278"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 278</span>the contemplation of a still greater -wonder. One of the card-players had spoken, and that -sharply.</p> -<p>‘Emma! Emma, my dear!’</p> -<p>I strolled over, and watched the play. Something had -happened to disturb Mr. Parrett, for though his face was turned -from me, I could see that his bald head had taken on a purple -hue. And gradually, as the game progressed, the mystery -became clear.</p> -<p>‘Emma, my d-d-<i>dear</i>! Emma!’</p> -<p>It was Mr. Parrett’s voice again, and this time with a -sharper ring of warning and remonstrance. Two or three -times in the next half-hour he spoke thus, and each time now I -was able to detect the cause. Mrs. Parrett was -cheating. Continually her neck craned for a sidelong view -of her opponents’ cards. She revoked -unblushingly. Once I could have sworn I saw a card-corner -sticking out of a fold in her silken lap. The aces she -seemed to be trying to mark with her thumb-nail. And all -the time, though Mr. Parrett got momentarily redder and more -wrathful, Farmer Coles and his wife sat serenely smiling, -evidently well used to dear Emma and her little harmless, -eccentric ways.</p> -<h3><a name="page279"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -279</span>III</h3> -<p>Here is a winter’s day already, and still -November. As I looked forth at sunrise this morning, the -whole village was white with frost. I could hear the ice in -the wheel-ruts crackling under the tread of passers-by. A -single thrush piped forlornly somewhere in the dense thicket of -the churchyard. And as I leaned out into the nipping blast, -a word came up to me, bandied between a trudging labourer and his -friend, a word that brought with it an entire new sheaf of -thoughts and memories. ‘More ’n ’aaf like -Christmas, bean’t ut, Bill?’ It was said but in -jest, and that unthinkingly. Yet, by the calendar, as a -glance now told me, Christmas was scarce a month away.</p> -<p>While the sun was yet no more than a white spot in the faint -gold mists of morning, I took the lane that led to the -Downs. It was strange to see how the frost had missed all -the bright-hued berries in the hedgerows, and how the ivy-leaves -were only rimmed with white. It was the same with the -prickly holly foliage. The spines were thickly encrusted, -while the dark green membranes of the leaves had given no -fingerhold to the frost. But the colour of the grass, and -dead dry herbage, by the wayside was completely blotted -out. Every blade and twig stood up <a -name="page280"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 280</span>stark and -white against its fellow; and here it was easy to see which way -the frozen air had been drifting all night long, because on the -windward side the pale accretion was thicker: in the more exposed -places it more than doubled the natural girth of the stems.</p> -<p>Where the dew-pond lay, at the top of the hill, far above the -swimming lowland mists, there must have been bright sunshine from -the very first; for here the veneer of frost had melted into -dewdrops, that flashed back a thousand prismatic rays amidst the -emerald of the grass at every step. But behind each -upstanding tussock, the frost still held as white and thick as -ever. The water, too, in the pond was still frozen -over. As I came up to the rail, a flock of starlings rose -whirring over my head. They had been waiting there on the -sunny side of the bank for the ice to melt round the pond edges, -and thither they would return to slake their morning thirst, as -soon as I passed on.</p> -<p>Keen and unkindly blew the blast, so that one must keep ever -moving to withstand the chill of it. Looking round me on -the waste of hills, I could see that the northern slopes still -retained their wintry hue, though all those facing to the sun -were intensely green. Below in the valley only the -oak-woods kept their bronze stain of autumn. Every other -tree, the hedges that <a name="page281"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 281</span>divided ploughlands and meadows, the -winding line of thicket marking the course of the river, all -looked bare and dark in the glistening pallor of the sun. -The river itself, between the broad water-meadows, seemed like a -river of ink.</p> -<p style="text-align: center"> -<a href="images/n7.jpg"> -<img alt= -"“The Ferryman’s Cottage”" -title= -"“The Ferryman’s Cottage”" - src="images/n7.jpg" /> -</a></p> -<p>As I took in all the cheerless, void purity of what lay below -me, thinking to myself that this indeed was winter, there came a -sudden cawing and dawing high up in the frosty steel-blue dome of -the sky; and here again was confirmation of that unenlivening -fact. A great company of rooks and jackdaws was streaming -by, but with none of its summer zest and purpose. The -throng made a general progress towards the south, yet it was -obviously doing little more than killing time, spinning out the -business of a doubtful journey into the semblance of a -morning’s task. Instead of going straight forward in -one steady strong tide, the birds were incessantly veering back -in wide circles, crossing and re-crossing each other’s -paths aimlessly, and weaving a mazy dark pattern on the sky.</p> -<p>I watched this dubious host from the hill-top until it -vanished in the eye of the sun; and then, fairly beaten at last -by the razor-edged north wind, turned and went back to the -village. It was winter again, in very truth; and there was -little sense or profit in blinking it. I would strike my -flag now, as I had struck it often before. <a -name="page282"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 282</span>And the -flag with me was the little staging of fernery that still -concealed the yawning blackness of my study hearth. I -pulled it all down and stowed it away; and by and by, when the -ash logs were sizzling and glowing, and the sparks were volleying -up the flue, and a living warmth pervading the room, I plucked up -new heart and courage:</p> -<blockquote><p>‘No mirth, no cheerfulness, no healthful -ease,<br /> -No comfortable feel in any member;<br /> -No warmth, no shine—’</p> -</blockquote> -<p>It was all as false now as it must ever have been. And -as for butterflies and bees, what but a sick fancy could crave -for such delicacies out of season?</p> -<h2><a name="page283"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -283</span>DECEMBER</h2> -<h3>I</h3> -<p><span class="smcap">We</span> sat on the churchyard wall, the -Reverend and I, debating many things.</p> -<p>It was one of those silent, gloomy afternoons that would be -cold but for their exceeding stillness. A heavy grey pall -of sky lowered overhead. A multitude of noisy sparrows was -going to bed in the thicket of ilex and yew, denoting that the -time was nearing sunset, although not a tinge of sunset colour -showed in the shrouded west. The same impulse, it seemed, -had brought us both out of doors, which, elementally, was nothing -more than a sudden realisation of the impossibility of remaining -within. In the whole year’s round, perhaps, there -come only two or three days like this. You become the prey -of a conviction that something cataclysmic is going to -happen. There is a sense of the world slowing down in its -age-long, giddy race through the pathless ether; a feeling that -its momentum is almost spent, and that any instant it may come <a -name="page284"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 284</span>to a final -stop, to be followed by the Last Trump and dissolution of all -things. The mute house seems alive about you, and full of a -sort of terror and foreboding. You are seized with an -apprehension that the ceilings and roof are falling in; and, -hurrying forth, a like doubt comes upon you as to the stability -of the sky: it looks so overburdened and unsafe. In this -easeless, impotent frame of mind, I came up into the churchyard -as being the most reassuring place I could think of, and found -the Reverend wandering there for a like reason and in much the -same mood.</p> -<p>‘Wind and dirty weather coming,’ said he, -‘the sort of times to make people think of home and -fireside, the need for human peace on earth, and good-will -towards men—the very weather for me.’</p> -<p>As we sat on the wall, silent awhile, the bells in far-off -Stavisham began their chime, every note drifting over to us sharp -and clear through the miles of torpid air.</p> -<p>‘Winter coming,’ he went on; ‘the winter we -all need once a year to knit us closer together. Listen to -Saint Barnabas practising his Christmas carillons!—forging -his link in the chain of bell-ringing that in a week or two will -stretch all round the world. It is my time coming, my own -time. For did you ever think how little <a -name="page285"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 285</span>eyesight -matters at Christmas? Blindness is nothing to a man -then. Christmas is all glad sound; warm heart-beats; -faithful words. And, please God, when the day dawns, there -shall not be a cottage-nest in Windlecombe that does not overflow -with these.’</p> -<p>To see him so deeply moved, and hear him run on presently -about his many schemes of comfort and relief, the furtherance of -joy and merriment, good-will and good cheer, to be sown broadcast -throughout his little domain, was yourself to take the infection -irresistibly. Whatever Christmas has become in the great -outer world, in Windlecombe he held us year by year to all the -old ideals and traditions. As I harkened to him, the black -sky, the sullen, miasmic air, lost their significance. I -found myself thinking only of the golden light and undimmed azure -that must eternally lie beyond and above it all. And -now—though I might have heard it long ago, if I had had but -the heart to look up and listen—there, high against the -drab heaven, a lark soared and sang.</p> -<h3>II</h3> -<p>The dirty weather has come indeed. For many days I have -not seen the tops of the hills. They have been hidden in -the rain-clouds that have <a name="page286"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 286</span>been dragging ceaselessly over the -combe. The rain has not seemed to fall, but to flow -horizontally from west to east, a gliding white curtain of -water-drops, hiding all but the nearest houses from the -view. And yet, for all the deluge and the sobbing wind, the -gloom, the cold, the miry ways, I would not change this solitary, -inaccessible spot in England for the best of foreign sunshine, -ease, and gaiety to be found by the Tideless Sea.</p> -<p>Perhaps, if winter is to be given a place at all in the -calendar, it must come in these few weeks leading on to -Christmas. It is true that, so far as the natural outdoor -world is concerned, there is no winter, in the human conception -of a season of decay and death. In an hour, when the sky -lightened a little and the rain ceased its rattle on the window, -I went out and found next year’s corn greening the -hill-side; and in all the bare dark woodland there was not a twig -without its new buds ripe and ready for another spring. The -year’s miracle-play was beginning all over again before its -last lines were said.</p> -<p>Yet because, as the old vicar maintains, winter is a human -necessity by reason of its heart-welding, neighbour-making -qualities, winter we must all have; and so at this time I am glad -to hoodwink myself into the belief that the rough-voiced, -harrying weather is the very negation of <a -name="page287"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 287</span>life, -bringing us all together for mutual comfort, like children in the -dark.</p> -<p>The rain is over now, seemingly for good. Last night at -sundown the wind fell, and the grey cloud canopy lifted off to -the northward, like the opening lid of a box. As the dense -cloud pack broke away from the western horizon, the sun burst -through, and poured a sudden stream of red-gold light up the -combe. Before this light had paled, the whole sky was -crystal clear; and in the east, just above the earth-line, shone -the moon—a perfect human face, full-jowled, low-foreheaded, -gazing down upon us all with a puzzled, quizzical smile upon her -comfortable chops. I came up the street apostrophising her, -and ran into a basket, and behind the basket was Grewes. He -laid a bunch of lean bony fingers in my hand.</p> -<p>‘This is life again,’ he said feelingly. -‘To be weatherbound in a caravan, you know— -Well, it is a little trying even for common people, but for a -genius—Spelthorne, you see, cannot bear any -constraint. At home he has a studio as big as a church, and -when it rains he walks up and down it. But when he tries -that in a caravan— Really, I have been very sorry for -him, though of course I kept outside as much as I -could.’</p> -<p>I had turned and strolled back with him under <a -name="page288"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 288</span>the pale -December twilight. The new quiet of things, the frosty -glimmer of the moon, here and there a star beginning to show, the -renovated life of the village about us—all made for peace -and content. Grewes suddenly stopped and laid his basket -down.</p> -<p>‘Spelthorne wants to move on now,’ he told me; -‘he says we have painted the place out, and I haven’t -tried to persuade him, you know, but—but—I -don’t want to go, and that’s a fact.’</p> -<p>He looked at me distressfully, his stubbly lantern jaw in his -lean hand.</p> -<p>‘What has happened to change the place so?’ he -asked. ‘Everybody you meet looks as if bound for a -wedding. You are all humming carol tunes wherever you -go. I haven’t seen a dirty-faced child for a -week. And how the people joke and laugh with each -other! It can’t be all because -Christmas—’</p> -<p>‘Yes, it is,’ said I, ‘it is all because one -old man we love insists on having it so, year by year. He -has been into every home in the village, great and small, and -fired each man, woman, and child with his own rejoicing -spirit. If you stop for the next ten days, you will see -things change more thoroughly still. Wait till you see them -bringing the Christmas-tree up the hill for the children’s -treat! And the committee going <a name="page289"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 289</span>round on Boxing-Day to award the -prizes for the home decorations! And if you have never -heard real old-fashioned carols, nor listened to a real Christmas -sermon preached by a holy angel in a white -beard—’</p> -<p>He took up his basket hurriedly.</p> -<p>‘If—if I must go,’ he said, as we trudged on -towards the quarry where the caravan had made its pitch, ‘I -shall think of you all wherever I— It seems rather -selfish to press him, don’t you think? But -perhaps— Oh! here we are! Do come in and talk -to Spelthorne for a bit, will you? He sees so little -company, and—’</p> -<p>‘Is that you at last, Grewes? My good fellow, what -an unconscionable time to take in procuring no more than one -pennyworth of pepper and just a pound of gravy beef! To say -that I am excessively annoyed is wholly to understate -my— Of course all my carefully-thought-out plans for -the meal are entirely upset!’</p> -<p>I drew back into the darkness.</p> -<p>‘No, not to-night. There are times when you cannot -stand—I mean, when a call is not convenient, -and— Why on earth don’t you tell the selfish -old brute to go to smithereens?’</p> -<h3><a name="page290"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -290</span>III</h3> -<p>This has been a week of undeniably hard work for us all, and -one, at least, is by no means sorry that to-morrow is Christmas -Eve.</p> -<p>Most of the time I seem to have spent on the top of a rickety -step-ladder in the school-room, having tin-tacks and boughs of -holly and gaily-coloured flags passed up to me by Mr. Weaverly -and the mutually distrustful Miss Sweet and Miss Matilda -Coles. Tom Clemmer, helped by half a dozen others, brought -the great tree up from Windle Woods, and it stands now in its tub -of spangled cotton-wool, a gorgeous sight, every branch weighed -down with toy-shop treasures, the queen-doll at its apex -brandishing her gilt-starred sceptre high up among the oaken -beams of the ceiling. Every available chair or bench in the -village has been confiscated, and ranged round the room. -The tables at the far end fairly creak and groan under their -burden of infantile good cheer. It is all ready for -to-morrow. We put in the finishing touches with the last -gleam of daylight this evening, Weaverly and I alone -together. Then he locked the door, speechlessly tired and -happy, and faded away—a black but benevolent ghost in -goloshes—down the length of the darkening street.</p> -<p>As for me, I followed at a respectful distance <a -name="page291"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 291</span>with no -object definitely in view but to smoke a quiet pipe after the -day’s work, and enjoy the unwonted life and bustle of the -village.</p> -<p>Thinking it over discriminately, it seemed to be a great -thing, a real advance on the true line of social progress, to be -strolling about there, taking unfeigned pleasure in the sight of -two small shops doubtfully illuminated with oil-lamps and -candles, and in the sound made by perhaps fifty people all told, -as they clattered and chattered to and fro in a single, narrow -village street. There were folk, I knew, wandering just as -aimlessly in the crowded thoroughfares of great cities miles -away, whose ears were deafened with a prodigious uproar, and eyes -blinded by a myriad superfluous lights, but who were not half so -entertained, so thoroughly instilled with the sense of being one -in a hustling, happy Christmas multitude, as I. Then again, -of all the thousands that the city promenader meets in the crush -of a London street between one electric standard and the next, -how many can he rightfully greet as neighbour, or even remember -to have seen before? While here was I, after a good -half-hour’s loitering up and down, who had encountered none -but old familiar faces, nor let one go by without the kind word -or friendly glance exchanged. Truly the scale, the mere -arithmetic of life goes for nothing: <a name="page292"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 292</span>it is the proportional, the -relative, that counts. There was not so much folly as we -imagine in the grave debate of the old philosophers as to how -many angels could stand upon a pin’s point.</p> -<p>I tarried awhile in the broad beam of light that fell from the -window of the village store, and, in the company of a dozen other -loiterers, feasted eyes on its Yule-tide splendour. From -where I stood on the opposite side of the way, it seemed no less -than a palace of glittering beauty. Candles of all colours -in little tinselled sconces shone amidst the wares of -everyday—bacon and worsted stockings, loaves of bread and -tin saucepans, butter, neckties, bars of mottled soap, and -trousers in moleskin or corduroy. The ceiling of the shop, -which at ordinary times is hidden by hanging festoons of boots, -basket-ware, hedging-gloves, coils of rope, was intersected now -by chains of coloured paper and threadled holly-leaves. -There was a suspended roasting-jack in a corner slowly twirling -round a grand set-piece of Christmas knick-knacks; and there were -two copper coalscuttles, the one filled with oranges, the other -heaped high with bunches of green grapes that made the mouth -water a dozen yards away. All these I gazed upon, and at -the jostling throng of housewives, at least half a score, within, -and at the red-faced, perspiring shopkeeper overdone with -business; and <a name="page293"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -293</span>from the bottom of my heart, I rejoiced that they -sufficed for me, that I should go to bed that night with as -complete a sense of having looked on at the great world’s -Yuletide gladness as if I had tired out feet and eyes and nerves -in the roaring maelstrom at the Elephant, or the Messina Strait -of the Strand. For indeed life and its disciplines, its -experiences, its outcomes, can be no mere matters of dimension: -when we come at last to find eternity and the angels, they are as -like to be on a pin’s point as out-thronging all the -labyrinth of the Milky Way.</p> -<p>From the village store I moved on presently to the little -sweetstuff shop, and stood awhile looking in through the -holly-garlanded door. Susan sat in a wilderness of -scalloped silver paper, presiding over a lucky tub. There -was no getting near her to-night for the mob of children that -surrounded her, and overflowed into the street; but she bawled me -an affectionate Christmas greeting, and passed me, by half a -dozen intervening hands—in exchange for a thrown -halfpenny—a packet from the lucky-dip, which proved to -contain a cherubim modelled out of pink scented soap. With -this symbolic testimony to our old-time friendship bulging my -pocket, I went rambling on again, and in course of time arrived -at the Three Thatchers Inn. A tilt-cart was just driving -away from the door. <a name="page294"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 294</span>A numerous company was gathered -outside, speeding the vehicle on its way with laugh and jest.</p> -<p>‘Ye’ve not fared so bad,’ roared old Daniel -Dray, as he spied me in the darkness, ‘though ye -didn’t come to th’ drawin’. Ye’ve -got a topside, an’ a hand o’ pig-meat. -Stall’ard here, he’s got wan o’ th’ -turkeys, an’ young George Artlett th’ tother. A -good club it ha’ been, considerin’. An’ -now the lot o’ us ha’ got to bide here ’til -Dan’l gets hoame from Stavisham wi’ th’ -tack.’</p> -<p>This annual prize-drawing, and division of the Christmas Club -funds, with the subsequent wait in the cosy inn parlour while the -things were fetched from the town, was a great event in -Windlecombe. On this one night in the year, we cultivated -as a fine art the pleasure of anticipation, and each did his best -to make the time go with mirth and neighbourly good-will. -The occasion was also, in some degree, a kind of benefit for the -landlord, to which all might contribute as a duty, if by any -chance the inclination lacked. Looking round the crowded -room, I could think of hardly one of the well-known faces that -was missing. The old ferryman was there—how he got -there was a mystery; but there he was, in the corner of the -settle whence he had been absent so long. Even George -Artlett had stayed <a name="page295"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -295</span>to await the arrival of his turkey, and now sat at my -side quaffing lemonade, his face as grave and thoughtful as ever, -but his eyes twinkling with a jollity I had never seen in them -before.</p> -<p>Young Daniel knew that no one would desire to curtail this -part of the prize-drawing ceremony, and there was little fear of -his wheels being heard in the sloppy street for a good two hours -to come. We stretched out our legs to the cheery blaze, and -felt that for once we had succeeded in wing-clipping old Father -Time.</p> -<p>‘Beef-club drawin’ agen, Dan’l!’</p> -<p>‘Ay! beef-club drawin’ agen, Tom.’</p> -<p>In a break in the general clamour, the two veterans exchanged -the thought slowly and pensively, looking down their long -pipe-stems into the fire.</p> -<p>‘An’ no one gone, Dan’l.’</p> -<p>‘Ne’er a wan, Tom, thank God.’</p> -<p>‘How quirk ’a do hould hisself, to be sure,’ -said old Tom Clemmer after a pause, and none doubted who he -meant. ‘Ah! an’ how ’a do brisk along -still! Another year o’ him by—’tis -another blessin’. Here’s to un, wi’ all -our love an’ dooty!’</p> -<p>It was a silent toast, but drunk deep. George -Artlett’s glass was lighter than any when he set it -down.</p> -<p>‘But ’tain’t been allers so,’ old -Clemmer went <a name="page296"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -296</span>on ruminatively. ‘How many drawin’s -ha’ ye seen, Dan’l, boy an’ -man?—threescore belike, and I bean’t fur ahent -ye. An’ many’s th’ time as summun’s -money ha’ laid on th’ table wi’ only widder or -poor-box to claim it; an’ he, poor soul, quiet i’ -th’ litten-yard up there. Ay! ’tis a lucky -drawin’ wi’ nane but livin’ hands to -draw.’</p> -<p>Daniel Dray took up the prize-list and scanned it curiously, -his white head thrown back, his spectacles straddling the extreme -tip of his nose.</p> -<p>‘An’ what,’ said he, ‘will a single -man, onmarried, do wi’ a whole gurt turkey-burd? -An’ him wi’ never a wife! ’Tis wicked -waste, neighbours! Him an’ th’ parrot, -they’ll ha’ nought but turkey-meat i’ th’ -house from now to Lady-time.’</p> -<p>Stallwood’s beady black eyes disappeared in a wide -smile.</p> -<p>‘I knowed a man once,’ he said, ‘out in Utah -State in Murriky, ’twur—as got a brace o’ -ostriches at a Christmas drawin’; an’ when it come to -carvin’ at dinner-time, th’ pore feller, he got no -more ’n half a bite fer hisself because—’ -He stopped, suddenly recollecting George Artlett’s -lustrating presence, ‘Ah! he wur married, I tell ye, -an’ never a wured o’ a lie!’</p> -<p>‘What’ll ’a do wi’ it, -Dan’!?’ The old <a name="page297"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 297</span>ferryman leant from his corner -eagerly, staring at the wall as though he saw there the picture -that rose in his mind. ‘What’ll ’a do -wi’ it? Jest think on ’t! Nobbut hisself -in a quiet kitchen o’ Christmas morning—his boots on, -an’ nane to rate un for spannellin’ -about—click-clack from the roastin’ jack, an’ -tick-tack from th’ clock, an’ a good cuss now -an’ agen from th’ ould parrot, but never a wured -o’ wimmin’s wrath. Ah, life!—’tis -all jest a gurt beef-club drawin’! Some on us draws -peace an’ quiet an’ turkey-burds, an’ some -draws—’</p> -<p>His lips closed on his pipe-stem with a snap. A -commiserate shake of the head went round the company.</p> -<p>‘An’ here,’ went on old Daniel, still -conning the prize-list, ‘here be Jack Farley wi’ bare -money an’ fower ounces o’ tobacker—him as -doan’t smoke, an’ has sixteen i’ family. -Lor’, Jack! how that there deuce-ace do foller ye i’ -life!’</p> -<p>Jack Farley sat in the draughtiest seat by the door, his -invariable modest choice of station. No one had ever seen -him without a smile on his emaciated, sun-blackened face; and now -he was smiling more determinedly than ever.</p> -<p>‘I dunno’, Dan’1,’ he expostulated -gently. ‘’Twur a real double-six when ’er -an’ me come together all they years ago. An’ -th’ chillern, <a name="page298"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 298</span>they be good throws, every -wan. An’ that there noo little ’un, -Dan’l—nauthin’ o’ th’ deuce-ace -about him, I tell ye! But them as putts to sea, -Dan’l, they must look fer rough weather, time and -agen.’</p> -<p>He squared himself and gazed about him as though his weekly -carter-wage of fourteen shillings were as many pounds. Then -he beat his mug upon the table jovially. ‘An’ -now,’ said he, ‘I’ll sing ye “Th’ -Mistletoe Bough!”’</p> -<p>It was the beginning of the real entertainment of the -evening. Vocal music in the Three Thatchers at ordinary -times was accounted a rather disreputable thing—a mere -tap-room vulgarism—by the habitual parlour company; but on -certain rare nights in the year, of which this was one, every man -present was expected to sing. One by one now, in Jack -Farley’s wake, followed the rest of the assembly, and every -song had a chorus that shook the very roof-beams of the -house. No man thought of looking at the clock until, in the -midst of a doleful melody from the landlord, old Tom Clemmer -suddenly sprang to his one available foot.</p> -<p>‘’Tis th’ cart!’ he cried, and made -for the door. In the general stampede after him, I heard -Captain Stallwood’s grumbling voice:</p> -<p>‘Ut bean’t right nohow fer people as caan’t -use tobacker to draw un away from them as can. <a -name="page299"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 299</span>I means to -ha’ that there fower ounces, Dan’l. An’ -Jack Farley—th’ ould swab!—’a must make -out as best ’a can wi’ th’ -turkey-burd.’</p> -<h3>IV</h3> -<p>‘Yes, I can see it,’ said the Reverend, -‘plainer than the sun in a midday sky.’</p> -<p>With a taper at the end of a long cane, I had just ignited the -last of the candles, and the great Christmas-tree stood up before -us, clad, from its bole to its highest twig, in a shimmering -garment of light. We two were alone in the schoolroom, but -beyond the closed door, we knew, was Mr. Weaverly; and, beyond -him again, a sea of expectant faces filling the wide porch, and -stretching out half across the street under the still, -frost-bound night. Every child that was not whispering -excitedly to its neighbour, was crooning to itself with -irrepressible joy; and the sound came to us through the solid -timber like the sound of a bee-hive just going to swarm.</p> -<p>‘Now open the door,’ said the Reverend, getting -into his corner. ‘And if you miss a single thing, -I’ll haunt you when I am gone to the end of your miserable -life.’</p> -<p>I turned the key in the lock, and retreated hastily. The -door flung open. I saw the black form of Mr. Weaverly -flicker aside, and expected <a name="page300"></a><span -class="pagenum">p. 300</span>the whole room to be invaded in a -minute by an avalanche of scrambling, vociferating mites. -But it did not happen so.</p> -<p>‘Not one has come in yet,’ said I, over the -Reverend’s shoulder. ‘They are just peering in -at the door. I can see thirty faces, perhaps, with thirty -mouths, and twice as many eyes, opened wide; but never a smile -among the lot. How quiet they keep! But now trembling -fingers are coming round the doorposts, and a boot or two has got -beyond the threshold. The reluctant vanguard is being -pressed forward by those behind. They are creeping in now -at last. The crowd has divided, and they are edging up the -room right and left, keeping their shoulders against the -walls. And all the time every wide-open eye remains fixed -upon the tree in awestruck delight. You hear that low -whispering note? They are beginning to find their voices -again, and the girls are at last venturing to let go one -another’s hands. They are all in now, I think. -At least the room could hardly hold another—’</p> -<p>And just as a failing mill-dam begins to ooze, then to trickle -and spurt, and finally, in a moment gives way before the pressing -tide, so the silence now broke down under the flood of child -voices. Shouts and hurrahs, shrill peals of laughter, a -hubbub of delighted commentary, made the <a -name="page301"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 301</span>rafters -vibrate above us, and the window-glass tremble in its -quarries. Before the din had so far moderated that I could -get my tongue to work again in the old vicar’s service, -Weaverly and his satellites were forging ahead with the first -joyful business of the night.</p> -<p>It all comes back to me now—as I sit alone and late by -my workroom fire—clearer perhaps than when I was in the -vortex of it all, with the happy voices ringing about me, and the -toy-drums and trumpets, the mouth-organs and the whistle-pipes, -each going to swell the already deafening chorus the moment it -was cut from the tree and put into some eager, uplifted -hand. I can see the great glittering pyramid of the tree -slowly giving up its treasures, until it bears nothing but the -queen-doll waving her star-tipped wand up among the flags and -paper chains and holly garlands of the ceiling. I see -Weaverly, poised on the top of the rickety ladder, gingerly -dislodging her from her perch, while two overdressed and -over-perfumed ladies hold the ladder firm below, and gaze up at -him with fond and anxious eyes.</p> -<p>Now at last I see the Christmas-tree deserted, forgotten, -while the tables at the end of the room are unloading themselves -of their cakes and oranges and the score of other items -appertaining to the feast. This is a silent time, save for -the <a name="page302"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -302</span>exploding crackers and occasional shrieks of fearsome -delight; but it is over at last. The games begin, and with -them reawakens all the old turmoil in redoubled fury. -Though each of us has eaten more than is credible in any but a -Downland-bred child, this in no way impairs our agility. We -hunt the slipper; we sing ourselves hoarse with ‘Green -Gravel’; we play ‘Blind Man’s Buff,’ and -the Reverend, being caught, is allowed to go through the part of -Blind Man, at his own jovial suggestion, without the handkerchief -over his eyes.</p> -<p>And now two things come back to me more significant than -all. But for this busy quarter of an hour—when he is -staggering to and fro, clutching at pinafores and shock heads of -hair—the Reverend has been rather a silent and deliberate -figure in the midst of all the madcap business, more detached and -quiet than I have known him at other Christmas gaieties -bygone. He has hovered about on the fringe of the -merrymaking, happy-faced as ever, yet with a certain slowness, a -languor, that I have never marked in him before. This is -the one thing. The other is a random glance I take over my -shoulder at the Christmas-tree, when the fun and frolic are at -their highest. Pathetically forlorn and deserted it looks, -with bits of string clinging here and there to its drooping green -fronds, a single <a name="page303"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -303</span>shining trinket hanging forgotten on one of its lower -branches, and half its glory already quenched. As I look at -it, every moment sees another candle gutter out and die. A -few minutes more, I think, and it will be nothing but a sombre -and solemn fir-tree again, ready to be carted down and set once -more amidst the silent glooms of the wood. Somehow, in -spite of myself, the two things, the two thoughts, blend -themselves indivisibly together. I am glad now that, while -through the long evening I poured into the Reverend’s -patient ear much idle chatter and many feather-brained conceits, -I said no word to him about the dying Christmas-tree.</p> -<p>While I have been sitting here, turning over these thoughts, -my own candles have burned low: the wood-fire has sunk to a few -waning embers: it must be growing late, how late I do not guess -until I turn to look at the clock. Almost midnight! -Another minute or two, and then—Christmas morning! -Perhaps, as the night is so clear and still, I shall be able to -hear the hour chime in far-off Stavisham. I go to the -window, throw back the casement against the rustling ivy, and -look forth.</p> -<p>There is the glimmer of a lantern over by the Seven Sisters on -the green, and a sound of people talking quietly together. -I think I can distinguish George Artlett’s deep tones, and -his <a name="page304"></a><span class="pagenum">p. -304</span>brother Tom’s—the Singing -Plowman’s—higher, clearer speech, and an admonitory -word or two that might be Weaverly’s. The clock is -striking now. Before its last droning note dies on the -frosty air, the darkness beneath me fills with a living, joyous -music:</p> -<blockquote><p>‘Hark! the herald angels sing <br /> -Glory to the new-born King,<br /> -Peace on earth, and mercy mild, <br /> -God and sinners reconciled. <br /> -Joyful all ye nations, rise, <br /> -Join the triumph of the skies;<br /> -With the angelic host proclaim, <br /> -“Christ is born in Bethlehem.”<br /> - Hark! the herald angels sing<br /> - Glory to the new-born King!’</p> -</blockquote> - -<div class="gapspace"> </div> - -<div class="gapshortline"> </div> -<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">Printed by -T. and A. 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