FARMER Sampson rolled slowly homewards after church one wintry Sunday,
full of a comfortable sense of righteousness, and looking forward to a
reposeful hour before the midday meal. He exchanged greetings with his
neighbours, discussed with them the probability of “snow-stuff” coming,
or the likelihood of “its taking up” that night. Being an affable man
his opinion invariably coincided with that of the last person who spoke
to him.
Arrived at his own substantial dwelling and pausing a moment on passing
through the kitchen to inhale the fragrance of the roasting joint, he
proceeded first to the best parlour—an awe-inspiring room, never used
save for a christening or a funeral; a shrine for stuffed birds, wax
fruits and flowers, unopened books, and the family’s best wearing
apparel. Mrs. Sampson’s Sunday bonnet reposed in the bandbox beneath the
sofa; the accompanying gown was stowed away on one of the shelves of the
bureau; other garments belonging respectively to children and
grandchildren were hidden beneath silver paper in various receptacles;
and the master of the house, now divesting himself of his broad-cloth
coat, hung it carefully on the back of a chair, and restored his hat to
the peg allotted to it behind the door. Then, making his way to the
family living-room, he assumed his white pinner—a clean one, which had
been laid ready for him on the table—took up the newspaper, sat down in
the wide arm-chair by the hearth which his substantial figure filled to a
nicety, drew his spectacles from his pocket and began to read.
As he slowly spelt out line after line, his forefinger moving along the
column in pace with his eyes, the air of contentment with which he had at
first settled to his task gave way, first to an expression of puzzled
astonishment, then to one of irresolution, and finally to absolute
consternation. After, however, reading and re-reading the paragraph
which had attracted his attention in the weekly sheet, scratching his
head, rubbing his nose, drumming with his fingers on the table, and in
fact availing himself to the full of every recognised aid to thought, his
brow cleared, and bringing one mighty clenched hand down on the open palm
of the other, he exclaimed aloud:—
“I’ll do it! I’m blest if I don’t do it—my dooty do stare me in the
face.”
Thereupon, wheeling round slowly in his chair so as to face the door—a
matter of some little difficulty—he proceeded to call, or rather to
bellow at the top of his voice.
“Missus! Grandma! Come here, will ’ee? Polly, Annie—be there any one
about? Here little uns—go an’ fetch Grandma, one on you. Mis—sus!”
Presently there was a rush of feet, and Mrs. Sampson entered, followed by
her married daughter, Polly, with three or four children clinging to her
skirts, while Maidy Annie, the father’s favourite, hastened in from the
rear.
“Bless me, Granfer! whatever be the matter?” enquired his wife anxiously.
Good old Sampson had been known as “Father” in the family circle for many
a year, until Polly and her husband had taken up their abode at the farm,
when the title of “Granfer,” naturally used by the children, had come to
be universally adopted.
“There be matter enough for one while,” he now responded gloomily, and
yet with a certain air of dignified triumph.
“Dear heart alive, they Boers bain’t a-comin’ to fight us over here, be
they?” cried Annie, who was an imaginative young person.
“There’s no knowin’ what they’ll be a-thinkin’ on if we don’t look out,”
responded her father importantly. “It bain’t so much the Boers,” he
continued, with a superior air, “’tis the French as we must be on our
guard against—an’ the Germans—and the Roosians!” he cried emphatically,
his eyes growing wider and wider as he named each nationality. “They do
say that they do all hate us worse nor p’ison, an’ is only lookin’ for an
opportunity for attackin’ us.”
“Dear, dear, you don’t say so!” groaned Mrs. Sampson. “’Tis worse nor in
Boney’s time. Lard! I can mind my father tellin’ me as when he was a boy
they was expectin’ for sure as Boney ’ud land, and the country very near
went mad wi’ fright. An’ now ye say there be more nor the French agen
us?”
“What ever is to be done,” put in Polly. “I can’t think as there can be
many soldiers a-left i’ the country wi’ them great ships full goin’ out
week after week. Who’s to defend us if any o’ them folks from abroad do
come?”
Granfer looked slowly round from one anxious face to the other, rolled
his head from side to side, heaved a deep sigh, and finally remarked in a
sepulchral tone:—
“There’s summat goin’ to be done, ye mid be sure.” He paused, nodded,
smoothed out the paper on his knee, and finally handed it with a tragic
air to Annie. “See, here, my maid,” he said, indicating a certain
paragraph with his broad thumb, “read this here to your mother an’ all on
us. Then ye’ll see what’s a-goin’ to be done.”
He threw himself back in his chair, while Annie, somewhat mystified and a
good deal alarmed, read the following:—
“Her Majesty the Queen has been graciously pleased to invite her old
soldiers to return to service again for one year, in defence of the
country during the absence of her armies in South Africa.
“The text of the proclamation posted at the War Office will be found
in another column. Such an appeal will be warmly responded to by
many a loyal British heart; our veterans will rejoice at the
opportunity thus afforded them of proving their devotion to Queen and
Country.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Sampson in a relieved tone, “think o’ that now! I’m
sure there be a good few old soldiers about, an’ it ’ull be very nice for
’em to get a chance o’ doin’ summat.”
“Very nice!” shouted her lord, with unaccountable fierceness. “Very
nice, do you say? That be your notion, be it? Well, I did look for a
bit more feelin’ from you. A man may be willin’ to do his dooty, an’ yet
he mid find it oncommon hard work!”
“Why, Granter, what be talkin’ about? I’m sure I never—”
“Do you suppose, Missus, as us old folks won’t find it a bit agen us to
go shootin’, an’ drillin’, an’ man_o_verin’ an’ sich like, at our time o’
life? Wi’ the best heart in the world I reckon we be like to find it a
bit stiff.”
“Bless me, Sampson, don’t tell I as _you’ve_ a-got a notion o’ j’inin’
the army at your time o’ life. Lard save us!” she continued with
gathering irritation, “I do believe you’ve a-took leave o’ your senses!”
“My dear woman,” returned the farmer, “I d’ ’low it will have gived ye a
bit of a turn, but there, ’tis wrote plain for all to read. ‘Her Majesty
the Queen have invited her _old_ soldiers to serve’—if Her Majesty have
a-made up her mind as ’tis _old_ soldiers she wants, it bain’t for the
likes of us to go agen it. I’ve al’ays heard tell as the Queen were an
oncommon sensible woman, an’ she’ve a-found out, most like, as these here
youngsters bain’t to be trusted—ye can’t expect old heads on young
shoulders—I never did hold wi’ them there notions o’ shart service, an’
havin’ nothin’ but lads in the army, an’ Her Majesty, d’ye see, Her
Majesty do very like agree wi’ I.”
“Well, but Granfer,” said Polly doubtfully, “d’ye think the Queen did
mean soldiers as had—as had left off practising so long as you?”
“An’ besides,” put in Annie quickly, “’tisn’t same as if you was ever a
regular soldier in barracks an’ that. Ye did only go out wi’ the
Yeomanry, didn’t ye?”
“Well,” returned her father, indignantly, “an’ will ’ee go for to tell I
as a man as was twenty year a trooper in the Darset Yeomanry bain’t a
soldier? Why, what else be he then? Ye be a voolish maid, my dear, very
voolish!”
“Well, but,” gasped poor Mrs. Sampson, recovering her breath at last,
“’tis thirty year an’ more, I’m sure, since ye did go out wi’ ’em! Ah!
I’m sure ’tis thirty year—’twas when poor Harry was a baby as ye did give
up, ’an long afore Polly was born.”
“Now I tell ’ee what, Missus, this here kind o’ talk isn’t the talk for
them as loves Queen an’ Country. What do the papers say? Read for
yourself an’ see. If every old soldier in the country was to go makin’
excuses, an’ thinkin’ this, that, an’ t’other, who’s to defend England?
Now, I’m a old man, an’ a bit stiff in the j’ints, an’ a bit heavy on my
legs, but I can get on a harse, and pull a trigger yet. An’ I’m not the
man to go and disapp’int the Queen! There, my mind be made up, an’ ye
may tark till midnight wi’out changin’ it.”
“Well, to be sure,” said poor Grandma, dropping into a chair, “I must say
as I didn’t think as I should live to see this day. When a body comes to
your time o’ life I didn’t look for ye to be tarkin’ o’ goin’ off to the
war, jist at our busiest time o’ year, too, when we may be lookin’ out
for new calves any day, an’ the lambin’ season not half over!”
“’Tis a bit a’k’ard that, I must agree,” returned Sampson, his face
falling as he spoke. “Ah, I could ha’ wished as Her Majesty hadn’t
a-called upon us in the midst o’ lambin’ time. We must do the best we
can, that’s all. Tom must see to things. I d’ ’low other folks find it
jist so hard to leave their business. But when ye come to tarkin’ o’ my
years, Missus, you do make a mistake. ’Tis my years as makes my services
valuable. Now, Annie, read what’s wrote here about the men comin’ up.”
Annie dolorously found the place, and read how already the response
throughout the country had been unanimous, and how men were turning up by
hundreds at various military depots to offer their services.
“Ah,” commented Granfer, reflectively; “‘the nearest military
deepotts’—let me see, ours ’ud be Blanchester, I suppose. Well, Missus,
make up your mind to it, I’ll be off to-morrow. When a thing must be
done, it must be done.”
Mrs. Sampson threw her apron over her head, and began to weep; Polly
sniffed ominously, the children wailed, and Annie, flinging her arms
round her father’s neck besought him to think better of it.
“There, to be sure! what a fuss ye do make,” cried he, struggling in her
embrace. “What be all in such a stew about, eh? I bain’t a-goin’ off to
fight the Boers, I tell ’ee—I be a-goin’ for to bide here and defend the
country if the French or the Roosians comes this way. As like as not I
shall be able to come backwards and for’ards pretty often to see how ye
be all a-gettin’ on. There, I tell ’ee, ye should take more thought for
I, an’ not go a-upsettin’ of I this way. ’Tis ’ard enough as ’tis!”
And here the large face, which was looking disconsolately over Annie’s
shoulder, assumed a purple hue, and big tears gathered in Granfer’s
usually merry eyes.
“There,” he added weakly, as freeing one hand from his daughter’s
somewhat strangulating caresses, he produced a large red and yellow
handkerchief, and proceeded to mop his eyes, “you did ought to help I
instead of hinderin’ of I! You do all owe a dooty to Queen and Country
yourselves.”
After this appeal to the better feelings of the family all opposition was
withdrawn, and presently they fell to discussing arrangements for the
carrying out his Spartan intent.
“My uniform is laid by safe enough, I know,” said Granfer; “but ’tis a
question whether ’twill fit me or no—I’ve got a bit stoutish since I left
off wearing of en.”
“Lard, man! the jacket ’ll not come within a yard o’ meetin’—ye be twice
so big round as ye did use to be; an’ as for the trousers! There,
there’s no use thinkin’ o’ them! They’d no more fit ’ee nor they would
little Jackie there.”
“Them trousers as ye’ve a-got on ’ud do very well, though,” said Polly.
“They’re dark, d’ye see.”
“I’ll have to ride,” said her father thoughtfully. “’Ees, bein’ in the
Yeomanry, d’ye see, I’m bound to ride. ’Twouldn’t look no-ways
respectful like if I didn’t offer myself harse an’ all.”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know what harse ye’ll take, wi’out it’s Chrissy,”
returned Mrs. Sampson. “Ye’ll never get a saddle to stay on Vi’let or
Duke—besides they’re wanted for ploughin’. An’ Bob ’ud never carry ye.”
“Well, Chrissy ’ud do, right enough. He was a fine mare in his day—I
never see a better—there isn’t a colt as I’ve a-had from en as haven’t
turned out well. ’Ees, Tom mid drive en up from the lower mead to-morrow
morn, an’ we’ll rub en down a bit and make en smart.”
“But ye’ll never go for to ride all the way, Granfer?” pleaded the
anxious wife. “Ye’ll be joggled to pieces, an’ I’m sure your best
trousers won’t be fit to be seen. There’s reason in all things. Ye’d
best go in Joyce’s cart, an’ tie Chrissy at back till ye get near the
town.”
“Ah, I mid do that,” he agreed, with unexpected docility. “I reckon I’d
find it a stiffish job to ride so far without I had a bit more practice.”
The discussion was here interrupted by the entrance of Tom, Polly’s
husband; but was resumed with even greater energy after the state of
affairs had been explained to him. As he was short-sighted enough to
express doubt and disapproval, the entire family fell upon him with one
accord, and reduced him to a state of sulky submission, his mother-in-law
ending the controversy by announcing that if he had a bit of proper
feelin’ he’d offer to go in Granfer’s place.
Long before dawn on the morrow the household was astir: Tom plodding over
the rimy fields in the wake of Chrissy; Grandma hunting up the uniform;
Polly turning over her belongings in search of a red felt petticoat
which, she declared, matched it so well in colour and texture that
portions of it might be used to widen the tunic; and Annie arming herself
with scissors, needles, and thread in order to carry out the necessary
alterations. Round the kitchen fire they all presently gathered, eagerly
assisting Granfer to “try on,” every one talking at once, and everyone
sneezing, for Grandma was too good a manager not to have provided against
the destructive moth by embalming the uniform in quantities of camphor
and pepper.
After almost superhuman efforts Granfer was inducted into the tunic, his
back having somewhat the appearance of a large red pincushion, while
between the lower end of the tunic and the top of the Sunday trousers a
good deal of grey flannel shirt was plainly visible. As for meeting in
front, that as Mrs. Sampson had foretold, the garment could by no means
be induced to do, until Annie had deftly contrived to insert large strips
of Polly’s red petticoat at the sides and in the sleeves.
“I expect I shall have to get a new ’un,’ remarked Granfer,” endeavouring
to obtain a back view of himself, and squinting violently in the attempt.
“This here coat do seem too shart behind. I reckon I’d best take off
thiccy shirt. It didn’t ought to stick out like that.”
“Take off your shirt!” screamed his wife. “That ’ud be a pretty thing to
do. Ye’d be gettin’ laid up wi’ lumbaguey first thing, an’ much good
ye’d be at your soldiering then. Here, I’ll pull it down a bit, and when
your sword do go on it won’t show much.”
“Keep your arms by your side, Granfer, so much as you can,” advised
Annie, “an’ then the patches won’t be seen.”
“Lard, the red do suit ’ee wonderful I’m sure,” groaned Polly admiringly.
“I think the Queen herself ’ud be pleased if she could see ye.”
Granfer smiled, and then sat down to breakfast.
A towel had been hung out in the hedge, which was the recognised signal
to Joyce, the carrier, that he was expected to draw up for a consignment
of some kind, and presently one of the children, running in, announced
that the van was at the gate. Tom led round Chrissy, a matronly animal,
mild in the eye, long in the tooth, and with a figure whose symmetry was
a thing of the past. Tom had, as he explained, managed to get a good bit
of grease out of her coat, though he had not had time to trim her
fetlocks, which were indeed marvellously shaggy, while her rusty tail
almost swept the ground.
Granfer appeared in the doorway with his weeping family clinging to him,
his sword in his hand, his cap set at a jaunty angle on the top of his
bald head, but the rest of his military glory hidden beneath a
comfortable frieze coat.
After explaining his project to Mr. Joyce, the carrier, who was
speechless with admiration and astonishment, the saddle was laid inside
the van, and Granfer, tearing himself from his womenkind, climbed up
beside the driver. And so they set off, with poor Chrissy meekly
following at the rear of the vehicle; and the distracted family standing
by the gate until the clipper-clopper of her heavy hoofs sounded faint in
the distance.
* * * * *
What was the joyful surprise of the Sampson household when, late on that
same day, Mr. Joyce’s van was observed to slacken as it approached their
house, and, moreover, the jaded form of the faithful Chrissy was seen to
be jogging in the rear; when, indeed, the well-known bellow of Granfer
himself hailed them from a distance of a hundred yards or so, and
presently his burly form alighted from the vehicle.
“Well,” he remarked, with an odd expression, in which perplexity appeared
to struggle with relief, “I be come back, ye see.”
“Dear heart alive, Granfer. I be main glad!” ejaculated Mrs. Sampson,
breathlessly. “Lard, I can’t tell ’ee how glad I be! There, I’ve been
a-frettin’ of myself to death very near all day; but however did they
come to let ’ee off?”
“Well,” said Granfer, after nodding farewell to Mr. Joyce, and waiting
till the van had proceeded on its way, “I were a bit surprised myself,
but it seems I’ve missed the job by three months.”
“Why, how’s that?” cried Polly and Annie together, while Grandma, with
groans of gratitude, remarked she didn’t care how many months it was—she
was only too thankful he had missed it.
“If I’d ha’ been turned seventy,” went on the farmer, his face
vacillating oddly between triumph and disappointment, “I’d have been took
on. But come in an’ I’ll tell ye all about it.”
Having been installed in his elbow-chair, having unbuttoned his tunic,
and pushed his cap to the back of his head, Granfer began his recital.
“When we did get near Blanchester, I did say to carrier, ‘Joyce,’ says I,
‘you did best let me down here’; so he did pull up, and I did get out
saddle, and put it on Chrissy, an’ rub so much of the dust off as I could
wi’ a handful o’ straw—but the poor beast was awful hot, what wi’ her
long coat, an’ what wi’ joggin’ so far. However, up I gets, and did ride
alongside o’ Mr. Joyce till we got to the town, and then I turned off
towards barracks. Well, I reckon I must ha’ been the first o’ the old
soldiers o’ Darset as axed to take service again, for every one in the
place was turnin’ to look at me, same as if I’d been a show. Ye see I’d
took off my coat, and laid it across saddle in front of I, and they
couldn’t help but see what ’twas I were arter. When I did get to
barracks they did all come gatherin’ round me, laughin’ an’ callin’ out,
an’ makin’ sich a din as you never did hear.”
[Picture: “Every one in the place was turnin’ to look at me, same as if
i’d been a show”]
“Lard, now, Granfer, what were that for?” inquired Mrs. Sampson
indignantly.
“I couldn’t tell ’ee, I’m sure,” he replied, with lofty disdain.
“Ignorance, I suppose. As I was sayin’, I don’t think many old soldiers
can have offered theirselves yet. Well, I didn’t take no notice, but
jist axed for the commandin’ officer, and by-and-by he come out, an’ he
looks first at I, an’ then at Chrissy, an’ then, if ye’ll believe me, he
began to laugh.
“‘Why, my good man,’ says he, ‘what may _you_ want?’
“‘Sir,’ says I, ‘I did see on the paper yesterday, as the Queen was axin’
of her old soldiers to come an’ j’ine again, so I be a-come to offer my
services.’
“The impident lads around, they fair roared, but the officer stopped
laughin’, an’, says he, ‘Well done,’ says he; ‘will you dismount an’ come
wi’ me for a minute or two, an’ we can talk the matter over? Your mare
will stand, I think,’ says he, very serious.
“‘’Ees,’ says I, ‘he’ll stand right enough, if he bain’t meddled wi’.’
“So he told off one o’ the men to see to en, an’ I did slip off Chrissy,
an’ did walk alongside o’ the officer in-door to a room.
“‘To begin wi’,’ says he, smilin’ very kind, ‘what be your name, an’ what
be your employment?’
“‘James Sampson be my name, sir,’ says I. ‘I be a farmer, an’ lives over
yonder at Riverton, fourteen mile away. ’Tis a bit ill-convenient for I
to leave home just now—’tis a busy time o’ year wi’ us farmers, d’ye see,
what wi’ its bein’ lambin’ time, an’ what wi’ ploughin’ an’ sowin’ an’
that; but seein’ as the Queen herself did ax us to j’ine again, I
wouldn’t like for to disapp’int Her Majesty.’
“Quite right, quite right,’ says he very grave and kind. ‘An’ how long
is it, Mr. Sampson, since you were a soldier? Judgin’ by your uniform,’
says he, lookin’ at it rather hard, ‘it must ha’ been some time ago.’
“‘Well, sir,’ says I, ‘’tis a matter o’ thirty year since I did leave the
Darset Yeomanry. I went out wi’ en for fifteen year—ah, I didn’t miss a
single trainin’—but when my father died, an’ I did settle down upon the
farm, my missus were a bit agen it, so I did give up.’”
“Oh, Sampson, whatever made you bring my name into it?” said Mrs. Sampson
bashfully. “I’m sure I don’t know whatever the gentleman can ha’
thought.”
“It didn’t seem to put en out a bit.
“‘Thirty years ago,’ says he, ‘an’ fifteen years before that. How old
are you now?’
“I told en I’d be seventy year of age in May.
“‘Ah,’ says he, an’ then he looks at me solemn-like for a minute, an’
then he says: ‘Well, Mr. Sampson, I admire your sperret, an’ I’ve no
doubt,’ says he, ‘the Queen ’ud be extremely gratified if she knew of the
offer you have made. But there are one or two objections—’
“‘Why, sir,’ says I, ‘what’s agen it?’
“‘Why,’ says he, ‘your figure is agen it to begin with.’
“‘Well, sir,’ says I, ‘I know very well I haven’t exactly the kind o’
figure to go climbin’ up kopgees an’ that—I’m not a volunteerin’ for
foreign service,’ says I, ‘but I understood as the Queen was axin’ her
old soldiers to undertake the de-fence o’ the country, an’ I reckon I
could do that so well as another. I can shoot a bit,’ says I. ‘Ye’ll
not find many crows about my fields,’ I says, ‘they be too much afeared
o’ me and my gun.’
“‘Well said,’ cries he, slapping me on the shoulder. ‘But then there’s
your age to think about, Mr. Sampson. Sixty-nine, I think you said.’
“‘Sixty-nine year and nine months, sir,’ says I.
“‘Ah,’ he says, ‘that’s the difficulty.’
“‘How so, sir?’ says I. ‘Her Majesty did say as ’twas her old soldiers
as was wanted, an’ I be a-comin’ up to my threescore and ten, sir.’
“‘Ah,’ he says again, and looks at me very solemn ‘I’m afraid that won’t
do. Now I’ll tell you what you’ll do, Mr. Sampson. Just you go quietly
home again, and wait till you’re called upon. I’m much obliged,’ says
he, ‘for your handsome offer; you’re a plucky fellow,’ he says, and he
shakes me by the hand, ‘an’ if we find we can’t get on without you, you
may be sure we will send for you.’
“So he comes wi’ me to the door, an’ the ill-mannered folk as was
standin’ there did begin a-laughin’ again so soon as they ketched sight
o’ me, but the officer threw up his hand and stopped ’em.
“‘Men,’ says he, ‘I’m goin’ to call upon you to give three cheers for
this fine old Briton!’—them was the very words he said, I do assure
you—’this fine old Briton,’ says he.”
“Did he now? Well, that was right down handsome,” cried Annie and Polly
together, while Grandma, overcome with emotion, fairly wept.
“’Ees, I d’ ’low I thought it kind of him.
“‘Three cheers for this fine old Briton,’ says he. ‘He’s made of the
right stuff. He has come here at great personal inconvenience to offer
his services to Queen and Country, and I say we may be proud to think
there are such men among us. Come, lads, a hearty cheer. Hip, hip,
hip—’
“Well, I’d managed to get up on Chrissy by this time, an’ they all run
round me, cheerin’ an’ wavin’ their caps, and I saluted ’em back,
pleasant-like, and Chrissy and me walked off so proud as Punch. So,
though they didn’t take us on, ye see we’ve had what we mid call a good
day.”
“’Ees, indeed, Granfer,” returned his missus, delighted, but tearful
still. “I’m sure we may all feel proud. And I am but too thankful as
they didn’t take ye on. Dear heart alive! ’twas a narrow escape—ye’ll be
seventy in next to no time.”
“True, true,” agreed Granfer. “’Twas a thing I didn’t ever think on, but
’tis plain to be seen the reason why they didn’t take I. They did ax for
old soldiers and I weren’t old _enough_.”
[Picture: Finis]
* * * * *
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, ABERDEEN