IX

_January, 1901._--The winter, which so far had been mild and open,

began to assume its natural character with the new year; and on the

first Monday of January--it was the 7th--we had snow, followed by hard

frost. The snow was not unexpected. Saturday--a day of white haze

suffused with sunlight--had provided a warning of it in the shape of

frozen rime, clinging like serried rows of penknife blades to the

eastern edges of all things, and noticeably to the telegraph-wires,

which with that additional weight kept up all day a shiver of

vibration dazzling to look at against the misty blue of the sky. Then

the snow came, and the frost on top of that, and by Tuesday it was bad

travelling on all roads.

Bettesworth grumbled, of course; but I believe that really he rather

liked the touch of winter. At any rate, it was with a sort of gloating

satisfaction that he remarked:

"I hunted out my old gaiters this morning. They en't much, but they

keeps your legs dry. And I do think that is so nice, to feel the

bottoms of your trousers dry."

I suppose it is, when one thinks of it, though it had never struck me

before. But then, I had never had the experience which had shown

Bettesworth the true inwardness of this philosophy of his.

"I've knowed what it is," he said, "to have my trousers soppin' wet

all round the bottoms, and then it have come on an' freezed 'em as

stiff as boards all round."

That was years ago, during a short spell of piecework in a gravel-pit.

Now, secure in his gaiters and in his easier employment, he could look

back with amusement to the hardships he had lived through. One of a

similar kind was hinted at presently. For the roughness of the roads,

under this frozen snow, naturally suggested such topics.

"What d'ye think of our neighbour Mardon?" he exclaimed. "Bin an'

chucked up his job, and 's goin' back to Aldershot blacksmithin'

again. He must be in want of a walk!"

"Regular as clockwork," Mardon, be it explained, had walked daily to

his work at Aldershot, and then back at night, for upwards of twenty

years. The day's walk was about ten miles. Then suddenly he left, and

now for six months had been working as bricklayer's labourer, at a job

about an equal distance away in another direction, to which he walked

as before every day, wet or fine. This was the job he had "chucked,"

to return to his old trade in the old place. He might well give it up!

Said Bettesworth,

"How many miles d'ye think he walked last week, to put in forty-five

hours at work? Fifty-four! Four and a half miles there, and four and a

half back. Fifty-four miles for forty-five hours. There's walkin' for

ye! And through that enclosure, too!"

The "enclosure" is a division of Alice Holt Forest--perhaps two miles

of it--on Mardon's way to his now abandoned job. And Bettesworth

recalled the discomforts of this walk.

"I knows what it is, all through them woods in the dark, 'cause I used

to go that way myself when I was workin' for Whittingham. 'Specially

if the fox-hounds bin that way. Then 'tis mud enough to smother ye.

There was a fancy sort o' bloke--a carpenter--used to go 'long with

us, with his shirt-cuffs, and his trousers turned up, and his shoes

cleaned. We did use to have some games with 'n, no mistake. He'd go

tip-toein' an' skippin' to get over the mud; an' then, jest as we was

passin' a puddle, we'd plump one of our feet down into 't, an' send

the mud _all over_ 'n. An' with his tip-toein' an' skippin' he got it

wuss than we did, without that. An' when we come to the Royal Oak,

'cause we gen'ly used to turn in there on our way home, he'd be

lookin' at hisself up an' down and grumblin'--'Tha bluhmin' mud!'

(this in fair imitation of Cockney speech)--'tha bluhmin' mud! Who can

_stick_ it!' Same in the mornin' when he got there. He'd be brushin'

his coat, an' scrapin' of it off his trousers with his knife, an'

gettin' a bundle o' shavin's to wipe his boots.

"But a very good carpenter! Whittingham used to say he couldn't wish

for a better man. But he'd bin used to bench-work all his life, an'

didn't know what to make of it. An' we used to have some games with

'n. If there was any job wanted doin' out o' doors, they'd send for he

sooner 'n one o' t'others, jest to see how he'd go on. And handlin'

the dirty timber, an' lookin' where to put his saw--oh, we did give 'n

a doin'. But 'twas winter, ye know, and I fancy he didn't know hardly

where to go. We had some pantomimes with 'n, though, no mistake.

"There used to be another ol' feller--a plumber--when I was at work

for Grange in Church Street; Ben Crawte went 'long with 'n as

plumber's labourer. Ben had some pantomimes with he too. He'd git the

handles of his tools all over dirt, for he to take hold of when he

come to use 'em. Oldish man he was--old as I be, I dessay. And he'd

pay anybody to give 'n a lift any time, sooner 'n he'd walk through

the mud. We never knowed the goin' of 'n, at last...."

I, for my part, do not remember "the goin'" of these queer

reminiscences. They are like the snows of the past--like the snow

which actually lay white in our valley while Bettesworth talked.

As to his heartless treatment of this unhappy carpenter, those who

would condemn it may yet consider how that gang of men could have

endured their miserable journeys, if they had admitted that anyone

had the least right to be distressed. Among labourers there is such

peril in effeminacy that to yield to it is a kind of treason.

Bettesworth had nothing but contempt for it. I more than once heard

his scorn of "tip-toeing," and shall be able to give another instance

by-and-by.

X

During this year 1901, until the last month or two, not much

additional matter relating to Bettesworth was recorded; it just

suffices to show his life quietly passing on in company with the

passing seasons.

_February 1, 1901._--We have already had a glimpse of the winter. And

now, although it is only February, there comes, as in February there

often will, a day truly springlike, and Bettesworth's talk matches it.

The first morning of February was clear and shimmering, the roads

being hard with frost, the air crisp, the trees hung with the dazzling

drops into which the sunshine had converted the rime of the dawn. Most

of these drops appeared blinding white, but now and again there would

come from them a sparkle of flame-red or a glisten of emerald, or,

best of all, a flash of earnest burning blue, as if the morning sky

itself were liquefying on the bare branches. The grass, although under

it the ground was frozen, had a brilliancy of colour which certainly

was no winter tint. It suggested where, if one looked, one would find

the green spear-points of crocuses and daffodils already inch-high out

of the soil. The spring, in fact, was in the air, and the earth was

stirring with it.

In Bettesworth's mood, too, was a hint of spring. All through the

winter many hours which would otherwise have been lonely for him in

this garden had been cheered by the companionship of a robin. How

often he remarked, "You may do anything you mind to with 'n, but you

mawn't handle 'im"! For the bird seemed to know him, and he used to

call it his "mate," because it worked with him wherever he was turning

up the soil.

And now on this gay morning, as we crossed the lawn together, he said,

"Little Bob bin 'long with me again this mornin', hoppin' about just

in front o' my shovel, and twiddlin' and talkin' to me.... Look at 'n!

There he is now!" on the low bough of a young beech-tree at the edge

of the grass. And as we stood to admire, "_There's_ a little chap!" he

exclaimed exultantly. Then he took up his shovel to resume work near

the tree, and "Little Bob" hopped down, every minute picking up

something to swallow. I could not see what tiny morsels the bird was

finding, and, confessing as much, felt snubbed by Bettesworth's

immediate reply, "Ah, _he_ got sharp eyes." Presently, however, the

robin found a large centipede, and suddenly--it was gone alive and

wriggling down the small throat. "He must ha' got a good bellyful,"

said Bettesworth.

At intervals Bob would pause, look straight at us, and "twiddle" a

little song in an undertone which, for all one could hear to the

contrary, might have come from some distance behind or beside us, and

could only be identified as proceeding from the robin by the

accompanying movements of his ruddy throat.

"Sweet little birds, I calls 'em," said Bettesworth, using an epithet

rare with him. "And it's a funny thing," he continued, "wherever a

man's at work there's sure to be a robin find him out. _I_'ve noticed

it often. If I bin at work in the woods, a robin 'd come, or in the

harvest-field, jest the same.... Hark at 'n twiddlin'! And by-'n-by

when his crop's full he'll get up in a tree and _sing_...."

The old man did a stroke or two with his shovel, and then: "I don't

hear no starlin's about. 'Relse, don't ye mind last year they had a

nest up in the shed?"

I hinted that my two cats might have something to do with the absence

of the starlings, and Bettesworth's talk flitted easily to the new

subject.

"Ah, that young cat--_she_ wouldn't care" how many starlings she

caught. "_She's_ goin' to be my cat" (the cat for his favour). "Every

mornin', as soon as the servant opens the door, she" (the cat) "is

out, prowlin' all round. And she don't mind the cold; you see, she

liked the snow--played with it. Now, our old Tab, as soon as I be out

o' my nest she's in it. Very often she'll come up on to our bed,

heavin' and tuckin' about, to get into the warm."

What a gift of expression the old man had got! But almost without a

pause he went on, "The postman tells me he brought word this mornin'

to all the pubs, tellin' 'em they was to close to-morrow" (Saturday,

the day of Queen Victoria's funeral), "out of respect to our Queen's

memory. 'T least, they're requested to--en't forced to. But so they

ought to show her respect. Go where you will, you can't hear anybody

with a word to say against her. 'Tis to be hoped the new King 'll be

as worthy of respect."

Again, without transition: "How that little tree do grow!" He placed

his hand on the stem of a young lime. "Gettin' quite a body. So-and-so

tells me he put them in overright Mr. Watson's forty-five years ago,

and look what trees they be now! They terrible wanted to cut 'em down

when they made that alteration to the road down there, but Watson said

he wouldn't have 'em moved for any money.... I likes a lime; 'tis such

a bower."

So the pleasant chatter oozed out of him, as he worked with leisurely

stroke, enjoying the morning. With his robins and his bowers, he was

in the most cheerful spirits. At one time there was talk of the

doctor, whom he had seen going down the lane on a bicycle, and had

warned against trying to cross the stream, which the coming of the

mild weather had flooded; and of the doctor's thanks, since he

disliked wading; and of Bettesworth's own suggestion, laughingly

assented to, that the doctor's "horse" was not partial to water.

It was all so spontaneous, this chatter, so innocent of endeavour to

get the effect it produced, that a quite incongruous subject was

powerless to mar its quality. He told me that, two days ago, he had

bespoken at the butcher's shop a bullock's head, and that when he went

to get it on this same glistening morning the butcher commended him

for coming early, because "people was reg'lar runnin' after him for

'em." So early was he that the bullock had not been killed an hour,

and he had to wait while they skinned the head and "took the eyes

out," Bettesworth no doubt looking on with interest. And he had

brought this thing home with him--was going to put it in brine at

night, "and then to-morrer into the pot it goes, and that 'll make me

some rare nice soup."

_March 1, 1901._--I am reminded, however, that this was not real

spring, but only a foretaste of it. As yet the birds were not pairing,

and before their day came (according to Bettesworth, St. Valentine's

is the day when the birds begin to pair) there was more snow. But

observe the advance the spring has made when March comes in. On the

first afternoon of March I noticed Bettesworth's "mate" with him

again, "twiddlin'," as usual; but I fancied and said that he looked

larger than before, and Bettesworth suggested that perhaps he was

living better--getting more food. Then I thought that the robin's

crest seemed more feathery, and was told at once, "That shows the time

o' year. Wonderful how tame he is!" exclaimed the old man. He added,

shaking his head, "But he goes away courtin' at times. He loses a lot

o' time" (from his work with Bettesworth). "Then he comes back, and

sets up on the fence an' _sings_ to me.... But he loses a lot o' time.

I tells 'n I shall 'ave to 'ave done with 'n."

_April 19._--Six weeks go by, during which the lawn grass has been

growing, and by the middle of April Bettesworth is busy with the

lawn-mower. There was a neglected grass plot, never mown before save

with the scythe, over which he tried this spring to run the machine.

But failing, and explaining why, he used an old word so oddly that I

noted it, whereby it happens that I get now this minute reminder of an

April occupation.

"She," he said, meaning the machine, would certainly refuse to cut

some of the coarser tussocks of this grass. "Why, even down there

where I bin cuttin', see how she took they cuds in her mouth and spet

'em out--like a old feller with a chew o' baccer--he'll bite and

spet...."

The "cuds" to which he referred were little tufts of grass, which only

persistent rolling would reduce to a level meet for a lawn-mower.

_June 22._--Omitting one short reference to somebody else's family

history, and one yet shorter observation on horses and their eyesight,

we skip right over May, nor stop again till we come to the longest

days. Here the record alights for a moment, just long enough to show a

wet mid-June, and Bettesworth keenly alive to the duties of husbandmen

in it. He glanced down towards the meadow in the bottom of the valley.

An unfinished rick of hay stood there, waiting for the remaining

grass, which lay about on the ground, and was losing colour. And

Bettesworth said,

"Bill Crawte 'll play about wi' that little bit o' hay down there till

'tis all spoilt."

In truth, it should have been taken up the previous day, as I ventured

to suggest. Then Bettesworth, contemptuously,

"He told me he heared it rainin' this mornin' at three o'clock, and

got up to cover his rick over. _He'd heared_ it _rainin'_. Why, he

might ha' bin asleep, an' then that rain would ha' gone down into that

rick two foot or more."

That is all. There is no more to tell of the old man's summer, nothing

for July and August. But in September we get a glance back to the past

harvest, a glance round at the earliest autumn prospects, and a

strange suggestion of the first-class importance of these things in

the life of country labouring folk. In brief compass, the talk runs

rapidly over many points of interest.

_September 6._--For if "the fly" was not on our seedling cabbage, as

we were inclined to fear, it had certainly ruined sundry sowings of

turnips, both in this garden and down there where Bettesworth lived.

"We can't help it," so he philosophized, "and I don't care if we get

enough for ourselves, though I should ha' liked to have more." But

"Hammond says _he's_ turnips be all spiled, and Porter's brother what

lives over here at this cot" (the brother, that is, of Porter, who

lives over here), "he bin down to Sussex harvestin' for the same man I

worked for so many years. Seven weeks. But then he bin hoein'.... He

was tellin' me his master down there sowed hunderd an' twenty acres o'

swedes, and never saved twenty of 'em. Fly took 'em all, and he had to

drill again with turnips. Swedes, and same with the mangol'.

"He says they've had it as hot down there as we have here. But, straw!

There was some straw, by all accounts. Young Collison what lives over

opposite me was 'long with 'n. Seven weeks he" (which?) "was away, but

it seems he had a bit of a miff with his wife, and went off

unbeknownst to her. She went to the relievin' officer, and he told her

_they'd_ find 'n, if she'd go into the union. He was off harvestin'.

He told me o' Sunday he thought 't 'd do her good."

"Who was she?"

"Gal from Reading. He was up that way somewhere for 'leven year, in a

brick-works. And she thought very likely as he was gone off into some

brick-works again; but he was down in Sussex, harvestin'."

_September 21._--Though only two weeks later, there is distinct autumn

in the next fragment, and yet perhaps for me only, because of the

picture it calls up. I remember a very still Saturday afternoon, a sky

curtained by quiet cloud, the air motionless, a grey mist stealing

into the lane that leads down into the heart of the valley. Certainly

it was an autumn day.

As he always did on Saturdays, Bettesworth had swept up the garden

paths with extra care, and on this afternoon had taken the sweepings

into the lane, to fill up a rut there. Upon my going out to see him,

he chuckled.

"You'd ha' laughed if you'd ha' bin out here wi' me at dinner-time. A

lady come up the lane, wantin' to know who you was. 'Who lives here?'

she says." He mimicked a high-pitched and affected voice. "'Mister

Bourne,' I says. 'Iss he a gentilman?' she says. 'You don't s'pose

he's a lady, do ye?' I says. 'What a beastlie road!' she says, and

went off, tip-toein' an' twistin' herself about--dunno how to walk nor

talk neither."