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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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