Produced by David Fawthrop and Alison Bush
More Tales of the Ridings
by
F.W.Moorman, 1872 - 1919
Late Professor of English Language, Leeds University.
Editor of "_Yorkshire Dialect Poems_"
London, Elkin Mathews, Cork Street 1920
Contents
Melsh Dick
Two Letters
A Miracle
Tales of a grandmother
I. The Tree of Knowledge
II. Janet's Cove
The Potato and the Pig
Coals of Fire
Melsh Dick
Melsh Dick is the last survivor of our woodland divinities. His pedigree
reaches back to the satyrs and dryads of Greek mythology; he claims
kinship with the fauns that haunted the groves of leafy Tibur, and he
lorded it in the green woods of merry England when
The woodweele sang and wold not cease,
Sitting upon the spraye,
Soe lowde he wakened Robin Hood
In the greenwood where he lay.
But he has long since fallen upon evil days, and it is only in the most
secluded regions of the Pennines, where vestiges of primeval forest
still remain and where modern civilisation has scarcely penetrated, that
he is to be met with to-day. Melsh is a dialect word for unripe, and the
popular belief is that Melsh Dick keeps guard over unripe nuts; while
"Melsh Dick'll catch thee, lad" was formerly a threat used to frighten
children when they went a-nutting in the hazel-shaws. But we may,
perhaps, take a somewhat wider view of this woodland deity and look upon
him as the tutelary genius of all the young life of the forest--the
callow broods of birds, the litters of foxes and squirrels, and the
sapling oaks, hazels, and birches. There was a time when he was looked
upon as a genial fairy, who would bring Yule-logs to the farmers on
Christmas Eve and direct the woodmen in their tasks of planting and
felling; latterly, however, he is said to have grown churlish and
malignant. The reckless felling of young trees for fencing and pit-props
is supposed to have roused his ill-will, and sinister stories have been
told of children who have gone into the woods for acorns or hazel-nuts
and have never been seen again.
It was in the Bowland Forest district, which is watered by the Ribble
and its tributary becks, that I heard the fullest account of Melsh Dick;
and the following story was communicated to me by an old peasant whose
forefathers had for generations been woodmen in Bowland Forest. The
region where he lived is rich in legend, and not far away is the old
market town of Gisburn, where Guy of that ilk fought with Robin Hood,
and where, until the middle of the nineteenth century, a herd of the
wild cattle of England roamed through the park.
"Fowks tell a mak o' tales about witches, barguests, an' sike-like," Owd
Dont began, "but I tak no count o' all their clash; I reckon nowt o'
tales without they belang my awn family. But what I's gannin to tell you
is what I've heerd my mother say, aye scores o' times; so you'll know
it's true. A gradely lass were my mother, an' noan gien to leein', like
some fowks I could name. There's owd lasses nowadays, gie 'em a sup o'
chatter-watter an' a butter-shive, an' they'll tell you tales that would
fotch t' devil out o' his den to hark tul 'em."
After this attack upon the licence of the tea-table, Owd Dont needed a
long draught of March ale to regain his composure. I knew that it was
worse than useless to attempt to hurry him in his narrative. Leisurely
at the start, the pace of his stories quickened considerably as he
warmed to his work, and it was not without reason that he had acquired a
reputation of being the best story-teller on the long settle of the Ring
o' Bells.
"'Twere back-end o' t' yeer," he continued at last, "an' t' lads had
gone into t' woods to gether hesel-nuts an' accorns. There were a
two-three big lads amang 'em, but most on 'em were lile uns, an' yan
were lame i' t' leg. They called him Doed o' Billy's o' Claypit Lane.
Well, t' lads had gotten a seet o' nuts, an' then they set off home as
fast as they could gan, for 'twere gettin' a bit dosky i' t' wood. But
lile Doed couldn't keep up wi' t' other lads on account o' his gam leg.
So t' lads kept hollain' out to him to look sharp an' skift hissen, or
he'd get left behind. So Doed lowped alang as fast as he were able, but
he couldn't catch up t' other lads, choose what he did, an' all t' time
t' leet were fadin' out o' t' sky. At lang length he thowt he saw yan o'
t' lads waitin' for him under an oak, but when he'd gotten alangside o'
him, he fan' it were a lad that he'd niver clapped een on afore. He were
no bigger nor Doed, but 'twere gey hard to tell how owd he were; and
he'd a fearful queer smell about him; 'twere just as though he'd taen t'
juices out o' all t' trees o' t' wood an' smeared 'em ower his body. But
what capped all were t' clothes he was donned in; they were covered wi'
green moss, an' on his heead was a cap o' red fur.
"Well, when Doed saw him, he was a bit flaid, but t' lad looked at him
friendly-like and says:
"'Now then, Doed, wheer ista boun'?'
"'I's boun' home,' says Doed, an' his teeth started ditherin' wi' freet.
"'Well, I's gannin thy ways,' says t' lad, 'so, if thou likes, thou can
coom alang wi' me. Thou'll happen not have seen me afore, but I can tell
who thou is by t' way thou favvours thy mother. Thou'll have heerd tell
o' thy uncle, Ned Bowker, that lives ower by Sally Abbey; he's my
father, so I reckon thou an' me's cousins.'
"Now Doed had heerd his mother tell about his Uncle Ned, an' when t' lad
said that Ned Bowker were his father, he gat a bit aisier in his mind;
but for all that he didn't altogether like t' looks o' him. Howiver,
they gat agate o' talkin', and Doed let on that he were fearful fain o'
squirrels. You see, he kept all nations o' wild birds an' wild animals
down at his house; he'd linnets an' nanpies i' cages, and an ark full o'
pricky-back urchins. But he'd niver catched a squirrel; they were ower
wick for him, an' he wanted a squirrel more nor owt else i' t' world.
"When Melsh Dick heard that--for o' course t' lad was Melsh Dick
hissen--he said that if Doed would coom wi' him, he'd sooin gie him what
he wanted. He'd bin climmin' t' trees an' had catched a squirrel an'
putten it i' t' basket he'd browt his dinner in.
"Well, lile Doed hardlins knew what to do. 'Twere gettin' lat, an' there
were summat about t' lad that set him agin him. But then he bethowt him
o' t' squirrel, an' t' squirrel were ower mich for him. So he said to
Melsh Dick that he'd gan wi' him an' fotch t' squirrel, but he munnot
stop lang, or fowks would consate that he'd lossen his way i' t' wood
an' would coom seekin' him. When Melsh Dick heerd him say that he'd coom
wi' him, his een fair glistened, an' he set off through t' wood wi' lile
Doed followin' efter him. T' wood was full of gert oak-trees, wi' birks
set amang 'em that had just begun to turn colour. Efter a while they gat
to a dub i' t' middle o' t' wood; 'twere no bigger nor a duck-pond, but
t' watter was deep, an' all around t' dub was a ring o' espin-trees wi'
their boughs hingin' ower t' watter. Eh! 'twas a grand seet, sure enif,
an' Doed had niver seen owt like it afore. T' sky had bin owercussen wi'
hen-scrattins an' filly-tails, but when they gat to t' dub t' wind had
skifted 'em, an' t' mooin were shinin' ower Pendle Hill way an' leetin'
up t' trees and makkin' t' watter glisten like silver. Lile Doed were
that fain he started clappin' his hands an' well-nigh forgat all about
Melsh Dick an' t' squirrel. Then all on a sudden he gat agate o'
laughin', for when he saw t' mooin' i' t' watter he bethowt him o' a
tale his mother had telled him o' soom daft fowks that had seen t' mooin
i' t' watter an' thowt it were a cheese an' started to rake it out wi' a
hay-rake.
"When Melsh Dick heerd him laughin', he were fair mad. He thowt Doed
were laughin' at him, an' what maddens fairies more nor owt else is to
think that fowks is girnin' at 'em. Howiver, he said nowt, but set
hissen down anent t' dub an' Doed did t' same. Then they gat agate o'
talkin', an' Doed axed Melsh Dick what for he was covered wi' green
moss.
"'If thou'd to clim' trees same as I have,' answered Melsh Dick, 'thou'd
be covered wi' moss too, I'll uphod.'
"'An' what for doesta wear yon cap o' red fur**??'
"'Why sudn't I wear a fur cap, I'd like to know. My mother maks 'em o'
squirrel skins, an' they're fearful warm i' winter-time.'
"When lile Doed heerd him tell o' squirrels, he bethowt him o' t'
squirrel i' t' basket an' wanted to set forrard.
"'Bide a bit,' says Melsh Dick, 'an' I'll show thee more squirrels nor
iver thou's seen i' all thy life.'
"With that he taks a whistle out of his pocket; 'twere Just like a penny
tin whistle, but 'twere made o' t' rind o' a wandy esh, an' Melsh Dick
had shapped it hissen wi' his whittle. Then he put t' whistle to his
mouth an' started to blow. He blew a two-three notes, an' sure enif,
there was a scufflin' i' t' trees an' i' less nor hauf-a-minute there
were fower or five squirrels sittin' on t' boughs o' t' espins. When
Doed saw t' squirrels i' t' mooinleet, he were fair gloppened. He
glowered at 'em, an' they glowered back at him, an' their een were as
breet as glow-worms.
"All t' while Melsh Dick kept tootlin' wi' his whistle an' t' squirrels
com lowpin' through t' trees, while t' espins round t' dub were fair
wick wi' 'em. You could hardlins see t' boughs for t' squirrels. 'Twere
same as if all t' squirrels i' Bowland Forest had heerd t' whistle an'
bin foorced to follow t' sound. They didn't mak no babblement, but just
set theirsens down on their huggans, pricked up their lugs, cocked their
tails ower their rigs, and kept their een fixed on Melsh Dick.
"Well, when Melsh Dick thowt he'd gethered squirrels enew, he started to
play a tune, an' 'twere an uncouth tune an' all. Soomtimes 'twere like
t' yowlin' o' t' wind i' t' chimley, an' soomtimes 'twere like t'
yammerin' o' tewits an' curlews on t' moor. But when t' squirrels heerd
t' tune, they gat theirsens into line alang t' boughs, an' there were
happen twelve squirrels on ivery bough. Then they gat agate o' lowpin';
they lowped frae tree to tree, reet round t' dub, wi' their tails set
straight out behind 'em. They were that close togither, 'twere just like
a gert coil o' red rope twinin' round t' watter; and all t' time they
kept their faces turned to Melsh Dick, an' their een were blazin' like
coals o' fire. Round an' round they went, as lish as could be, an' lile
Doed just hoddled his breeath an' glowered at 'em. He'd seen horses
lowpin' in a ring at Slaidburn Fair, but 'twere nowt anent squirrels
lowpin' i' t' espins round t' dub.
"Efter a while Doed thowt that Melsh Dick would sooin give ower playin'
tunes on t' whistle, but he did nowt o' t' sort. He just played faster
nor iver, an' all t' time he kept yan eye fixed on squirrels an' yan eye
fixed on lile Doed, to see if owt would happen him. An' t' faster he
played t' faster lowped t' squirrels. You see, they were foorced to keep
time wi' t' whistle. At lang length t' tune gat to be nobbut a shrike
an' a skreel. Doed had niver heerd sike-like afore; 'twere as though all
t' devils i' hell had gotten lowse an' were yammerin' through t' sky wi'
a strang wind drivin' 'em forrard. Eh! 'twere an uncouth sound, and an
uncouth seet, too, an' lile Doed's teeth started ditherin' an' every
limb in his body was tremmlin' like t' espin leaves on t' trees round t'
dub. An' nows an' thens a gert white ullet would coom fleein' through t'
boughs, an' all t' time there were lile bats flutterin' about ower t'
watter an' coomin' so close agean Doed they ommost brushed his face wi'
their wings.
"Doed was wellnigh flaid to deeath, but for all that he couldn't tak his
een off o' t' squirrels; they'd bewitched him, had t' squirrels. He put
his hand to his heead, and it felt as though 'twere twinin' round an'
round. Now that was just what Melsh Dick wanted, and why he'd set t'
squirrels lowpin' in a ring. He couldn't do nowt to Doed so lang as he
were maister o' his senses, but if he was to get fair giddy an' drop off
into a dwam, then, sure enif, Melsh Dick would have him i' his power and
could turn him intul a squirrel as he'd turned other lads an' lasses
afore. Wae's t' heart! but he were in a parlous state, were lile Doed,
but he knew nowt about it for all that. When he felt his heead gettin'
mazy, he consated he were fallin' asleep; his een gat that dazed he
couldn't see t' squirrels no more, an' he thowt he mun be liggin' i' his
bed at home under t' clothes. Then suddenly he bethowt him that he were
fallin' asleep without sayin' his prayers. You see, his mother had larnt
him a prayer, an' telled him he mun say it to hissen every neet afore he
gat into bed. Well, Doed aimed to say his prayer, but t' words had
gotten clean out o' his heead. That made him a bit unaisy, for he were a
gooid lad an' it hooined him to think that he'd forgotten t' words. All
that he could call to mind was an owd nominy that he'd heerd t' lads an'
lasses say when they were coomin' home fra schooil. He reckoned 'twere
more like a bit o' fun nor a prayer, but all t' same, when he couldn't
bethink him o' t' words his mother had larnt him, he started sayin' t'
nominy, an' sang out, as loud as he could:
Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John,
Bless the bed that I lig on.
"He'd no sooiner said t' words when all on a sudden Melsh Dick gav ower
playin', t' squirrels gav ower lowpin', t' bats gav ower fleein' across
t' dub, t' mooin gat behind a gert thunner-cloud, an' t' wood an' t'
watter were as black as a booit. Then there com a scufflin' an' a
skrikin' all ower t' wood. T' squirrels started spittin' an' sweerin'
like mad, t' ullets yammered an' t' wind yowled, an' there was all maks
an' manders o' noises owerheead. Then, efter a minute, t' mooin gat
clear o' t' thunner-pack, an' Doed glowered around. But there was nowt
to be seen nowheer. Melsh Dick was no langer sittin' anent him, an'
there was niver a squirrel left i' t' trees; all that he could clap een
on was t' espin leaves ditherin' i' t' wind an' t' lile waves o' t' dub
wappin' agean t' bank.
"Doed was well-nigh starved to deeath wi' cowd an' hunger, an' t' poor
lad started roarin' same as if his heart would breek. But he'd sense
enif to shout for help, an' efter a while there com an answer. His
father an' t' lads frae t' village had bin seekin' him all ower t' wood,
and at last they fan him an' hugged him home an' put him to bed. 'Twere
a lang while afore he were better, an' choose what fowks said, he'd
niver set foot i' t' wood agean without he'd a bit o' witchwood i' his
pocket, cut frae a rowan-tree on St Helen's Day."
Two Letters
Annie was busy at the washtub, and it was her mother, who had come to
live with her and her baby while her husband was at the Front, that
answered the postman's knock and brought in the parcel.
"Annie, here's a parcil thro' France. It'll be thy Jim that's sent it. I
can tell his writin' onywhere, though his hand do seem a bit shaky
like."
"What's he sendin' naa, I'd like to know?" asked Annie, in a tone of
real or feigned indifference. "He's allus wearin' his brass on all maks
o' oddments that he's fun i' them mucky trenches, or bowt off uther
lads. Nay, tha can oppen it thisen, muther; my hands is all covered wi'
suds."
Annie's mother undid the parcel and took out a large German helmet, but
it somehow failed to arouse much enthusiasm on the part of either mother
or daughter. Jim had already gone far towards converting his wife's
kitchen into an arsenal, and, as Annie said, "there was no end o' wark
sidin' things away an' fettlin' up t' place."
At the bottom of the helmet was an envelope addressed to "Mrs Annie
Akroyd, 7 Nineveh Lane, Leeds," and the mother handed it to her
daughter.
"I'm ower thrang to read it naa," said Annie; "it'll hae to wait while
I've finished weshin'."
"Eh! but tha'll want to know how thy Jim's gettin' on. Happen he'll be
havin' short leave sooin. I'll read it to thee misen."
She opened the envelope and began to read the letter. It ran as
follows:--
"Dear Annie,--I hope this finds you well, as it leaves me at present.
I'm sendin' thee a helmet that I took off a German that I com across i'
one o' them gert sump-hoils that t' Jack Johnsons maks i' t' grund. He
were a fearful big gobslotch, so I reckon t' helmet will do to wesh aar
Jimmy in. When he gets a bit owder, he can laik at sodgers wi' it.
"I've coom aat o' t' trenches an' am enjoyin' a rest-cure behind t'
lines; so don't thou worry thisen abaat me. I'm champion, an' I've nowt
to do but eyt an' sleep an' write a two-three letters when I've a mind
to; and what caps all is that I'm paid for doin' on it. There's a lass
here that said shoo'd write this here letter for me; but I'd noan have
her mellin' on t' job, though shoo were a bonny lass an' all----"
"What mak o' lass is yon?" interrupted Annie. "If he's bin takkin' up
wi' one o' them French lasses, he'll get a bit o' my mind when he cooms
back. He've allus bin fearful fain o' t' lasses, has Jim, an' I've
telled him more nor once I'd have no more on't. An' them Frenchies is
nasty good-for-nowts, I'll warrant. They want a few o' their toppins
pulled."
Here she paused, and the rest of her wrath was vented on the clothes in
the tub. Her mother continued to read aloud:
"Mind you let me know if Leeds beats Barnsla i' t' Midland Section next
Setterday. It'll be a long while afore I clap eyes on a paper aat here,
an' I've putten a bit o' brass on Leeds winnin' t' game. An' tell my
father he mun tak my linnit daan to t' Spotted Duck for t' next singin'
competition. He's a tidy singer is Bobby, if he's nobbut properly looked
efter. Tha mun mesh up a bit o' white o' egg wi' his linseed; there's
nowt like white o' egg for makkin' linnets sing----"
Once again Annie broke in upon the perusal of the letter. "Eh! but t'
lad's fair daft. All he thinks on is fooitball an' linnit matches. White
o' egg for linnits, is it! I'd have him know that eggs cost brass
nah-a-days. Why don't he 'tend to his feightin' an' get a stripe like
Sarah Worsnop's lad ower t' way?"
"Whisht a bit!" exclaimed her mother, "while I've gotten to t' end o' t'
letter. Eh! but he do write bad; t' words is fair tum'lin' ower one
anuther."
"I was in a bit o' a mullock," Private James Akroyd's letter went on,
"t' last time we were i' t' trenches; 'twern't mich to tell abaat, but
'twere hot while it lasted. There's lads says I'm baan to get a V.C. But
don't thou hark tul 'em; V.C.'s are noan for t' likes o' me.
"Jim."
"Is that all?" asked Annie, as her mother folded up the letter. "Don't
he want to know how mony teeth aar Jimmy's gotten, or owt abaat t'
pot-dogs I bowt i' t' markit."
"Nay, that's all," replied her mother, "without there's summat else i'
t' helmet." As she spoke she searched the helmet, and soon produced
another letter. It also was addressed to "Mrs Annie Akroyd," but in a
woman's hand. She opened the envelope and proceeded to read it aloud.
"Dear Mrs Akroyd,--You will have received a telegram from the War Office
telling you of your husband's death----"
As she heard the dreadful tidings, Annie turned deadly pale for a
moment; then the blood rushed streaming back, till face and neck were
crimson.
"It's a lee," she shouted, "a wicked lee. I ain't gotten no tillygram,
an' he said he were well an' enjoyin' a rest-cure."
Then she snatched the letter from her mother's trembling hands and, with
swimming eyes, read it to herself. It had been written by the hospital
nurse, and continued as follows:--
"He was terribly wounded when he was brought here, but I cannot tell you
how splendid he was. All his thoughts were of you and your little boy,
and he would write to you himself, though I wanted him to give me the
pencil and paper. He said that if he didn't write himself, you would
know that something was wrong with him.
"The Colonel came here specially to see him, and he told me that he
should certainly recommend him for the V.C. Your husband was a brave man
and did brave things; he gave his life to save another's. He was wounded
with shrapnel in the head and spine as he was crossing No Man's Land.
The officer to whom he was attached as orderly had been hit in one of
the shell-holes, and your husband crawled out of his trench in full view
of the enemy's line, and brought him back. It was on the return journey
that he received his wounds. The officer is safe, and will recover.
"Great as your sorrow must be, I hope you will be cheered by the thought
that your husband laid down his life for you and me and all of us. If
the V.C. is granted, you will have to go to Buckingham Palace to receive
it, and I am sure the King would like you to take your little boy with
you.
"Yours in truest sympathy,
"Nurse Goodwin."
When Annie had finished the letter she let it fall, and, staggering to a
seat, flung her hands, still wet and bleached with the labours of the
washtub, upon the table; then, burying her face in them she sobbed her
heart out.
"I don't want no V.C.," she exclaimed at last, between her sobs. "I want
my Jim!"
A Miracle
Sam Ineson and Jerry Coggill were seasoned soldiers long before the
Palestine campaign began. They had spent two winters in the trenches of
France and Flanders, and when the news reached them that their battalion
had been chosen to reinforce General Allenby's army in Egypt, they took
it as a compliment. Pestilence, murder, and sudden death might be in
store for them, but they would at any rate escape trench warfare, with
all its attendant horrors and discomforts. Their comrades at divisional
head-quarters gave them a good send-off. "Remember us to Pharaoh," they
said, "and you can send us a few mummies for Christmas; they'll do for
mascots."
The two soldiers, who were Yorkshire farmers' sons, and knew every inch
of the Craven country, from Malham Cove to Kilnsey Crag, had joined the
Egyptian army just as it was preparing to cross the desert on its way to
the Holy Land. They had taken part in the great victory at Beersheba,
and then, driving the Turks before them over the mountains of Judea, had
finally stormed the fortifications of Hebron. Elated by their success,
their hope was that their battalion would be allowed to press forward at
once so that they might spend Christmas Day in Jerusalem. In this they
were disappointed. Other battalions were chosen for this proud
undertaking, and when General Allenby entered the Holy City in triumph
Sam and Jerry were still in the neighbourhood of Hebron, engaged in
repairing the fortifications and restoring order.
At last the command came to advance. They were, however, to proceed in
small parties, and to share in an enveloping movement among the hills.
Small detachments of Turkish soldiers were known to be lurking among the
limestone terraces between Hebron and Jerusalem, and their duty was to
break these up by means of guerrilla warfare, and prevent surprise
attacks descending at night from the hills on to the army's
communication lines.
The two Yorkshiremen, accustomed all their lives to the shepherding of
Swaledale ewes among their native moors, were well qualified for this
task. The limestone hills of Judea bear a striking resemblance to the
Craven highlands, and Sam and Jerry had a practised eye for
hiding-places among the rocks, as well as for the narrow sheep-tracks
which lead from one limestone terrace to another. In the course of the
next fortnight they rounded up many bands of ragged Turkish soldiers,
and were steadily driving the rest before them in a northerly direction.
By 24th December they were within five miles of Jerusalem, and the hope
that they might yet reach their goal on Christmas Day came back once
more to their minds.
But it was not to be. The morning of the 24th found them near the source
of one of the many wadies which, after the rains of November and
December, rush in torrents through the boulder-strewn valleys, and empty
themselves into the Dead Sea. The morning broke clear, but, as the day
advanced, a thick mist descended from the hills and made progress
difficult. But the ardour of the men, now that the goal was almost in
sight, was such that it was impossible to hold them back. In small
pickets they climbed the steep hill-sides, penetrated through the groves
of olive, fig and pomegranate trees which clothe the successive tiers of
limestone terraces, and reached the high plateau above. But at every
step upwards the hill-mist grew thicker, and, in spite of all attempts
to keep together, the pickets of soldiers became split up. When four
o'clock arrived, Sam and Jerry found themselves alone on the hills and
completely ignorant of their bearings. The short winter day was drawing
to a close, and they were in danger of being benighted among the Judean
uplands on Christmas Eve. They determined to make a descent to the point
from which they had started in the morning, but, after an hour's
wandering in the mist, found themselves no nearer their goal. Darkness
was now creeping swiftly upon them, and they realised the dangers of a
fall over one of the terraced cliffs.
"We're fair bet," said Jerry at last. "There'll be nea Chrissamas dinner
for us to-morn i' Jerusalem, I reckon."
"Thou's reight," replied Sam; "we sall hae to bide here while t' mist
lifts, an' do t' best we can for wersels. Bully-beef an' biscuit is what
we'll git for wer dinners, an' there'll be nea sittin' ower t' fire at
efter, watchin' t' Yule-clog burn, an' eytin' spice-loaf an' cheese."
"Nivver mind, lad, we've had a cappin' time sin we set out on t' march
to Jerusalem, an' if we wasn't here we'd happen be up to wer oxters i'
Flanders muck."
"Aye, we've noan done sae badly," Sam Ineson agreed, "and we sall hae
summat to crack about when we git back to Wharfedale, choose how.
Thou'll hae to tak a Sunday schooil class at Gerston, Jerry, an' tell t'
lads all about Solomon's pools, where we catched them Turks, an' t' tomb
o' t' Prophet Samuel anent Hebron."
"Nay, I reckon t' lang settle at t' Anglers' Arms will be more i' my
line. But we're noan through wi' t' job yet awhile."
After this conversation, uttered in whispers, for fear lest their
presence should be disclosed to any Turks lurking in the neighbourhood,
the two soldiers took shelter under the lee of a limestone crag, drew
their overcoats tightly around them, and proceeded to eat their rations.
The prospect of spending a night on the uplands of Judea in a driving
mist did not dismay them. They had fared worse many a night in France
and Flanders, and also knew what it was to be benighted on the Yorkshire
moors. Moreover, they were tired after their wanderings among the hills,
and it was not long before they fell fast asleep.
Jerry was awakened after a while by a familiar sound close to his ear.
He drew himself up and listened, then burst into a laugh, and roused his
fellow.
"Eh! Sam," he said, "thou mun wakken up. We reckon we're sodgers; we're
nowt o' t' sort; sure enough, we're nobbut shipperd lads."
Sam sat up and listened. The sound of a sheep's cough close at hand met
his ear, and, straining his eyes, he saw a whole flock of sheep browsing
the short grass around him.
"That caps iverything I've heeard tell on," he exclaimed. "Chrissamas
Eve an' two shipperd lads frae Wharfedale keepin' watch ower their flock
by neet i' t' Holy Land. An' accordin' to what Sergeant said, Bethlehem
sud not be sae vara far away frae here."
The situation in which the two shepherds found themselves touched their
imaginations, and they ceased to regret that they were in danger of
missing a Christmas Day at Jerusalem. They listened to the sheep for a
time, until the cry of a jackal startled the animals, and the flock
dispersed. Then the two soldiers fell asleep once more.
Shortly before midnight they awoke with a sudden start. A strange light
gleamed in their faces, and the mist had almost vanished. The hill-sides
and the sky above were bathed in a pearly light, while almost
immediately above them they beheld a city, as it were let down from
heaven and suspended in mid-air, beset with domes and minarets that
flashed like jewels in the marvellous radiance that flooded all space.
"A miracle! A miracle!" Sam Ineson exclaimed, in awe-struck tones, and
then held his breath, for a familiar song broke upon his ears. From the
sky, or from the battlements of the aerial city, he knew not which,
there rang forth the great Nativity hymn:
While shepherds watched their flocks by night,
All seated on the ground,
The Angel of the Lord came down,
And glory shone around.
Jerry Coggill looked into the face of Sam Ineson and saw there an
expression of trance-like rapture. As though moved by a common impulse,
the two soldiers sprang to attention, saluted, and, when the hymn
ceased, fell on their knees in prayer. Then the mist closed on them
again, the city among the clouds was hidden from view, and the sky lost
its translucence. But sleep was no longer possible for the soldiers.
They were as men who had seen the invisible; it was as though heaven had
descended upon them and the glory of the new-born King had gleamed in
their eyes, and they were filled with a holy awe.
Next morning the mist had cleared, and the miracle was explained. The
spot which they had chosen for their resting-place was at the foot of
the great scarp of limestone upon which stands the city of Bethlehem,
two thousand five hundred feet above the sea. The city had passed,
without the shedding of a drop of blood, into the hands of General
Allenby, and the soldiers stationed there, inspired by the associations
of the place and the Christmas season, had left their barracks shortly
before midnight, and, proceeding to the officers' quarters, had greeted
them with a hymn. And the Christmas moon, rising high above the
mountains of Gilead and Moab, had found for a short space of time an
opening in the curtain of mist and had poured down its light upon the
hills of Judea, making the city of Bethlehem seem to the rapt minds of
the two Yorkshire dalesmen as though it had been the city of the living
God let down from heaven.
Tales of a grandmother
I. The Tree of Knowledge
I spent a certain portion of every year in a village of Upper
Wharfedale, where I made many friends among the farm folk. Among these I
give pride of place to Martha Hessletine.
Martha Hessletine was always known in the village as Grannie. She was
everybody's Grannie. Crippled with rheumatism, she had kept to her bed
for years, and there she held levees, with all the dignity of bearing
that one might expect from a French princess in the days of the _grand
monarque_. The village children would pay her a visit on their way home
from afternoon school, and of an evening her kitchen hearth, near to
which her bed was always placed by day, was the Parliament House for all
the neighbouring farms. What Grannie did not know of the life of the
village and the dale was certainly not worth knowing.
Grannie's one luxury was a good fire. A fire, she used to say, gave you
three things in one--warmth, and light, and company. Usually she burnt
coal, but when the peats, which had been cut and dried on the moors in
June, were brought down to the farms on sledges, her neighbours would
often send her as a present a barrow-load of them. These would last her
for a long time, and the pungent, aromatic smell of the burning turf
would greet one long before her kitchen door was reached.
I was sitting by her fireside one evening, and it was of the peat that
she was speaking.
"We allus used to burn peats on our farm," she said, "and varra warm
they were of a winter neet. We'd no kitchen range i' yon days, but a
gert oppen fireplace, wheer thou could look up the chimley and see the
stars shining of a frosty neet."
"But doesn't a peat fire give off a terrible lot of ash?" I asked.
"Aye, it does that," she replied, "but we used to like the ash; we could
roast taties in't, and many's the time we've sat i' the ingle-nook and
made our supper o' taties and buttermilk."
So her thoughts wandered back to bygone times, while I, not wishing to
interrupt her, had taken the poker in my hand and with it was tracing
geometrical figures in the peat-ash on the hearthstone. So absorbed was
I in my circles and pentagons that I did not notice that Grannie had
stopped short in her story, and was taking a lively interest in what I
was doing. It was with no little surprise, therefore, that I suddenly
heard her exclaim, in a voice of half-suppressed terror: "What is thou
doing that for?" and turning round, I was startled to see on her usually
placid face the look of a hunted animal.
Touched with regret for what I had done, and yet unable to understand
why it had moved her so deeply, I asked what was troubling her mind. For
a few moments she was silent, and then, in a more tranquil voice,
replied: "I can't bear to see anybody laiking wi' ashes."
"Why, what does it matter?" I asked, and, in the hope that I might help
her to regain her composure I began to make fun of her superstitious
fancies. But Grannie refused to be laughed out of her beliefs.
"It's not superstition at all," were her words; "it's bitter truth, and
I've proved it misen, to my cost."
Seeing how disturbed she was in her mind I tried to change the subject,
but she would not let me. For about half-a-minute she was silent, lost
in thought, her grey eyes taking on a steeliness which I had not seen in
them before. Then she turned to me and asked: "Has thou iver heerd tell
o' ash-riddling?"
"Of course I have," I replied. "Everybody knows what it is to riddle
ashes."
"Aye, but ash-riddling on the hearthstone, the neet afore St Mark's
Day?"
Here was something unfamiliar, and I readily confessed my ignorance. It
was evident, too, that Grannie's mind could only find relief by
disburdening itself of the weight which lay upon it, so I no longer
attempted to direct her thoughts into a new channel.
"It was 1870," she began, "the year o' the Franco-German War, that I
first heerd tell o' ash-riddling, and it came about this way. My man's
father, Owd Jerry, as fowks called him, were living wi' us then; he was
a widower, and well-nigh eighty year owd. He'd been a despert good
farmer in his time, but he'd gotten owd and rheumatic, and his temper
were noan o' the best. He were as touchous as a sick barn, if aught went
wrang wi' him. Well, one day i' lambing-time, he were warr nor he'd iver
been afore; he knew that I were thrang wi' all maks o' wark, but nowt
that I could do for him were reet. So at last, when I'd fmished my
milking i' the mistal, I got him to bed, and then I sat misen down by
the fire and had a reet good roar. I were tired to death, and wished
that I'd niver been born. Iverything had gone agee that day: butter
wouldn't coom, Snowball had kicked ower the pail while I was milking
her, and, atop o' all that, there was grandfather wi' his fratching
ways.
"I were sat cowered ower the fire, wi' my face buried in my hands, when
my man came in and axed what were wrang wi' me. At first I wouldn't tell
him, but enow he dragged it all out o' me, and in the end I was glad on
't. But he nobbut laughed when I told him about Owd Jerry, and he said
he'd allus been like that wi' women fowks; 'twere his way o' getting
what he wanted. I got my dander up at that, and said he'd have to get
shut o' his fratching if he lived wi' us."
"'I reckon he'll noan mend his ways,' said Mike, 'now he's close on
eighty.' So I said if that were the case it would be a good thing for
the peace o' the family when he were putten under grund. Yon were
gaumless words, and bitter did I rue iver having spokken 'em. But Mike
nobbut laughed at what I said. "'Putten under grund!' said he. 'Nay,
father will live while he's ninety, or happen a hunderd; he's as tough
as a yak-stowp.'
"'He'll do nowt o' the sort,' I answered; 'and he wi' a hoast in his
thropple like a badly cow. I sudn't be surprised if he were dead by
Chrissamas.'
"'We can soon tell if there's ony truth in what thou says,' replied
Mike. 'It will be Ash-Riddling Day come next Friday, and then we can
find out for wersens if Owd Jerry's boun' to dee afore the year's out.'
"'What does thou mean?' I axed.
"'Why, lass, wheer has thou been brought up if thou's niver heerd tell
o' Ash-Riddling Day? What a thing it is to wed a foreigner! If thou'd
been bred and born in Wharfedale thou'd have no need to axe about
Ash-Riddling Day.'
Well, I set no count on his fleering at fowks that hadn't been brought
up in his dale, for I was wanting to know what he meant.
"'What thou's gotten to do,' he said, 'is to tak the peat-rake afore
thou goes to bed and rake the ashes out o' the fire and spread 'em all
ower the hearthstone. Then thou can go to bed, and next morning, if
there's to be a death in the family in the next twel-month the foot-step
o' the lad or lass that has to dee will be stamped on the ash.'
"When he'd finished his tale I gave out that I reckoned it nobbut
blether, but I minded all the same; and that neet, when I were i' bed, I
couldn't give ower thinking o' what he'd said, and I made up my mind
that I'd set the peat-ash on the hearthstone come Thorsday neet. Next
morning I thought different, but all the same I couldn't get shut o' the
temptation. Ay, 'twere a temptation o' the deevil, sure enough; he were
ticing me to eat o' the Tree o' Knowledge, same as he ticed Eve i' the
garden. So I said: 'Get thee behind me, Satan,' and I kept him behind me
all that day. But when it got dark, and I'd putten the childer to bed,
he came forrad, and the ticing got stronger and stronger. It wasn't that
I wanted Owd Jerry to dee, but I were mad to see if there was ony truth
in the tale that Mike had told.
"Well, Tuesday passed, and Wednesday passed, and Thorsday came. I said
no more about the ash-riddling to Mike, and I reckon he'd forgotten all
about it. But that day Owd Jerry were warr nor iver. He set up his
fratching at breakfast acause his porridge was burnt, and kept at it all
day. Nowt that I did for him were reet; if I filled his pipe, he said
I'd putten salt in his baccy, and if I went out to feed the cauves, he
told me I left the doors oppen, and wanted to give him his death o'
cowd. Evening came at last, and by nine o'clock I were left alone i' the
kitchen. Owd Jerry were i' bed, and the childer too, all except Amos,
our eldest barn, and he had set off wi' his father to look after the
lambing yowes, and wouldn't be back while eleven o'clock. He was a good
lad was Amos, and the only one o' the family that favvoured me; the rest
on 'em took after their father. So I sat misen down on a stool and
glowered into the fire, and wrastled wi' the deevil same as Jacob
wrastled wi' the angel. And the whole fire seemed to be full o' lile
deevils that were shooting out their tongues at me; and the sparks were
the souls of the damned i' hell that tried to lowp up the chimley out o'
the deevils' road. But the lile deevils would lowp after 'em, and lap
'em up wi' their tongues o' flame and set 'em i' the fire agean.
"At last I couldn't thole it no longer. Ash-riddling or no ash-riddling,
I said, I'm boun' to bed, and upstairs I went. Well, I lay i' bed happen
three-quarters of an hour, and sure enough, the ticement began to wark
i' my head stronger and stronger. At lang length I crept downstairs
agean i' my stocking feet into the kitchen. All was whisht as the grave,
and the fire was by now nearly out, so that there were no flame-deevils
to freeten me. So I took the riddle that I'd gotten ready afore and
began to riddle the ash all ower the hearthstone. The stone were hot,
but I were cowd as an ice-shackle, and I felt the goose-flesh creeping
all ower my body. When I'd riddled all the ash I made it snod wi' the
peat-rake, and then, more dead nor wick, I crept back into bed and
waited while Mike and Amos came home.
"They got back about eleven, and then I thought, they'll happen see what
I've done. But they didn't, for they'd putten out the lantern in the
stable, and I'd brought the can'le up wi' me into the cham'er. I heerd
'em stumbling about i' the kitchen, and then they came up to bed, and
Mike began talking to me about the lambs i' the croft, and I knew he'd
niver set een on the ash-riddling. He soon fell asleep, and after a
while I dozed off too, and dreamt I were murdering Owd Jerry i' the
staggarth. As soon as cockleet came, I wakkened up and crept downstairs,
quiet-like, so as not to-wakken Mike or the childer. And there on the
hearthstone were the ashes, and reet i' the middle on 'em the prent of a
man's clog.
"It were Jerry's clog as plain as life. When I saw it I went all of a
didder, and thought I sud ha' fainted' for all that I'd dreamt about
murdering Owd Jerry came back into my mind. But I drave a pin into my
arm to rouse misen, and took the besom and swept up the ashes and lit
the fire. After I'd mashed misen a cup o' tea I felt better, and got
agate wi' the housewark. But, by the mass! it was a dree day for me, was
yon. Ivery time I heerd the owd man hoast I thought he were boun' to
dee. But he was better that day nor he'd been for a long while, and he
kept mending all the time. I couldn't forget, howiver, what I'd done,
and the thought of how I'd yielded to the devil's ticement made me more
patient and gentle wi' Jerry nor iver I'd been afore.
"Spring set in and the birds came back frae beyont the sea, swallows and
yallow wagtails and sandpipers; the meadows were breet wi' paigles, and
the childer gethered bluebells and lilies o' the valley i' the woods for
Whissuntide, and iverything went on same as afore. We had a good lambing
time, and a good hay harvest at efter. I kept Jerry under my eye all the
while, and nowt went wrang wi' him. He'd get about the farm wi' the
dogs, a bit waffy on his legs, mebbe, but his appetite kept good, and
he'd ommost lossen his hoast. He fratched and threaped same as usual if
owt went wrang wi' his meals, or if the childer made ower mich racket i'
the house, but it took a vast o' care off my mind to think that he could
get about and go down to 'The Craven Heifer' for his forenoon drinkings,
same as he'd allus done sin first I came into Wharfedale as Mike's
bride. And when back-end set in and we'd salved the sheep wi' butter and
tar to keep the winter rain out on 'em, still Owd Jerry kept wick and
cobby, and there were days, aye, and weeks too, when I forgot what I'd
done on Ash-Riddling Day. And when I thought about it, it didn't flay me
like it used to do; for I said to misen, 'I'll keep Owd Jerry alive
ovver next St Mark's Day, choose how.' So I knitted him a muffler for
his throat and lined his weskit wi' flannen; I brewed him hot drinks
made out o' herbs I'd gethered i' the hedgerows i' summertime, and
rubbed his chest wi' a mixture o' saim frae the pig-killing, and honey
frae the bee-skeps. Eh! mon, but it were gey hard to get the owd man to
sup the herb tea and to let me rub him. He reckoned I wanted to puzzum
him same as if he were a ratton, and when I'd putten the saim and honey
on his chest he said I'd lapped him up i' fly-papers. But I set no count
on his nattering so long as I could keep him alive.
"Chrissamas came at last, and New Year set in wi' frost and snow. The
grouse came down frae the moors and the rabbits fair played Hamlet about
the farms: they were that pined wi' hunger, they began to eat the bark
off the ashes and thorn bushes i' the hedges. I did all I could to keep
Owd Jerry frae the public-house while the storm lasted, but he would
toddle down ivery morning for his glass o' yal, and, of course, he got
his hoast back agean i' his thropple. All the same, I wouldn't give in.
I counted the days while St Mark's Day, and tewed and rived and better
rived to keep him out o' his coffin. But it was weary wark, and I got no
thanks frae Jerry for all I was doing for him.
"At lang length St Mark's Eve came round, and a wild day it was, and no
mistake. There had been deep snow on the moors two days afore, and after
the snow had come rain. It was a bad lambing time, and Mike and Amos
were about the farm all day and most o' the neet, looking after the
lambs that had lossen their yowes. Owd Jerry had threaped shameful the
day afore; the weather had been that bad he'd not been able to go down
to 'The Craven Heifer.'
"When I'd gotten out o' bed, and looked out o' the windey it were still
lashing wi' rain, and I said to misen, I'll keep Jerry i' bed to-day. If
I can keep him alive to-day I sal have won, and Jerry can do what he
likes wi' hissen to-morrow. So I hugged up his breakfast to his chamer
and told him I'd leet a fire for him there, and I'd get Harry Spink to
come and sit wi' him and keep him company. But Jerry wouldn't bide i'
bed, not for nobody; he'd set his mind on going down to the public, and
a wilful man mun have his way, choose what fowks say. So off he set, wi'
the rain teeming down all the time, and the beck getting higher and
higher wi' the spate.
"Eh, deary me! What I had to thole that day! I was flaid that if he had
a drop too mich he'd happen lose his footing on the plank-bridge at the
town-end, and then the spate would tak him off his feet and drown him. I
offered to walk wi' him down to the public and bide wi' him while he
wanted to come back; but he said he reckoned he were owd enough to do
wi'out a nuss-maid and told me to mind my own business. Well, twelve
o'clock came, and when I saw Owd Jerry coming back to his dinner I were
that fain I could have kissed him, though he'd a five-days' beard on his
face.
"When dinner were ower Mike told our Amos that he mun fetch in the
stirks that were out on the moors on the far side o' Wharfe. The weather
were that bad he doubted they'd come to no good if they were out all
neet. So Amos set off about half-past two, and, efter I'd weshed up and
sided away I sat misen down i' the ingle-nook and mended the stockings.
And there was Owd Jerry set on the lang-settle anent me. There was no
sign on his face of a deeing man, but ivery minute the load on my mind
grew heavier. Eh, man, but it were a queer game the deevil played wi' me
that day, a queer, mocking game that I'll niver forget so lang as
there's breath left i' my body. Leastways that's what I thought at the
time, but I've learnt by now that it weren't the deevil; it was the
Almighty punishin' me for eatin' o' the Tree o' Knowledge.
"Fower o'clock came, and I got tea ready. The childer came back frae
school, and then Mike came, and the first thing he axed was if Amos had
gotten back wi' the stirks. So I said: 'No, he's noan gotten back yet
awhile.' My mind were so taen up wi' Owd Jerry and the ash-riddling that
I'd forgotten that Amos was away on the other side o' Wharfe. So Mike
for all he was weet to the skin, set off to look for Amos. I gave Owd
Jerry and the childer their tea, but I wouldn't sit down wi' 'em misen,
but kept going to the windey to see if Mike and Amos were coming wi' the
stirks. I looked out, happen six or seven times, and there was nobody on
the road; but at last I set een on Mike and other lads frae the farms
round about. They were carrying somebody on a hurdle."
For a moment Grannie interrupted her story to wipe away the tears that
were now rolling down her cheeks. In a flash I realised what was to be
the tragic close of her tale, and I tried to spare her the details. But
she refused to be spared, and, forcing back the tears, went on to the
bitter end.
"Aye, aye, thou'll happen have guessed who was on the hurdle. It was
Amos; he'd lossen his footing on the stepping-stones going across
Wharfe, and the spate had carried him downstream and drowned him. It
wasn't Jerry's clog-print on the ashes, it was Amos's; and the Lord had
taen away my eldest barn frae me because I'd etten o' the Tree o'
Knowledge."
II. Janet's Cove
Grannie's reputation as a story-teller was readily acknowledged by the
children of our village. When they had trudged back from school which
was held in a village two miles away, tea was always ready for them. But
tea in their own kitchens was accounted a dull repast. If the weather
was fine they carried their "shives" of bread and dripping, or bread and
treacle, into the road in front of their houses and ate them in the
intervals between "Here come three dukes a-riding," "Wallflowers,
wallflowers, growing up so high," and "Poor Roger is dead and laid in
his grave." But in winter, or when the weather was bad, they made it
their custom to take their teas to Grannie's fireside and demand a story
as accompaniment to their frugal meal. The young voices of the children
brightened Grannie's life, and the hour of story-telling round the fire
was for her like a golden sunset following upon a day of gloom.
The stories which she told to the children were usually concerned with
her own childhood. She had always been of an imaginative turn of mind
and the doings of her early life, seen through the long-drawn vistas of
the years, had become suffused with iridescent colours. They had
gathered to themselves romance as a wall overhung by trees gathers to
itself moss and fern and lichen.
"Tell you a tale," she would say. "Ay, but, honey-barns, I reckon you'll
have heerd all my tales lang sin. No? Well then, did I iver tell you t'
tale o' Janet's Cove?"
"Ay, thou's telled us yon last week," Kester Laycock, the spokesman of
the party of listeners, would reply; "but thou mun tell it agean."