The Cruise of the Land-Yacht "Wanderer" Part 35

Oh! dear farmer, call it not a weed, hint not at its being a hurt-sickle--rather admire and love it.

Nay, but the farmer will not, he has no romance about him, and will quote me lines like these:--

"Bluebottle, thee my numbers fain would raise, And thy complexion challenge all my praise, Thy countenance like summer skies is fair; But ah! how different thy vile manners are.

A treacherous guest, destruction thou dost bring To th' inhospitable field where thou dost spring, Thou blunt'st the very reaper's sickle, and so In life and death becom'st the farmer's foe."

But cowslips, and b.u.t.tercups--

"The winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes."

Shakespeare.

--And the chaste and pretty ox-eye daisy, even a farmer will not object to my adoring, for the very names of these bring to his mind sleek-sided cattle wading in spring time knee-deep in fields of green sweet gra.s.s.

And what shall I say of gowan or mountain-daisy? Oh! what should I say, but repeat the lines of our own immortal bard:--

"Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou's met me in an evil hour, For I maun crush among the stoure Thy slender stem: To save thee now is past my power, Thou bonnie gem?"

The spotted orchis is a sweet-scented Highland moorland gem, but right glad I was to find it meeting me on the banks of Northumberland. Far over the borders grew the pretty Scottish bluebell, and on rough patches of ground the trailing lilac rest-harrow.

Singly, a sprig of bluebells may not look to much advantage, but growing in great beds and patches, and hanging in heaps to old rained walls, or turf-capped d.y.k.es, they are very effective indeed.

I had meant to speak in this chapter of many other flowers that grow by the wayside--of the dove's foot cranebill, of the purple loose-strife, of the sky-blue chicory and the pink-eyed pimpernel, of the golden bird's-foot trefoil, of purple bugles, of yellow celandine, and of clover red and white. I had even meant to throw in a bird or two--the lark, for instance, that seems to fan the clouds with its quivering wing, the fluting blackbird of woodland and copse, the shrill-voiced mocking mavis, that makes the echoes ring from tree to tree; the cushat, that croodles so mournfully in the thickets of spruce; the wild-screaming curlew, and mayhap the great eagle itself.

But I fear that I have already wearied the reader, and so must refrain.

Stay though, one word about our Highland heather--one word and I have done. I have found both this and heath growing in England, but never in the same savage luxuriance as on the wilds of the Grampian range. Here you can wander in it waist-deep, if you are not afraid of snakes, and this _Erica cineria_ you will find of every shade, from white--rare--to pink and darkest crimson:--

"Those wastes of heath That stretch for leagues to lure the bee, Where the wild bird, on pinions strong, Wheels round, and pours his piping song, And timid creatures wander free."

I trust I may be forgiven for making all these poetical quotations, but as I commenced with one from the poet Campbell, so must I end with one from the selfsame bard. It is of the purple heath and heather he is thinking when he writes:--

"I love you for lulling me back into dreams Of the blue Highland mountains, and echoing streams, And of birchen glades breathing their balm.

While the deer is seen glancing in sunshine remote, And the deep-mellow gush of the wood-pigeon's note, Makes music that sweetens the calm."

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

A CHAPTER ABOUT CHILDREN--CHILDREN IN BOUQUETS--CHILDREN BY THE "SAD SEA-WAVE"--SWEET MAUDIE BREWER--WEE d.i.c.kIE ELLIS--THE MINER'S SPRITE.

"On these laughing rosy faces There are no deep lines of sin; None of pa.s.sion's dreary traces, That betray the wounds within."

Tupper.

As much even as the wild flowers themselves were the children a feature in the seemingly interminable panorama, that flitted past me in my long tour in the Wanderer. The wild flowers were everywhere; by wayside, on hillside, by streamlet, in copse, hiding in fairy nooks among the brackens in the woodlands, carpeting mossy banks in the pine forests, floating on the lakes, nodding to the running brooklets, creeping over ruined walls and fences, and starring the hedgerows,--wild flowers, wild flowers everywhere.

Wild flowers everywhere, and children everywhere.

_Country children_: minding cows or sheep or pigs; trotting Blondin-like along the parapets of high bridges; riding or swinging on gateways; stringing daisies on flowery meads; paddling in stream or in burn; fishing by lonely tarns; swinging in the tree-tops; or boring head first through hedges of blackthorn and furze.

_Village children_: sitting in dozens on door-steps; a-squat on the footpath, nursing babies as big as themselves; at play on the walks or in the street midst; toddling solemnly off to school, with well-washed faces, and book-laden; or rushing merrily home again, with faces all begrimed with mud and tears.

_Seaside children_: out in boats, rocked in the cradle of the deep; bathing in dozens, swimming, sprawling, splashing, whooping; squatting among the seaweed; dabbling in pools, or clinging to the cliffs with all the tenacity of crabs.

Children everywhere, all along. Curly-pated children, bare-legged children, well-dressed children, and children in rags, but all shouting, screaming, laughing, smiling, or singing, and all as happy, seemingly, as the summer's day was long.

"Harmless, happy little treasures, Full of truth, and trust, and mirth; Richest wealth and purest pleasures In this mean and guilty earth.

"But yours is the sunny dimple, Radiant with untutored smiles; Yours the heart, sincere and simple, Innocent of selfish wiles.

"Yours the natural curling tresses, Prattling tongues and shyness coy; Tottering steps and kind caresses, Pure with health, and warm with joy."

Look at that little innocent yonder in that cottage doorway. There is a well-kept garden in front of the house, but not a flower in it more sweet than she. Round-faced, curly-tressed, dimpled chin and cheeks and knee. It is early morning, she has rushed to the door in her little night-dress; one stocking is on, the other she waves wildly aloft as she cheers the Wanderer.

Here at a village door is a group--a bouquet you may say--worth looking it. Three such pretty children, seated in a doorway, on the steps.

They are dressed in blue, with white socks and fairy-like caps, and the oldest is holding a bald-headed crowing baby in her lap.

Here is another tableau: three pretty little well-dressed maidens, hand-in-hand, dancing and whirling in Indian circle round a hole which has been dug in the green sward; a fourth seated close by the hole, flicking the dust up in clouds with a green bough, and giving each a full share of it. Never mind the lace-edged dresses, heed not the snow-white pinafores, round and round and round they go, and how they laugh and shout, and enjoy it!

And here is a bouquet from Musselburgh, though perhaps it has a somewhat fishy flavour. A group of chubby children on the beach, among the somewhat black sand; one has a large crab-sh.e.l.l with a string to it-- this is his cart, and it is laden with c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.ls and star-fish; another boy has a dead eel on a string; a baby is lying on its face digging holes in the sand with a razor sh.e.l.l, and a little girl is nursing a cod's head for a doll, and has dressed it up with seaweed.

They have bare heads and feet, and smudgy faces, but dear me! they do look happy!

Five little kilted boys, squatting on the gra.s.s; between them is a round kettle pot half-filled with porridge, and each holds in his hand a "cogie" of milk. But they start to their feet as the Wanderer rolls past, wave aloft their horn spoons, and shout till we are out of sight.

Here is a little cherub of some seven summers old. He very likely belongs to that pretty cottage whose redbrick gable peeps out through a cloudland of trees yonder. He has a barrow, and it is nearly full, for the boy has been scavenging on the road, gathering material to make the mushrooms grow in his father's garden. Right in the centre of this he has dug a nest, and in this nest is seated his baby brother. He is telling him a story, and the baby brother is crowing and kicking, and looking all over so delighted and joyful in his questionable nest, that one almost envies him. That youngster _may_ emigrate some day, and he _may_ become President of America yet. When I think of that I cannot help feeling a kind of respect for him.

The most smudgy-faced children I noticed on my tour were, I think, some of those in the outlying villages of the North Riding of Yorks. Of course, they always came trooping out to view the caravan, from cottage doors, from garden gates, from schools, and from playgrounds, the foremost calling aloud to those behind to come quick, to run, for a show was coming.

If we happened to stop, they would gather around us and stare with saucer eyes and open mouths astonished, expectant. If we drove on quickly, they speedily set up an impromptu "Hip, hip, hoor--ay--ay!" and waved their arms or ragged caps in the air.

Talk about the great unwashed! These were the little unwashed, and a far larger section of the public than their bigger brethren.

Do not blame the poor things because their faces are not over cleanly.

It may not even be the fault of their parents. Early of a morning we often met children going toddling off to school, with books and slates, and, mind you, with faces that positively glistened and reflected the sunbeams, the result of recent ablutions, and a plentiful use of soap.

We met school children again coming from school of an evening, but sadly different in facial aspect, for lo! and alas! grief soon begins of a morning with a child, and tears begin to flow, so cheeks get wet, and are wiped, and dust begrimes them, and long ere evening the average boy's face is woefully be-smudged.

I found a little Scotch boy once standing with his face against a hayrick weeping bitterly. I daresay he had been chastised for some fault and had come here to indulge in the luxury of a good cry. But would he own it? No, he was too Scotch for that.

"What are ye greetin' [weeping] about, my wee laddie?" I said, pulling him round.

"I'm no greetin'," he replied through his tears.

"It looks unco' like it," I ventured to remark.

"I tell you, si-si-sir," he sobbed, "I'm _no_ gaga--greetin'. I'm only just letting--

"'The tears doon fa', For Jock o' Hadedean.'"

I gave him a penny on the spot, and that changed his tune.