To the historically and archaeologically minded the castle and walls at
Portchester are of great importance. Romans, Britons, Saxons,
Normans--they all made use of this well-defended place for long
centuries, and it still stands, much of it well preserved, to be
explored and admired by many thousands of visitors every year. What
most interested me was the sight of two small boys playing in the
churchyard. The village church, as at Silchester, is inside the old
Roman walls, in a corner, the village itself being some distance away.
After strolling round the churchyard I sat down on a stone under the
walls and began watching the two boys--little fellows of the cottage
class from the village who had come, each with a pair of scissors, to
trim the turf on two adjoining mounds. The bigger of the two, who was
about ten years old, was very diligent and did his work neatly,
trimming the grass evenly and giving the mound a nice smooth
appearance. The other boy was not so much absorbed in his work; he kept
looking up and making jeering remarks and faces at the other, and at
intervals his busy companion put down his shears and went for him with
tremendous spirit. Then a chase among and over the graves would begin;
finally, they would close, struggle, tumble over a mound and pommel one
another with all their might. The struggle over, they would get up,
shake off the dust and straws, and go back to their work. After a few
minutes the youngest boy recovered from his punishment, and, getting
tired of the monotony, would begin teasing again, and a fresh flight
and battle would ensue.
By-and-by, after witnessing several of these fights, I went down and
sat on a mound next to theirs and entered into conversation with them.
"Whose grave are you trimming?" I asked the elder boy.
It was his sister's, he said, and when I asked him how long she had
been dead, he answered, "Twenty years." She had died more than ten
years before he was born. He said there had been eight of them born,
and he was the youngest of the lot; his eldest brother was married and
had children five or six years old. Only one of the eight had
died--this sister, when she was a little girl. Her name was Mary, and
one day every week his mother sent him to trim the mound. He did not
remember when it began--he must have been very small. He had to trim
the grass, and in summer to water it so as to keep it always smooth and
fresh and green.
Before he had finished his story the other little fellow, who was not
interested in it and was getting tired again, began in a low voice to
mock at his companion, repeating his words after him. Then my little
fellow, with a very serious, resolute air, put the scissors down, and
in a moment they were both up and away, doubling this way and that,
bounding over the mounds, like two young dogs at play, until, rolling
over together, they fought again in the grass. There I left them and
strolled away, thinking of the mother busy and cheerful in her cottage
over there in the village, but always with that image of the little
girl, dead these twenty years, in her heart.