SPRING had come at last. The cold east winds had been followed by warm
south-westerly gales with soft rain, making the grass grow and filling
the bogs also. The golden-yellow of the marsh-marigold at the stream’s
edge was repeated in a lighter key by the stunted wild daffodils in the
forest meadows, and again in higher but more diluted tone by the
primroses on the banks outside the woods. The blackthorn was past its
prime, but the bushes were still covered with blossom now looking like
soiled snow. The oaks and beeches were still in bud only. The thorns had
put out tufts of vivid green, drowning the grey-green of their lichened
branches. In the swampy spots the catkins of the bog myrtle shone in the
sun with extraordinary brilliance, presenting great patches of that rare
colour in wild floral nature—deep orange and orange-scarlet.
Of course, the birds were here. Not only the residents, the stonechat
and the little hedge and field birds, and the rook, crow, kestrel, and
heron, but the migrants also. The chiffchaff uttered his name
continually as he hunted in the scraggy budding oaks, the willow-warbler
repeated his wavering refrain, crescendo and diminuendo, very like the
bends in the “tail” in “Alice in Wonderland;” and the whitethroat was
beginning to throw himself in ecstasy above the bushes. The blackcap
flew from bough to bough, as he shrilled his wild, inconsequent, yet
melodious and captivating song, while the garden-warbler skulked in the
bushes, chuckling and fluting throatily at great length; the nightingale
began to “jug,” while his shorter but more richly coloured mate
industriously collected oak-leaves for her nest. In the beechwoods the
woodwren flitted from bough to bough, repeating his clear call, followed
by a twittering cadence like ice tinkling in a glass, while his wings
quivered in time with his tune.
Above the moor the cock lapwing made occasional flights to amuse his
sitting partner, flapping his rounded wings vigorously as he flew all
ways, curving downwards to the ground without alighting and up again in
another sweep, then “reversing” in his characteristic way. Meanwhile the
redshank stood on the bog bobbing his head nervously, or whistled
shrilly to his mate, if a crow or a man appeared on the horizon. The
redshank likes to nest near the lapwing, which is as brave as the other
is timid, dashing threateningly down on an intruder, especially its
ancient enemies—crow, jackdaw, and harrier.
Out on the moor lawns of green grass showed amongst the heather, and in
the bogs, amidst the bleached tussock grass, were patches of new grass
of the most vivid emerald, looking, and most deceptively so, like firm
sward.
There are many bogs in the forest, varying from patches a few yards
square to huge ones covering many acres. In Denny Bog still lie the
remains of an aeroplane which landed on the smooth and, to an eye
looking from above, apparently firm surface. The pilot, on getting out
of the fuselage, was soon up to his waist; and in spite of repeated
efforts, it was found impossible to extricate the plane, and the salvers
had to content themselves with removing the engine.
To the human visitor the bog has no terrors, for its dead yellowish
grass with green patches and occasional pools proclaim its nature.
Moreover, causeways of gravel have been made across narrower parts where
necessary.
Skewbald and his mother were wandering as usual on the moor, the rest of
the herd strung out over a square mile of forest, hillside, and grass
bottom, too intent on making up for their scanty winter fare to desire
the close companionship of their fellows.
Skewbald was much the same as a month before, perhaps a little more
ragged, as his loosening winter dress got carded out by the thorns.
The two were on the outskirts of a great bog, to the south of which
extensive woods filled the horizon. They were not alone. A little
distance away two gipsies, a man and a boy, were following the edge of
the bog, striding from tussock to tussock and probing with their sticks
for bad places which might let them in.
There was no difficulty in divining what _they_ wanted. The lapwings
screaming overhead, the redshanks wailing as they flew right away, knew
also that their eggs were in danger. Plovers’ eggs are part of the
gipsy’s livelihood—to sell, because they are too precious for him to
eat. He would say that he found far more in a hen’s egg.
As the egg-hunters quartered the ground, they approached the ponies,
which, judging from their movements that they themselves were not likely
to be molested, ignored their proximity. The boy, when abreast of
Skewbald, suddenly raised his stick, and from pure mischief or rather
fun, ran at the yearling, which, startled, bounded off, but in the
direction of the bog. He plunged about and sank deeply, while his
strenuous efforts to extricate himself only caused him to become more
firmly embedded. Soon he could no longer move his legs, the mud reached
his flanks, and he was still sinking, though now more slowly.
The man stormed at the boy standing open-mouthed in dismay, then looking
round began to run, calling to the other to follow. He was making for a
promontory of firm ground stretching into the bog. Here stood a few
stunted pines which a fire had caught, for they were black and dead,
some already lying on the ground. Both loaded themselves with the fallen
logs, staggered back to the yearling, and began to throw the wood on the
bog towards him. Skewbald, incapable of motion save for frenzied
movements of his head and neck, was aghast at his plight, and called
piteously to his mother, who plunged backwards and forwards along the
edge of the bog, whinnying distractedly.
The man waded out and pushed log after log under the yearling’s belly.
Then he got a pole under him behind the fore-legs. His next action was
to bend down and feel in the mud to ascertain if the pony’s legs were
straight. A forcible pull on a bent leg might cause a fracture. His
preparations made, he put all his strength into levering up the pole,
calling: “Now, Jarge, let ’un have what for;” and the boy, with a stick,
belaboured the yearling’s hind-quarters. Skewbald felt himself moved by
the man’s force, and, under the added stimulus of pain, made tremendous
exertions. The man made another effort, and a fore-leg came up. “At ’un
again, lad;” and the harassed yearling, with a great heave and an
explosive “suck,” came out of the mud and began to flounder towards the
firm ground, leaving the two half-bogged themselves. The man reached out
and pulled the boy towards him, and they worked their way out.
They were covered with mud from head to foot, and regarded each other
doubtfully, until the man laughed (a smile would not have been
perceived), whereupon the boy exploded in peals of merriment. Their
hearts were warm within them, with the pleasure of success, for
horseflesh or ponyflesh is dear to the gipsy. Then, picking up the eggs
they had collected, which, being gipsies, they had carefully deposited
in a tussock, they departed.
But Skewbald carried a long scar on his belly, caused by a sharp pine
knot, to the day of his death.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]