the wagon and hosses, as 'ow i'd rite to you, and which i Now takes the
Oportunity, bein' as 'ow i would ha' filled my Promise long Ago, If i
was only arf as clever as Polly pea-blossom.
"My shoes! old chummie, but Polly be amazin' 'cute. She is My
stable-mate is polly, likewise my pole-companion As you might say.
Which her name is polly pea-blossom, all complete. Gee up and away you
goes!
"And which I considers it the completest 'onor out to be chums along o'
polly, anyhow whatsoever. Gee up and away you goes!
"`You're a lady, polly,' i says, says i, `and i ain't a gentleman--no,
beggar me if i be's.'
"`You sometimes speak the truth,' says polly, she says.
"Which that was a kind o' 2-handed compliment, dear dobbin. Gee up and
away you goes!
"Which polly is unkimmin clever, and I allers appeals to polly.
"Which polly often amooses i like, while we Be a-munchin' a bit o'
meadow hay, arter we've been and gone and 'ad our jackets brushed, and
our Feet washed, and got bedded-up like; Polly allers tells me o' the
toime when she were a-pullin' of a big chariat and a-draggin' of a
duchess to church, and what a jolly nice stable she lived In, and what
fine gold-plated 'arness she used to put on, and Lots else I don't
recomember, dobbin, and all in such Fine english, dobbin, as you and i
couldn't speak with our bits out. Yes, polly be's unkimmin clever. Gee
up and away you goes!
"But 1 nite, dobbin, i says to myself, says i, i'll tell polly summit o'
_my_ younger days, so I hits out as follers: `When i were a-livin' wi'
farmer Frogue, polly,' says i, which he were a farmer in a small way,
and brew'd a drop o' good beer for the publics all round like, there
were me and my mate, a boss called dobbin; and bless your old collar,
polly, dobbin were a rare good un, and he'd a-draw'd a tree out by the
roots dobbin would. Gee op and away ye goes! And there were old Garge
who drov us like, which he Had a fine temper, polly, 'ceptin' when he
got a drop too much, then it was whip, whip, whip, all day, up hill and
down, and my shoulders is marked till this day. But Old farmer frogue,
he comes to the stable once upon a time, which a very fat un were farmer
frogue, wi' no legs to speak of like. Well, polly, as I were a sayin',
he comes to the stable, and he says to Garge, `Garge,' says he--
"But would you believe it, dear dobbin? I never got further on with my
story like.
"`Oh! bother you,' cries polly, a-tossin o' her mane that proud like.
`Do you imagine for a moment that a born lady like me is interested in
your Dobbins, and your Garges, and your fat old farmer Frogues? You're
a vulgar old horse, Corn-flower.'
"Gee op, says i, and away ye goes!
"And polly ups wi' her hind foot and splinters the partition, and master
had to pay for that, which polly is amazin' clever at doin' a kick like.
"But I likes polly unkimmon, and polly likes i, and though she bites and
kicks she do be unhappy when i goes away to be shoed. Which I never
loses my temper, dobbin, whatsomever. Gee up and away ye goes!
"Which we never funks a hill though, neither on us. When we Comes to a
pertikler stiff un like i just appeals to polly.
"`Pull up,' says Polly, says she, `every hill has a top to it; pull up,
you old hass, pull op!'
"Sometimes the hay we gets ain't the sweetest o' perfoomery, dobbin, old
chummie; then I appeals to polly, cause you see if polly can eat it so
kin i.
"Sometimes we meet the tractive hengine; i never liked it, and what's
more i never will. It seems unnatural like, so i appeals to polly.
"`What's the krect thing to do, polly?' i says, says i; `shall us kick
or shall us bolt?'
"`Come straight on, ye hold fool,' says polly pea-blossom, says she.
"Gee up, says i, and away ye goes!
"Which i must now dror to a klose, dobbin, and which i does hope you'll
allers have a good home and good shoes, dobbin, till you're marched to
the knacker's. Gee up and away ye goes!--
"Good-bye, dobbin, polly's gone to sleep, and master is a-playin' the
fiddle so soft and low like, in the meadow beyant yonder, which it
allers does make me think o' what the parson's old pony once told me,
dobbin, o' a land where old hosses were taken to arter they were shot
and their shoes taken off, a land o' green meadows, dobbin, and a sweet
quiet river a-rollin' by, and long rows o' wavin' pollards like, with
nothing to do all day, no 'arness to wear, no bit to hurt or rein to
gall. Think o' that, dobbin. Good-bye, dobbin--there goes the moosic
again, so sweet and tremblin' and sobbin'-like. i'm goin' to listen and
dream.
"Yours kindly,--
"Poor old Corn-flower."
III.
From Polly the Cockatoo to Dick the Starling.
"Dear Dick,--If you weren't the cleverest starling that ever talked or
flew, with a coat all shiny with crimson and blue, I wouldn't waste a
tail feather in writing to you.
"You must know, Dick, that there are two Pollys on this wandering
expedition, Polly the mare, Polly Pea-blossom, and Polly the pretty
cockatoo, that's me, though however master could have thought of making
me godmother to an old mare, goodness only knows. Ha! ha! ha! it makes
me laugh to think of it.
"They do say that I'm the happiest, and the prettiest, and the merriest
bird, that ever yet was born, and I won't be five till next birthday,
though what I shall be before I am a hundred is more than I can think.
"Yes, I'll live to a hundred, cockatoos all do; then my body will drop
off the perch, and my soul will go into something else--ha! ha! ha!
Wouldn't you laugh too, if you had to live for a hundred years?
"All that time in a cage, with only a run out once a day, and a row with
the cat! Yes, all that time, and why not? What's the odds so long as
you're happy? Ha! ha! ha!
"I confess I do dream sometimes of the wild dark forest lands of
Australia, and I think at times I would like to lead a life of freedom
away in the woods yonder, just as the rooks and the pigeons do. Dash my
bill! Dick, but I would make it warm for some of them in the woods--ha!
ha! ha!
"Sometimes when the sparrows--they are cheeky enough for anything--come
close to my cage, I give vent to what master calls my war-cry, and they
almost drop dead with fright.
"`Scray!' that's my war-cry, and it is louder than a railway whistle,
and shriller than a bagpipe.
"`Scray! Scray! Scray--ay--ay!'
"That's it again.
"Master has just pitched a `Bradshaw' at my cage. I'll tear that
`Bradshaw' to bits first chance I have.
"Master says my war-cry is the worst of me. It is so startling, he
says.
"That's just where it is--what would be the use of a war-cry if it
weren't startling? Eh, Dick?
"Now out in the Australian jungles, this war-cry is the only defence we
poor cockatoos have against the venomous snakes.
"The snakes come gliding up the tree.
"`Scray! Scray!!' we scream, and away they squirm.
"A hundred years in a cage, or chained by a foot to a perch! A hundred
years, Dick! It does seem a long time.
"But the other day, when master put my cage on the grass, I just opened
the fastening, and out I hopped. Ha! ha! ha! There were butterflies
floating about, and bees on the flowering linden trees, and birds
singing, and wild rabbits washing their faces with their forefeet among
the green ferns, and every creature seemed as happy as the summer day is
long. I _did_ have an hour's good fun in the woods, I can tell you. I
caught a bird and killed it; I caught a mouse and crunched it up; and I
scared some pigeons nearly to death, for they took me for an owl. Then
an ugly man in a velvet jacket fired a gun at me, and I flew away back
to my cage.
"I wouldn't have got much to eat in the woods, and there is always corn
in Egypt.
"But hanging up here in the verandah of the Wanderer is fine fun. I see
so many strange birds, and so many strange children. I dote on
children, and I sing and I dance to them, and sometimes make a grab at
their noses.
"Hullo! Dick. Why, the door of my cage is open! Master has gone out.
"I am going out too, Dick.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"I've been out, Dick. I have had a walk round the saloon. I've torn
`Bradshaw' all to pieces. I made a grab at Hurricane Bob's tail, and
the brute nearly bit my head off. Just as if his tail was of any
consequence! I've been playing the guitar, and cut all the strings in
two. I've pitched a basket of flowers on the carpet, and I've spilt the
ink all over them, and I've danced upon them; and torn master's letters
up, and enjoyed myself most thoroughly. Ha! ha! ha! Master's face will
be as long as his fiddle when he comes back.
"`Scray! Scray! Scray--ay--ay!'
"Well, no more at present, Dick my darling. I never tried to pull
_your_ tail off, did I? I don't think I have done very much harm in
this world, and I never say naughty words, so, perhaps, when my hundred
years are over, and my body drops off the perch, my soul will go into
something very nice indeed.
"Ha! ha! ha!
"Scray! Scray!! Scray!!!
"Poor Polly."
IV.
From Hurricane Bob to his Kennel-Mate Eily.
"You said in your last, dear Eily, that you wanted to know how I enjoyed
my gipsy life, and the answer is, `out and out,' or rather, `out and
in,' outside the caravan and inside the caravan. If there be a happier
dog than myself in all the kingdom of kenneldom, let him come right up
and show himself, and the probability is we'll fight about it right
away.
"Well, you see, I don't take many notes by the way, but I notice
everything for all that.
"First thing in the morning I have my breakfast and a trot out.
"It pains me though to see so many poor dogs muzzled. I am sure that
Carlyle was right, and that most men--especially magistrates--are fools.
Wouldn't I like to see some of them muzzled just?--the magistrates, I
mean.
"Every dog on the street makes room for me, and if they don't--you know
what I mean, Eily.
"The other day a Scotch collie--and you know, Eily, you are the only
Scotch collie I could ever bear--walked up to me on the cliff-top at
Filey, and put up his back. As he did not lower his tail, I went
straight for him, and it would have done you good to see how I shook
him. There was a big dandy on me too, and as soon as I had quietened
the collie I opened the dandy up. My bites are nearly well, and I am
quite prepared for another fight. I won't allow any dog in the world to
come spooning round my master.
"We travel many and many a long mile, Eily, and I am generally tired
before the day is done, but at night there is another long walk or a run
behind the tricycle. Then a tumble on the greensward; sometimes it is
covered all over with beautiful flowers, prettier than any carpet you
ever lay upon.
"Everybody is so kind to me, and the ladies fondle me and say such
pretty things to me. I wonder they don't fondle master and say pretty
things to him. I wish they would.
"Good-bye, Eily. There is a tramp coming skulking round the caravan,
and I don't like his looks.
"`R-r-r-r-r-bow! Wow-w!'
"He is gone, Eily. Good-bye, take care of master's children till we all
come back.
"Yours right faithfully,--
"Hurricane Bob."
V.
From the Author to his Good Friend C.A.W.
[C.A. Wheeler, Esq, of Swindon, the clever author of "Sports-scrapiana,"
etc, etc.]
"The Wanderer Caravan,--
"Touring in Notts,--
"_July 28_, 1886.
"My dearly-beloved Caw,--For not writing to you before now I must make
the excuse the Scotch lassie made to her lover--`I've been thinkin'
aboot ye, Johnnie lad.' And so in my wanderings I often think of thee
and thine, poor old Sam included; and my mind reverts to your cosy
parlour in Swindon, Nellie in the armchair, Sam on the footstool, my
Hurricane Bob on the hearth, and you and I viewing each other's smiling
faces through the vapour that ascends from a duality of jorums of real
Highland tartan toddy.
"Yes, I've been thinking of you, but I have likewise been busy. There
is a deal to be done in a caravan, even if I hadn't my literary
connection to keep up, and half-a-dozen serieses to carry on. You must
know that a gentleman gipsy's life isn't all beer and skittles. Take
the doings of one day as an example, my Caw. The Wanderer has been
lying on the greensward all night, we will say, close by a little
country village inn. Crowds gathered round us last night, lured by
curiosity and the dulcet tones of your humble servant's fiddle and
valet's flute, but soon, as we loyally played `God save the Queen,' the
rustics melted away, our shutters were put up, and soon there was no
sound to be heard save the occasional hooting of a brown owl, and the
sighing of the west wind through a thicket of firs. We slept the sleep
of gipsies, or of the just, the valet in the after-cabin, I in the
saloon, my faithful Newfoundland at my side. If a step but comes near
the caravan at night, the deep bass, ominous growl that shakes the ship
from stem to stern shows that this grand old dog is ready for business.
"But soon as the little hands of the clock point to six, my eyes open
mechanically, as it were, Bob gets up and stretches himself, and, ere
ever the smoke from the village chimneys begins to roll up through the
green of the trees, we are all astir. The bath-tent is speedily
pitched, and breakfast is being prepared. No need of tonic bitters to
give a gipsy an appetite, the fresh, pure air does that, albeit that
frizzly ham and those milky, newborn eggs, with white bread and the
countriest of country butter, would draw water from the teeth of a
hand-saw. Breakfast over, my Caw, while I write on the _coupe_ and Bob
rolls exultant on the grass, my valet is carefully washing decks,
dusting, and tidying, and the coachman is once more carefully grooming
Captain Corn-flower and Polly Pea-blossom.
"It will be half-past eight before the saloon and after-cabin are
thoroughly in order, for the Wanderer is quite a Pullman car and lady's
boudoir, _minus_ the lady. Then, my old friend, visitors will begin to
drop in, and probably for nearly an hour I am holding a kind of _levee_.
It is a species of lionising that I have now got hardened to.
Everybody admires everything, and I have to answer the same kind of
questions day after day. It is nice, however, to find people who know
me and have read my writings in every village in the kingdom. Hurricane
Bob, of course, comes in for a big share of admiration. He gets showers
of kisses, and many a fair cheek rests lovingly on his bonnie brow. I
have to be content with smiles and glances, flowers and fruit, and eggs
and new potatoes. The other day a handsome salmon came. It was a
broiling hot day. The salmon said he must be eaten fresh. I was equal
to the occasion. The lordly fish was cooked, the crew of the Wanderer,
all told, gathered around him on the grass, and soon he had to change
his _tense_--from the present to the past.
"The other day pigeons came. My valet plucked them, and the day being
windy, and he, knowing no better, did the work standing, and, lor! how
the feathers flew. It was a rain of feathers, and a reign of terror,
for the ladies passing to the station had to put up their umbrellas.
"But the steps are up, the horses are in, good-byes said, hands are
waved by the kindly crowd, and away we rattle. My place is ever on the
_coupe_, note-book in hand.
"`A chiel's among ye,' etc.
"My valet is riding on ahead on the tricycle. This year it is the
charming `Marlborough,' which is such a pleasant one to ride. On and
on, now we go, through the beautiful country; something to attract our
attention at every hundred yards. Heavens! my dear Caw, how little
those who travel by train know of the delights of the road. We trot
along while on level roads, we madly rush the short, steep hills at a
glorious gallop, we crawl up the long, bad hills, and carefully--with
skid and chain on the near hind wheel--we stagger down the break-neck
`pinches.' The brake is a powerful one, and in bad countries is in
constant use, so that its brass handle shines like gold, and my arm
aches ere night with putting it on and off.
"Well, there is a midday halt after ten miles, generally on the roadside
near water. We have a modest lunch of hard-boiled eggs, milk, beer,
cheese, bread, and crushed oats and a bit of clover. Then on and on
again. By five we have probably settled for the night, when dinner is
prepared. We hardly need supper, and what with the rattling along all
day, and the hum of the great van--with running and riding, and studying
natural history and phenomena, including faces--I am tired, and so are
we all, by nine o'clock.
"But we generally have music before then. I have a small harmonium, a
guitar, and a fiddle, and my valet plays well on the flute.
"`Then comes still evening on.'
"The bats and owls come out, and we retire.
"Of weather we have all varieties--the hot and the cool, the rain that
rattles on the roof, the wind that makes the Wanderer rock, and the
occasional thunderstorm. One dark night last week--we were in a lonely
place--I sat out on the _coupe_ till one o'clock--`the wee short hoor
ayont the twal'--watching the vivid blue lightning, that curled like
fiery snakes among the trees. By the way, I had nothing on but my
night-shirt, and a dread spectre I must have appeared to anyone passing,
seen but for a moment in the lightning's flash, then gone. I marvelled
next day that I had caught a slight cold.
"I love little, quiet meadows, Caw. I dote on rural villages, and hate
big towns. If the caravan is not lying on the grass there is no
comfort.
"I lay last night in the cosiest meadow ever I have been in. The very
rural hamlet of Bunny, Notts, is a quarter of a mile away, but all the
world is screened away from me with trees and hedges. I have for
meadow-mates two intelligent cows, who can't quite make us out. They
couldn't make Bob out either, till in the zeal of his guardianship he
got one of them by the tail. There is in this hamlet of three hundred
souls one inn--it is tottering to decay--a pound, a police-station, and
a church. The church is ever so old, the weather-cock has long been
blown down, and the clock has stopped for ever. The whole village is
about as lively and bright as a farthing candle stuck in an empty beer
bottle.
"But here come the horses. Good-bye till we meet.
"Gordon Stables,--
"Ye Gentleman Gipsy."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
THE HUMOURS OF THE ROAD--INN SIGNS--WHAT I AM TAKEN FOR--A STUDY OF
FACES--MILESTONES AND FINGER-POSTS--TRAMPS--THE MAN WITH THE IRON MASK--
THE COLLIE DOG--GIPSIES' DOGS--A MIDNIGHT ATTACK ON THE WANDERER.
"I am as free as Nature first made man,
Ere the base laws of servitude began,
When wild in woods the noble savage ran."
Dryden.
Madly dashing on through the country as cyclists do, on their way to
John o' Groats or elsewhere, probably at an average rate of seventy
miles a day, neither scenery nor anything else can be either enjoyed or
appreciated.
The cyclist arrives in the evening at his inn, tired, dusty, and
disagreeably damp as to underclothing. He has now no other wish except
to dine and go to bed. Morning sees him in the saddle again, whirring
ever onwards to the distant goal.
He is doing a record. Let him. For him the birds sing not in woodland
or copse; for him no wild flowers spring; he pauses not to listen to hum
of bee or murmur of brooklet, nor to admire the beauties of heathy
hills, purple with the glorious heather, or bosky dells, green with
feathery larch or silvery birch; nor does he see the rolling
cloudscapes, with their rifts of blue between. On--on--on--his way is
ever on.
But gipsy-folks, like myself, jogging along at a quiet
six-or-seven-miles-an-hour pace, observe and note everything. And it is
surprising what trifles amuse us.
Although I constantly took notes from the _coupe_, or from my cycle
saddle, and now and then made rough sketches, I can in these pages only
give samples from these notes.
A volume could be written on public-house or inn signs, for example.
Another on strange names.
A third on trees.
A fourth on water--lakes, brooklets, rivers, cataracts, and
mill-streams.
A fifth upon faces.
And so on, _ad libitum_.
As to signs, many are curious enough, but there is a considerable amount
of sameness about many. You meet Red Lions, White Harts, Kings' Arms,
Dukes' Arms, Cricketers' Arms, and arms of all sorts everywhere, and
Woolpacks, and Eagles, and Rising Suns, _ad nauseam_.
The sign of a five-barred gate hung out is not uncommon in the Midland
Counties, with the following doggerel verse:--
"This gate hangs well,
And hinders none;
Refresh and pay,
And travel on."
Although the Wanderer is nearly always taken for what she is--a private
carriage on a large scale--still it is amusing sometimes to note what I
am mistaken for, to wit:--
1. "General" in the Salvation Army.
2. Surgeon-attendant on a nervous old lady who is supposed to be
inside.
3. A travelling artist.
4. A photographer.
5. A menagerie.
6. A Cheap-Jack.
7. A Bible carriage.
8. A madman.
9. An eccentric baronet.
10. A political agent.
11. Lord E.
12. Some other "nob."
13. And last, but not least, King of the Gipsies.
It must not be supposed that I mind a single bit what people think of
me, so long as I have a quiet, comfortable meadow to stand in at night
and a good stable for Corn-flower and Pea-blossom. But how would you
like, reader, to be taken for a travelling show, and to make your way
through a village followed by a crowd of admiring children, counting
their pence, and wondering when you were going to open?
Polly's cage would occasionally be hanging from the verandah over the
coupe, with Hurricane Bob lying on his rug, and I would hear such
remarks as these from the juvenile crowd:--
"Oh! look at his long moustache."
"Oh! look at his hat, Mary."
"Susan, Susan, look at the Poll parrot."
"Look! it is holding a biscuit in its hand."
"Look at the bear."
"No, it's a dog."
"You're a hass! it's a bear."
"Lift me up to see, Tildie."
"Lift _me_ up too."
Here again is my coachman being interviewed by some country
bumpkins:--"Who be your master, matie?"
"A private gentleman."
"Is he a Liberal?"
"No."
"Is he a Tory?"
"Perhaps."
"Is he a Salvationist?"
"Not much."
"What does he do?"
"Nothing."
"What does he keep?"
"The Sabbath."
"Got anything to sell?"
"No! Do you take us for Cheap-Jacks?"
"Got anything to _give_ away, then?" It will be observed that even a
gentleman gipsy's life has its drawbacks, but not many. One, however,
is a deficiency of privacy. For instance, though I have on board both a
guitar and fiddle, I can neither play nor sing so much of an evening as
I would like to do, because a little mob always gathers round to listen,
and I might just as well be on the stage. But in quiet country places I
have often, when I saw I was not unappreciated, played and sang just
because they seemed to like it.
The faces I see on the road are often a study in themselves, and one
might really make a kind of classification of those that are constantly
recurring. I have only space to give a sample from memory.
1. This face to me is not a pleasing memory. It is that of the
severe-looking female in a low pony carriage. She may or may not be an
old maid. Very likely she is; and no wonder, for she is flat-faced and
painfully plain. Beside her sits her companion, and behind her a man in
a cheap livery; while she herself handles the ribbons, driving a rough,
independent, self-willed pony. These people sternly refuse to look at
us. They turn away their eyes from beholding vanity; or they take us
for real gipsies--"worse than even actors." I can easily imagine some
of the items of the home life of this party: the tidily kept garden; the
old gardener, who also cleans the boots and waits at table; the stuffy
little parlour, with the windows always down; the fat Pomeranian dog;
the tabby cat; and the occasional "muffin shines," as Yankees call them,
where bad tea is served--bad tea and ruined reputations. Avast! old
lady; the sun shines more brightly when you are out of sight.
2. The joskin or country lout. He stops to stare. Probably he has a
pitchfork in his hand. On his face is a wondering, half-amused smile,
but his eyes are so wide open that he looks scared. His mouth is open,
too, and big enough apparently to hold a mangel-wurzel.
Go on, Garge; we won't harm thee, lad.
3. Cottage folks of all kinds and colours. Look at the weary face of
that woman with the weary-looking baby on her arm. The husband is
smoking a dirty pipe, but he smiles on us as we go whirling past; and
his children, a-squat in the gutter, leave their mud pies and sing and
shout and scream at us, waving their dusty hats and their little brown
arms in the air.