LESSONS ON THE HILLS.
“Fetch down a plate from the cupboard, Ambrose, and cover up the beer,
while I cut the cheese. I suppose we may have a quarter of the cheese,
as mother said,” observed Mildred to Ambrose, as the early sun was
peeping in through the upper panes of the cottage lattice the next
morning.
“Yes; we may have the quarter. I was at the shop before the first
shutter was down. Here—here’s a plate for Mr. Ryan’s cheese. We will
carry ours in the paper I brought it in. How shall I keep puss from
getting at the things? Is not that Mr. Ryan stirring?—Mr. Ryan! Mr.
Ryan!” (calling through the door.) “Please to look to your breakfast
here, that the cat does not get it. We are going now; and Owen is gone
to the mill; and mother is not home yet.”
“Off with you, lad!” answered Ryan from within. “Leave the cat to me.
And if you can pick up any rags for me among the briers, you know I
always give honest coppers for them; and yet more for tarred ropes, if
such an article comes in your way.”
“Tarred ropes! How should we get them? If tar by itself would do, I
could help you to some of that. The shepherds always keep tar against
the shearing. Would tar by itself do?”
The loud laugh from within showed Ambrose that he had said something
foolish; and he hastily departed, supposing that Mr. Ryan had been
making a joke of him.
Cool and moist as all had been in the valley as they passed, the
children found that the dew was gone from the furze-bushes on the hills,
and that the sun was very warm.
“What had we better do?” asked Mildred, contemplating the yellow cheese,
which began to shine almost as soon as she opened the paper. “Shall we
eat it directly? I think I am beginning to be very hungry; are not you?
And it will be half melted, and the bread dry, if we carry it about in
the sun.”
“Mother said we were to keep the sheep for a couple of hours first,” was
Ambrose’s reply. “And besides, I have some leaves to get for her; and
they won’t be fit if I let them stay till the dew is off; and it is off
already, except under the shady side of the bushes. Put the breakfast
under the shady side of this bush; I’ll look to it.—Do you go about and
get some rags, if you can find any. The briers and hedges are the most
likely places.”
“There won’t be any Turks under the hedges, will there?” asked Mildred,
lowering her voice.
“I don’t know. I don’t rightly know what Turks are; but if anything
happens amiss, call out loud to me, and I’ll come. Go; make haste. The
sheep are quiet enough.”
“And how are we to know when two hours are over?”
“We must each guess, I suppose; and if we don’t agree, we’ll draw lots
with a long spike of grass and a short one. The long one for me, you
know, because I’m the eldest.”
In forty minutes, both were agreed that two hours were over; and each
complimented the other on the fruits of the morning’s work. Ambrose
exhibited a handful of leaves, which he placed under a big stone, that
they might not be blown away; and Mildred brought the foot of a worsted
stocking, which she had found in a ditch; a corner of a blue cotton
handkerchief with white spots, which had been impaled on a furze bush;
and a bit of white linen as large as the palm of her little hand, with
twenty holes in it. How many coppers would Ryan be likely to give her
for this treasure?
Ambrose rejected the worsted article, to which his sister gave a sigh as
she saw it thrown backwards among a group of sheep, who scampered away
in their first terror, but soon gathered together to look at the
fragment. The other two might be worth the third part of a farthing, if
Mr. Ryan should be in a liberal mood, Ambrose thought.
“I wonder how much paper they will make,” Mildred observed. “Mr. Ryan
says they are to go into his sack with the rest of his rags, for paper.
Mother did not tell you what she wanted the leaves for, I suppose?”
“No; and I sha’n’t ask her. Do you ever hear people talk about what
mother makes?”
“Why, yes; I do. Molly at Mrs. Arruther’s was telling the gipsy woman
one day about mother; and she said she had some strange secrets. And
then they asked me what one thing meant, and another. But they did not
mean me to hear all they said, any more than Mrs. Dowley when she winked
at her husband, and glanced down at mother’s apron where some green was
peeping out: but it was only cabbage that time. They all think her a
very wise doctor.”
“How they do send after her when they are ill! Mr. Yapp said one day
that she would be wise to bring up one of us to be a doctor after her:
but Mrs. Dowley was there then, and she said it could not be, because
mother’s was of the nature of a gift that could not be taught.—Here is
your other bit of cheese. Will you have it now, or keep it till dinner?”
Mildred had intended to reserve part of her cheese for dinner; but
having now nothing particular to do, and the sheep offering nothing
which required her attention, the whole of the delicacy at length
disappeared, crumb by crumb. Then she lay back, looking at a flight of
birds that now met, now parted, now crossed each other in all
directions, high in the air. Ambrose meanwhile stretched himself at
length, with his face to the ground, watching a hairy brown caterpillar,
which he took the liberty of bringing back with a gentle pinch by the
tail, as often as it flattered itself that it was getting beyond his
reach. He presently wished that they had a pair of scissors with them.
“Won’t the knife do as well?” Mildred languidly inquired.
“No. I want to cut off the creature’s hair.”
“What creature?” asked Mildred, starting up, but seeing no creature with
hair, but a remote donkey and herself.
“Here: this young gentleman,” replied her brother, exhibiting the
writhing caterpillar on the palm of his brown hand. Well might the
creature feel uncomfortable; for this hand which had carried cheese must
have been far from fragrant, in comparison with the thyme-bed on which
the poor caterpillar had been disporting himself. What Ambrose wanted
was to see whether it would come out a common green caterpillar, when
stripped of its long sleek hairs. The process of plucking was tried in
the absence of scissors: but the material was too fine. The knife was
next applied, but the creature was destined never to be shaven and
shorn. A slip of the knife cut it in two, and fetched blood on Mildred’s
finger at the same time. The perturbation thus caused completely
awakened her, and she was ready for the sport of shepherd and shepherd’s
dog. For a very long time, Ambrose supported his dignity of shepherd. He
strapped himself round with his sister’s pinafore and his own for a
plaid; took long steps; wielded a thick stick, and made grand noises to
the flock; while Mildred went on all fours till her back was almost
broken, and barked all the while, like any dog. The sheep were silly
enough to scud before her to the very last, as much alarmed as at first,
till she was obliged to stop to laugh at them. All play must come to an
end; and by-and-by the children were stretched, panting, on the very
spot where they had breakfasted. To panting succeeded yawning; and it
began to occur to both that they had yet a long day to pass before the
sheep would be penned. It was against the rules of their employment that
both should sleep at the same time; and, as Mildred could not keep
awake, it was necessary for her brother to watch. She was not, as usual,
wakened by his calling out so loud to some of his charge as to rouse her
before her dream was done. She finished it, opened her eyes, sat up and
stretched herself; and Ambrose was too busy to take notice.
“I had such a queer dream!” observed Mildred.—Her brother did not hear.
“I say, Ambrose, I dreamt that I was sorting rags at the mill, and there
was a caterpillar upon every one of them; and—What have you got there,
Ambrose? Did you hear what I said?”
“Come here,” replied her brother. “Here is a story! Help me to make it
out.”
“A story! what, upon the very piece of paper that held the cheese! What
is the story like? Tell me. You know I can’t read so well as you.”
“But you can help me with this part, perhaps. I will tell you what I
have read when I know this word. The man would not go in somewhere; and
this word tells where.”
Mildred pored over the soiled piece of print, and pronounced presently
that the word in question signified something about a comb. In her
spelling-book, c-o-m-b spelled comb. But of the rest of the word,—
“inat,”—“in,”——“What could it be?
“It ends with ‘nation.’ ‘Comb’—‘nation.’ Well: I must let that alone.
There was a man that would not go into this place,—whatever it is,—and
the people that were in it were angry because he went to his work.”
“Because he did not go to his work, I suppose you mean.”
“No; because he would go when they bade him not. And they watched for
him one day when he was going to work, and his little boy with him. They
call him a little boy, though he was eleven years old. They flew upon
the man, and thumped him and kicked him as hard as ever they could. And
when the boy cried, and begged they would not use his father so cruelly,
one of them caught up a thick rope, and beat the boy till it was a
shocking sight to see him.”
“They were cruel wretches. I wonder whether there was anybody near to go
for the constable? Did they get a constable?”
“I suppose so, for the people were asked how they dared to beat people
so.”
“And what did they say?”
“This that I can’t make out, about going in and not going in: but they
got a good scolding,—and that is as far as I have got.”
“See what is to be done to them, and whether there is anything more
about the boy.”
Another half-hour’s spelling and consultation revealed that the child
had pulled one of the assailants down by the leg, and thus turned the
fury of the man upon himself; that it was doubtful whether the boy would
recover; and that, this being the case, the decision of the magistrates
was that——
Here came the jagged edges of the torn newspaper, instead of the
magistrates’ decision. This was very disagreeable indeed. Not to know
what became of the aggressors, and whether the brave boy lived or died,
was cruel. Ambrose threw away the paper, and grew cross. Mildred’s
consolations,—that very likely the boy was well by this time, and she
had no doubt the cruel people were put in prison,—were of no use. A
better device than to imagine the issue suggested itself to Ambrose. He
would go and ask Mr. Yapp. The paper having come from Mr. Yapp’s shop,
he no doubt knew the end of the story. Could not Mildred look after the
flock while he ran down now? No harm could come to the sheep during the
little time that he should be gone.
Mildred did not like this plan,—was sure her mother would not like it.
Ambrose had better read the story over again, to try and understand it
better; and she would go with him to Mr. Yapp’s when the flock was
penned, in the evening. Never did the oriental scholar pore more
diligently over a new tablet of hieroglyphics than these two children
over the fragment of a police report which had fallen in their way. To
no scholar can it be so important to ascertain a doubtful point of
history, or to develope facts of the costume and manners of a remote
people, as it was to these young creatures to learn the issue of a case
in which rights like their own were invaded, and filial sympathies like
their own were aggrieved.
Again, during the day, Ambrose called to his sister that he had
something to say to her, and Mildred knew that it must relate to the
story he had read, so complete was the possession it had taken of his
mind. He thought the people round were great fools for not punishing the
aggressors on the spot. If he had been there, he would not have waited
to hear what the magistrates said; not he. He would have knocked down
every one of them that he could get at, if it were by pulling by the leg
as the poor boy had done.
“And then,” said Mildred, “they would have served you the same as the
boy; and if anybody had taken your part, they would have served him the
same. I don’t think that would do any good.”
“Nothing like a battle,” exclaimed Ambrose, waving his cap over his
head. “I like a good battle better than all the justices and gentlemen
in the world.”
“I don’t like battles,” Mildred observed. “I do not much mind seeing you
and Sam Dobbs fight here on the heath, where you only throw one another
down, and the grass is too soft to hurt you. But I saw the men fight
before the Rose; and one of them lifted the other up high into the air,
and dashed him down slap upon the pavement; and you might have heard the
knock of his head as far as the pump, I’m sure. There was such a
quantity of blood that I could not eat my supper! I should not like to
see such a battle often!”
“O, only tell me when anybody does you any harm, and see how I will
fight for you.”
“I am sure I shall not tell anything about it, if you go and fight in
that manner. I would ask mother or Owen to go with me to Justice Gibson.
If you consider, there would be fighting all day long in our place, and
much more in L——, if all people chose to battle it out instead of going
to the Justice. And besides, I think the Justice can take much better
care of this poor little boy than anybody that just fought a battle for
him, and then went away.”
Ambrose saw this; and before dinner was over, both the children had
learned, after their own fashion, how far superior law is to vengeance,
and security to retaliation. Confined as their ideas were (the picture
of their own little village and few associates alone being before their
eyes), this was a most important notion to have acquired. There needed
only the experience of life to enable them to extend their conceptions,—
Justice Gibson standing for the magistracy at large, and the little
village of Arneside for social life in general.
Evening came. The sheep were penned, and the children were standing
before Mr. Yapp’s shop-door, pushing each other on to the feat of asking
the grocer for the rest of the story. They saw Mr. Yapp’s eyes turned on
them once or twice; but they could not get courage to make use of the
opportunity. It was Mr. Yapp himself who at last brought on the crisis.
“Come, younkers,” said he, “make your way in or make your way off. Don’t
stand in my door, preventing people coming in.”
Mildred moved off; Ambrose bolted in; and then his sister came up to
reinforce him. As the grocer had nothing very particular to attend to at
the moment, he did not crush the aspiration for knowledge. He directed
the children to the package of paper from which their fragment had been
taken, and looked over the story himself. It would have been too long a
task for such poor scholars to seek for what they wanted by reading. To
compare the jagged edges of the paper was a much readier method; and
Mildred did this, while Mr. Yapp gave her brother some imperfect idea
(for he was not learned on the subject) what a Combination was, and why
a man was ill-treated for not entering into one. This was worth coming
for; but it was all. Mildred’s search was unsuccessful. The rest of the
story was irrecoverable. Many customers, some from distant farms and
cottages, had been at the shop to-day; and it was impossible to say who
had carried it off.
Ambrose begged for his paper back again. There was something on the
other side that he wanted to show to Owen.
“Let’s see,” said Mr. Yapp. “Why, this looks like magic,—all these
waves, and dashes, and dots, and signs. O, ho! it is short-hand, I see.
Somebody advertises to teach short-hand. There, take it to Owen, and see
what he makes of it.”
Ambrose turned the paper about, but could see nothing like a hand. What
could be meant by short-hand?
A way of writing short, he was told; and he remained as wise as he was
before. But now Miss Selina Yapp, who stood smiling behind the counter,
was desired to give the children half-a-dozen raisins apiece; and it was
quite time to be going home.
Their mother was looking out for them from the door.
“Why, mother, are you going to be out again to-night? Sure the lady must
be very bad!”
“I am not going to the lady till morning, dears. ’Tis poor neighbour
Johns I am now going to. Sadly sunk he is; and his old woman is nigh
worn out. So I’ve made my bit of a bed fit for her here; and it is full
time she was in it. So, troop to bed, dears. Get your suppers while ye
undress; and be as still as mice, sleeping or waking, when she comes in.
Put your learning away till to-morrow, Owen, my boy. Pussy won’t eat
your paper before morning, I dare say, if you put it where it will be
safe. You’ve had your supper; so now to bed, my boy. You’ll be fresh all
the earlier in the morning. But be sure you put on your shoes the last
thing, lest you should wake the old woman with your clatter.”
Owen’s eye had been completely caught by the mysterious figures of the
short-hand specimen. He held it between his teeth while he undressed,
and went on looking at it by the twilight, after he was in bed, till his
brother and sister had done talking; and then he put it under his
bolster. Ambrose, meantime, stuffed his mouth with his supper very
indefatigably, and yet managed to get out his story of the little boy
who had been beaten for defending his father. Following his mother about
wherever she moved, he made her mistress of the whole before he had
done.
Mrs. Ede was not disappointed at their saying nothing about her sitting
up again to-night. To them, it was so much a matter of course that she
should sit up professionally, and to her that she should do what she
could for a needy and suffering neighbour, that the circumstance did not
seem worthy of remark. All were more occupied with Mildred’s
disappointment. It was feared that Mr. Ryan was gone from the village
this evening, and that he would not come on his rounds again for
half-a-year. He had himself bid Mildred look for rags; and now he was
gone before she came home! Her bits of blue and white must stand over
till he appeared again; for Owen did not think any money would be given
for them at the mill. Nurse stayed yet five minutes longer, to comfort
her little daughter under this mischance; and within that five minutes,
all three were sound asleep.
“Bless their little faces, how pretty they all do look!” thought the
mother. “’Tis almost a pity to leave such a pretty sight. I wonder which
of them will stand so by me, when I am old and failing like neighbour
Johns; if it should please God I should live till then. But, dear me,
what a puckered old face mine will be then!—little like their smooth
rosy cheeks. ’Tis a cheerless thing for two old folks to be left without
children, unfit to take care of one another, like poor neighbour Johns
and his dame; and yet worse it would be for me that have laid my husband
in his grave so long ago. But if God spares me my little ones, and my
girl stays near me, I need not care what else betides. Bless them! how
sweetly they do breathe in their sleep! And now, I must go and send the
dame to her bed. I trust she will be thoughtful not to wake the
children; and I’m sure they will be thoughtful towards her in the
morning.”