On the afternoon of a splendid day in the early part of June,
some four or five days after the Sunday on which the morning
service at Englebourn was interrupted by the fire at Farmer
Groves', David Johnson, tailor and constable of the parish, was
sitting at his work in a small erection, half shed, half
summer-house, which leaned against the back of his cottage. Not
that David had not a regular workshop, with a window looking into
the village street, and a regular counter close under it, on
which passersby might see him stitching, and from which he could
gossip with them easily, as was his wont. But although the
constable kept the king's peace and made garments of all kinds
for his livelihood--from the curate's frock down to the
ploughboy's fustians--he was addicted for his pleasure and solace
to the keeping of bees. The constable's bees inhabited a row of
hives in the narrow strip of garden which ran away at the back of
the cottage. This strip of garden was bordered along the whole of
one side by the rector's premises. Now honest David loved gossip
well, and considered it a part of his duty as constable to be
well up in all events and rumours which happened or arose within
his liberties. But he loved his bees better than gossip, and, as
he was now in hourly expectation that they would be swarming, was
working, as has been said, in his summer-house, that he might be
at hand at the critical moment. The rough table on which he was
seated commanded a view of the hives; his big scissors and some
shreds of velveteen lay near him on the table, also the
street-door key and an old shovel, of which the uses will appear
presently.
On his knees lay the black velveteen coat, the Sunday garment of
Harry Winburn, to which he was fitting new sleeves. In his
exertions at the top of the chimney in putting out the fire,
Harry had grievously damaged the garment in question. The farmer
had presented him with five shillings on the occasion, which sum
was quite inadequate to the purchase of a new coat, and Harry,
being too proud to call the farmer's attention to the special
damage which he had suffered in his service, had contented
himself with bringing his old coat to be new sleeved.
Harry was a favorite with the constable on account of his
intelligence and independence, and because of his relations with
the farmers of Englebourn on the allotment question. Although by
his office the representative of law and order in the parish,
David was a man of the people, and sympathized with the peasantry
more than with the farmers. He had passed some years of his
apprenticeship at Reading, where he had picked up notions on
political and social questions much ahead of the Englebourn
worthies. When he returned to his native village, being a wise
man, he had kept his new lights in the background, and
consequently had succeeded in the object of his ambition, and had
been appointed constable. His reason for seeking the post was a
desire to prove that the old joke as to the manliness of tailors
had no application to his case, and this he had established to
the satisfaction of all the neighborhood by the resolute manner
in which, whenever called on, he performed his duties. And, now
that his character was made and his position secure, he was not
so careful of betraying his leanings, and had lost some custom
amongst the farmers in consequence of them.
The job on which he was employed naturally turned his thoughts to
Harry. He stitched away, now weighing in his mind whether he
should not go himself to Farmer Groves, and represent to him that
he ought to give Harry a new coat; now rejoicing over the fact
that the rector had decided to let Harry have another acre of the
allotment land, now speculating on the attachment of his favorite
to the gardener's daughter, and whether he could do any thing to
forward his suit. In the pursuit of which thoughts he had
forgotten all about his bees, when suddenly a great humming
arose, followed by a rush through the air like the passing of an
express train, which recalled him to himself. He jumped from the
table, casting aside the coat, and seizing the key and shovel,
hurried out into the garden, beating the two together with all
his might.
The process in question, known in country phrase as "tanging", is
founded upon the belief that the bees will not settle unless
under the influence of this peculiar music; and the constable,
holding faithfully to the popular belief, rushed down his garden,
"tanging" as though his life depended upon it, in the hopes that
the soothing sound would induce the swarm to settle at once on
his own apple trees.
Is "tanging" a superstition or not? People learned in bees ought
to know, but I never happened to meet one who had settled the
question. It is curious how such beliefs or superstitions fix
themselves in the popular mind of a countryside, and are held by
wise and simple alike. David the constable was a most sensible
and open-minded man of his time and class, but Kemble or Akerman,
or other learned Anglo-Saxon scholars would have vainly explained
to him that "tang", is but the old word for "to hold", and that
the object of "tanging" is, not to lure the bees with sweet music
of key and shovel, but to give notice to the neighbours that they
have swarmed, and that the owner of the maternal hive means to
hold on to his right to the emigrants. David would have listened
to the lecture with pity, and have retained unshaken belief in
his music.
In the present case, however, the tanging was of little avail,
for the swarm, after wheeling once or twice in the air,
disappeared from the eyes of the constable over the rector's
wall. He went on "tanging" violently for a minute or two, and
then paused to consider what was to be done. Should he get over
the wall into the rector's garden at once, or should he go round
and ask leave to carry his search into the parsonage grounds? As
a man and bee-fancier he was on the point of following straight
at once, over wall and fence; but the constable was also strong
within him. He was not on the best of terms with old Simon, the
rector's gardener, and his late opposition to Miss Winter in the
matter of the singing also came into his mind. So he resolved
that the parish constable would lose caste by disregarding his
neighbour's boundaries, and was considering what to do next, when
he heard a footstep and short cough on the other side of the wall
which he recognized.
"Be you there, Maester Simon?" he called out. Where upon the
walker on the other side pulled up, and after a second appeal
answered shortly--
"E'es."
"Hev'ee seed ought o' my bees? Thaay've a bin' and riz, and gone
off somweres athert the wall."
"E'es, I seen 'em."
"Wer' be 'em then?"
"Aal-amang wi' ourn in the limes."
"Aal-amang wi'yourn," exclaimed the constable. "Drattle 'em.
Thaay be more trouble than they be wuth."
"I knowd as thaay wur yourn zoon as ever I sot eyes on 'em," old
Simon went on.
"How did'ee know 'em then?" asked the constable.
"'Cause thine be aal zettin' crass-legged," said Simon, with a
chuckle. "Thee medst cum and pick 'em all out if thee'st a mind
to 't."
Simon was mollified by his own joke, and broke into a short, dry
cachinnation, half laugh, half cough; while the constable, who
was pleased and astonished to find his neighbour in such a good
humour, hastened to get an empty hive and a pair of hedger's
gloves--fortified with which he left his cottage and made the
best of his way up street towards the Rectory gate, hard by which
stood Simon's cottage.
The old gardener was of an impatient nature, and the effect of
the joke had almost time to evaporate, and Simon was fast
relapsing into his usual state of mind towards his neighbour
before the latter made his appearance.
"Wher' hast been so long?" he exclaimed, when the constable
joined him.
"I seed the young missus and t'other young lady a standin'
talkin' afore the door," said David; "so I stopped back, so as
not to dlsturve 'em."
"Be 'em gone in? Who was 'em talkin' to?"
"To thy missus, and thy daarter too, I b'lieve 'twas. Thaay be
both at whoam, bean't 'em?"
"Like enough. But what was 'em zayin'?"
"I couldn't heer nothin' partic'lar, but I judged as 'twas summat
about Sunday and the fire."
"'Tis na use for thaay to go on fillin' our place wi' bottles. I
dwon't mean to take no mwore doctor's stuff."
Simon, it may be said, by the way, had obstinately refused to
take any medicine since his fall, and had maintained a constant
war on the subject, both with his own women and Miss Winter, whom
he had impressed more than ever with a belief in his
wrongheadedness.
"Ah! and how be'ee, tho', Maester Simon?" said David, "I didn't
mind to ax afore'. You dwon't feel no wus for your fall, I
hopes?"
"I feels a bit stiffish like, and as if summat wur cuttin' m' at
times, when I lifts up my arms."
"'Tis a mercy 'tis no wus," said David; "we bean't so young nor
lissom as we was; Maester Simon."
To which remark Simon replied by a grunt. He disliked allusions
to his age--a rare dislike amongst his class in that part of the
country. Most of the people are fond of making themselves out
older than they are, and love to dwell on their experiences, and
believe, as firmly as the rest of us, that everything has altered
for the worse in the parish and district since their youth.
But Simon, though short of words and temper, and an uncomfortable
acquaintance in consequence, was inclined to be helpful enough in
other ways. The constable, with his assistance, had very soon
hived his swarm of cross-legged bees.
Then the constable insisted on Simon's coming with him and taking
a glass of ale, which, after a little coquetting, Simon consented
to do. So, after carrying his re-capture safely home, and
erecting the hive on a three-legged stand of his own workmanship,
he hastened to rejoin Simon, and the two soon found themselves in
the bar of the "Red Lion."
The constable wished to make the most of this opportunity, and so
began at once to pump Simon as to his intentions with regard to
his daughter. But Simon was not easy to lead in anyway whatever,
and seemed in a more than usually no-business-of-yours line about
his daughter. Whether he had anyone in his eye for her or not,
David could not make out; but one thing he did make out, and it
grieved him much. Old Simon was in a touchy and unfriendly state
of mind against Harry, who, he said, was falling into bad ways,
and beginning to think much too much of his self. Why was he to
be wanting more allotment ground than anyone else? Simon had
himself given Harry some advice on the point, but not to much
purpose, it would seem, as he summed up his notions on the
subject by the remark that, "'Twas waste of soap to lather an
ass."
The constable now and then made a stand for his young friend, but
very judiciously; and, after feeling his way for some time, he
came to the conclusion--as, indeed, the truth was--that Simon was
jealous of Harry's talent for growing flowers, and had been
driven into his present frame of mind at hearing Miss Winter and
her cousin talking about the flowers, at Dame Winburn's under his
very nose for the last four or five days. They had spoken thus to
interest the old man, meaning to praise Harry to him. The fact
was, that the old gardener was one of those men who never can
stand hearing other people praised, and think that all such
praise must be meant in depreciation of themselves.
When they had finished their ale, the afternoon was getting on,
and the constable rose to go back to his work; while old Simon
declared his intention of going down to the hay-field, to see how
the mowing was getting on. He was sure that the hay would never
be made properly, now that he couldn't be about as much as usual.
In another hour the coat was finished, and the constable being
uneasy in his mind, resolved to carry the garment home himself at
once, and to have a talk with Dame Winburn. So he wrapped the
coat in a handkerchief, put it under his arm, and set off down
the village.
He found the dame busy with her washing; and after depositing his
parcel, sat down on the settle to have a talk with her. They soon
got on the subject which was always uppermost in her mind, her
son's prospects, and she poured out to the constable her
troubles. First there was this sweet-hearting after old Simon's
daughter,--not that Dame Winburn was going to say anything
against her, though she might have her thoughts as well as other
folk, and for her part she liked to see girls that were fit for
something besides dressing themselves up like their betters,--but
what worried her was to see how Harry took it to heart. He wasn't
like himself, and she couldn't see how it was all to end. It made
him fractious, too, and he was getting into trouble about his
work. He had left his regular place, and was gone mowing with a
gang, most of them men out of the parish that she knew nothing
about, and likely not to be the best of company. And it was all
very well in harvest time, when they could go and earn good wages
at mowing and reaping any where about, and no man could earn
better than her Harry, but when it came to winter again she
didn't see but what he might find the want of a regular place,
and then the farmers mightn't take him on; and his own land, that
he had got, and seemed to think so much of, mightn't turn out all
he thought it would. And so in fact the old lady was troubled in
her mind, and only made the constable more uneasy. He had a vague
sort of impression that he was in some way answerable for Harry,
who was a good deal with him, and was fond of coming about his
place. And although his cottage happened to be next to old
Simon's, which might account for the fact to some extent, yet the
constable was conscious of having talked to his young friend on
many matters in a way which might have unsettled him, and
encouraged his natural tendency to stand up for his own rights
and independence, and he knew well enough that this temper was
not the one which was likely to keep a labouring man out of
trouble in the parish.
He did not allow his own misgivings, however, to add to the
widow's troubles, but, on the contrary, cheered her by praising
up Harry as much as even she could desire, and prophesying that
all would come right, and that those that lived would see her son
as respected as any man in the parish; he shouldn't be surprised,
indeed, if he were church-warden before he died. And then,
astonished at his own boldness, and feeling that he was not
capable of any higher flight of imagination, the constable rose
to take his leave. He asked where Harry was working, and, finding
that he was at mowing in the Danes' Close, set off to look after
him. The kind-hearted constable could not shake off the feeling
that something was going to happen to Harry which would get him
into trouble, and he wanted to assure himself that as yet nothing
had gone wrong. Whenever one has this sort of vague feeling about
a friend, there is a natural and irresistible impulse to go and
look after him, and to be with him.
The Danes' Close was a part of the glebe, a large field of some
ten acres or so in extent, close to the village. Two footpaths
ran across it, so that it was almost common property, and the
village children considered it as much their playground as the
green itself. They trampled the grass a good deal more than
seemed endurable in the eyes of Simon, who managed the rector's
farming operations as well as the garden; but the children had
their own way, notwithstanding the threats he sometimes launched
at them. Miss Winter would have sooner lost all the hay than have
narrowed their amusements. It was the most difficult piece of
mowing in the parish, in consequence of the tramplings and of the
large crops it bore. The Danes, or some other unknown persons,
had made the land fat, perhaps with their carcasses, and the
benefit had lasted to the time of our story. At any rate, the
field bore splendid crops, and the mowers always got an extra
shilling an acre for cutting it, by Miss Winter's special order,
which was paid by Simon in the most ungracious manner, and with
many grumblings that it was enough to ruin all the mowers in the
countryside.
As the constable got over the stile into the hay-field, a great
part of his misgivings passed out of his head. He was a simple
kindly man, whose heart lay open to all influences of scene and
weather, and the Danes' Close, full of life and joy and merry
sounds, as seen under the slanting rays of the evening sun, was
just the place to rub all the wrinkles out of him.
The constable, however, is not singular in this matter. What man
amongst us all, if he will think the matter over calmly and
fairly, can honestly say that there is any one spot on the
earth's surface in which he has enjoyed so much real, wholesome,
happy life as in a hay field? He may have won renown on horseback
or on foot at the sports and pastimes in which Englishmen glory;
he may have shaken off all rivals, time after time, across the
vales of Aylesbury, or of Berks, or any other of our famous
hunting counties; he may have stalked the oldest and shyest buck
in Scotch forests, and killed the biggest salmon of the year in
the Tweed, and the trout in the Thames; he may have made topping
averages in first-rate matches of cricket; or have made long and
perilous marches, dear to memory, over boggy moor, or mountain,
or glacier; he may have successfully attended many
breakfast-parties, within drive of Mayfair, on velvet lawns,
surrounded by all the fairyland of pomp, and beauty, and luxury,
which London can pour out; he may have shone at private
theatricals and at-homes; his voice may have sounded over hushed
audiences at St. Stephen's, or in the law courts; or he may have
had good times in any other scenes of pleasure or triumph open to
Englishmen; but I much doubt whether, on putting his
recollections fairly and quietly together, he would not say at
last that the fresh mown hay field is the place where he has
spent the most hours which he would like to live over again, the
fewest which he would wish to forget.
As children, we stumble about the new-mown hay, revelling in the
many colors of the prostrate grass and wild flowers, and in the
power of tumbling where we please without hurting ourselves; as
small boys, we pelt one another and the village schoolgirls and
our nursemaids and young lady cousins with the hay, till, hot and
weary, we retire to tea or syllabub beneath the shade of some
great oak or elm, standing up like a monarch out of the fair
pasture; or, following the mowers, we rush with eagerness on the
treasures disclosed by the scythe-stroke,--the nest of the
unhappy late laying titlark, or careless field-mouse; as big
boys, we toil ambitiously with the spare forks and rakes, or
climb into the wagons and receive with open arms the delicious
load as it is pitched up from below, and rises higher and higher
as we pass along the long lines of haycocks; a year or two later
we are strolling there with our first sweethearts, our souls and
tongues, loaded with sweet thoughts and soft speeches; we take a
turn with the scythe as the bronzed mowers lie in the shade for
their short rest, and willingly pay our footing for the feat.
Again, we come back with book in pocket, and our own children
tumbling about as we did before them; now romping with them, and
smothering them with the sweet-smelling load--now musing and
reading and dozing away the delicious summer evenings. And so
shall we not come back to the end, enjoying as grandfathers the
lovemaking and the rompings of younger generations yet?
Were any of us ever really disappointed or melancholy in a
hay-field? Did we ever lie fairly back on a haycock and look up
into the blue sky and listen to the merry sounds, the whetting of
scythes and the laughing prattle of women and children, and think
evil thoughts of the world and of or our brethren? Not we! Or if
we have so done, we ought to be ashamed of ourselves, and deserve
never to be out of town again during hay-harvest.
There is something in the sights and sounds of a hay-field which
seems to touch the same chord in one as Lowell's lines in the
"Lay of Sir Launfal," which end--
"For a cap and bells our lives we pay;
We wear out our lives with toiling and tasking;
It is only Heaven that is given away;
It is only God may be had for the asking.
There is no price set on the lavish summer,
And June may be had by the poorest comer."
But the philosophy of the hay-field remains to be written. Let us
hope that whoever takes the subject in hand will not dissipate
all its sweetness in the process of the inquiry wherein the charm
lies.
The constable had not the slightest notion of speculating on his
own sensations, but was very glad, nevertheless, to find his
spirits rising as he stepped into the Danes' Close. All the hay
was down, except a small piece in the further corner, which the
mowers were upon. There were groups of children in many parts of
the field, and women to look after them, mostly sitting on the
fresh swarth, working and gossiping, while the little ones played
about. He had not gone twenty yards before he was stopped by the
violent crying of a child; and turning toward the voice, he saw a
little girl of six or seven, who had strayed from her mother,
scrambling out of the ditch, and wringing her hands in an agony
of pain and terror. The poor little thing had fallen into a bed
of nettles, and was very much frightened, and not a little hurt.
The constable caught her up in his arms, soothing her as well as
he could, and hurrying along till he found some dock-leaves, sat
down with her on his knee, and rubbed her hands with the leaves,
repeating the old saw--
"Our nettle,
In dock;
Dock shall ha'
A new smock;
Nettle shan't
Ha' narrun'."
What with the rubbing, and the constable's kind manner, and
listening to the doggerel rhyme, and feeling that nettle would
get her deserts, the little thing soon ceased crying. But several
groups had been drawn towards the place, and amongst the rest
came Miss Winter and her cousin, who had been within hearing of
the disaster. The constable began to feel very nervous and
uncomfortable, when he looked up from his charitable occupation,
and suddenly found the rector's daughter close to him. But his
nervousness was uncalled for. The sight of what he was about, and
of the tender way in which he was handling the child, drove all
remembrance of his heresies and contumaciousness in the matter of
psalmody out of her head. She greeted him with frankness and
cordiality, and presently--when he had given up his charge to the
mother, who was inclined at first to be hard with the poor little
sobbing truant--came up, and said she wished to speak a few words
to him.
David was highly delighted at Miss Winter's manner; but he walked
along at her side not quite comfortable in his mind, for fear
lest she should start the old subject of dispute, and then his
duty as a public man would have to be done at all risk of
offending her. He was much comforted when she began by asking him
whether he had seen much of Widow Winburn's son lately.
David admitted that he generally saw him every day.
Did he know that he had left his place, and had quarrelled with
Mr. Tester?
Yes, David knew that Harry had had words with Farmer Tester; but
Farmer Tester was a sort that was very hard not to have words
with.
"Still, it is very bad, you know, for so young a man to be
quarrelling with the farmers," said Miss Winter.
"'Twas the varmer as quarreled wi' he, you see, miss," David
answered, "which makes all the odds. He cum to Harry all in a
fluster, and said as how he must drow up the land as he'd a'got,
or he's place--one or t'other on 'em. And so you see, Miss, as
Harry wur kind o' druv to it. 'Twarn't likely as he wur to drow
up the land now as he were just reppin' the benefit ov it, and
all for Varmer Tester's place, wich be no sich gurt things, miss,
arter all."
"Very likely not; but I fear it may hinder his getting
employment. The other farmers will not take him on now if they
can help it."
"No; thaay falls out wi' one another bad enough, and calls all
manner o' names. But thaay can't abide a poor man to speak his
mind, nor take his own part, not one on 'em," said David, looking
at Miss Winter, as if doubtful how she might take his strictures;
but she went on without any show of dissent,--
"I shall try to get him work for my father, but I am sorry to
find that Simon does not seem to like the idea of taking him on.
It is not easy always to make out Simon's meaning. When I spoke
to him, he said something about a bleating sheep losing a bite;
but I should think this young man is not much of a talker in
general?"--she paused.
"That's true, miss," said David, energetically; "there ain't a
quieter spoken or steadier man at his work in the parish."
"I'm very glad to hear you say so," said Miss Winter, "and I hope
we may soon do something for him. But what I want you to do just
now is to speak a word to him about the company he seems to be
getting into."
The constable looked somewhat aghast at this speech of Miss
Winter's, but did not answer, not knowing to what she was
alluding. She saw that he did not understand, and went on--
"He is mowing to-day with a gang from the heath and the next
parish; I am sure they are very bad men for him to be with. I was
so vexed when I found Simon had given them the job; but he said
they would get it all down in a day, and be done with it, and
that was all he cared for."
"And 'tis a fine day's work, miss, for five men," said David,
looking over the field; "and 'tis good work too, you mind the
swarth else," and he picked up a handful of the fallen grass to
show her how near the ground it was cut.
"Oh, yes, I have no doubt they are very good mowers, but they are
not good men, I'm sure. There, do you see now who it is that is
bringing them beer? I hope you will see Widow Winburn's son, and
speak to him, and try to keep him out of bad company. We should
be all so sorry if he were to get into trouble."
David promised to do his best, and Miss Winter wished him good
evening, and rejoined her cousin.
"Well, Katie, will he do your behest?"
"Yes, indeed; and I think he is the best person to do it. Widow
Winburn thinks her son minds him more than any one."
"Do you know, I don't think it will ever go right. I'm sure she
doesn't care the least for him."
"Oh, you have only just seen her once for two or three minutes."
"And then that wretched old Simon is so perverse about it," said
the cousin. "You will never manage him."
"He is very provoking, certainly; but I get my own way generally,
in spite of him. And it is such a perfect plan, isn't it!"
"Oh, charming! if you can only bring it about."
"Now we must be really going home; papa will be getting
restless." So the young ladies left the hay-field deep in
castle-building for Harry Winburn and the gardener's daughter,
Miss Winter being no more able to resist a tale of true love than
her cousin, or the rest of her sex. They would have been more or
less than woman if they had not taken an interest in so absorbing
a passion as poor Harry's. By the time they reached the Rectory
gate they had installed him in the gardener's cottage with his
bride and mother (for there would be plenty of room for the
widow, and it would be so convenient to have the laundry close at
hand) and had pensioned old Simon, and sent him and his old wife
to wrangle away the rest of their time in the widow's cottage.
Castle-building is a delightful and harmless exercise.
Meantime David the constable had gone towards the mowers, who
were taking a short rest before finishing off the last half-acre
which remained standing. The person whose appearance had so
horrified Miss Winter was drawing beer for them from a small
barrel. This was an elderly raw-boned woman with a skin burnt as
brown as that of any of the mowers. She wore a man's hat and
spencer and had a strong harsh voice, and altogether was not a
prepossessing person. She went by the name of Daddy Cowell in the
parish, and had been for years a proscribed person. She lived up
on the heath, often worked in the fields, took in lodgers, and
smoked a short clay pipe. These eccentricities, when added to her
half-male clothing, were quite enough to account for the sort of
outlawry in which she lived. Miss Winter, and other good people
of Englebourn, believed her capable of any crime, and the
children were taught to stop talking and playing, and run away
when she came near them; but the constable, who had had one or
two search-warrants to execute in her house, and had otherwise
had frequent occasions of getting acquainted with her in the
course of his duties, had by no means so evil an opinion of her.
He had never seen much harm in her, he had often been heard to
say, and she never made pretence to much good. Nevertheless,
David was by no means pleased to see her acting as purveyor to
the gang which Harry had joined. He knew how such contact would
damage him in the eyes of all the parochial respectabilities, and
was anxious to do his best to get him clear of it.
With these views he went up to the men, who were resting under a
large elm tree, and complimented them on their day's work. They
were themselves well satisfied with it, and with one another.
When men have had sixteen hours or so hard mowing in company, and
none of them can say that the others have not done their fair
share, they are apt to respect one another more at the end of it.
It was Harry's first day with this gang, who were famous for
going about the neighbourhood, and doing great feats in hay and
wheat harvest. They were satisfied with him and he with them,
none the less so probably in his present frame of mind, because
they also were loose on the world, servants of no regular master.
It was a bad time to make his approaches, the constable saw; so,
after sitting by Harry until the gang rose to finish off their
work in the cool of the evening, and asking him to come round by
his cottage on his way home, which Harry promised to do, he
walked back to the village.