"No? I en't had e'er a one--I dunno _when_. Well--a rabbit, you come
to put one down afore a hungry man, what is it? He's mother have gone
an' bought one for 'n at a shop, when he en't happened to have one
hisself--give as much as a shillin' or fifteenpence. 'Ten't worth it.
Or else I've many a time bought 'em for sixpence--sixpence, or
sixpence-ha'penny, or sevenpence. And they en't worth no more."
During all this he was sweeping up his grass cuttings. The children
came out of school for afternoon recess, and their shoutings sounded
across the valley. "There's the rebels let loose again," said
Bettesworth. From where we stood, high on one of the upper terraces of
the garden, we could see far. The sky was grey and melancholy. A wind
blew up gustily out of the south-east, and I foreboded rain. "We don't
want it from that quarter," Bettesworth replied. "That's such a _cold_
rain. And I've knowed it keep on forty-eight hours, out o' the
east.... I felt a lot better" (of the recent bronchitis) "when she"
(the wind) "shifted out o' there before."
Meanwhile I had pulled up one or two more dandelions, to add to
Bettesworth's heap; and now I espied a small seedling of bryony, which
also I was careful to pull out. The root, already as big as a man's
thumb, came up easily, and I passed it to Bettesworth, asking, "Isn't
that what they give to horses sometimes?"
He handled it. "I never _heared_ of anybody," he answered, perhaps not
recognizing it at this small stage of growth. "Now, ground _ivy_!
That's a rare thing. If you bakes the roots o' that in the oven, an'
then grinds it up to a powder, you no need to _call_ yer horses to ye,
after you've give 'em that. They'll foller ye for it. Dandelion roots
the same. Make 'em as fat! And their coats come up mottled, jest as if
you'd knocked 'em all over with a 'ammer. They'll foller ye about
anywhere for that. _I_'ve give it to 'em, many's a time; bin out,
after my day's work, all round the hedges, purpose to get things for
my 'osses. There's lots o' things in the hedgerow as is good for 'em.
So there is for we too, if we only knowed which they was. We shouldn't
want much _doctor_ if we knowed about herbs.
"Old Waterson, he used to eat dandelion leaves same as you would a
lettuce, and he said it done 'n good, too. Old Steve Blackman was
another. He used to know all about the herbs. If you went into his
kitchen, you'd see it hung all round with little bundles of 'em, to
dry. _He_ was the only one as could cure old Rokey Wells o' the yeller
janders. Gunner had tried 'n--all the doctors had tried 'n, and give
'n up. He'd bin up there at the infirmary eighteen months or more,
till old Steve see 'n one day and took to 'n. And he made a hale
hearty man of 'n again.
"That 'ere Holt--Tom Holt, _you_ know, what used to be keeper at
Culverley--_he_ got the yeller janders now. He's pensioned off--twelve
shillin's a week, and his cot and firin'. Lives in Cashford Bridge
house--you knows that old farmhouse as you goes over Cashford Bridge.
He lives there now. If old Steve's son got his father's book now,
he'll be able to cure 'n. He used to keep a book where he put all the
receipts, so 't is to be hoped his son have kep' it. They says Holt
've got the yeller janders wonderful strong, but if...."
_May 24._--In Bettesworth's opinion, an important part of the training
of a labourer relates to getting about and finding work. The old man
was at the Whit Monday fête with a man named Vickery, of whom he
talked, imitating Vickery's gruff voice with appreciation.
Vickery--sixty or seventy years old--came (I learn) from a village out
Guildford way--"that was his native," says Bettesworth--but was
adopted by an aunt in this parish, who left him her two cottages at
her death. All this, if not interesting to us, was deeply so to
Bettesworth. And Vickery, it appears, has worked all his life in one
situation, at Culverley Park. He began as a boy minding sheep. As a
man, he managed the gas-house belonging to the mansion; and when the
electric light was installed, he took over the management of that,
making up his time with chopping fire-wood, and so forth. And, says
Bettesworth, "They'd ha' to set fire to Culverley to get rid of 'n. He
never worked nowhere else. That's how they be down there. Old Smith's
another of 'em. He bin there forty year. He turned seventy, here a
week ago. Never had but two places, and bin at Culverley forty year.
Why, if they was turned out they wouldn't know how to go about. Same
when Mr. John Payne died: there was a lot o' young fellers turned off.
They hadn't looked out for theirselves; their fathers had always got
the work for 'em, and law! they didn' know where to go no more than a
cuckoo! But I reckon that's a very silly thing."