THE WOOD-PILE--LIZARDS--SHEDS AND RICKYARD--THE WITCHES' BRIAR--
INSECTS--PLANTS, FLOWERS, AND FRUIT.
The farmhouse at Wick has the gardens and orchard already mentioned upon
one side, and on the other are the carthouses, sheds, and rickyard.
Between these latter and the dwelling runs a broad roadway for the
waggons to enter and leave the fields, and on its border stands a great
wood-pile. The faggots cut in the winter from the hedges are here
stacked up as high as the roof of a cottage, and near by lies a heap of
ponderous logs waiting to be split for firewood. From exposure to the
weather the bark of the faggot-sticks has turned black and is rapidly
decaying, and under it innumerable insects have made their homes.
For these, probably, the wrens visit the wood-pile continually; if in
passing anyone strikes the faggots with a stick, a wren will generally
fly out on the opposite side. They creep like mice in between the
faggots--there are numerous interstices--and thus sometimes pass fight
through a corner of the stack. Sometimes a pole which has been lying by
for a length of time is found to be curiously chased, as it were, all
over the surface under the loose bark by creeping things. They eat
channels interweaving and winding in and out in an intricate pattern,
occasionally a little resembling the Moorish style of ornamentation seen
on the walls of the Alhambra. I have found poles so curiously carved
like this that the idea naturally occurred of using them for cabinet
work. They might at least have supplied a hint for a design. Besides
the wrens, many other birds visit the wood-pile--sparrows are
perpetually coming, and on the retired side towards the meadow the
robins build their nests. On the ridge where some of the sticks project
the swallows often perch and twitter--generally a pair seem to come
together.
It takes skill as well as mere strength even to do so simple a thing as
to split the rough logs lying here on the ground. They are not like
those Abraham Lincoln began life working at--even-grained wood, quickly
divided--but tough and full of knots strangely twisted; so that it needs
judgment to put the wedges in the right place.
Near the wood-pile is a well and a stone trough for thirsty horses to
drink from, and as the water, carelessly pumped in by the carters' lads,
frequently overflows, the ground just there is usually moist. If one of
the loose oak logs that lie here with the grass growing up round it is
rolled over, occasionally a lizard may be found under it. This lizard
is slender, and not more than three or four inches in length, general
colour a yellowish green. Where one is found a second is commonly close
by. They are elegantly shaped, and quick in their motions, speedily
making off. They may now and then be discovered under large stones, if
there is a crevice, in the meadows. They do not in the least resemble
the ordinary `land-lizard,' which is a much coarser-looking and larger
creature, and is not an inhabitant of this locality: at all events it is
rare enough to have escaped me here, though I have often observed it in
districts where the soil is light and sandy and where there is a good
deal of heath-land. The land-lizards will stroll indoors if the door be
left open. These lesser but more elegant lizards appear to prefer a
damp spot--cool and moist, but not positively wet.
A large shed built against the side of the adjacent stable is used as a
carpenter's workshop--much carpenter's work is done on a farm--and here
is a bench with a vice and variety of tools. When sawing, the wood
operated on often `ties' the saw, as it is called--that is, pinches it--
which makes it hard to work; a thin wedge of wood is then inserted to
open a way, and the blade of the saw rubbed with a little grease, which
the metal, heated by the friction, melts into oil. This eases the
work--a little grease, too, will make a gimlet bore quicker. Country
carpenters keep this grease in a horn--a cow's horn stopped at the
larger end with a piece of wood and at the other by its own natural
growth. Now the mice (which are everywhere on farm premises) are so
outrageously fond of grease that they will spend any length of time
gnaw-gnaw-gnawing till they do get at it. Right through the solid
stopper of wood they eat their way, and even through the horn; so that
the carpenter is puzzled to know how to preserve it out of their reach.
It is of no use putting it on a shelf, because they either rush up the
wall or drop from above. At last, however, he has hit upon a dodge.
He has suspended the horn high above the ground by a loop of copper
wire, which projects six or eight inches from the wall, like a lamp on a
bracket. The mice may get on the bench, and may run up the wall, but
when they get to the wire they cannot walk out on it--like tight-rope
walking--the more especially as the wire, being thin and flexible, bends
and sways if they attempt it. This answers the purpose as a rule; but
even here the carpenter declares that once now and then his horn is
pilfered, and can only account for it by supposing that a bolder mouse
than common makes a desperate leap for it, and succeeds in landing on
the flat surface of the wooden stopper.
The shed has one small window only, which has no glass, but is secured
by an iron bar (he needs no larger window, for all carpenters work with
the door open); and through this window a robin has entered and built a
nest in a quiet corner behind some timber. Though a man is at work here
so often, hammering and sawing, the birds come fearlessly to their
young, and pick up the crumbs he leaves from his luncheon.
Between the timber framework of the shed and the brickwork of the
adjacent stable chinks have opened, and in these and in the chinks
between the wooden lintel of the stable-door and the bricks above it the
bats frequently hide, passing the day there. Others hide in the tiles
of the roof where their nests are made. The labouring lads often amuse
themselves searching for these creatures, whose one object in daylight
seems to be to cling to something; they will hang to the coat with the
claws at the extremity of their membranous wings, and if left alone will
creep out of sight into the pocket. There are two well-marked species
of bats here--one small and the other much larger.
The lesser bat flies nearer to the ground, and almost always follows the
contour of some object or building. They hawk to and fro for hours in
the evening under the eaves of the farmhouse, and frequently enter the
great garrets and the still larger cheese-room (where the cheese is
stored to mature)--sometimes through the windows, and sometimes seeming
to creep through hales made by sparrows or starlings in the roof. Moths
are probably the attraction; of these there are generally plenty in and
about old houses. Occasionally a bat will come into the sitting-room,
should the doors be left open on a warm summer evening: this the old
folk think an evil omen, and still worse if in its alarm at the attempts
made to drive it away it should chance to knock against the candle and
overturn or put it out. They think, too, that a bat seen in daytime is
a bad sign. Once now and then one gets disturbed by some means in the
tiles, and flutters in a helpless manner to the nearest shelter; for in
daylight they seem quite at a loss, though flying so swiftly at night.
The greater bat hawks at a considerable elevation above houses and
trees, and wheels and turns with singular abruptness, so that some think
it a test of a good shot to bring them down. The reason, however, why
many find it difficult to hit a bat is because they are unaccustomed to
shoot at night, and not because of its manner of flight for it often
goes quite straight. It is also believed to be a test of good hearing
to be able to hear the low shrill squeak of the bat uttered as it flies:
the same is said of the shrew mouse, whose cry is yet more faint and
acute. The swift, too, has a peculiar kind of screech, but easily
heard.
Beyond the stables are the cattle-sheds and cow-yards. These sheds are
open on the side towards the yard, supported there by a row of wooden
pillars stepped on stones to keep them from rotting. On the large
cross-beams within the swallows make their nests. When the eggs are
hard set, the bird will sit so close that with care and a gentle manner
of approach you may sometimes even stroke her back lightly with your
finger without making her rise. They become so accustomed to men
constantly in and out the sheds as to feel little alarm. Some build
their nests higher up under the roof-tree.
To the adjoining rickyard redstarts come every summer, building their
nests there; `horse-matchers' or stonechats also in summer often visit
the rickyard, though they do not build in it. Some elm trees shade the
ricks, and once now and then a wood-pigeon settles in them for a little
while. The coo of the dove may be heard frequently, but she does not
build very near the house.
On this farm the rookery is at some distance in the meadows, and the
rooks rarely come nearer than the field just outside the post and rails
that enclose the rickyard, though they pass over constantly, flying low
down without fear, unless some one chances just then to come out
carrying a gun. Then they seem seized with an uncontrollable panic, and
stop short in their career by a violent effort of the wings, to wheel
off immediately at a tangent. Perhaps no other bird shows such evident
signs of recognising a gun. Chaffinches, it must not be forgotten,
frequent the rickyard in numbers.
Finally come the rats. Though trapped, shot, and ferreted without
mercy, the rats insist on a share of the good things going. They
especially haunt the pigsties, and when the pigs are served with their
food feed with them at the same trough. Those old rats that come to the
farmstead are cunning fierce beasts, not to be destroyed without much
difficulty. They will not step on a trap, though never so cleverly
laid; they will face a ferret, unless he happens to be particularly
large and determined, and bite viciously at dogs. But with all their
cunning there is one simple trick which they are not up to: this is to
post yourself high up above the ground, when they will not suspect your
presence; a ladder is placed against a tree within easy shot of the
pigsty, and the gunner, have previously arranged that everything shall
be kept quiet, takes his stand on it, and from thence kills a couple
perhaps at once.
On looking back, it appears that the farmhouse, garden, orchard, and
rickyard at Wick are constantly visited by about thirty-five wild
creatures, and, in addition, five others come now and then, making a
total of forty. Of these forty, twenty-six are birds, two bats, eight
quadrupeds, and four reptiles. This does not include some few
additional birds that only come at long intervals, nor those that simply
fly overhead or are heard singing at a distance.
The great meadow hedge--the highway of the birds--where it approaches
the ha-ha wall of the orchard, is lovely in June with the wild roses
blooming on the briars which there grow in profusion. Some of these
briars stretch forth into the meadow, and then, bent down by their own
weight, form an arch crowned with flowers. There is an old superstition
about these arches of briar hung out along the hedgerow: magical cures
of whooping-cough and some other diseases of childhood can, it is
believed, be effected by passing the child at sunrise under the briar
facing the rising sun.
This had to be performed by the `wise woman.' There was one in every
hamlet but a few years ago--and indeed here and there an aged woman
retains something like a reputation for witchcraft still. The `wise
woman' conducted the child entrusted to her care at the dawn to the
hedge, where she knew there was a briar growing in such a position that
a person could creep under it facing the east, and there, as the sun
rose, passed the child through.
In the hollow just beneath the ha-ha wall, where it is moist, grow tall
rushes; and here the great dragon-fly darts to and fro so swiftly as to
leave the impression of a line of green drawn suddenly through the air.
Though travelling at such speed, he has the power of stopping abruptly,
and instantly afterwards returns upon his path. These handsome insects
are often placed on mirrors as an ornament in farmhouses. The labourers
will have it that they sting like the hornet; but this they say also of
many other harmless creatures, seeming to have a general distrust of the
insect kind. They will tell you alarming stories of terrible
sufferings--arms swollen to double the natural size, necks inflamed, and
so forth--caused by the bites of unknown flies. Not being able to
discover what fly it is that inflicts these poisonous wounds, and having
spent so many hours in the fields without experiencing such effects, I
rather doubt these statements, though put forth in perfect good faith:
indeed, I have often seen the arms and chests of the men in harvest time
with huge bumps rising on them which they declared were thus caused.
The common harvest bug, which gets under the skin, certainly does not
cause such great swellings as I have seen; nor the stoat-fly, which
latter is the most bloodthirsty wretch imaginable.
With a low hissing buzz, a long, narrow, and brownish grey insect
settles on your hand as you walk among the hay, and presently you feel a
tingling sensation, and may watch (if you have the patience to endure
the irritation) its body gradually dilate and grow darker in colour as
it absorbs the blood. When once thoroughly engaged, nothing will
frighten this fly away: you may crush him, but he will not move from
fear: he will remain till, replete with blood, he falls off helpless
into the grass.
The horses in the waggons have at this season to be watched by a boy
armed with a spray of ash, with which he flicks off the stoats that
would otherwise drive the animals frantic. A green spray is a great
protection against flies; if you carry a bough in your hand as you walk
among the meadows they will not annoy you half so much. Such a bough is
very necessary when lying _perdu_ in a dry ditch in summer to shoot a
young rabbit, and when it is essential to keep quiet and still. Without
it it is difficult to avoid lifting the hand to knock the flies away--
which motion is sure to alarm the rabbit that may at that very moment be
peeping out preparatory to issuing from his hole. It is impossible not
to pity the horses in the hayfields on a sultry day; despite all the
care taken, their nostrils are literally black with crowds of flies,
which constantly endeavour to crawl over the eyeball. Sunshine itself
does not appear so potent in bringing, forth insects as the close
electrical kind or heat that precedes a thunderstorm. This is so well
known that when the flies are more than usually busy the farmer makes
haste to get in his hay, and lets down the canvas over his rick. The
cows give warning at the same time by scampering about in the wildest
and most ludicrous manner--their tails held up in the air--tormented by
insects.
The ha-ha wall, built of loose stones, is the home of thousands upon
thousands of ants, whose nests are everywhere here, the ground being
undisturbed by passing footsteps. They ascend trees to a great height,
and may be seen going up the trunk sometimes in a continuous stream, one
behind the other in Indian file.
In one spot on the edge of the ha-ha is a row of beehives--the garden
wall and a shrubbery shelter them here from the north and east, and the
drop of the ha-ha gives them a clear exit and entrance. This is thought
a great advantage--not to have any hedge or bush in front of the hives--
because the bees, heavily laden with honey or pollen, encounter no
obstruction in coming home. They are believed to work more
energetically when this is the case, and they certainly do seem to
exhibit signs of annoyance, as if out of temper, if they get entangled
in a bush. Indeed, if you chance to be pursued by an angry cloud of
bees whose ire you have aroused, the only safe place is a hedge or bush,
into which make haste to thrust yourself, when the boughs and leaves
will baffle them. If the hive be moved to a different place, the bees
that chance at the time to be out in the fields collecting honey, upon
their return, finding their home gone, are evidently at a loss. They
fly round, hovering about over the spot for a long time before they
discover the fresh position of the hive.
The great hornet, with its tinge of reddish orange, comes through the
garden sometimes with a heavy buzz, distinguishable in a moment from the
sound of any other insect. All country folk believe the hornet's sting
to be the most poisonous and painful of any, and will relate instances
of persons losing the use of their arms for a few days in consequence of
the violent inflammation. Sometimes the hornet selects for its nest an
aperture in an old shed near the farmhouse. I have seen their nests
quite close to houses; but, unless wantonly disturbed, there is not the
slightest danger from them, or indeed from any other insects of this
class. I think the common hive-bees are the worst tempered of any--they
resent the slightest interference with their motions. The hornet often
chooses an old hollow withy-pollard for the site of its nest.
In the orchard there is at least one nest of the humble-bee, made at a
great depth in a deserted mouse's hole. These bees have eaten away and
removed the grass just round the entrance, so as to get a clear road in
and out. They are as industrious as the hive-bee; but, as there are not
nearly so many working together in one colony, they do not store up
anything approaching to the same quantity of honey. There is a
superstition that if a humble-bee buzzes in at the window of the
sitting-room it is a sure sign of a coming visitor.
Be careful how you pick up a ripe apple, all glowing orange, from the
grass in the orchard; roll it over with your foot first, or you may
chance to find that you have got a handful of wasps. They eat away the
interior of the fruit, leaving little but the rind; and this very
hollowness causes the rind to assume richer tints and a more tempting
appearance. Specked apples on the tree, whether pecked by a blackbird,
eaten by wasps or ants, always ripen fastest, and if you do not mind
cutting out that portion, are the best. Such a fallen apple, when
hollowed out within, is a veritable torpedo if incautiously handled.
Wasps are incurable drunkards. If they find something sweet and
tempting they stick to it, and swill till they fall senseless to the
ground. They are then most dangerous, because unseen and unheard, and
one may put one's hand on them in ignorance of their whereabouts.
Noticing once that a particular pear tree appeared to attract wasps,
though there was little or no fruit on it, I watched their motions, and
found they settled at the mouth of certain circular apertures that had
been made in the trunk. There the sap was slowly exuding, and to this
sap the wasps came and sipped it till they could sip no more. The tree
being old and of small value, it was determined to see what caused these
circular holes. They were cut out with a gouge, when the whole interior
of the trunk was found bored with winding tunnels, through which a
pistol bullet might have been passed. This had been done by an enormous
grub, as long and large as one's finger.
Old-world plants and flowers linger still like heirlooms in the
farmhouse garden, though their pleasant odour is ofttimes choked by the
gaseous fumes from the furnaces of the steam-ploughing engines as they
pass along the road to their labour. Then a dark vapour rises above the
tops of the green elms, and the old walls tremble and the earth itself
quakes beneath the pressure of the iron giant, while the atmosphere is
tainted with the smell of cotton-waste and oil. How little these accord
with the quiet, sunny slumber of the homestead. But the breeze comes,
and ere the rattle of the wheels and cogs has died away, the fragrance
of the flowers and green things has reasserted itself. Such a sunny
slumber, and such a fragrance of flowers, both wild and cultivated, have
dwelt round and over the place these 200 years, and mayhap before that.
It is perhaps a fancy only, yet I think that where men and nature have
dwelt side by side time out of mind there is a sense of a presence, a
genius of the spot, a haunting sweetness and loveliness not elsewhere to
be found. The most lavish expenditure, even when guided by true taste,
cannot produce this feeling about a modern dwelling.
At Wick, by the side of the garden path, grows a perfect little hedge of
lavender; every drawer in the house, when opened, emits an odour of its
dried flowers. Here, too, are sweet marjoram, rosemary, and rue; so
also bay and thyme, and some pot-herbs whose use is forgotten, besides
southernwood and wormwood. They do not make medical potions at home
here now, but the lily-leaves are used to allay inflammation of the
skin. The house-leek had a reputation with the cottage herbalists; it
is still talked of, but I think very rarely used.
Among the flowers here are beautiful dark-petalled wallflowers,
sweet-williams, sweet-briar, and pansies. In spring the yellow crocus
lifts its head from among the grass of the green in front of the house
(as the snowdrops did also), and here and there a daffodil. These, I
think, never look so lovely as when rising from the green sward; the
daffodils grow, too, in the orchard. Woodbine is everywhere--climbing
over the garden seat under the sycamore tree, whose leaves are spotted
sometimes with tiny reddish dots, the honey-dew.
Just outside the rickyard, where the grass of the meadow has not been
mown but fed by cattle, grow the tall buttercups, rising to the knee.
The children use the long hollow stems as tubes wherewith to suck up the
warm new milk through its crown of thick froth, from the oaken
milking-pail. There is a fable that the buttercups make the butter
yellow when they come--but the cows never eat them, being so bitter;
they eat all round close up to the very stems, but leave them standing
scrupulously. The children, top, make similar pipes of straw to suck up
the new cider fresh from the cider-mill, as it stands in the tubs
directly after the grinding. Under the shady trees of the orchard the
hare's parsley flourishes, and immediately without the orchard edge, on
the `shore' of the ditch, grow thick bunches of the beautiful blue
crane's-bill, or wild geranium, which ought to be a garden flower and
not left to the chance mercy of the scythe. There, too, the herb Robert
hides, and its foliage, turning colour, lies like crimson lace on the
bank.
Even the tall thistles of the ditch have their beauty--the flower has a
delicate tint, varying with the species from mauve to purple; the
humble-bee visits every thistle-bloom in his path, and there must
therefore be sweetness in it. Then in the autumn issues forth the
floating thistledown, streaming through the air and rolling like an
aerial ball over the tips of the bennets. Thistledown is sometimes
gathered to fill pillow-cases, and a pillow so filled is exquisitely
soft. There is not a nook or corner of the old place where something
interesting may not be found. Even the slates on a modern addition to
the homestead are each bordered with yellow lichen--perhaps because they
adjoin thatch, for slates do not seem generally to encourage the growth
of lichen. It appears to prefer tiles, which therefore sooner assume an
antique tint.
To the geraniums in the bow-window the humming-bird moth comes now and
then, hovering over the scarlet petals. Out of the high elms drops a
huge grey moth, so exactly the colour of grey lichen that it might be
passed for it--pursued, of course, as it clumsily falls, by two or more
birds eager for the spoil. It is feast-time with them when the
cockchafers come: they leave nothing but wing-cases scattered on the
garden paths, like the shields of slain men-at-arms.
In the bright sunshine, when there is not a cloud in the sky, slender
beetles come forth from the cracks of the earth and run swiftly across
the paths, glittering green and gold, iridescent colours glistening on
their backs. These are locally called sunbeetles, because they appear
when the sun is brightest. Be careful not to step on or kill one; for
if you do it will certainly rain, according to the old superstition.
The blackbird, when he picks up one of the larger beetles, holds it with
its back towards him in his bill, so that the legs claw helplessly at
the air, and thus carries it to a spot where he can pick it to pieces at
his leisure.
The ha-ha wall of the orchard is the favourite haunt of butterflies;
they seem to love its sunny aspect, and often cling to the loose stones
like ornaments attached by some cunning artist. Sulphur butterflies
hover here early in the spring, and later on white and brown and tiny
blue butterflies pass this way, calling _en route_. Sometimes a great
noble of the butterfly world comes in all the glory of his wide velvety
wings, and deigns to pause awhile that his beauty may be seen.
Somewhere within doors, in the huge beams or woodwork, the death-tick is
sure to be heard in the silence of the night: even now the old folk
listen with a lingering dread. Give the woodwork a smart tap, and the
insect stops a few moments, but it rapidly gets accustomed to such taps,
and after a few ceases to take notice of them. This manner of building
houses with great beams visibly supporting the ceiling, passing across
the roam underneath it, had one advantage. On a rainy day the children
could go into the garrets or the cheese-loft and there form a swing,
attaching the ropes to the hooks in the beam across the ceiling.
The brewhouse, humble though its object may be, is not without its claim
to admiration. It is open from the floor to the rafters of the roof,
and that roof in its pitch, the craft of the woodwork, the dull polish
of the old oak, has an interest far surpassing the dead staring level of
flat lath and plaster. Noble workmanship in wood may be found, too, in
some of the ancient barns; sometimes the beams are of black oak, in
others of chestnut.
In these modern days men have lost the pleasures of the orchard; yet an
old-fashioned orchard is the most delicious of places wherein to idle
away the afternoon of a hazy autumn day, when the sun seems to shine
with a soft slumberous warmth without glare, as if the rays came through
an aerial spider's web spun across the sky, letting all the beauty, but
not the heat, slip through its invisible meshes. There is a shadowy
coolness in the recesses under the trees. On the damson trunks are
yellowish crystalline knobs of gum which has exuded from the bark. Now
and then a leaf rustles to the ground, and at longer intervals an apple
falls with a decided thump. It is silent save for the gentle twittering
of the swallows on the topmost branches--they are talking of their
coming journey--and perhaps occasionally the distant echo of a shot
where the lead has gone whistling among a covey. It is a place to dream
in, bringing with you a chair to sit on--for it will be freer from
insects than the garden seat--and a book. Put away all thought of time:
often in striving to get the most value from our time it slips from us
as the reality did from the dog that greedily grasped at the shadow:
simply dream of what you will, with apples and plums, nuts and filberts
within reach.
Dusky Blenheim oranges, with a gleam of gold under the rind; a warmer
tint of yellow on the pippins. Here streaks of red, here a tawny hue.
Yonder a load of great russets; near by heavy pears bending the strong
branches; round black damsons; luscious egg-plums hanging their yellow
ovals overhead; bullace, not yet ripe, but presently sweetly piquant.
On the walnut trees bunches of round green balls--note those that show a
dark spot or streak, and gently tap them with the tip of the tall
slender pole placed there for the purpose. Down they come glancing from
bough to bough, and, striking the hard turf, the thick green rind splits
asunder, and the walnut itself rebounds upwards. Those who buy walnuts
have no idea of the fine taste of the fruit thus gathered direct from
the tree, when the kernel, though so curiously convoluted, slips its
pale yellow skin easily and is so wondrously white. Surely it is an
error to banish the orchard and the fruit garden from the
pleasure-grounds of modern houses, strictly relegating them to the rear,
as if something to be ashamed of.