“Men who their duties know,
But know their rights, and knowing dare maintain.”
“The blind mole casts
Copp’d hills toward heaven, to tell the earth is throng’d
By man’s oppression and the poor worm doth die for’t.”
IT is during the hungry years of the thirties and forties of the
nineteenth century that the great body of Englishmen and Englishwomen
reveal themselves most nobly and clearly in their national character.
They were years of hunger and strife but it is good to see with what
ceaseless, persistent bravery they fought for their ideals year after
year, generation after generation, never losing hope or courage but
steadily working and waiting for the passage of that great Reform Bill,
which would open the door for their recognition at least as members of
the body politic.
Yet this Reform Bill terrified the aristocracy and great land holders
and they were sure that its passage would sweep away both the monarchy
and the House of Lords. What else could be looked for if the franchise
was given to the laborer and the mechanic? The Bill had been well
received by the House of Commons, but rejected by the House of Lords
on the twentieth day of the previous October; and the condition of the
country was truly alarming.
Madam Annis reminded her daughter of this fact but Katherine was not to
be frightened. “Your father,” she said, “has just told us about the riot
and outrages at Derby and the burning of Nottingham Castle by a frantic
mob and the press says--‘the people in London are restless and full
of passion.’ Still more to be wondered at is the letter which Thomas
Attwood, the great banker, has just sent to the Duke of Wellington. In
this letter he dared to threaten the government, to tell them he would
march on London with a hundred thousand men, in order to inquire why the
Reform Bill was hindered and delayed. This morning’s paper comments
on this threat and says, The Duke of Wellington is not afraid of this
visit, but would rather it was not paid.’ All the way up to London there
is rioting. It is not a fit journey for thee to take. Mind what I say.”
“Oh, mother, only think! I might have been in the Ladies’ Gallery,
in the House. I might have heard Mr. Macaulay’s answer to the Lord’s
denial, with his grand question to the Commons, ‘Ought we to abandon the
Reform Bill because the Lords have rejected it? No! We must respect the
lawful privileges of their House, but we ought also to assert our own.’
No wonder the Commons cheered, and cheered, and cheered him. Oh, how
gladly I would have helped them!”
“You are going too far and too fast, Katherine.”
“Father ought to have been in the House on the third of February and it
is now the seventh of March: Is that right?”
“A great many landed men will not go to this session. The Reform Bill,
re-written by Lord Russell, is to come up again and father does not want
to vote either for, or against it.”
“Why?”
“He hes his reasons. I doan’t know that his reasons are any business of
thine.”
“Harry Bradley was explaining things to me this morning, and I am for
the Reform Bill. I am sure the people are right.”
“I wouldn’t say as much on thy opinion. Wisdom wasn’t born wi’ thee and
I doan’t expect she will die wi’ thee. I think if thou went to London
this spring thou would make more enemies than thou could manage. Father
is following my advice in staying home, and London isn’t a fit place for
a young girl like thee and the way there is full of rioters. Thy father
is a landed man and he doesn’t believe in giving every weaver and hedger
and ditcher a voice in the government of England.”
“Harry Bradley says, some of their leaders and speakers are very clever
eloquent men.”
“I wouldn’t talk nonsense after Harry Bradley. Who’s Harry Bradley?”
“He is my friend, mother. We have been friends nearly twenty years.”
“Not you! It is not yet eighteen years since thou showed thy face in
this world.”
“I was speaking generally, mother.”
“Eh, but there’s something wrong in that way! A lot o’ bother can come
out of it. I wouldn’t mind anything Harry Bradley says, thy father won’t
hev any nonsense about him. I can tell thee that!”
“Father is so set in his own way. No one suits him lately. We met
Captain Chandos last Monday, and he would hardly notice him.”
“Well, then, there are plenty of folk no one can suit, and varry often
they can’t suit themselves.”
“Oh, I don’t care about Chandos, mother; but I feel angry when Harry is
slighted. You see, mother, I might come to marry Harry Bradley.”
“I do hope thou won’t be so far left to thysen, as that would mean.”
“Then you would be wise to let me go to London. A girl must have a
lover, or she feels out in the cold, and Harry is the best specimen of a
man round about Annis.”
“All right. Let me tell thee that I hev noticed that the girls who never
throw a line into the sea of marriage, do a deal better than them that
are allays fishing.”
“Perhaps so, but then there is the pleasure of throwing the line.”
“And perhaps the pleasure of being caught by some varry undesireable
fisherman for tha needn’t think that women are the only fishers. The men
go reg’lar about that business and they will soon find out that thou
hes a bit o’ money o’ thy awn and are well worth catching. See if they
doan’t.”
“Mother, I want to go to London and see the passing of the great Reform
Bill. I am in love with those brave men Earl Grey and Lord Russell and
Mr. Macaulay, who dared to speak up for the poor, before all England.”
“I rather think they are all married men, Katherine, and marrying for
love is an unwise and generally an unprofitable bit of business.”
“Business and Love have nothing to do with each other.”
“Eh, but they hev!”
“I shall marry for love.”
“Well, then, marry for love, but love wisely.”
“Money is only one thing, mother.”
“To be sure, but it is a rayther important thing.”
“You might persuade father that he had better take me to London out of
Harry’s way. Dear mammy, do this for your little girl, won’t you? You
can always get round father in some way or other.”
“I will ask thy father again but I shall take no roundabout way.
Straightforrard is the best. And I am above a bit astonished at thee, a
Yorkshire lass, thinking of any crooked road to what thou wants! If tha
can’t get thy way openly and fairly make up thy mind any other way isn’t
worth while, for it will be full of ups and downs, and lonely bits, and
stony bits, and all sorts and kinds of botherations. Keep these words in
thy mind.”
“I will.”
“Then I’ll ask thy father again, to take thee with him to London--if he
goes himsen--if he does not go at all, then----”
“I must find out some other way, and really the most straightforward way
would be to marry Harry Bradley, and go to London with him as a wedding
trip.”
“Thou must stop talking nonsense or else it will stop my talking one
word for thy wish.”
“I was just joking, mother.”
“Always keep everything straight between thysen and thy mother. The
first deception between me and thee opens the gates of Danger.”
“I will never forget that, mother. And if I should go away I ask you to
take my place with Faith Foster, who is making clothing for the poor in
the village.”
“Well, Katherine, what with one thing and what with another, I doan’t
know what tha wants. Does tha know thysen?”
“Well, I think it would look better if the Hall should trouble itself
a little about the suffering in the village. Faith Foster is the only
person doing anything. I was helping her, but----”
“I should think thou would have told thysen that it was varry forrard in
a young person putting herself in my place without even a word to me
on the matter. She ought to hev come and told me what was needed and
offered her help to me. Thy father is Lord of the Manor of Annis, and it
is his business to see the naked clothed. I wonder at thee letting any
one take my place and then asking me to help and do service for them.
That is a bit beyond civility, I think.”
“It was very thoughtless. I am sorry I did it. I was so touched by
Faith’s description of the hunger and nakedness in Abram Oddy’s family,
that I thought of nothing but how to relieve it.”
“Well, well! It is all right, someway or other. I see father coming
towards the house. I wonder what he is wanting.”
“And he is walking so rapidly and looks so happy, something must have
pleased him. I will go away, mother. This may be a good hour for our
request.”
“Why _our?_”
Katherine had disappeared. She left the room by one door as the squire
entered by the other. Madam rose to meet him but before she could speak
the squire had kissed her and was saying in glad eager tones, “I hev
hurried a bit, my Joy, to tell thee that both thysen and Katherine can
go wi’ me to London. I had a lump of good fortune this afternoon. Mark
Clitheroe sent me the thousand pounds he owed, when he broke up five
years ago. He told me he wouldn’t die till he had paid it; and I
believed him. The money came to-day and it came with a letter that does
us both credit.”
“However has Clitheroe made a thousand pounds to spare since his
smash-up? Thou said, it wer a varry complete ruin.”
“It was all of that, yet he tells me, he will be able to pay the last
farthing he owes to anyone, during this year some time.”
“It caps me! How hes he made the money?”
“Why, Annie, his father built a factory for him and filled it with the
finest power-looms and he says he hes been doing a grand business. Old
Clitheroe hed allays told him he was wasting time and good brass in hand
weaving but Mark would hev his awn way, and somehow his awn way took him
to ruin in three years. I was his main creditor. Well, well! I am both
astonished and pleased, I am that! Now get thysen and Katherine ready
for London.”
“I doan’t really want to go, Antony.”
“But I cannot do without thee. Thou wilt hev to go, and there is
Katherine, too! Ten to one, she will need a bit of looking after.”
“When art thou going to start?”
“Not for a month. I must see to the sowing of the land--the land feeds
us. I thought, though, it would be right to give thee the bit o’ change
and pleasure to think about and talk about.”
“Where does thou intend to stay while in London?”
“I am thinking of the Clarendon Hotel for thee and mysen. I suppose
Katherine can be comfortable and welcome at her sister’s.”
“Certainly she can. Jane isn’t anything but kind at heart. It is just
her _you-shallness_ that makes her one-sided to live with. But Katherine
can hold her own side, without help, she can that! And if thou art bound
for London, then London is the place where my heart will be and we will
go together.”
“Thou art a good wife to me, Annie.”
“Well, then, I promised thee to be a good wife, and I’m Yorkshire
enough to keep a promise--good or bad. I am glad thou art going to
the Clarendon. It is a pleasant house but thy sister Josepha is a bit
overbearing, isn’t she, Antony?”
“She does not overbear me. I am her eldest brother. I make her remember
that. Howiver, I shall hev to listen to such a lot o’ strong language
in the House that I must hev only thee about me when I can get away from
committees, and divisions, taking of votes, and the like.”
By this time the squire had filled his pipe, and seated himself in
his favorite corner on that side of the hearth, that had no draughts
whichever way the wind blew. Then Madam said: “I’ll leave thee a few
minutes, Antony. I am going to tell Katherine that thou art going to
take her to London.”
“Varry well. I’ll give thee five minutes, then thou must come back here,
for I hev something important to tell thee.”
“Katherine will want to come back here with me. She will be impatient to
thank thee for thy goodness and to coax some sovereigns in advance for
a new dress and the few traveling things women need when they are on the
road.”
“Then thou hed better advise her to wait until supper time. When the
day’s work is all done I can stand a bit of cuddling and petting and I
doan’t mind waring a few sovereigns for things necessary. Of course,
I know the little wench will be happy and full o’ what she is going to
see, and to do, and to hear. Yet, Annie, I hev some important thoughts
in my mind now and I want thy help in coming to their settlement.”
“Antony Annis! I _am_ astonished at thee, I am that! When did thou ever
need or take advice about thy awn business? Thou hes sense for all that
can be put up against thy opinion, without asking advice from man or
woman--‘specially woman.”
“That may be so, Annie, perhaps it _is_ so, but thou art different.
Thou art like mysen and it’s only prudent and kind to talk changes over
together. For thou hes to share the good or the bad o’ them, so it is
only right thou should hev time to prepare for whatever they promise.
Sit thee down beside me. Now, then, this is what happened just as soon
as I hed gotten my money--and I can assure thee, that a thousand pounds
in a man’s pocket is a big set up--I felt all my six feet four inches
and a bit more, too--well, as I was going past the Green to hev a talk
wi’ Jonathan Hartley, I saw Mr. Foster come to his door and stand there.
As he was bare-headed, I knew he was waiting to speak to me. I hev liked
the man’s face and ways iver since he came to the village, and when he
offered his hand and asked me to come in I couldn’t resist the kindness
and goodness of it.”
“Thou went into the preacher’s house?”
“I surely did, and I am glad of it. I think a deal o’ good may come from
the visit.”
“Did thou see his daughter?”
“I did and I tell thee she is summat to see.”
“Then she is really beautiful?”
“Yes, and more than that. She was sitting sewing in a plain, small
parlor but she seemed to be sitting in a circle of wonderful peace.
All round her the air looked clearer than in the rest of the room and
something sweet and still and heavenly happy came into my soul. Then
she told me all about the misery in the cottages and said it had now got
beyond individual help and she was sure if thou knew it, and the curate
knew it, some proper general relief could be carried out. She had began,
she said, ‘with the chapel people,’ but even they were now beyond her
care; and she hoped thou would organize some society and guide all with
thy long and intimate knowledge of the people.”
“What did thou say to this?”
“I said I knew thou would do iverything that it was possible to do. And
I promised that thou would send her word when to come and talk the ways
and means over with thee and a few others.”
“That was right.”
“I knew it would be right wi’ thee.”
“Katherine says that our Dick is in love wi’ the preacher’s daughter.”
“I wouldn’t wonder, and if a man hedn’t already got the only perfect
woman in the world for his awn you could not blame him. No, you could
not blame him!”
“Thou must hev stayed awhile there for it is swinging close to five
o’clock.”
“Ay, but I wasn’t at the preacher’s long. I went from his house to
Jonathan Hartley’s, and I smoked a pipe with him, and we hed a long talk
on the situation of our weavers. Many o’ them are speaking of giving-in,
and going to Bradley’s factory, and I felt badly, and I said to
Jonathan, ‘I suppose thou is thinking of t’ same thing.’ And he looked
at me, Annie, and I was hot wi’ shame, and I was going to tell him so,
but he looked at me again, and said:
“‘Nay, nay, squire, thou didn’t mean them words, and we’ll say nothing
about them’; so we nodded to each other, and I wouldn’t be sure whether
or not we wer’ not both nearer tears than we’d show. Anyway, he went on
as if nothing had happened, telling me about the failing spirit of
the workers and saying a deal to excuse them. ‘Ezra Dixon’s eldest and
youngest child died yesterday and they are gathering a bit of money
among the chapel folk to bury them.’ Then I said: ‘Wait a minute,
Jonathan,’ and I took out of my purse a five pound note and made him go
with it to the mother and so put her heart at ease on that score. You
know our poor think a parish funeral a pitiful disgrace.”
“Well, Antony, if that was what kept thee, thou wert well kept. Faith
Foster is right. I ought to be told of such sorrow.”
“To be sure we both ought to know, but tha sees, Annie, my dearie, we
hev been so much better off than the rest of weaving villages that the
workers hev not suffered as long and as much as others. But what’s
the use of making excuses? I am going to a big meeting of weavers on
Saturday night. It is to be held in t’ Methodist Chapel.”
“Antony! Whatever art thou saying? What will the curate say? What will
all thy old friends say?”
“Annie, I hev got to a place where I don’t care a button what they say.
I hev some privileges, I hope, and taking my awn way is one o’ them. The
curate hes been asked to lend his sanction to the meeting, and the men
are betting as to whether he’ll do so or not. If I was a betting man I
would say ‘No’!”
“Why?”
“His bishop. The bishops to a man were against the Reform Bill. Only one
is said to have signed for it. That is not sure.”
“Then do you blame him?”
“Nay, I’m sorry for any man, that hesn’t the gumption to please his awn
conscience, and take his awn way. However, his career is in the bishop’s
hand, and he’s varry much in love with Lucy Landborde.”
“Lucy Landborde! That handsome girl! How can he fashion himself to make
up to Lucy?”
“She thinks he is dying of love for her, so she pities him. Women are a
soft lot!”
“It is mebbe a good thing for men that women are a soft lot. Go on with
thy story. It’s fair wonderful.”
“Mr. Foster will preside, and they’ll ask the curate to record
proceedings. St. George Norris and Squire Charington and the Vicar of
Harrowgate will be on the platform, I hear. The vicar is going to marry
Geraldine Norris next week to a captain in the Guards.”
“I declare, Antony, thou finds out iverything going on.”
“To be sure. That is part o’ my business as Lord of the Manor. Well tha
sees now, that it is going to be a big meeting, especially when they add
to it a Member of Parliament, a Magistrate, and a Yorkshire Squire.”
“Who art thou talking about now?”
“Mysen! Antony Annis! Member of Parliament, Squire of Annis and Deeping
Wold, and Magistrate of the same district.”
“Upon my word, I had forgotten I was such a big lady. And I am to go to
London with thee. I am as set up about that as a child would be. I think
I ought to go and tell Katherine.”
“Mebbe it would be the kind thing. Sharing a pleasure doubles it;” and
as the squire uttered the words, Katherine rather impetuously opened the
parlor door.
“O daddy!” she cried as she pulled a chair to his side. “What are you
talking about? I know it is about London; are you going to take me there
with you? Say yes. Say it surely.”
“Give me a kiss and I will take both thee and thy mother there with me.”
“How soon, daddy? How soon?”
“As soon as possible. We must look after the poor and the land and then
we can go with a good heart.”
“Let us talk it all over. Where are you going to stay?”
“Nay, my dear lass. I am talking to thy mother now and she is on a
different level to thee. Run away to thy room and make up thy mind about
thy new dress and the other little tricks thou wants.”
“Such as a necklace and a full set of amber combs for my hair.”
“Nay, nay! I hev no money for jewelry, while little childer and women
all round us are wanting bread. Thou wouldn’t suit it and it wouldn’t be
lucky to thee. Run away now, I’ll talk all thou wants to-morrow.”
“Verry well, dear daddy. Thy word is enough to build on. I can sit quiet
and arrange my London plans, for a promise from thee is as sure as the
thing itself.”
Then the squire laughed and took a letter out of his pocketbook. “It
is good for a thousand pounds, honey,” he said, “and that is a bit of
security for my promise, isn’t it?”
“Not a penny’s worth. Thy promise needs no security. It stands alone as
it ought to do.”
She rose as she spoke and the squire rose and opened the door for her
and then stood and watched her mount the darkening stairway. At the
first reach, she turned and bent her lovely face and form towards him.
The joyful anticipations in her heart transfigured her. She was radiant.
Her face shone and smiled; her white throat, and her white shoulders,
and her exquisite arms, and her firm quick feet seemed to have some new
sense given them. You would have said that her body thought and that her
very voice had a caress in it as she bridged the space between them with
a “Thank you, dear, dear daddy! You are the very kindest father in all
the world!”
“And thou art his pet and his darling!” With these words he went back to
his wife. “She is justtip-on-top,” he said. “There’s no girl I know like
her. She sits in the sunlight of my heart. Why, Annie, she ought to make
a better marriage than Jane, and Jane did middling well.”
“Would thou think Harry Bradley a good match?”
“I wouldn’t put him even in a passing thought with Katherine. Harry
Bradley, indeed! I am fairly astonished at thee naming the middle class
fellow!”
“Katherine thinks him all a man should be.”
“She will change her mind in London.”
“I doubt that.”
“Thou lets her hev opinions and ideas of her awn. Thou shouldn’t do it.
Jane will alter that. Jane will tell her how to rate men and women. Jane
is varry clever.”
“Jane is no match for Katherine. Dost thou think Antony Annis will be?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it.”
“Then don’t try conclusions with her about Harry Bradley, and happen
then thou may keep thy illusion. Katherine’s fault is a grave one,
though it often looks like a virtue.”
“I doan’t see what thou means. Faults are faults, and virtues are
virtues. I hev niver seen a fault of any kind in her, unless it be
wanting more guineas than I can spare her just now, but that is the
original sin o’ women as far as I can make out. Whativer is this fault
that can look like a virtue?”
“She overdoes everything. She says too little, or too much; she does too
little, or too much; she gives too little, or too much. In everything
she exceeds. If she likes anyone, she is unreasonable about them; if she
dislikes them, she is unjust.”
“I doan’t call that much of a fault--if thou knew anything about farming
thou would make little of it. Thou would know that it is the richest
land that hes the most weeds in its crop. The plow and the harrow will
clear it of weeds and the experience of life will teach Katherine to be
less generous with both her feelings and her opinions. Let her overdo,
it is a fault that will cure itself.”
“And in the meantime it makes her too positive and insisting. She
thinks she is right and she wants others to be right. She is even a bit
forceable----”
“And I can tell thee that women as well as men need some force of
character, if they mean to do anything with their lives. _Why-a!_ Force
is in daily life all that powder is to shot. If our weavers’ wives hed
more force in their characters, they wouldn’t watch their children dying
of hunger upon their knees and their hearths, they would make their
stubborn men go to any kind of a loom. They wouldn’t be bothering
themselves about any Bill in Parliament, they would be crying out for
bread for their children. We must see about the women and children
to-morrow or we shall not be ready for Faith Foster’s visit.”
“To be sure, but we need not think of it to-night. I’m heart weary,
Antony. Nobody can give sympathy long unless they turn kind words into
kind actions.”
“Then just call Katherine and order a bit of supper in. And I’d like a
tankard of home-brewed, and a slice or two of cold mutton. My word, but
the mutton bred in our rich meadows is worth eating! Such a fine color,
so tender and juicy and full of rich red gravy.”
“I think thou would be better without the tankard. Our ale is four years
old, and tha knows what it is at that age. It will give thee a rattling
headache. The cask on now is very strong.”
“To be sure it is. A man could look a lion in the face after a couple of
glasses of it.”
“I advise thee to take a glass of water, with thy mutton to-night.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll hev a glass of sherry wine, and thou can be my
butler. And tell Katherine not to talk about London to-night. I hevn’t
got my intentions ready. I’d be making promises it would not be right to
keep. Tha knows----!”
“Yes, I know.”
Katherine had not yet been promoted to a seat at the late supper table,
and only came to it when specially asked. So Madam found her ungowned,
and with loosened hair, in a dressing-sacque of blue flannel. She was
writing a letter to a school friend, but she understood her mother’s
visit and asked with a smile--
“Am I to come to supper, mother? Oh, I am so glad.”
“Then, dearie, do not speak of London, nor the poor children, nor the
selfish weavers.”
“Not selfish, mother. They believe they are fighting for their rights.
You know that.”
“I doan’t know it. I doan’t believe it. Their wives and children ought
to be more to them than their awn way which is what they really want.
Doan’t say a word about them.”
“I will not. I am going to tell father about the Arkroyds, who owned
Scar Top House so long.”
“Father will like to hear anything good about Colonel Arkroyd. He is the
last of a fine Yorkshire family. Who told thee anything about him?”
“Before I came to my room I went to give Polly some sugar I had in my
pocket for her, and I met Britton, who had just come from the stable.
He turned and went with me and he was full of the story and so I had to
listen to it.”
“Well, then, we will listen to it when thou comes down. Father is
hungry, so don’t keep him waiting, or he will be put out of his way.”
“I will be down in five minutes, and father is never cross with me.”
Indeed, when Madam went back to the parlor, a servant was bringing in
the cold mutton and Madam had the bottle of sherry in her hand. A few
minutes later Katherine had joined her parents, and they were sitting
cozily round a small table, set in the very warmth and light of the
hearthstone. Then Madam, fearing some unlucky word or allusion, said as
quickly as possible--
“Whatever was it thou heard about Colonel Ark-royd, Katherine?”
“Ay! Ay! Colonel Arkroyd! Who has anything to say about him?” asked the
squire. “One of the finest men alive to-day.”
“I heard a strange thing about his old house, an hour ago.”
“But he sold Scar Top House, and went to live in Kendal. A man from
Bradford bought it, eh?”
“Yes, a man with a factory and six hundred looms, they say. Father,
have you noticed how crowded our rookery is with the birds’ nests this
spring?”
“I doan’t know that I hev noticed the number of the nests, but nobody
can help hearing their noisy chattering all over Annis.”
“Do you remember the rookery at Scar Top?”
“Yes. I often hed a friendly threep with Ark-royd about it. He would
insist, that his rookery hed the largest congregation. I let him think
so--he’s twenty years older than I am--and I did hear that the Bradford
man had bought the place because of the rookery.”
“So he did. And now, father, every bird has left it. There was not one
nest built there this spring. Not one!”
“I never heard the like. Whoever told thee such a story?”
“The whole village knows it. One morning very early every rook in Scar
Top went away. They went altogether, just before daybreak. They went to
Saville Court and settled in a long row of elm trees in the home meadow.
They are building there now and the Bradford man----”
“Give him his name. It is John Denby. He was born in Annis--in my
manor--and he worked for the colonel, near twenty years.”
“Very well. John Denby and Colonel Arkroyd have quarreled about the
birds, and there is likely to be a law suit over them.”
“Upon my word! That will be a varry interesting quarrel. What could
make birds act in such a queer way? I niver knew them to do such a thing
before.”
“Well, father, rooks are very aristocratic birds. Denby could not get a
_caw_ out of the whole flock. They would not notice Denby, and they used
to talk to Arkroyd, whenever he came out of the house. Denby used to
work for Colonel Arkroyd, and the rooks knew it. They did not consider
him a gentleman, and they would not accept his hospitality.”
“That is going a bit too far, Katherine.”
“Oh, no! Old Britton told me so, and the Yorkshire bird does not live
who has not told Britton all about itself. He said further, that rooks
are very vain and particularly so about their feathers. He declared they
would go far out of their way in order to face the wind and so prevent
ruffling their feathers.”
“Rooks are at least a very human bird,” said Madam; “our rooks make
quite a distinction between thee and myself. I can easily notice it. The
male birds are in a flutter when thou walks through the rookery, they
moderate their satisfaction when I pay them a call and it is the female
birds who do the honors then.”
“That reminds me, mother, that Britton told me rooks intermarried
generation after generation, and that if a rook brought home a strange
bride, he was forced to build in a tree the community selected, at
some distance from the rookery. If he did not do this, his nest was
relentlessly torn down.”
“Well, my Joy, I am glad to learn so much from thee. How do the rooks
treat thee?”
“With but moderate notice, father, unless I am at Britton’s side. Then
they ‘caw’ respectfully, as I take my way through their colony. Britton
taught me to lift my hat now and then, as father does.” The squire
laughed, and was a bit confused. “Nay, nay!” he said. “Britton hes been
making up that story, though I vow, I would rayther take off my hat to
gentlemanly rooks than to some humans I know; I would that! There is one
thing I can tell thee about rooks, Britton seems to have forgot; they
can’t make a bit of sunshine for themselves. If t’ weather is rainy, no
bird in the world is more miserable. They sit with puffed out feathers
in uncontrollable melancholy, and they hevn’t a caw for anybody. Yet I
hev a great respect for rooks.”
“And I hev a great liking for rook pies,” said Madam. “There is not a
pie in all the records of cookery, to come near it. _Par excellence_ is
its name. I shall miss my rook pies, if we go away this summer.”
“But we shall have something better in their place, dear mother.”
“Who can tell? In the meantime, sleep will be the best thing for all.
To-morrow is a new day. Sleep will make us ready for it.”