Текст книги "The Classic Tales. Volume VI"

Автор книги: Beatrix Potter

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CHAPTER IX

By Wilfin Beck

All upon a day in the month of April, the circus company crept slowly through soft green meadows. It was early morning. Long shadows from the woods lay across the grass. Birds sang to greet the rising sun. Iky Shepster, the starling whistled, and fluttered his wings on the roof of the caravan.

Pony Billy bent to the collar. The dew splashed from his shaggy fetlocks as he lifted his feet amongst the wet grass. Paddy Pig toiled between the shafts of the tilt-cart, assisted by the panting Sandy, harnessed tandem. “We shall stick fast, Sandy! Let us go back to Pool Bridge.”  “Yap! yap! we will try the next ford higher up.”  “Get out of my way,”said Pony Billy, coming up behind them, steadily pulling the caravan.

They were trying to cross a stream that ran through the middle of the valley. In summer it was a little brook, but spring rains had filled it to the brim. The forget-me-nots waved to and fro, up to the waist in water; the primroses on the banks drew up their toes; the violets took a bath. Wilfin Beck [60] was in high flood.

Paddy Pig disliked water. The ford which they should have crossed, had proved to be a swirling stream, instead of a broad rippling shallow. He wished to turn back and go round by the bridge.

The proprietors of the circus refused. “If we cross the stream as far down as Pool Bridge, there will be two days’ toilsome march through the woods. We broke a spring of the caravan last time we went by the drift road; and the wagoners [57] have been snigging [46] timber since then,” objected Sandy. “Go on to the Ellers ford,” said Pony Billy. So Paddy Pig pulled, grunting, through the fast-asleep buttercups and daisies.

Xarifa and Tuppenny, in the cart, were fast asleep too. Jenny Ferret was awake inside the caravan. A pot had hit her on the head, when the wheel sank into a drain and caused the caravan to lurch.

When Tuppenny woke up and peeped out, the procession had halted, and unharnessed, beside the beck. Sandy was rolling on the grass. Paddy Pig was smoking a pipe and looking pig-headed, which means obstinate. “You will be drowned,” said he to Pony Billy. The pony was pawing the water with his forefeet, enjoying the splashes, and wading cautiously step by step further across. “Drowned? Poof!” yapped Sandy, taking a flying leap splash into the middle; he was carried down several yards by the current before he scrambled out on the further bank. Then he swam back. “It’s going down,” said Sandy, sniffing at a line of dead leaves and sticks which had been left stranded by the receding flood. Pony Billy nodded. “Let us pull round under the alder bushes and wait.”  “Then you will not go back by Pool Bridge?”  “What! all across those soft meadows again? No. We will lie in the sun behind this wall, and talk to the sheep while we rest.”

So they pitched their camp by the wall, where there is a watergate across the stream, and a drinking place for cattle. Pony Billy’s collar had rubbed his neck; Sandy was dog tired; Jenny Ferret was eager for firewood; everyone was content except Paddy Pig. He did his share of camp work; but he wandered away after dinner, and he was not to be found at tea time. “Let him alone, and he’ll come home,” said Sandy.

“Baa baa!” laughed some lambs, “let us alone and we’ll come home, and bring our tails behind us!” They frisked and kicked up their heels. Their mothers had come down to Wilfin Beck to drink. When their lambs went too near to Sandy, the ewes stamped their feet. They disapproved of strange dogs – even a very tired little dog, curled up asleep in the sun.

The sheep watched Jenny Ferret curiously. She was collecting sticks and piling them in little heaps to dry; short, shiny sticks that had been left by the water.

ELLER-TREE CAMP

Xarifa and Tuppenny were at their usual occupation, giving Tuppenny’s hair a good hard brushing. Xarifa was finding difficulty in keeping awake. The pleasant murmur of the water, the drowsiness of the other animals, the placid company of the gentle sheep, all combined to make her sleepy. Therefore, it fell to Tuppenny to converse with the sheep. They had lain down where the wall sheltered them from the wind. They chewed their cud. “Very fine wool,” said the eldest ewe, Tibbie Woolstockit, after contemplating the brushing silently for several minutes. “It’s coming out a little,” said Tuppenny, holding up some fluff. “Bring it over here, bird!” said Tibbie to the starling, who was flitting from sheep to sheep, and running up and down on their backs. “Wonderfully fine; it is finer than your Scotch wool, Maggie Dinmont,”said Tibbie Woolstockit to a black-faced ewe with curly horns, who lay beside her. “Aye, it’s varra fine. And its lang,” said Maggie Dinmont, approvingly. “It would make lovely yarn for mittens; do you keep the combings?” asked another ewe, named Habbitrot. “I have a little bag, there is only a little in it, yes please, I put it in a little bag,”twittered Tuppenny, much flattered by their approbation.

“Baa! baa! black sheep! Three bags full!” sang the lambs, kicking up their heels.

“Now, now! young lambs should be seen, not heard. Take care, you will fall in!” said Tibbie Woolstockit, severely. Three more ewes hurried up, and gave their lambs a good hard bat with their heads; but the lambs minded nothing.

The ewes, whose names were Ruth Twinter, Hannah Brighteyes, and Belle Lingcropper, stepped down to the water side to drink. Then they lay down by the others, and considered Tuppenny. “His hair is as fine as rabbit wool, and longer. Rabbit wool is sadly short to spin,” said Habbitrot. “Save all the combings in your little bag, in case you pass this way again.”  “You were not with the circus last time they camped by the Ellers?” said Tibbie Woolstockit. “What may your name be, little guinea-pig man?”  “Tuppenny.”  “Tuppenny? a very good name,” said the sheep.

At this moment a bunch of lambs galloped across the meadow with such a rush that they nearly overran the bank into the water. Their mothers were quite angry. “A perfect plague they are! But never-the-less we would be sad without the little dears! Now lie down and be quiet, or you will get into the same scrape as Daisy and Double!” But the lambs only raced away faster. Xarifa had been awakened by the disturbance. “Who were Daisy and Double? We love hearing stories, Tibbie Woolstockit; do tell us!”

Tibbie Woolstockit turned her mild bright eye on the little dormouse. “Willingly I will tell you. There is not much to tell. Every spring for four and twenty years we have told that story to our lambs; but they take little heed. Daisy and Double were the twin lambs of my great grandmother, Dinah Woolstockit of Brackenthwaite, who grazed in these pastures, even where we now are feeding. The coppice has been cut thrice since then; but still the green shoots grow again from the stools, and the bluebells ring in the wood. And Wilfin Beck sings over the pebbles, year in and year out, and swirls in spring flood after the melting snow. That April when Daisy and Double played in this meadow, Wilfin was full to overflowing, as high as it is now. Take care! you thoughtless lambs, take care!

“But little heed will you take; no more than Daisy and Double, who made of the flood a playmate. For it was carrying down sticks and brown leaves and snow-broth – as the trout-fishers call the cakes of white fairy foam that float upon the flood water in early spring. Daisy and Double saw the white foam; and they thought it was fun to race with the snow-broth; they on the meadowbank and the foam upon the water; until it rushed out of sight behind this wall. Then back they raced upstream till they met more snow-broth coming down; then turned and raced back with it. But they watched the water instead of their own footsteps – splash! in tumbled Daisy. And before he could stop himself – splash! in tumbled Double; and they were whirled away in the icy cold water of Wilfin Beck. ‘Baa! baa!’ cried Daisy and Double, bobbing along amongst the snow-broth. Very sadly they bleated for their mother; but she had not seen them fall in. She was feeding quietly, by herself. Presently she missed them; and she commenced to run up and down, bleating. They had been carried far away out of sight, beyond the wall; beyond another meadow. Then Wilfin Beck grew tired of racing; the water eddied round and round in a deep pool, and laid the lambs down gently on a shore of smooth sand. They staggered onto their feet and shook their curly coats – ‘I want my mammy! baa, baa!’ sobbed Daisy. ‘I’m very cold, I want my mammy,’ bleated Double. But bleat as they might, their mother Dinah Woolstockit could not hear them.

“The bank above their heads was steep and crumbly. Green fronds of oak-fern were uncurling; primroses and wood anemones grew amongst the moss, and yellow catkins swung on the hazels. When the lambs tried to scramble up the bank – they rolled back, in danger of falling into the water. They bleated piteously. After a time there was a rustling amongst the nut bushes; someone was watching them. This person came walking slowly along the top of the bank. It wore a woolly shawl, pulled forward over its ears, and it leaned upon a stick. It seemed to be looking straight in front of it as it walked along; at least its nose did; but its eyes took such a sharp squint sideways as it passed above the lambs. ‘Burrh! burrh!’ said this seeming woolly person with a deep-voiced bleat. ‘Baa! baa! We want our mammy!’ cried Daisy and Double down below. ‘My little dears come up! burrh! burrh! come up to me!’  ‘Go away!’ cried Daisy, backing to the water’s edge. ‘You are not our mammy! Go away!’ cried Double. ‘Oh, real mammy, come to us!’

“THE WOOLLY PERSON TRIED TO CLAW HOLD OF DAISY”

Then the woolly person reached out a skinny black arm from under the shawl, and tried to claw hold of Daisy with the handle of its stick. Its eyes were sharp and yellow, and its nose was shiny black. ‘Baa, baa!’ screamed Daisy, struggling, and rolling down the bank, away from the crook. ‘Burrh! burrh! bad lambs; I’ll have you yet!’

“But what was that noise? A welcome whistle and shout – ‘Hey, Jack, good dog! go seek them out, lad!’ The wily one threw off the shawl and ran, with a long bushy tail behind him; and a big strong wall-eyed collie came bounding through the coppice, on the track of the fox. When he came to the top of the bank, he stopped and looked over at Daisy and Double with friendly barks. Then John Shepherd arrived, and came slithering down the bank between the nut bushes. He lifted up Daisy and Double, and carried them to their mother. But it is in vain that we tell this tale to our lambs from generation to generation; they are thoughtless and giddy as of old. Well for us sheep that—

“‘There’s sturdy Kent and Collie true,

They will defend the tarrie woo’!’ [52]

“Sing us the spinning song that the shepherd lasses sang, when they sat in the sun before the shieling, while they cleaned the tarry fleeces; carding and spinning—

“‘Tarrie woo’, oh tarrie woo’ – tarrie woo’ is ill to spin,

Card it weel, oh card it weel! Card it weel ere you begin.

When it’s carded, rolled, and spun, then your work is but half done,

When it’s woven, dressed, and clean, it is clothing for a queen.

“It’s up you shepherds! dance and skip! O’er the hills and valley trip!

The king that royal sceptre sways, has no sweeter holy days.

Sing to the praise of tarrie woo’!

Sing to the sheep that bare it too!

“Who’d be king? None here can tell,

When a shepherd lives so well;

Lives so well and pays his due,

With an honest heart and tarrie woo’.’”

CHAPTER X

The Sheep

The sheep lay quietly, chewing their cud. Tuppenny fidgeted, “When will Paddy Pig come back?”  “I don’t know,” said Jenny Ferret crossly, “I’m only an old body. I’m wanting my tea.”  “Ring the bell, Jenny Ferret,”said Sandy. She clanged a little hand-bell up and down. The lambs sprang away, startled; the sheep lay unconcerned. The sheep talked to one another. “A bell? Sheep bells are sweeter! Ruth Twinter, do you remember the Down ram, telling us about the Cotswold flocks? How with each flock a two-three sheep go before, wearing bells? When they lift their heads from nibbling and step forward, the bells ring – ting ting ting – tong tong tong – tinkle tinkle tinkle! Why has Mistress Heelis never given us bells? She will do anything for us sheep?”  “I know not,” answered Ruth Twinter.

“I can tell you from the wisdom of age,” said the old Blue Ewe (sixteen years gone by since first she nibbled the clover); “I can tell you. It is because we Herdwicks range singly and free upon the mountain side. We are not like the silly Southron sheep, that flock after a bell-wether. The Cotswold sheep feed on smooth sloping pastures near their shepherd.”

Said the peet ewe, [34] Blindey, “Our northern winds would blow away the sheep bells’ feeble tinkle. From the low grounds to us comes a sound that carries further – Old John calling with a voice like a bell; calling his sheep to hay across the frozen snow in winter.”

Up spoke a dark Lonscale ewe – “Each to their own! The green fields of the south for them; the high fell tops for us who use to wander, and find our way alone, through mist and trackless waste. We need no human guide to set us on our way.”

“No guide, nor star, nor compass, to set us a bee-line to Eskdale!” said the bright-eyed Allonby ewe (her that had knocked her teeth out when she tumbled down Scaw fell). “Two of you Lonscales were runaways, in spite of old John’s hay.”  “Who can langle [26] the clouds or the wind? If we want to come back – we will!”

“Where was it that they drove you, Hannah Brighteyes?” asked the little ewe, Isabel. “Nay! I did not stay to learn its place name; I came straight back to my heaf [16] on the fell! It was eight miles to Cockermouth market, and twelve beyond.”  “What short-wooled sheep could do that?”said Habbitrot, “it takes strong hemp to langle us.”  “We want no bells and collars,” said Blindey, “they would get caught on rocks and snags.”  “A sad death it must be to die fast,” said Hill Top Queenie, plaintively; “I would not like to be fast, like poor little Hoggie in the wood. He had eaten sticks and moss as far as he could reach; but he had not sense to bite through the cruel bramble that held him, twisted round his woolly ribs.”

“Grown sheep can get crag-fast,” said Belle Lingcropper, “I was fast in Falcon Crag. I knew each yard of slippery screes; and the chimneys, [08] or rifts, that lead up to the high ledges. A summer drought had parched the herb [17]; only where water oozed from the rock face, it was green. I went up and up, a hundred feet, always feeding upwards. Down below, the tree tops quivered in the heat; and a raven circled slowly. Dizziness is unknown to Herdwick sheep; I fed along a narrow ledge.

“A rock gave way beneath my feet. It clattered down into the abyss. I sprang across the gap, and went on feeding. The grass was longer; it seemed as though no sheep had bitten it. Nor had we! Our turning spot had been upon the stone that fell. I could not turn.

“I lived thirty days upon the ledge; eating the grass to the bone; parched by the sun and wind. Only a welcome thunder shower brought moisture that I licked on the stones. I bleated. No one heard me, except the raven. In the fourth week a shepherd and his dog saw me from below. He shouted; I rose to my feet. He watched me for a time; then he went away, and left me. Next day he came again and shouted. I staggered along the ledge. Again he left me; fearing that I might leap away from him to death, if he approached too near. On the last day, three shepherds came and watched. I was too weak to rise; I dozed upon the ledge. They climbed round the hillside; and they came sideways above the crag. I could hear their voices faintly, talking overhead. One came down on a rope; he swung inward onto the ledge, and tied another rope to me – a woolly fleece and rattling bones! They drew me up. Still I can feel the hot breeze, and smell the wild sage, as they slung me past the face of the rock. I was carried to the farm, and given warm milk. Within a week I was well.”

“A brave shepherd, truly: one who would go through fire and water and air to save his sheep.”

“Our shepherds face rough times,” said White Fanny, “dost remember hearing tell of the lad who parted from his fellow shepherd when the early winter sunset was going down over the snow? The other one came home at tea time; but he did not come. His folks turned out to seek for him; some went along the tops; others searched below the crags. There they saw marks of a rush; [41] and his collie Bess watching by a snowdrift. Just in time; just and so!”  “Our men take risks with their eyes open: they know that they cannot live underneath snow like us.”

Then Ruth Twinter spoke up cleverly: “I and three sisters were buried twenty-three days beside the Dale Head wall.”  “Nought to brag on!” said the Lonscale ewe scornfully; “could you not feel it coming? or were the gates shut?”

“Nay, they stood open. The wind went round suddenly, after a plash [37] of rain. A fall came out of the east. Then it turned to frost.”  “I doubt you were a twinter [54], or a two-shear [55] at most!” said the Blue Ewe; “the low east brings the heaviest falls.”

“Indeed, and indeed we were hurrying,” said Ruth Twinter; “we came down the fell, strung out in single file. I mind me we met a fox at Blue Ghyll, going up. Then we met a blizzard that blew us into the wall. A blinding yellow storm of dithering powdery flakes. Belle Lingcropper’s mother went over a bank into the beck; she was dashed against the stones and drowned. The rest of us cowered by the wall. We were quickly snowed over. It drifted level with the cams. [06] We stirred ourselves under the drift, like the mowdie-warps [32] and field voles. Our breath melted the snow somewhat; it caked over our heads, a blue green frozen vault. We ate all the bent-grass that we could reach; all the grey moss on the wall. The dogs found us at last: dogs scratching, and shepherds prodding the drift with the long handles of their crooks.”

“You would feel it colder when you came out?”  “Yes,” said Ruth Twinter,“it was warm and stuffy under the snow. Although we came out into spring sunshine, the air outside felt colder than it did inside the great white drift that lay on the grass along the Dale Head wall. We came out quite lish [27] and cheerful. Two of us never heard the cuckoo again. Such things will happen,” said Ruth Twinter placidly, turning on her shoulder and chewing her cud. Said old Blindey, “It is a sign of snow, when the sheep come down to the gates. Sing us the rhyme, Hannah Brighteyes:

“Oh who will come open this great heavy gate?

The hill-fox yapps loud, and the moon rises late!

There’s snow on the fell, and there’s hay at the farm—

“Not that us elder ewes reckon much of hay; not unless we had learned to eat it while we were hoggie-lambies.” [19]

“You had cause to be grateful to the sheep-dogs, Ruth Twinter,” said Sandy. “Yes, the dogs are our good friends. Sometimes over rough; but faithful.”

“They get crag-fast too,” said Sandy. “They do. But they make such a fine haloobaloo! that they are more quickly found. There was one that made a bit of noise too loud. That happened in a blizzard. Poor dog, its position was so bad that it could neither get down nor up; and it could not be rescued with ropes. Its master tried in vain to get it out. It cried on the shelf for several days, in sleet and biting wind; cried so pitifully that the master said he would shoot it with his own hand, before he would watch it die of cold. He went home for his gun. When he was returning with the gun – he met Collie Allen in the road!”

“All dogs are not so lucky. Our Brill’s mother got cragged [11] and killed in Langdale.”  “It is always the foremost best hound that goes over with the fox,” said Sandy; “has Brill come back to the farm?”  “Yes,” said the sheep, “the hunting season is over; the pack is disbanded; the hounds and terriers have gone back to the farms for the summer.” [22]  “If all the terriers are as cross as Twig – they can stay away!” said Sandy, shaking his ears. “Our collie Nip can tackle a fox; she has led the hounds before now, for the first short burst up the quarry pastures. She can run, can old Nip!”

“Foxes are hateful,” said Tibbie Woolstockit, stamping; “come here, you lambs, come here! You are straying too far off.”

“THE VIXEN WAS CURLED UP ASLEEP.”

“Do you remember, Ruth Twinter, when you and I were feeding above Woundale; we looked over the edge into Broad How? Far down below us we could see three little fox cubs, playing in the sun. Sometimes one would grab another’s tail, like a kitten; then one would sit up and scratch its ear—” (‘Full of fleas,’ remarked Sandy) – “then another would roll over on its back, like a fat little puppy dog. The vixen was curled up asleep on top of a big boulder stone. Presently one of our shepherds appeared, a long way off, walking along the other side of the valley. The vixen slipped quietly off the rock; stole away over Thresthwaite Mouth into Hartsop, a mile away from the cubs. She seemed to give no sound nor signal; but the little foxes vanished into the borran [02].”  “Very pretty. Charming! I wonder how many lambs’ tails and legs there were in the larder?” said Hannah Brighteyes, sourly; “they took over thirty, one spring: big lambs, too: old enough to be tailed and marked. [51] They had skinned a lamb with Mistress Heelis’ mark on its jacket. And there was part of one of Jimmy’s ducks.”

“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 [43] 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. [24] 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 [49] told our puzzled early numbers [12]; untamed as when the Norsemen named our grassings [15] in their stride. Our little feet had ridged [38] 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. [18]