Grannie had told them the story of Janet's Cove the preceding week. The
truth was that she had told them that tale every week since winter set
in, but nothing could stale its freshness for them. Besides, did not
Grannie introduce surprising variations of narrative every time she told
it, so that it never seemed quite the same story?
"Janet's Cove" was a story of the birds, and Grannie's knowledge of the
life and habits of birds seemed wonderful to them. Crippled with
rheumatism as she was, and unable to move from her bed, she nevertheless
watched for the return of the spring and autumn migrants with all the
eagerness of the born naturalist. She offered the children money if they
would bring her the first tidings of the arrival of birds in the dale.
There was always a halfpenny underneath the geranium pot in the
window-sill for the child whose eye caught sight of the first swallow,
redstart or sandpiper; or whose ear first recognised the clarion call of
the cuckoo, or the evening "bleat" of the nightjar on the
bracken-mantled fells at the end of May. Or, if the season were autumn,
the children were told to watch for the arrival of the woodcock and the
earliest flock of Norwegian fieldfares. Under Grannie's tuition more
than one generation in the village had learnt to take an interest in the
movements of migrants in the dale, and that was why the story of Janet
and the birds never failed to charm the ears of the children gathered
round the kitchen hearth.
"Now then," Grannie would begin, "if I'm boun' to tell you t' tale o'
Janet's Cove, you mun set yoursels down an' be whisht. Tak a seat at t'
top o' bag o' provand, Kester; Betty and Will can hug chairs to t' fire,
and lile Joe Moon mun sit on t' end o' t' bed."
Such was Grannie's arrangement of the seats, while to me, the visitor,
was assigned the "lang-settle" on the other side of the fireplace. It
was a coign of vantage which I shared with the ancestral copper
warming-pan, and from it I could see the whole group. Grannie, bent
half-double with rheumatism, was propped up in her bed, with the
children grouped around her. She wore, as usual, her white mutch cap and
grey shawl. Mittens covered her wrists, and her fingers, painfully
swollen with chalk-stones, plied her knitting-needles. Her face was
sunken in the cheeks and round her mouth, but her large brown eyes,
still full of animation, broad forehead, and high-arched brows gave
dignity and even beauty to her pale countenance. On the fire the
porridge was warming for the calves' supper, while suspended from the
wooden ceiling was the "bread-flake," a hurdle-shaped structure across
the bars of which hung the pieces of oatcake which were eaten with
buttermilk at supper.
"Well, I've happen telled you afore," Grannie began, "that when I were a
lile lass I lived up Malham way. My father had a farm close agen Gordale
Scar. Eh! but it's a fearful queer country is yon! Gert nabs o' rock on
all sides wheer nobbut goats can clim, an' becks flowin' undergrund an'
then bubblin' up i' t' crofts an' meadows. On t' other side frae our
steading were a cove that fowks called Janet's Cove. They telled all
maks an' manders o' tales about t' cove an' reckoned it were plagued wi'
boggards. But they couldn't keep me out o' t' cove for all that; 'twere
t' bonniest spot i' t' dale, an' I nivver gat stalled o' ramlin' about
by t' watter-side an' amang t' rowans. There were a watterfall i' t'
cove, wi' a dark cave behind it, an' 'twere all owerhung wi' eshes an'
hazels.
"One neet I were sittin' up for my father while fower o'clock i' t'
morn. 'Twere t' day afore Easter Sunday an' my father were despert
thrang wi' t' lambin' ewes. He hadn't taen off his shoes an' stockins
for more nor a week. He'd doze a bit i' his chair by t' fire, an' then
he'd wakken up an' leet t' lantern' an' gan out to see if aught ailed t'
sheep. He let me bide up for company, an' so as I could warm him a sup
o' tea ower t' fire. But when t' gran'father's clock strake fower he
said I mun away to my bed. He'd tak a turn round t' croft, an' then he'd
set off wi' his budget to t' mistal to milk t' cows. But I didn't want
to gan to bed. I'd bin sleepin' off an' on all t' neet, an' I weren't
feelin' a lile bit tired. So when my father had set off I went to t'
door an' looked out. My song! but 'twere a grand neet. T' mooin were
just turned full, an' were leetin' up all t' scars an' plats o' meadow;
t' becks were just like silver an' t' owd yew-trees that grow on t' face
o' t' scar had lang shadows as black as pick. I stood theer on t'
door-sill for mebbe five minutes an' then I said to misel, I'll just run
down as far as Janet's Cove afore I gan to bed.' It were a bit cowd, so
I lapped my shawl around my head an' set off.
"'Twere nobbut a two-three minutes' walk, an' afore vara lang I were
sittin' anent t' rocks, an' t' mooin were glisterin' through t'
esh-trees on to t' watter. Efter a while I felt a bit sleepy; 'twere t'
nippy air, an' mebbe t' seet o' t' fallin' watter dazed my een.
Onygates, I fell asleep an' slept for better pairt of an hour. When I
wakkened t' mooin were well-nigh settin', an' I could see that t'
cockleet were coomin' away i' t' east. So I reckoned I'd get back to my
bed. But just then I saw summat movin' about on t' other side o' t'
beck. At first I thowt it were nobbut a sheep, but when I'd keeked at it
a bit langer I knew it weren't a sheep at all; 'twere a lass o' about t'
same size as misel."
At this point in the story alertness of mind was depicted on the face of
every listener. Joe Moon's tongue, as agile as a lizard's, had up to now
been revolving like a windmill round the lower half of his face,
questing after treacly crumbs which had adhered to his cheeks; but at
the mention of the girl by the waterfall it ceased from its labours, and
the tightly closed mouth and straining eyes showed that he was not
losing a word.
"Queerest thing about t' lass were this," Grannie continued, "shoo were
nakt, as nakt as ony hen-egg, an' that at five o'clock on a frosty April
morn. Eh! but it made me dither to see her stannin' theer wi' niver a
shift to her back. Well, I crept close to t' gert stone an' kept my een
on her. First of all shoo crept down to t' watter an' put her feet intul
it, an' gat agate o' splashin' t' watter all ower her, just like a bird
weshin' itsel i' t' beck. Then shoo climmed up to t' top o' t' nab that
were hingin' ower t' fall an' let t' watter flow all ower her face an'
showders. I could see her lish body shinin' through t' watter an' her
yallow hair streamin' out on both sides of her head. Efter a while shoo
climmed on to a rock i' t' beck below t' fall an' gat howd o' t' bough
of an esh. Shoo brak off t' bough an' shaped it into a sort o' a wand
an' started wavin' it i' t' air.
"Now I ought to have telled you that up to now iverything i' t' cove
were as whisht as t' grave. I could hear t' cocks crowin' up at our
house, but all t' wild birds were roostin' i' t' boughs or on t' grund.
But no sooiner did t' lass wave her wand ower her head than t' larks
started singin'. T' meadows an' cow-pasturs were full o' sleepin' larks,
an' then, all on a sudden, t' sky were fair wick wi' em. I harkened tul
'em, ay, an t' lass harkened an' all, an' kept wavin' t' wand aboon her
head. I doubted 'twere t' lass that had wakkened t' larks an' gotten 'em
to sing so canty. Efter a while shoo lowered t' wand a bit an' pointed
to t' moors, an' then, by t' Mess! curlews gat agate o' singin.' Soom
fowks reckons that t' song o' t' curlew is dreesom an' yonderly, but I
love to harken to it i' t' springtime when t' birds cooms back to t'
moors frae t' sea. An' so did t' lass. When shoo heerd t' curlews shoo
started laughin' an' dashed t' watter about wi' her foot.
"An' all t' while shoo kept beatin' t' time to t' song o' t' birds wi'
her wand. Soomtimes shoo pointed to t' curlews aboon t' moor; then,
sudden-like, shoo lowered t' wand, while it were pointin' into t' hazel
shaws an' rowan bushes by t' beck-side; and afore I knew what were
happening t' blackbirds wakkened up an' started whistlin' like mad. I
niver heerd sich a shoutin' afore. It were fair deafenin', just as if
there were a blackbird in ivery bush alang t' beck. They kept at it for
happen fower or five minutes, an' then t' lass made a fresh motion wi'
t' wand. What's coomin' next, I wondered, an' afore I'd done wonderin',
sure enough, t' robins gat agate an' tried to shout down t' blackbirds
an' all. You see I'd niver noticed afore that when t' birds start
singin' i' t' morn they keep to a reg'lar order. It's just like a
procession i' t' church. First cooms t' choir lads i' their supplices,
an' happen a peppermint ball i' their mouths; then t' choir men, tenors
and basses; then t' curate, keekin' alang t' pews to see if squire's
lasses are lookin' at him, an' at lang length cooms t' vicar hissen.
Well, it's just t' same wi' t' birds. Skylarks wakkens up first, then
curlews, then blackbirds, robins, throstles. You'll niver hear a
throstle i' front o' a robin, nor a robin i' front o' a blackbird. They
mind what's menseful same as fowks do. At efter, mebbe cuckoo will begin
to shout, an' close behind him will coom t' spinks an' pipits an' lile
tits. Eh, deary me! but I've clean forgotten most pairt o' what I've
larnt misel about t' birds. They do iverything as reg'lar as if 'twere
clockwork.
"I wonder if you childer can tell me what is t' bird that ligs abed
langest?"
There was silence for a moment or two, and then Kester Laycock suggested
rooks.
"Nay," answered Grannie, "rooks are not what I sud call early risers,
but they're not t' last birds up, not by a lang way. T' last bird to
wakken up an' t' first bird to gan to bed is t' house-sparrow. An idle
taistrill is t' sparrow, wi' nowther sense nor mense in his head. But
theer, barns, I'm gettin' off t' track o' my story o' Janet an' t' way
shoo wakkened up t' birds wi' her wand.
"You see shoo allus knew whose turn sud coom next, an' wheer ivery sort
o' bird was roostin'. One minute shoo pointed t' stick to t' top o' t'
trees, an' then I heerd 'Caw! Caw!' Then shoo'd bring t' jackdaws out o'
their holes i' t' rocks, an' next minute shoo were pointin' to t' mossy
roots o' t' trees hingin' ower t' beck, while a Jenny wren would hop out
an' sing as though he were fit to brust hissen. An' all t' time it were
gettin' leeter an' leeter, an' I could see that t' sun were shinin' on'
t' cliffs aboon Malham, though Janet's Cove were still i' t' shade. I
knew my mother would sooin be seekin' me i' my cham'er, an' I started
wonderin' what shoo'd say when shoo fan' t' bed empty. I gat a bit flaid
when I thowt o' that, but I couldn't tak my een off t' lass wi' t' wand.
I were fair bewitched wi' her, an' I doubt that if shoo'd pointed at me
I sud hae started singin' 'Here coom three dukes a-rid in'.'
"Howiver, shoo niver clapped een on me wheer I was sittin' behind t'
stone. Shoo were thrang wi' t' birds were Janet, an' gettin' more
excited ivery minute. By now t' din were fair deafenin'; I'd niver heerd
aught like it afore, nor yet sin: without it were when my man took me
down to Keighley, Christmas afore we were wed, an' I heerd t' lads and
t' lasses singin' t' Hallelujah Chorus i' t' Methody chapil. When I saw
t' conductor-lad wi' t' stick in his hand callin' up t' trebles an'
basses an' tother sets o' singers, Marry! I bethowt me o' Janet an' t'
birds i' t' cove, an' I brast out a-laughin' while fowks thowt I were
daft.
"But theer, barns, I mun get forrad wi' my tale, or your mothers will be
coomin' seekin' you afore I'm through wi' it. By now ommost all t' birds
i' t' cove were wakkened up an' were singin' their cantiest. I looked
up, an' t' sun had gotten clean ower t' top o' t' fell, an' were shinin'
straight down into t' cove. Ay, an' Janet saw t' sun too, an' when it
were like a gert gowden ball at top o' t' hill, shoo pointed her wand at
t' sun an' started dancin' aboon t' watterfall. I looked at her and then
I looked at t' sun, an', Honey-fathers! if t' owd sun weren't dancin'
too. I rubbed my een to finnd out if I'd made ony mistak, but, sure
enough, theer were t' lile nakt lass an' t' owd sun aboon t' breast o'
t' fell dancin' togither like mad. Then, all on a sudden, I bethowt me
it were Easter Sunday, and how I'd heerd fowks say that t' sun allus
dances on Easter mornin'."
At this point I could not forbear interrupting Grannie to ask her
whether she had ever heard of a poem called _A Ballad upon a Wedding_.
She said she had not, so I quoted to her Suckling's well-known lines:
Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they feared the light.
But O! she dances such a way,
No sun upon an Easter day
Is half so fine a sight.
Grannie listened attentively and seemed to think that the heroine of the
poem was the fairy that wakened the birds in Janet's Cove.
"T' lad that wrote yon verses has gotten it wrang," she said. "Shoo
hadn't no petticoat on her. T' lass were nakt frae top to toe. Well,
when shoo'd bin dancin' a while shoo seemed to forget all about t'
birds. Shoo let her wand drop and climmed down t' fall. Then shoo set
hersel on a rock behind t' fall an' clapped her hands an' laughed. I
looked at her an' I saw t' bonniest seet I've iver set een on.
"You see by now t' sun had getten high up i' t' sky, an' were shinin'
straight up t' beck on to t' fall. There had bin a bit o' flood t' day
afore, an' t' watter were throwin' up spray wheer it fell on to t' rocks
below t' fall. An' theer, plain as life, were a rainbow stretched across
t' fall, an' Janet sittin' on t' rock reet i' t' middle o' t' bow wi'
all t' colours o' t' bowgreen an' yallow an' blue--shinin' on her hair.
"Efter that I fair lost count o' t' time. I sat theer, lapped i' my
shawl, an' glowered at Janet, an' t' sun, an' t' watterfall, while at
lang length I heerd soombody callin' me. 'Twere my father, an' then I
knew that fowks had missed me up at t' farm an' were seekin' me amang t'
crofts. Wi' that I gat up an' ran same as if I'd bin a rabbit; an' theer
were my father, stood on t' brig betwixt our house an' t' cove, shoutin'
'Martha!' as loud as iver he could."
"Did he give thee a hazelin' for bidin' out so late?" asked Kester, with
a wealth of personal experience to draw upon.
Grannie was somewhat taken aback by the pertinent question, but she was
too clever to give herself away. "What's that thou says about a
hazelin', Kester? Look at t' clock. It's time thou was gettin' alang
home, or mebbe there will be a hazelin' for thee."
The Potato and the Pig
A Fable for Allotment-Holders
Abe Ingham was a Horsforth allotment-holder. He talked allotments all
day and dreamed of them all night. Before the war cricket had been his
hobby, and he was a familiar figure at County and Council matches for
twelve miles round. Now he never mentioned the game; he had exchanged
old gods for new, and his homage was no longer paid to George Hirst or
Wilfred Rhodes, but to Arran Chief, Yorkshire Hero, and Ailsa Craig. He
took his gardening very seriously, and called it "feightin' t' Germans."
If you asked him when the war would be won he pleaded ignorance; but if
you asked him where it would be won, his answer invariably was: "On t'
tatie-patches at Horsforth." He still nursed his grievances, for pet
grievances are not yet included in the tax on luxuries, but these were
no longer suffragettes and lawyers, but slugs, "mawks," and
"mowdiewarps." In a word, Ingham was one of the many Englishmen whom
four years of war conditions have re-created. He was slimmer and more
agile than in 1914, and of the "owd Abe" of pre-war times all that
remained was his love of tall stories. I was privileged to listen to one
of the tallest of these one evening, after he had paid a visit of
inspection to my garden and was smoking a pipe with me under my
lime-tree.
"Fowks tell queer tales 'bout 'lotments," he began, "but I reckon
they're nobbut blether anent t' tale that I could tell o' what happened
me last yeer."
"What was that, Abe?" I asked. "Did you find a magpie's nest in your
Jerusalem artichokes or half-crowns in the hearts of your pickling
cabbages?"
"None o' your fleerin'," he replied. "What I'm tellin' you is t' truth,
or if it isn't' truth it's a parable, and I reckon a parable's Bible
truth. It were gettin' on towards back-end, and I'd bin diggin' potatoes
while I were in a fair sweat wi' t' heat. So I reckoned I'd just sit
down for a bit on t' bench I'd made an' rest misen. Efter a while I gat
agate once more, an' I'd ommost finished my row of potates when my fork
gat howd o' summat big. At first I thowt it were happen a gert stone
that I'd left i' t' grund, but it were nowt o' sort. 'Twere a potate,
sure enough, but I'd niver set eyes on owt like it afore, nor thee
either. 'Twere bigger nor my heead; nay, 'twere bigger nor a
fooit-ball."
"Somebody wanted to have a bit of fun with you, Abe," I interrupted,
"and had buried a vegetable-marrow in your potato-patch."
"Nay, it were a potate reight enough, an' I were fair capped when I'd
getten howd on it wi' my two hands. 'I'll show this to Sam Holroyd,' I
said to misen. He were chuff, were Sam, 'cause he'd getten six pund o'
potates off o' one root; I reckoned I'd getten six pund off o' one
potate. Well, I were glowerin' at t' potate when a lad com up that I'd
niver seen afore. He were a young lad by his size, but he'd an owdish
look i' his face, an' he says to me: 'What's yon?'
"Thou may well axe that,' I answered. 'It's a potate.'
"'What arta boun to do wi' it?' he axed.
"'Nay,' I said, 'I reckon I'll take it to t' Flower Show an' get first
prize.'
"'Thou mun do nowt o' t' sort,' said t' lad; 'thou mun bury it.'
"'Bury it! What for sud I bury it, I'd like to know?'
"'Thou mon bury it i' t' grund an' see what it grows intul.'
"Well, I reckoned there might be some sense in what t' lad said, for if
I could raise a seck o' seed potates like yon I'd sooin' mak my fortune.
But then I bethowt me o' t' time o' t' yeer, and I said:
"'But wheer's t' sense o' settin' a potate at t' back-end?'
"'Thou'll not have to wait so lang to see what cooms on 't,' he replied,
and then he turned on his heel an' left me standin' theer.
"Well, I reckoned it were a fooil's trick, but all t' same I put t'
potate back into t' grund, an' went home. That neet it started rainin'
an' it kept at it off an' on for well-nigh a week, an' I couldn't get
down to my 'lotment nohow. But all t' time I couldn't tak my mind off o'
t' lad that had made me bury my potate. He'd green eyes, an' I could
niver get shut o' them eyes choose what I were doin'. Well, after a
while it faired up, and I set off for my garden. When I gat nigh I were
fair capped. I'd set t' potate at t' top-side o' t' 'lotment, and theer,
just wheer I'd set it, were a pig-sty, wi' a pig inside it fit to kill.
I were that flustered you could ha' knocked me down wi' a feather. I
looked at t' sty, and then at t' pig, an' then I felt t' pig, an' he
were reight fat. An' when I'd felt t' pig I turned round to see if t'
'lotment were fairly mine, and theer stood t' lad that had telled me to
bury t' potate.
"'Well,' he says, 'is owt wrang wi' t' pig?'
"'Nay, there's nowt wrang wi' t' pig, but how did he get here?'
"'He'll happen have coom out o' that potate thou set i' t' grund last
week,' and he looked at me wi' them green eyes an' started girnin'. 'But
thou mun bury t' pig same as thou buried t' potate.'
"'Bury t' pig!' I said. 'I'd sooiner bury t' missus ony day. We've bin
short o' ham an' collops o' bacon all t' summer, an' if there's one
thing I like better nor another it's a bit o' fried ham to my tea.'
"'Nay, thou mun bury t' pig, an' do without thy bit o' bacon,' he says,
and there was summat i' t' way he gave his orders that fair bet me. I
went all o' a dither, while I hardly knew if I were standin' on my heels
or my heead. But t' lad were as cool as a cucumber all t' while; he
folded his arms an' looked at me wi' his green eyes, an' just said nowt.
Eh! but 'twere gey hard to mak' up my mind what to do. I looked at t'
pig, an' if iver I've seen a pig axin' to have his life spared it were
yon; but then I looked at t' lad, an' his eyes were as hard as two
grunstones; there was no gettin' round t' lad, I could see. So at lang
length I gav' in. I killed t' pig and I buried him same as I'd buried t'
potate.
"When I gat home I said nowt to t' missus about t' pig, for I couldn't
let on that I'd buried it; shoo'd have reckoned I were a bigger fooil
nor shoo took me for. Shoo gav me a sup o' poddish for my supper, an'
all t' time I were eytin' it I kept thinkin' o' t' fried ham that I'd
missed, an' I were fair mad wi' misen. I went to bed, but I couldn't get
to sleep nohow. You see, I'd bin plagued wi' mowdiewarps up i' t'
'lotment; they'd scratted up my spring onions an' played Hamlet wi' my
curly greens. An' then all of a sudden I bethowt me that t' mowdiewarps
would be sure to find t' pig an' mak quick-sticks o' him afore t'
mornin'. Eh! I gat that mad wi' thinkin' on it that I couldn't bide i'
bed no longer. I gat up 'thout wakkin' t' missus, an' I crept downstairs
i' my stockin' feet, an' went to t' coil-house wheer I kept my spade. I
were boun to dig up t' pig an' bring him home afore t' mowdiewarps sud
find him. But when I'd oppened coil-house door, what sud I see but a
pair o' green eyes glowerin' at me out o' t' darkness. I were that flaid
I didn't know what to do. I dursn't set hand to t' spade, an' efter a
minute I crept back to bed wi' them green eyes followin' me, an' burnin'
hoils i' my back same as if they'd bin two red-hot coils. Sooin as
cockleet com, I gat up, dressed misen an' set off for t' 'lotment, 'an
by t' Mess! what does ta reckon was t' first thing I saw?"
"Had the pig come to life again?" I asked in wonder.
"Nay, 'twere better nor that," replied Abe. "I' t' spot wheer I'd buried
t' pig an' buried t' potate afore that, somebody had belt a house, ay,
an' belt it all i' one neet. It had sprung up like a mushroom. So I went
up to t' house an' looked in at t' windey, an' by Gow! but it were my
house an' all."
"How did you know that it was your house?" I asked.
"Well, you see," Abe rejoined, "I could tell by t' furnitur that were in
it. There was our kitchen-table that I'd bowt at t' sale when t' missus
an' me were wed, an' t'owd rockin'-chair set agean t' fire; ay, an' t'
pot-dogs on t' chimley-piece an' my father's an' muther's buryin'-cards
framed on t' walls; 'twere all plain as life."
"So the lad with the green eyes had carried away your house in the night
and set it down on your allotment?"
"Nay, 'twere nowt o' t' sort. T' house wheer I'd bin livin' were a
back-to-back house, facin' north, so as we niver gat no sun thro' yeer's
end to yeer's end. But t' new house stood all by itsen, wi' windeys on
all sides, an' a back door oppenin' into t' gardin. If there were one
thing that t' missus an' me had set wer hearts on 'twere a back-door.
We'd never lived i' a house wi' a back door, an' t' missus had to hing
all her weshin' of a Tuesday across t' street. Well, I looked round to
see if I could clap eyes on t' lad that had telled me to bury t' pig,
but he were nowheer to be seen. But just then I heerd a buzzin' sound,
an' I reckoned there mun be a waps somewheer about. An' a waps it were.
He flew round an' round my heead, allus coomin' nearer an' nearer, an'
at lang length he settled hissen reight on t' top o' my neb. An' wi'
that I gav a jump, an' by Gow! there was I sittin' on t' bench in my
'lotment. I'd fallen asleep, an all that I'd seen o' t' potate an' t'
pig an' t' house, ay, an' t' lad wi' green eyes, were nobbut a dream.
But t' waps weren't a dream, for I'd seen him flee away when I wakkened
up."
"What you've told me, Abe, is like a bit of real life," I said, after a
pause. "Most of our dreams in this world turn into wasps, with stings in
their tails."
"Nay," replied Abe the optimist; "but 'twere not a proper sort of dream
nawther. I've thowt a vast about it off an' on, an' I reckon 'twere a
dream wi' a meanin' tul it. 'Twere like Pharaoh's dream o' t' fat an'
lean beasts. Happen one day I'll find a Joseph that'll tell me what it
all means!"
Coals of Fire
I
A visitor to Holmton, one of the smaller manufacturing towns of the West
Riding, on a certain October morning, about the middle of the nineteenth
century, might have witnessed a strange sight. It was market-day, and a
number of farm people were collected in the market-place, where a brisk
trade in cattle, sheep, and dairy produce was being transacted. Suddenly
there appeared in their midst a farmer holding the end of a rope, the
noose of which was attached, not to a bull, calf or horse, but to the
neck of a girl of nineteen. At this strange sight loud shouts were
raised on all sides, and a stampede was made to the spot where the man
and the girl were standing.