“We give thanks unto the Lord.”
“God bless the corn and the master of Sarn,” says Parson, “and may his
good deeds return unto him as doves to their mountains.”
“Amen!” said the people.
“Missis Sarn bids me say that the feast is spread in the orchard, and
all are welcome,” said Parson.
Gideon stepped forrard.
“The harvest’s whome, friends, and thank ye kindly,” he said. “Let every
man who’s lent a hand claim task-work of me from this on, till I’ve paid
my debt.”
We sate at the trestles in the long light of sunset. At least, the
company did, but we at the urns were kept busy enough and hadna much
time to sit down.
“Well, Weaver,” says Mug o’ Cider, “I hear tell as they’re making it
pretty warm for ye, for stopping the bull-baiting. But I bear no grutch,
I’m sure.”
“Nor yet me. I like a man that likes a dawg,” says Towler.
“Nor yet me,” says Mister Callard from the next table.
“But there’s some not to hold nor to bind,” said Mug o’ Cider. “I hear
’em in the bar, nights. Oh, I say nought! Landlord’s a dumb dog with
pricket ears. Ah! That’s landlord. But they mean ye no good, Weaver.
It’ll go hard but they’ll take thy work away if they can. And if they
can do a spite to you and yours, they ool. They’ve worked on Squire,
too.”
“I know, thank ye kindly all the same,” said Kester. “It was Squire I
was hindered for to-day. He wanted to buy my cottage. Nothing would do
but he must buy it. He knows very well that if he did he’d soon turn me
out of the place, for all the rest belong to him or friends of his’n.
Offered me a deal of money, did Squire.”
“Shall you consider it over?”
“Dear to goodness, no! I shall bide.”
There was something very pleasant to me in the way he said that. It was
as if he builded a tower of refuge afore my eyes. He met go for a little
while, a year even, but for his life-long he’d bide. And it was only
fifteen mile away, and less as the crow flies.
“And _you’d_ best look out, too, Prue Sarn,” says Mug o’ Cider. “Grimble
took it very ill, you knifing his dawg. Not but what you did it well, I
must say. I’m sure any farmer as kills his own meat ud be glad of ye, or
you met go for a doctor’s mon and do right well.”
“Mine said she couldna believe it when Prue Sarn drave the knife in,”
went on the landlord. “Thought she’d seen a ghostly vision, her did.
Said a feather would have knocked her down, her did. Which shows it must
have bin pretty bad for it inna easy to knock the missus down, she’s
like a bouncing ball.”
“I do wish I’d been there,” said Sukey. “I’d have knifed the dog for ye
in a minute, Mister Woodseaves. What did I give ye at the Beguildy’s
love-spinning, Mister Woodseaves?”
“Play kiss in the ring with us after, Mister Woodseaves!” says Moll.
“You kiss right well, I know!”
Felena leant forrard across the narrow table.
“Oot play?” she said. “Oot play, Weaver?”
Just then there was a call from the next table.
“Husht, husht! Sexton’s going to say a few words.”
When Sexton spoke, the four walls of the church seemed to grow up round
you, and you could smell the damp, musty smell of it, and hear the flies
plaining in the windows. For whether he was reading, “He took unto him a
wife and begat Aminadab,” or “The golden bowl be broken,” or speaking at
a harvest supper, it was all the same.
“Friends,” says Sexton, “we’ve had a good day. I’m sartin there’s not a
man among us as hanna sweated proper, even Granfeyther Callard has, I’ll
be bound.”
“Oh, ah! I sweated right well!” calls out the old man, very pleased.
“And now we be enjoying good victuals and drink, and after that a game
or two—”
“The people sat down to eat and to drink, and rose up to play, Exodus
thirty-two.”
This was Sammy.