Th' Barrel Organ by Edwin Waugh


Main
- books.jibble.org



My Books
- IRC Hacks

Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare

External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd

books.jibble.org

Previous Page | Next Page

Page 1

The wind was cold, and daylight was dying down. It was getting too
near dark to go by the moor tops, so I made off towards a cottage in the
next clough, where an old quarry-man lived, called "Jone o'Twilter's."
The pack-horse road led by the place. Once there, I knew that I could
spend a pleasant hour with the old folk, and, after that, be directed by
a short cut down to the great highway in the valley, from whence an
hour's walk would bring me near home. I found the place easily, for I
had been there in summer. It was a substantial stone-built cottage, or
little farm-house, with mullioned windows. A stone-seated porch,
white-washed inside, shaded the entrance; and there was a little barn
and a shippon, or cow-house attached. By the by, that word "shippon,"
must have been originally "sheep-pen." The house nestled deep in the
clough, upon a shelf of green land, near the moorland stream. On a rude
ornamental stone, above the threshold of the porch, the date of the
building was quaintly carved, "1696," with the initials, "J. S.," and
then, a little lower down, and partly between these, the letter "P.," as
if intended for "John and Sarah Pilkington." On the lower slope of the
hill, immediately in front of the house there was a kind of kitchen
garden, well stocked, and in very fair order. Above the garden, the wild
moorland rose steeply up, marked with wandering sheep tracts. From the
back of the house, a little flower garden sloped away to the edge of a
rocky back. The moorland stream rushed wildly along its narrow channel,
a few yards below; and, viewed from the garden wall, at the edge of the
bank, it was a weird bit of stream scenery. The water rushed and roared
here; there it played a thousand pranks; and there, again, it was full
of graceful eddies; gliding away at last over the smooth lip of a worn
rock, a few yards lower down. A kind of green gloom pervaded the watery
chasm, caused by the thick shade of trees overspreading from the
opposite bank. It was a spot that a painter might have chosen for "The
Kelpie's Home."

The cottage door was open; and I guessed by the silence inside that
old "Jone" had not reached home. His wife, Nanny, was a hale and
cheerful woman, with a fastidious love of cleanliness, and order, and
quietness, too, for she was more than seventy years of age. I found her
knitting, and slowly swaying her portly form to and fro in a shiny
old-fashioned chair, by the fireside. The carved oak clock-case in the
corner was as bright as a mirror; and the solemn, authoritative ticking
of the ancient time-marker was the loudest sound in the house. But the
softened roar of the stream outside filled all the place, steeping the
senses in a drowsy spell. At the end of a long table under the front
window, sat Nanny's granddaughter, a rosy, round-faced lass, about
twelve years old. She was turning over the pictures in a well-thumbed
copy of "Culpepper's Herbal." She smiled, and shut the book, but seemed
unable to speak; as if the poppied enchantment that wrapt the spot had
subdued her young spirit to a silence which she could not break. I do
not wonder that old superstitions linger in such nooks as that. Life
there is like bathing in dreams. But I saw that they had heard me
coming; and when I stopt in the doorway, the old woman broke the charm
by saying, "Nay sure! What; han yo getten thus far? Come in, pray yo."

"Well, Nanny," said I; "where's th' owd chap?"

"Eh," replied the old woman; "it's noan time for him yet. But I see,"
continued she, looking up at the clock, "it's gettin' further on than I
thought. He'll be here in abeawt three-quarters of an hour--that is, if
he doesn't co', an' I hope he'll not, to neet. I'll put th' kettle on.
Jenny, my lass, bring him a tot o' ale."

I sat down by the side of a small round table, with a thick plane-tree
top, scoured as white as a clean shirt; and Jenny brought me an
old-fashioned blue-and-white mug, full of homebrewed.

"Toast a bit o' hard brade," said Nanny, "an' put it into't."

I did so.

The old woman put the kettle on, and scaled the fire; and then,
settling herself in her chair again, she began to re-arrange her
knitting-needles. Seeing that I liked my sops, she said, "Reitch some
moor cake-brade. Jenny'll toast it for yo."

I thanked her, and reached down another piece; which Jenny held to the
fire on a fork. And then we were silent for a minute or so.

"I'll tell yo what," said Nanny, "some folk's o'th luck i'th world."

"What's up now, Nanny?" replied I.

"They say'n that Owd Bill, at Fo' Edge, has had a dowter wed, an' a
cow cauve't, an a mare foal't o' i' one day. Dun yo co' that nought?"

Previous Page | Next Page


Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Thu 28th Mar 2024, 13:02