‘The vixen was curled up asleep.’
‘I love the high places,’ said Belle Lingcropper; ‘I remember, when I was a lamb, I and my brother twin were feeding on Pavey Ark with our mother. We were feeding part way up.
‘Two climbing men came up, behind us and below. I do not think they knew that they were driving us before them. We climbed and climbed in the chimney that had scarcely foothold for a goat. We reached a shelf some four feet from the top. Our mother jumped out nimbly. My brother followed her with difficulty. Time and again I jumped; only to fall back upon that ledge above the precipice. Our mother bleated overhead. She moved to a spot where the wall of rock was lower. I followed sideways along the ledge; looking up at her and bleating. At the third trial I jumped out. There was sweet grazing on the top.’
Cool is the air above the craggy summit. Clear is the water of the mountain keld. Green grows the grass in droughty days beneath the brackens! What though the hailstorm sweep the fell in winter – through tempest, frost, or heat – we live our patient day’s allotted span.
Wild and free as when the stone-men told our puzzled early numbers; untamed as when the Norsemen named our grassings in their stride. Our little feet had ridged the slopes before the passing Romans. On through the fleeting centuries, when fresh blood came from Iceland, Spain, or Scotland – stubborn, unchanged, UNBEATEN – we have held the stony waste.
Dunmail; Faulds; Blue Joe; Wastwater Will and Thistle; Rawlins; Sworla; Wonder – old Pride of Helvellyn – pass the tough lineage forward; keep the tarrie woo’ unsoftened! Hold the proud ancient heritage of our Herdwick sheep.
Chapter 11
Habbitrot
‘Now one more tale before the sun goes down. Come Habbitrot tell us of the spinner, her that you are named after.’ Habbitrot, the sheep, drew her feet beneath her comfortably, and thus commenced:
‘Long, long ago, long before the acorn ripened that has grown into yonder oak – there lived a bonny lass at the farm in the dale, and a yeoman from Brigsteer came to court her.
‘Her parents were willing for the match, and Bonny Annot liked the yeoman well; a brave, handsome fellow and a merry. He had sheep on the fell, kine in the byre, a horse in the stall, a dry flag-roofed house, and many a broad acre. For dower her father would give her a cow and stirk, a score of sheep, and ten silver merks.
‘Her mother would give her her blessing; but not without shame and a scolding. Now this was the trouble – two elder daughters when they married had had great store of blankets and sheets. For it was a good old custom in the dale that all menseful lasses should spin flax and wool, and have the yarn woven by the webster, so that they had ready against their bridewain a big oak bedding chest well filled with linen and blankets.
‘But this youngest daughter, Bonny Annot, was both the laziest and the bonniest; not one pound of wool had she carded, not one hank of tow had she spun! “Shut thee in the wool loft with thy spindle; go spin, idle Annot, go spin!”
‘Bonny Annot spun from morning till noon, from noon till the shadows grew long. But it was late a-day to commence to spin. “My back is tired, my fingers are stiff, my ears they drum with the hum of the wheel. Oh well and away to Pringle Wood, to meet my love,” in the gloaming. She left her wheel, she lifted the latch, she stole away while the cows were milking.
‘In Pringle Wood across the beck the hazels grew as still they grow, and wind flowers and violets and primroses twinkled. Bonny Annot wandered through the wood, she knelt on the moss to gather a posey; and herself was the sweetest of flowers that grow. Blue were her eyes like the wood violet’s blue, fair were her locks like the mary-bud’s gold, and her red-and-white dimples like roses on snow! She bent to the flowers and she heard a low humming. Was it horse’s hoofs on the fell road from Brigsteer? Trot, trot, habbitrot, trot, trot, trot, trot, trot! She lifted her head and she listened; but no. She knelt on the moss and again she heard humming; was it bumbly bees storing their honey below? She peeped between stones and mossy hazel stumps, beneath a hollow stone, beneath a mossy stump – and there underground she saw a wee wee woman spinning – hum, hum! went her wheel; spinning, spinning, spinning.
‘ “Hey, Bonny Annot!” said the little gray woman, “why art thou so pale and heavy-eyed?”
‘ “With spinning, good woman, with spinning!”
‘ “Spinning is for winter nights, Bonny Annot; why spinnest thou now, in the pleasant spring?” “Because I was idle, I now must spin in haste. Alack! my sheets and blankets are to spin.” She told her tale and cried.
‘ “Dry your eyes and listen, Bonny Annot,” said the little gray woman, “eyes so blue and tender were never meant for tears. Lazy thou mayest be, but I know thee kind and true. Step up to the wool-loft in the moonlight; tie the bags of tow and wool upon the pony; bring them to old Habbitrot, and she will do thy spinning!” Even while Annot thanked her there came the clink of horseshoes along the stony road from Brigsteer; Bonny Annot forgot her troubles and sprang to meet the yeoman.
‘But when he rode away next morning her troubles recommenced – her mother, with a hazel-rod, drove her up the steps to the loft, “It wants but three weeks to thy wedding – go spin, idle daughter, go spin!” Many were the fleeces and the bags of wool and flax. So many that when she took away a load upon her pony – the wool was never missed; not although she made four journeys to and fro from Pringle Wood. “Bring more, bring more to old Habbitrot! Thou shalt have wealth of sheets and blankets!” Down below under the hollow stone there was the noise of spinning; hum, hum, trot, trot, trot! habbitrot, trot, trot!
‘Little way made Bonny Annot with her own spinning in the wool-loft; yet she sang while she turned the wheel. What though the thread broke and the flax was lumpy, still she sang and laughed while she spun. In the evening she stole away once more to Pringle Wood, riding barebacked on her pony – “Lead him to the Colludie Stone! Up with the bags and bundles! Wealth for thy wedding, Bonny Annot; she that spoke kindly to old Habbitrot shall never want for blankets.”
‘Bonny Annot’s mother expected but little in the morning. She climbed up to the wool-loft with the broomstick in her hand – “Say hast thou spun e’er a pound of wool, or a hank of tow, lazy daughter?”
‘Wonders will never cease! which of her sisters had ever had such yarn for the weaver? Worsted so strong and even; or thread so fine and fair? Her fame as a spinner was spread beyond the dale; it came to the ears of the yeoman. He, too, had great store of white wool and flax. Said her mother, “See what a housewife thou art marrying! Surely she will fill thy linen-press and deck thy cupboard!” But Bonny Annot hung her head and pouted her lip; thought she – “He will keep me at spinning forever.”
‘The wedding day came. They were a handsome pair. The sun shone; the bells were rung; all the folk in the dale came to the kirk to see them married. And the wedding feast at the farm was thronged and merry. The trenchers were piled with meat; there were cakes and pies and pasties; the jugs of ale went round, and Bonny Annot kissed the cup.
‘Someone knocked at the house-door. The bride sprang to open it. At her feet upon the threshold stood a little ugly woman, a little gray old woman, with a kindly crooked smile.
‘ “Good dame, come in! Welcome to my wedding feast!” Bonny Annot led her to the table, set chair and footstool and cushion, filled trencher and cup. The weddingers looked askance at the unbidden guest; they pointed and they whispered. But still the bonny bride served her, filling trencher and cup. The old woman munched, and munched, and munched. Now the bride’s youngest brother was a merry knave, “Hey, little woman!” said he, “why hast thou such an ugly ugly mouth, wide and awry with a long flabby lip?” “Whisht, whisht, Henry!” said Bonny Annot, pulling him. The little woman smiled awry – “With spinning, my lad, with spinning.” She wet her finger on her ugly flabby lip, and made as if she twisted thread; her thumb was broad and flat.
‘ “Oh ho!” said the yeoman, “is that what comes of spinning?” He kissed Bonny Annot’s che
rry lips and tapered fingers, “Oh ho! so that comes of spinning?”
‘The old woman munched and munched and munched. “Hey, little woman,” said Henry, “why is thy back so bent, thine eyes so bleared, and thy foot so flat?” “With spinning, my lad, with spinning!” She beat her broad foot up and down upon the flags as though she trod the treadle – trot, trot, Habbitrot, trot, trot, trot trot trot! “So ho!” said the yeoman, who was very fond of dancing, “so ho, Habbitrot! if that comes of spinning – my wife’s foot shall never treadle. No, no, Habbitrot! When we have wool and flax to spin, my wife shall dance and sing. We will send for Habbitrot! Habbitrot shall do our spinning; we will send for Habbitrot.” ’
‘That story,’ said Pony Billy, ‘has no moral.’ ‘But it is very pretty,’ said Xarifa, the dormouse, suddenly wakening up.
Chapter 12
Across the Ford
A chill breath rose from the water. The daisies closed their petals. ‘We will say good-night,’ said the sheep, ‘it is too cold for our lambs to sleep beside the stream. Good-night, little dormouse! All friends, good-night!’ The sheep stately and peaceful, moved up the pasture, feeding as they went; their lambs gambolled beside them. The last beams of the setting sun shone again upon the flock, when they reached the heights. Xarifa drew her fur cloak closer. Tuppenny warmed his hands at the fire; ‘I wish Paddy Pig would come back. Do you think he has fallen in, like the lambs?’ ‘Not he! he is too much afraid of water.’ Tuppenny still looked across anxiously at the wood; ‘I did think I heard a pig squeal, while Habbitrot was telling us that nice tale. Would anything bite him, in Pringle Wood?’ Sandy sat up; ‘Why did you not say so before? No, nothing would bite him.’ ‘I should not choose to spend a night in Pringle Wood myself,’ remarked Jenny Ferret. ‘Why?’ inquired Tuppenny, ‘why don’t you like Pringle Wood? It was a kind fairy that helped Bonny Annot in the story. Does she live there yet?’ ‘Tuppenny,’ said Pony William, ‘do you not remember that I observed that the tale recounted by Habbitrot had no moral?’ ‘But it was very pretty,’ said Xarifa, who had been to sleep again.
Supper was eaten; Tuppenny and Xarifa were put to bed; Pony Billy lay down behind the wall; Sandy went to sleep in his straw underneath the caravan – but neither at supper, at bed-time, nor at breakfast-time was there any sign of Paddy Pig.
‘It is useless to wait any longer,’ said Pony Billy next morning; ‘the flood has gone down eight inches; we can cross the ford. If Tuppenny really heard Paddy Pig squealing in Pringle Wood, we are more likely to find him on the other side of the stream.’ ‘It is a mystery how he got over dry shod; and he hates getting wet,’ said Jenny Ferret. ‘The wood itself is a mystery,’ said Pony Billy, ‘we had better get through it by daylight. Xarifa, you know the reputation of Pringle Wood. Be very careful that Tuppenny does not eat anything in there.’ ‘Why, Xarifa?’ asked Tuppenny. ‘It is undesirable to taste anything that grows in the wood.’ ‘Is it fairies?’ ‘Hush,’ said Xarifa, ‘we are going to cross.’ ‘Swim over with the rope, Sandy, and steady us.’ Pony Billy took the caravan safely through the water, which was up to the axle trees. Then he unharnessed himself, and came back to fetch the tilt-cart. As there was no Paddy Pig to drag the cart, it had to be left behind for the present time, under an eller tree beside the stream on the outskirts of the wood. Tuppenny and Xarifa and the luggage were packed into the caravan to ride with Jenny Ferret.
‘I should not choose to spend a night in Pringle Wood myself.’
It took them four long hours to go through Pringle Wood. Round and round and round they went, by narrow mossy tracks; always going roundabout, always pulling steadily.
And yet the wood was no great size; just a little fairy hill of oaks. The ground beneath the trees was covered with bluebells – blue as the sea – blue as a bit of sky come down. So steep downhill were the mossy banks that Sandy had to put the slipper brake under the wheel to prevent the caravan from running away on top of Pony Billy, who was nearly flung upon his nose. Then it was uphill, and Pony Billy toiled and tugged; foam flecked his bit and shoulders; his brown leather harness creaked; he was so hot with pulling that he was all in a lather. And no sooner had he gained the top of a bank than it was downhill again; just as steep, and the caravan was overrunning him, and pressing into the breeching straps.
Pony Billy snorted. His hoofs slipped on the moss; and if he left the track the bluebells were so thick that it was difficult to trample through them. They passed a bed of white anemone flowers – ‘Why, surely,’ said Sandy, ‘we have passed this spot already, twice?’
Pony Billy snorted again, and scrambled forward. A shower of oak-apples from the trees above pelted about his ears, and rattled on the roof of the caravan. They hopped on the moss like live things; they bounced like a shower of pelting hailstones. ‘Look, Xarifa! what beauties!’ cried Tuppenny, trying to catch them, ‘red oak-apples in April; have they been stored all winter in a wood mousey’s cupboard?’ ‘Throw them away, Tuppenny!’ exclaimed Xarifa and Jenny Ferret, ‘throw them away over your left shoulder!’ More and more oak-apples came pattering and pelting; Tuppenny played ball with them, catching them and tossing them back. ‘This one has been bitten, Xarifa; are they good to eat?’ ‘What is that I hear?’ said Pony Billy, laying his ears back, ‘none of you on any account may eat anything that grows in Pringle Wood.’ Instantly another pelting shower of oak-apples came rattling like a hailstorm about Pony Bill’s mane and back. He broke into a gallop, trampling through the bluebells; and this time he succeeded in dragging the caravan clear away out of Pringle Wood.
The sunshiny open meadow was refreshing after the sombre shade of the trees. Cattle and sheep were feeding peacefully; lambs frisked; swallows skimmed low over the buttercups that powdered Pony Billy’s hoofs with dusty gold. He drew the caravan across the cheerful green grass – he took it through a white gate into a lane, which they followed down to Codlin Croft Farm.
It was a pleasant sunny spot, where the circus had camped before. ‘Only it is rather too near the world of the Big Folk, and their cats and dogs and hens and cocks – especially cocks,’ said Sandy, stiffening his tail.
‘There is no help for it,’ said Pony Billy, ‘we cannot proceed further, and leave Paddy Pig behind us, lost. Besides I must go back for the tilt-cart.’ Tuppenny twittered dolefully, ‘You will be lost, too, Mr. Pony William!’ ‘I shall not,’ said Pony Billy, ‘I am not a pig-headed fool of a pig!’ ‘Now Xarifa and Tuppenny,’ said Sandy, ‘come along! I am sorry to say you will have to be shut up all the time while we stop at Codlin Croft. It will not be safe to let you out, with all these strange dogs and cats – here they come! Cows, calves, dogs, cats, poultry – all the farm animals!’
Chapter 13
Codlin Croft Orchard
The homestead of Codlin Croft was dominated by Charles, our cock, a silver campine with handsome white neck hackles, finely barred and spotted breast, and a magnificent tail. He also had a big red comb; and spurs. Besides Charles there was a turkey cock of large size; and a sow still larger; and a cat and three farm dogs. Charles treated them all alike with contempt. When the caravan arrived in the lane, Charles and the turkey were having one of their usual combats. Charles was dancing round and churtling – cluck cur-cuck-cuck-cuck! jumping and spurring at Bubbly-jock’s painfully red wattles and tassels. The turkey was bursting with rage; he scrunched the tips of his wings along the gravel (which spoilt nothing but his own feathers). Whenever he got a chance he trod heavily upon the spot where Charles had recently stood. Charles, in the meantime, had darted between the turkey’s legs. When Charles became short of breath, he slipped nimbly through the narrow bars of an iron gate, and pretended to be picking up titbits, in full view of the maddened turkey cock, who was unable to follow him. Then he scratched up dirt, and crowed. Charles and Sandy never hit it off very well; they both had a habit of scratching up the earth, and they mutually irritated one another. But all the same, Charles graciously did the honours of Codlin Croft, and invite
d the company into the orchard through a broken gate.
The orchard which gives Codlin Croft Farm its name is a long rambling strip of ground, with old bent pear trees and apple trees that bear ripe little summer pears in August and sweet codlin apples in September. At the end nearest to the buildings there are clothes-props, hen-coops, tubs, troughs, old oddments; and pigsties that adjoin the calf hulls and cow byres. The back windows of the farmhouse look out nearly level with the orchard grass; little back windows of diamond panes not made to open. The far end of the orchard is a neglected pretty wilderness, with mossy old trees, elder bushes, and long grass; handy for a pet lamb or two in spring, and for the calves in summer.
At this time of year, a north country April, the pear blossom was out and the early apple blossom was budding. The snowdrops that had been a sheet of white – white as the linen sheets bleaching on the drying green – had passed; and now there were daffodils in hundreds. Not the big bunchy tame ones that we call ‘Butter-and-eggs,’ but the little wild daffodillies that dance in the wind. Through the broken gate at top of Codlin Croft orchard came Pony Billy with the caravan. He drew it up comfortably in shelter of Farmer Hodgson’s hay-stack, which stood, four-square and prosperous, half in the orchard and half in the field. ‘Only, Jenny Ferret, if I put the caravan here you must promise not to light a fire. We must not burn Farmer Hodgson’s hay for him.’ ‘And how will I boil the kettle without a fire? Take us further down the orchard near the well, behind the bour-tree bushes.’ ‘All right,’ agreed Pony Billy, pulling into the collar again; ‘perhaps it would be safer. I can come up to the stack by myself for a bite.’
The Fairy Caravan Page 5