'THE NEW JENNY WREN.'
One beautiful morning in the fa' o' the year Lotty set out soon after
breakfast--which, so short were the days, had now to be taken by
lamplight--to feed the sea-gulls. Wallace went bounding along with her,
and Chops came puffing up behind, carrying the basket. But, do what he
could, or pant and blow as he might, the fat boy could not keep pace
with the nimble gipsy lass, especially as it was nearly all uphill until
they reached the summit of a knoll rising green among the glorious
woodlands.
'Wish I wasn't so fat, Miss Lotty,' he said, putting down the basket.
'If you had been an infant prodigy like me, Chops, you would not have
got so stout.'
'No, w'ich I knows that; but, lor'! in our line o' business, Lotty,
there must be some o' all sorts, mus'n't there, miss? Look at Mary, f'r
instance; she fills a niche, an' fills it well, as the boss says. Look
at Skeleton; 'e drops intil another niche. An' look at me. If I was
gettin' thin, an' Skeleton a-puttin' on o' flesh, the show would be
ruined. That's wot I says. Is not them your sentiments, Lotty?'
'Exactly, Chops; but--what were you saying?'
'I was a-sayin’’----
'Oh, look at those woods, how lovely they are, Chops. Don't they inspire
you, boy?'
'Ah! you've been a-readin' o' Shakespeare again; but I'm a bit o' a pote
myself, Lotty, and prisintly, w'en we feeds the gulls'----
Woods and forests are romantic everywhere and at all seasons of the
year: on the banks of quiet streams in summer time, where in their shade
the wild-flowers hide and kingfishers dart to and fro; by the
lake-sides, in rolling clouds, their greenery mirrored in the dark
water; spreading over valleys and climbing over hills or high up the
mountain's side itself, till checked by Nature's warning hand. But far
north here, November is the artists' month _par excellence_, because,
though touched with the frosts, the forests are not yet bare, and on the
braes rising in loveliness on every hand the foliage, touched by the
sunlight, gleams with every hue and tint, crimson of maple, bronze of
beech or oak, brown of the elm, and dark-green of the waving pine, with
higher up the silver stems of the weeping-birch.
No wonder that this enthusiastic little gipsy lass stood for a while
with face upturned, the wind lifting and toying with her hair, to gaze
around her and admire. But yonder, sailing tack and half-tack, and
coming nearer and nearer to her, were her friends the gulls--sea-birds
of every size and species. During the summer months they might have
been seen far up the rivers and streams, sometimes seventy miles from
their native ocean, whitening every stone or boulder, or in rows on
fences around farmyards patiently waiting until it was feeding-time with
the fowls, that they might share their meal. But even in the fa' o' the
year, up among the mountains, storms and blizzards howl and blow, and
the sea-birds are glad to seek the sands by the shores.
Chops opened the basket. Here were all the morning scraps from the camp,
enough to feed a thousand wild-birds, and down they now crowded, swaying
and screaming around the maiden as she tossed the pieces in every
direction of the compass, that all might have a share. Among them were
many of her own particular favourites or pets, and they had special
tit-bits which they took from her hands or shoulders and even from her
lips. But not all sea-gulls were they, for a sprinkling of rooks flew
amongst them, and even warty-headed old carrion-crows and hoodies.
These, however, had none of the dash and daring of the more elegant and
shapely gulls, nor would they approach so closely to be fed. But the
last particle had been distributed and devoured, and the birds went
circling farther and farther off, until they seemed to melt away in the
gray haze of distance.
Then Lotty threw the basket on the benty grass, and sat down for a few
moments to look at the sea. It was of a darker blue to-day, because
[Illustration: And they had special tit-bits which they took from her
hands.
LASS. PAGE 92.
]
white clouds were casting great shadows down, and the breeze blowing
from the east so rippled the surface that it had the appearance of some
mighty river rolling on towards the land of the setting sun.
'But w'ich I were a-sayin' of, Miss Lotty, w'en you spoke like
Shakespeare, I'm a bit o' a pote myself.'
'Indeed, boy!'
'I isn't so much o' a boy as I looks, Lotty. Lor' bless your innercent
soul! I be sixteen an' carried for'ard again. Yes, I be a bit o' a pote,
and 'as my dreams, just as the Immortal Willum had his'n.'
'And what may your dreams be, Chops?'
'Oh, I dreams, Miss Lotty, wot I du's'n't 'ardly tell you.'
'I've known you for long, long ages, Chops, so you needn't mind what you
tell me.'
'Yes, Lotty, for long, long ages. Lor'! don't I remember, w'en you was a
wee kinchin, a-carryin' o' you on my back, an' sometimes a-buryin' o'
you, kickin' legs an' all, among the 'ay or among the 'eather.'
'But that isn't your dreams, Chops?'
'No, miss; but I've often dreamt when a-carryin' o' you on this 'ere
back o' mine that w'en you growed hup, and w'en I growed hup an' I'd
saved a bit o' money like--you--you won't be angry, will you, Miss
Lotty?'
'No, no, Chops; but it is nearly time for rehearsal, so be quick.'
'That I might lead you to the haltar, miss.'
Lotty burst into a childish fit of hearty laughter. Then, afraid she
might have hurt his feelings, this strange infant prodigy grew suddenly
serious, and patted Chops's brown, fat fingers.
'You're a good boy,' she said, 'but dreadfully foolish and funny. You
won't mind me laughing, Chops, but you do look droll like that. Have you
written some verses, Chops?'
'Oh yes. I began a whole pome, an' some day I'll mebbe finish it, like
the Immortal Willum finished his'n.'
'And how does it begin?'
'It begins--ahem!--ahem!'
'What! begins "Hem, hem"?'
'No, no, Lotty. I were honly a-clearin' o' my throat. Let me see--yes,
this is it:
Your eyes is red, your cheeks is blue,
Your lips is of a creamy hue.'
Lotty had to laugh again in spite of herself.
'Wait a bit, miss,' said Chops. 'I think I've got 'em a bit mixed. It
were the cheeks--no, the lips, that was'----
'Chops, look down yonder. The recall is hoisted. I'm off for rehearsal.'
And away ran Lotty down the brae, singing, with Wallace barking in
front, and poor Chops nowhere. She hadn't got half-way down the knoll,
however, before she stopped, and, shading the light from her eyes with
her upraised hand, gazed seawards. By her side hung in their case a
pretty pair of small field-glasses, a present from the whole strength of
the company on her last birthday. These she now speedily focussed on a
boat that was just rounding a point of land and standing in for the
bay--a tiny dingy skiff of yellow polished oak or teak apparently, and
under snow-white sails: a main, a gaff, and a saucy bit of a jib.
'What a darling little boat!' cried the child, clapping her hands with
delight, 'and coming towards our camp too!'
Lotty, when glad, could no more help bursting into song than the mavis
can on a bright May morning.
'But he's coming, oh, he's coming,
With his boat across the sea,
To wed a little maiden shy,
And the little maiden's _me_.'
Not very grammatical verse, it must be owned, but poets are allowed
liberties with the English language. Anyhow, Lotty took some.
Chops was by her side now, looking seaward also. She handed him the
field-glass, and he took but one 'squint,' as he termed it, and
immediately his behaviour became most mysterious. He suddenly doubled
himself up like a jack-knife in a seemingly uncontrollable spasm,
straightened up again, thrust his handkerchief into his mouth and
laughed 'in'ardly,' as he would have called it, until his fat face grew
as purple as a pickled cabbage.
Lotty, quite alarmed, smote him on the back and hurt her hand. 'Chops,
Chops, what can be the matter?'
'W'ich it's me as knows all about it, Miss Lotty; an' I told Mr Blake as
'ow I wouldn't tell you, no more I won't if I goes to death on't,
Lotty.'
But the girl was far enough away by this time, leaving him to finish the
sentence to the wind. Lotty and her companion, Wallace, who was quite as
excited as she, never halted until they reached their own little
caravan; and here, coming down the back steps, every step creaking with
her weight, was good-natured, rosy-cheeked Mary herself.
'Have you seen it, Mrs Pendlebury--seen the lovely boat?'
'Just been looking at it, my dearie; but it's time for rehearsal, and
there's going to be a ploughman's ball to-night, and rare doings,
so'----
'Never mind rehearsal,' cried Lotty; 'rehearsal must wait. Come to the
beach with me, Mary. I'm all in a twitter and fluff.'
She made the fat lady almost run, but both were in time to see the bonny
wee craft lower sail and come floating up the stream. Two well-dressed
sailor youths in blue worsted nightcaps manned her, and the foremost had
his boat-hook up and caught neatly on to the small shed in which Lotty
Lee's skiff used to repose. The steersman touched his forelock a little
shyly to Mary.
'This is Biffins Lee's camp, I'm thinkin'?'
'Ye dinna think wrang,' said Mary, in the broad Scots.
'Weel, 'oman--that is, ma leddy--ye'll be Lee's guidwife, I suppose?'
'Wrang this time, for ance; but what want ye, laddie, and fas [whose]
bonny boat ha'e ye gotten beneath you?'
'This is the boat, ma'am, that Maister Blake ordered weeks ago. An'
we've brocht her roun', and that's a' there is aboot it. Hiv ye a dram
in the camp?'
'Oh, here comes Mr Blake himself, laddie.'
Antony's eyes were sparkling with pleasure. He took Lotty by the
hand--she had been standing on the beach near to the boat's bow, which
was now broadside to the shore--and led her aft, pointing as he did so
to the boat's stern; and there, in well-scrolled letters of vermilion
and gold were the words--
'THE NEW JENNY WREN.'
The heart of that gipsy lass was too full to permit her to speak and
thank the donor. But her blue eyes were aglow and her cheeks had
flushed a deeper pink, and Antony knew what she would have liked to say.
That was enough.
While the three stood talking there, Biffins Lee came hurrying towards
them. He looked admiringly at the bran-new boat all over, then, turning
towards Antony, thanked him most profusely.
'Pon my word,' he said, 'a most charming present. Must have cost
you a pot of money.' He glanced at the boat again. 'Really a
handsome--er--property, Mr Blake.'
'My good Mr Lee,' was the reply, 'I'm glad you admire the shape and my
taste; but as to a property, friend, take my word for it that no one
shall ever own or touch her save Lotty Lee herself.'
Then Antony turned upon his heel and strode briskly off.