More Tales of the Ridings Part 4

too. I rubbed my een to finnd out if I'd made ony mistak, but, sure enough, theer were t' lile nakt la.s.s an' t' owd sun aboon t' breast o'

t' fell dancin' togither like mad. Then, all on a sudden, I bethowt me it were Easter Sunday, and how I'd heerd fowks say that t' sun allus dances on Easter mornin'."

At this point I could not forbear interrupting Grannie to ask her whether she had ever heard of a poem called _A Ballad upon a Wedding_.

She said she had not, so I quoted to her Suckling's well-known lines:

Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they feared the light.

But O! she dances such a way, No sun upon an Easter day Is half so fine a sight.

Grannie listened attentively and seemed to think that the heroine of the poem was the fairy that wakened the birds in Janet's Cove.

"T' lad that wrote yon verses has gotten it wrang," she said. "Shoo hadn't no petticoat on her. T' la.s.s were nakt frae top to toe. Well, when shoo'd bin dancin' a while shoo seemed to forget all about t'

birds. Shoo let her wand drop and climmed down t' fall. Then shoo set hersel on a rock behind t' fall an' clapped her hands an' laughed. I looked at her an' I saw t' bonniest seet I've iver set een on.

"You see by now t' sun had getten high up i' t' sky, an' were shinin'

straight up t' beck on to t' fall. There had bin a bit o' flood t' day afore, an' t' watter were throwin' up spray wheer it fell on to t' rocks below t' fall. An' theer, plain as life, were a rainbow stretched across t' fall, an' Janet sittin' on t' rock reet i' t' middle o' t' bow wi'

all t' colours o' t' bowgreen an' yallow an' blue--shinin' on her hair.

"Efter that I fair lost count o' t' time. I sat theer, lapped i' my shawl, an' glowered at Janet, an' t' sun, an' t' watterfall, while at lang length I heerd s...o...b..dy callin' me. 'Twere my father, an' then I knew that fowks had missed me up at t' farm an' were seekin' me amang t'

crofts. Wi' that I gat up an' ran same as if I'd bin a rabbit; an' theer were my father, stood on t' brig betwixt our house an' t' cove, shoutin'

'Martha!' as loud as iver he could."

"Did he give thee a hazelin' for bidin' out so late?" asked Kester, with a wealth of personal experience to draw upon.

Grannie was somewhat taken aback by the pertinent question, but she was too clever to give herself away. "What's that thou says about a hazelin', Kester? Look at t' clock. It's time thou was gettin' alang home, or mebbe there will be a hazelin' for thee."

The Potato and the Pig

A Fable for Allotment-Holders

Abe Ingham was a Horsforth allotment-holder. He talked allotments all day and dreamed of them all night. Before the war cricket had been his hobby, and he was a familiar figure at County and Council matches for twelve miles round. Now he never mentioned the game; he had exchanged old G.o.ds for new, and his homage was no longer paid to George Hirst or Wilfred Rhodes, but to Arran Chief, Yorkshire Hero, and Ailsa Craig. He took his gardening very seriously, and called it "feightin' t' Germans."

If you asked him when the war would be won he pleaded ignorance; but if you asked him where it would be won, his answer invariably was: "On t'

tatie-patches at Horsforth." He still nursed his grievances, for pet grievances are not yet included in the tax on luxuries, but these were no longer suffragettes and lawyers, but slugs, "mawks," and "mowdiewarps." In a word, Ingham was one of the many Englishmen whom four years of war conditions have re-created. He was slimmer and more agile than in 1914, and of the "owd Abe" of pre-war times all that remained was his love of tall stories. I was privileged to listen to one of the tallest of these one evening, after he had paid a visit of inspection to my garden and was smoking a pipe with me under my lime-tree.

"Fowks tell queer tales 'bout 'lotments," he began, "but I reckon they're n.o.bbut blether anent t' tale that I could tell o' what happened me last yeer."

"What was that, Abe?" I asked. "Did you find a magpie's nest in your Jerusalem artichokes or half-crowns in the hearts of your pickling cabbages?"

"None o' your fleerin'," he replied. "What I'm tellin' you is t' truth, or if it isn't' truth it's a parable, and I reckon a parable's Bible truth. It were gettin' on towards back-end, and I'd bin diggin' potatoes while I were in a fair sweat wi' t' heat. So I reckoned I'd just sit down for a bit on t' bench I'd made an' rest misen. Efter a while I gat agate once more, an' I'd ommost finished my row of potates when my fork gat howd o' summat big. At first I thowt it were happen a gert stone that I'd left i' t' grund, but it were nowt o' sort. 'Twere a potate, sure enough, but I'd niver set eyes on owt like it afore, nor thee either. 'Twere bigger nor my heead; nay, 'twere bigger nor a fooit-ball."

"Somebody wanted to have a bit of fun with you, Abe," I interrupted, "and had buried a vegetable-marrow in your potato-patch."

"Nay, it were a potate reight enough, an' I were fair capped when I'd getten howd on it wi' my two hands. 'I'll show this to Sam Holroyd,' I said to misen. He were chuff, were Sam, 'cause he'd getten six pund o'

potates off o' one root; I reckoned I'd getten six pund off o' one potate. Well, I were glowerin' at t' potate when a lad com up that I'd niver seen afore. He were a young lad by his size, but he'd an owdish look i' his face, an' he says to me: 'What's yon?'

"Thou may well axe that,' I answered. 'It's a potate.'

"'What arta boun to do wi' it?' he axed.

"'Nay,' I said, 'I reckon I'll take it to t' Flower Show an' get first prize.'

"'Thou mun do nowt o' t' sort,' said t' lad; 'thou mun bury it.'

"'Bury it! What for sud I bury it, I'd like to know?'

"'Thou mon bury it i' t' grund an' see what it grows intul.'

"Well, I reckoned there might be some sense in what t' lad said, for if I could raise a seck o' seed potates like yon I'd sooin' mak my fortune.

But then I bethowt me o' t' time o' t' yeer, and I said:

"'But wheer's t' sense o' settin' a potate at t' back-end?'

"'Thou'll not have to wait so lang to see what cooms on 't,' he replied, and then he turned on his heel an' left me standin' theer.

"Well, I reckoned it were a fooil's trick, but all t' same I put t'

potate back into t' grund, an' went home. That neet it started rainin'

an' it kept at it off an' on for well-nigh a week, an' I couldn't get down to my 'lotment nohow. But all t' time I couldn't tak my mind off o'

t' lad that had made me bury my potate. He'd green eyes, an' I could niver get shut o' them eyes choose what I were doin'. Well, after a while it faired up, and I set off for my garden. When I gat nigh I were fair capped. I'd set t' potate at t' top-side o' t' 'lotment, and theer, just wheer I'd set it, were a pig-sty, wi' a pig inside it fit to kill.

I were that fl.u.s.tered you could ha' knocked me down wi' a feather. I looked at t' sty, and then at t' pig, an' then I felt t' pig, an' he were reight fat. An' when I'd felt t' pig I turned round to see if t'

'lotment were fairly mine, and theer stood t' lad that had telled me to bury t' potate.

"'Well,' he says, 'is owt wrang wi' t' pig?'

"'Nay, there's nowt wrang wi' t' pig, but how did he get here?'

"'He'll happen have coom out o' that potate thou set i' t' grund last week,' and he looked at me wi' them green eyes an' started girnin'. 'But thou mun bury t' pig same as thou buried t' potate.'

"'Bury t' pig!' I said. 'I'd sooiner bury t' missus ony day. We've bin short o' ham an' collops o' bacon all t' summer, an' if there's one thing I like better nor another it's a bit o' fried ham to my tea.'

"'Nay, thou mun bury t' pig, an' do without thy bit o' bacon,' he says, and there was summat i' t' way he gave his orders that fair bet me. I went all o' a dither, while I hardly knew if I were standin' on my heels or my heead. But t' lad were as cool as a cuc.u.mber all t' while; he folded his arms an' looked at me wi' his green eyes, an' just said nowt.

Eh! but 'twere gey hard to mak' up my mind what to do. I looked at t'

pig, an' if iver I've seen a pig axin' to have his life spared it were yon; but then I looked at t' lad, an' his eyes were as hard as two grunstones; there was no gettin' round t' lad, I could see. So at lang length I gav' in. I killed t' pig and I buried him same as I'd buried t'

potate.

"When I gat home I said nowt to t' missus about t' pig, for I couldn't let on that I'd buried it; shoo'd have reckoned I were a bigger fooil nor shoo took me for. Shoo gav me a sup o' poddish for my supper, an'

all t' time I were eytin' it I kept thinkin' o' t' fried ham that I'd missed, an' I were fair mad wi' misen. I went to bed, but I couldn't get to sleep nohow. You see, I'd bin plagued wi' mowdiewarps up i' t'

'lotment; they'd scratted up my spring onions an' played Hamlet wi' my curly greens. An' then all of a sudden I bethowt me that t' mowdiewarps would be sure to find t' pig an' mak quick-sticks o' him afore t'

mornin'. Eh! I gat that mad wi' thinkin' on it that I couldn't bide i'

bed no longer. I gat up 'thout wakkin' t' missus, an' I crept downstairs i' my stockin' feet, an' went to t' coil-house wheer I kept my spade. I were boun to dig up t' pig an' bring him home afore t' mowdiewarps sud find him. But when I'd oppened coil-house door, what sud I see but a pair o' green eyes glowerin' at me out o' t' darkness. I were that flaid I didn't know what to do. I dursn't set hand to t' spade, an' efter a minute I crept back to bed wi' them green eyes followin' me, an' burnin'

hoils i' my back same as if they'd bin two red-hot coils. Sooin as c.o.c.kleet com, I gat up, dressed misen an' set off for t' 'lotment, 'an by t' Mess! what does ta reckon was t' first thing I saw?"

"Had the pig come to life again?" I asked in wonder.

"Nay, 'twere better nor that," replied Abe. "I' t' spot wheer I'd buried t' pig an' buried t' potate afore that, somebody had belt a house, ay, an' belt it all i' one neet. It had sprung up like a mushroom. So I went up to t' house an' looked in at t' windey, an' by Gow! but it were my house an' all."