"I saw ye,” said Eppie,
speaking
with a wire in her mouth,
"gaen on terr'ble wi' Mysy Haggart at the pump last Saturday.
"gaen on terr'ble wi' Mysy Haggart at the pump last Saturday.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v03 - Bag to Ber
A sly deceit
of love. She knows the cheat, but, feigning ignorance, lends her
pouting lips and gives a gentle blast, which warms the husband's
heart more than it cools his pudding.
T"
HE days grow short; but though the falling sun
To the glad swain proclaims his day's work done,
Night's pleasing shades his various tasks prolong,
And yield new subjects to my various song.
For now, the corn-house filled, the harvest home,
The invited neighbors to the husking come;
A frolic scene, where work and mirth and play
Unite their charms to chase the hours away.
Where the huge heap lies centred in the hall,
The lamp suspended from the cheerful wall,
Brown corn-fed nymphs, and strong hard-handed beaux,
Alternate ranged, extend in circling rows,
Assume their seats, the solid mass attack;
The dry husks rustle, and the corn-cobs crack;
The song, the laugh, alternate notes resound,
And the sweet cider trips in silence round.
The laws of husking every wight can tell;
And sure, no laws he ever keeps so well:
For each red ear a general kiss he gains,
With each smut ear he smuts the luckless swains;
But when to some sweet maid a prize is cast,
Red as her lips, and taper as her waist,
She walks the round, and culls one favored beau,
Who leaps, the luscious tribute to bestow.
Various the sport, as are the wits and brains
Of well-pleased lasses and contending swains;
Till the vast mound of corn is swept away,
And he that gets the last ear wins the day.
Meanwhile the housewife urges all her care,
The well-earned feast to hasten and prepare.
The sifted meal already waits her hand,
The milk is strained, the bowls in order stand,
## p. 1561 (#359) ###########################################
· JOEL BARLOW
1561
The fire flames high; and as a pool (that takes
The headlong stream that o'er the mill-dam breaks)
Foams, roars, and rages with incessant toils,
So the vexed caldron rages, roars and boils.
First with clean salt she seasons well the food,
Then strews the flour, and thickens well the flood.
Long o'er the simmering fire she lets it stand;
To stir it well demands a stronger hand :
The husband takes his turn, and round and round
The ladle flies; at last the toil is crowned;
When to the board the thronging huskers pour,
And take their seats as at the corn before.
I leave them to their feast. There still belong
More useful matters to my faithful song.
For rules there are, though ne'er unfolded yet,
Nice rules and wise, how pudding should be ate.
Some with molasses grace the luscious treat,
And mix, like bards, the useful and the sweet;
A wholesome dish, and well deserving praise,
A great resource in those bleak wintry days,
When the chilled earth lies buried deep in snow,
And raging Boreas dries the shivering cow.
Blest cow! thy praise shall still my notes employ,
Great source of health, the only source of joy;
Mother of Egypt's god, but sure, for me,
Were I to leave my God, I'd worship thee.
How oft thy teats these pious hands have pressed !
How oft thy bounties prove my only feast !
How oft I've fed thee with my favorite grain !
And roared, like thee, to see thy children slain.
Ye swains who know her various worth to prize,
Ah! house her well from winter's angry skies.
Potatoes, pumpkins, should her sadness cheer,
Corn from your crib, and mashes from your beer;
When spring returns, she'll well acquit the loan,
And nurse at once your infants and her own.
Milk, then, with pudding I should always choose;
To this in future I confine my muse,
Till she in haste some further hints unfold,
Good for the young, nor useless to the old.
First in your bowl the milk abundant take,
Then drop with care along the silver lake
Your flakes of pudding: these at first will hide
Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide;
## p. 1562 (#360) ###########################################
1562
JOEL BARLOW
But when their growing mass no more can sink,
When the soft island looms above the brink,
Then check your hand; you've got the portion due,
So taught my sire, and what he taught is true.
There is a choice in spoons. Though small appear
The nice distinction, yet to me 'tis clear.
The deep-bowled Gallic spoon, contrived to scoop
In ample draughts the thin diluted soup,
Performs not well in those substantial things,
Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings;
Where the strong labial muscles must embrace
The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space.
With ease to enter and discharge the freight,
A bowl less concave, but still more dilate,
Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the size,
A secret rests, unknown to vulgar eyes.
Experienced feeders can alone impart
A rule so much above the lore of art.
These tuneful lips that thousand spoons have tried,
With just precision could the point decide,
Though not in song — the muse but poorly shines
In cones, and cubes, and geometric lines;
Yet the true form, as near as she can tell,
Is that small section of a goose-egg shell,
Which in two equal portions shall divide
The distance from the centre to the side.
Fear not to slaver; 'tis no deadly sin ;-
Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin
Suspend the ready napkin; or like me,
Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee;
Just in the zenith your wise head project,
Your full spoon rising in a line direct,
Bold as a bucket, heed no drops that fall.
The wide-mouthed bowl will surely catch them all!
## p. 1563 (#361) ###########################################
1563
WILLIAM BARNES
(1800-1886)
AD he chosen to write solely in familiar English, rather than
in the dialect of his native Dorsetshire, every modern an-
thology would be graced by the verses of William Barnes,
and to multitudes who now know him not, his name would have
become associated with many a country sight and sound. Other
poets have taken homely subjects for their themes,—the hayfield,
the chimney-nook, milking-time, the blossoming of high-boughed
hedges”; but it is not every one who has sung out of the fullness of
his heart and with a naïve delight in that of which he sung: and so
by reason of their faithfulness to every-day life and to nature, and
by their spontaneity and tenderness, his lyrics, fables, and eclogues
appeal to cultivated readers as well as to the rustics whose quaint
speech he made his own.
Short and simple are the annals of his life; for, a brief period
excepted, it was passed in his native county — though Dorset, for
all his purposes, was as wide as the world itself. His birthplace was
Bagbere in the vale of Blackmore, far up the valley of the Stour,
where his ancestors had been freeholders. The death of his parents
while he was a boy threw him on his own resources; and while he
was at school at Sturminster and Dorchester he supported himself by
clerical work in attorneys' offices. After he left school his education
was mainly self-gained; but it was so thorough that in 1827 he
became master of a school at Mere, Wilts, and in 1835 opened a
boarding-school in Dorchester, which he conducted for a number of
years.
A little later he spent a few terms at Cambridge, and in
1847 received ordination. From that time until his death in 1886,
most of his days were spent in the little parishes of Whitcombe and
Winterbourne Came, near Dorchester, where his duties as rector left
him plenty of time to spend on his favorite studies. To the last,
Barnes wore the picturesque dress of the eighteenth century, and to
the tourist he became almost as much a curiosity as the relics of
Roman occupation described in a guide-book he compiled.
When one is at the same time a linguist, a musician, an antiquary,
a profound student of philology, and skilled withal in the graphic
arts, it would seem inevitable that he should have more than a local
reputation; but when, in 1844, a thin volume entitled Poems of
Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect' appeared in London, few bookshop
## p. 1564 (#362) ###########################################
1564
WILLIAM BARNES
frequenters had ever heard of the author. But he was already
well known throughout Dorset, and there he was content to be
known; a welcome guest in castle and hall, but never happier
than when, gathering about him the Jobs and Lettys with whom
Thomas Hardy has made us familiar, he delighted their ears by recit-
ing his verses. The dialect of Dorset, he boasted, was the least
corrupted form of English; therefore to commend it as a vehicle of
expression and to help preserve his mother tongue from corruption,
and to purge it of words not of Anglo-Saxon or Teutonic origin,
this was one of the dreams of his life, — he put his impressions of
rural scenery and his knowledge of human character into metrical
form. He is remembered by scholars here and there for a number
of works on philology, and one (“Outline of English Speech-Craft')
in which, with zeal, but with the battle against him, he aimed to
teach the English language by using words of Teutonic derivation
only; but it is through his four volumes of poems that he is better
remembered. These include 'Hwomely Rhymes? (1859), Poems of
Rural Life' (1862), and Poems of Rural Life in Common English
(1863). The three collections of dialect poems were brought out in
one volume, with a glossary, in 1879.
“A poet fresh as the dew,” « The first of English purely pastoral
poets,” “The best writer of eclogues since Theocritus,” — these are
some of the tardy tributes paid him. With a sympathy for his fel-
low-man and a humor akin to that of Burns, with a feeling for nature
as keen as Wordsworth's, though less subjective, and with a power
of depicting a scene with a few well-chosen epithets which recalls
Tennyson, Barnes has fairly earned his title to remembrance.
(The Life of William Barnes, Poet and Philologist,' written by
his daughter, Mrs. Baxter, was published in 1887. There are numer-
ous articles relating to him in periodical literature, one of which, a
sketch by Thomas Hardy, in Vol. 86 of the 'Athenæum,' is of peculiar
interest.
## p. 1565 (#363) ###########################################
WILLIAM BARNES
1565
BLACKMWORE MAIDENS
The primhevose sinthe sheäden do blow,
He primrwose in the sheäde do blow,
The cowslip in the zun,
The thyme upon the down do grow,
The clote where streams do run;
An' where do pretty maïdens grow
An' blow, but where the tow'r
Do rise among the bricken tuns,
In Blackmwore by the Stour?
If you could zee their comely gaït,
An' pretty feäces' smiles,
A-trippen on so light o' waight,
An' steppen off the stiles;
A-gwaïn to church, as bells do swing
An’ ring 'ithin the tow'r,
You'd own the pretty maidens' pleäce
Is Blackmwore by the Stour?
If you vrom Wimborne took your road,
To Stower or Paladore,
An' all the farmers' housen show'd
Their daughters at the door;
You'd cry to bachelors at hwome —
“Here, come: 'ithin an hour
You'll vind ten maïdens to your mind,
In Blackmwore by the Stour. ”
An' if you look'd 'ithin their door,
To zee em in their pleäce,
A-doèn housework up avore
Their smilèn mother's feäce;
You'd cry,—“Why, if a man would wive
An' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r,
Then let en look en out a wife
In Blackmwore by the Stour. ”
As I upon my road did pass
A school-house back in May,
There out upon the beäten grass
Wer maïdens at their play;
An' as the pretty souls did tweil
An' smile, I cried, “The flow'r
O' beauty, then, is still in bud
In Blackmwore by the Stour. ”
## p. 1566 (#364) ###########################################
1566
WILLIAM BARNES
MAY
CO
nome out o' door, 'tis Spring! 'tis May!
The trees be green, the vields be gay;
The weather's warm, the winter blast,
Wi' all his traïn o'clouds, is past;
The zun do rise while vo’k do sleep,
To teäke a higher daily zweep,
Wi’ cloudless feäce a-flingen down
His sparklèn light upon the groun'.
The aïr's a-streamèn soft, come drow
The windor open; let it blow
In drough the house, where vire, an' door
A-shut, kept out the cwold avore.
Come, let the vew dull embers die,
An' come below the open sky;
An' wear your best, vor fear the groun'
In colors gäy mid sheäme your gown:
An' goo an' rig wi' me a mile
Or two up over geäte an' stile,
Drough zunny parrocks that do lead,
Wi' crooked hedges, to the mead,
Where elems high, in steätely ranks,
Do rise vrom yollow cowslip-banks,
An' birds do twitter vrom the spray
O' bushes deck'd wi' snow-white mäy;
An' gil' cups, wi' the deäisy bed,
Be under ev'ry step you tread.
We'll wind up roun' the hill, an' look
All down the thickly timber'd nook,
Out where the squier's house do show
His gray-walled peaks up drough the row
O'sheädy elems, where the rock
Do build her nest; an' where the brook
Do creep along the meads, an’ lie
To catch the brightness o' the sky;
An' cows, in water to their knees,
Do stan' a-whisken off the vlees.
Mother o' blossoms, and ov all
That's feäir a-vield vrom Spring till Fall,
The gookoo over white-weäv'd seas
Do come to zing in thy green trees,
An' buttervlees, in giddy flight,
Do gleäm the mwost by thy gäy light.
## p. 1567 (#365) ###########################################
WILLIAM BARNES
1567
Oh! when, at last, my fleshly eyes
Shall shut upon the vields an' skies,
Mid zummer's zunny days be gone,
An' winter's clouds be comèn on:
Nor mid I draw upon the e'th,
O'thy sweet air my leätest breath;
Alassen I mid want to stay
Behine' for thee, O flow'ry May!
MILKEN TIME
Poems of Rural Life)
T"
WER when the busy birds did vlee,
Wi’ sheenen wings, vrom tree to tree,
To build upon the mossy lim'
Their hollow nestes' rounded rim;
The while the zun, a-zinkèn low,
Did roll along his evenèn bow,
I come along where wide-horn'd cows,
'Ithin a nook, a-screen'd by boughs,
Did stan' an' flip the white-hooped pails
Wi' heäiry tufts o' swingen tails;
An' there were Jenny Coom a-gone
Along the path a vew steps on,
A-beären on her head, upstraïght,
Her pail, wi' slowly-riden waight,
An hoops a-sheenèn, lily-white,
Ageän the evenèn's slantén light;
An' zo I took her païl, an' left
Her neck a-freed vrom all his heft;
An' she a-lookèn up an' down,
Wi’ sheäply head an' glossy crown,
Then took my zide, an' kept my peace,
A-talkèn on wi' smilèn feäce,
An' zetten things in sich a light,
I'd faïn ha' heär'd her talk all night;
An' when I brought her milk avore
The geäte, she took it in to door,
An' if her pail had but allow'd
Her head to vall, she would ha' bow'd;
An' still, as 'twer, I had the zight
Ov' her sweet smile, droughout the night.
## p. 1568 (#366) ###########################################
1568
WILLIAM BARNES
JESSIE LEE
A
BOVE the timber's bendèn sh'ouds,
The western wind did softly blow;
An' up avore the knap, the clouds
Did ride as white as driven snow.
Vrom west to east the clouds did zwim
Wi' wind that plied the elem's lim';
Vrom west to east the stream did glide,
A sheenen wide, wi' windèn brim.
How feäir, I thought, avore the sky
The slowly-zwimmèn clouds do look;
How soft the win's a-streamèn by;
How bright do roll the weavy brook:
When there, a-passèn on my right,
A-walkèn slow, an' treadèn light,
Young Jessie Lee come by, an' there
Took all my ceäre, an' all my right.
Vor lovely wer the looks her feäce
Held up avore the western sky:
An' comely wer the steps her peace
Did meäke a-walkèn slowly by :
But I went east, wi' beaten breast,
Wi' wind, an' cloud, an' brook, vor rest,
Wi' rest a-lost, vor Jessie gone
So lovely on, toward the west.
Blow on, O winds, athirt the hill;
Zwim on, clouds; O waters vall,
Down maeshy rocks, vrom mill to mill:
I now can overlook ye all.
But roll, O zun, an' bring to me
My day, if such a day there be,
When zome dear path to my abode
Shall be the road o' Jessie Lee.
## p. 1569 (#367) ###########################################
WILLIAM BARNES
1569
THE TURNSTILE
A.
H! SAD wer we as we did peace
The wold church road, wi' downcast feäce,
The while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep
Above our child a-left asleep,
Wer now a-zingen all alive
Wi' tother bells to meäke the vive.
But up at woone pleäce we come by,
'Twere hard to keep woone's two eyes dry;
On Steän-cliff road, 'ithin the drong,
Up where, as vo'k do pass along,
The turnén stile, a-painted white,
Do sheen by day an' show by night.
Vor always there, as we did goo
To church, thik stile did let us drough,
Wi' spreaden eärms that wheeld to guide
Us each in turn to tother zide.
An' vu'st ov all the train he took
My wife, wi' winsome gait an' look ;
An' then zent on my little maid,
A-skippen onward, overjäy'd
To reach ageän the pleäce o' pride,
Her comely inother's left han' zide.
An' then, a-wheelèn roun' he took
On me, 'ithin his third white nook.
An' in the fourth, a-sheäken wild,
He zent us on our giddy child.
But eesterday he guided slow
My downcast Jenny, vull o' woe,
An' then my little maid in black,
A-walken softly on her track;
An' after he'd a-turn'd ageän,
To let me goo along the leäne,
He had noo little bwoy to vill
His last white eärms, an' they stood still.
III-99
## p. 1570 (#368) ###########################################
1570
WILLIAM BARNES
TO THE WATER-CROWFOOT
O
SMALL-FEÄC'D flow'r that now dost bloom,
To stud wi' white the shallow Frome,
An' leäve the *clote to spread his flow'r
On darksome pools o' stwoneless Stour,
When sof'ly-rizèn airs do cool
The water in the sheenèn pool,
Thy beds o' snow white buds do gleam
So feäir upon the sky-blue stream,
As whitest clouds, a-hangèn high
Avore the blueness of the sky.
* The yellow water-lily.
ZUMMER AN' WINTER
Whethe pride Lea, as naighbours thought her,
HEN I led by zummer streams
The pride o' Lea, as naïghbours thought her,
While the zun, wi' evenèn beams,
Did cast our sheädes athirt the water:
Winds a-blowen,
Streams a-flowèn,
Skies a-glowèn,
Tokens ov my jay zoo feetèn,
Heightened it, that happy meetèn.
Then, when maid and man took pleäces,
Gay in winter's Chris’mas dances,
Showèn in their merry feäces
Kindly smiles an' glisnèn glances:
Stars a-winkèn,
Days a-shrinken.
Sheädes a-zinken,
Brought anew the happy me
That did meäke the night too fleetèn.
## p. 1571 (#369) ###########################################
1571
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
(1860-)
AMES MATTHEW BARRIE was born May 9th, 1860, at Kirriemuir,
Scotland (“Thrums'); son of a physician whom he has lov-
ingly embodied as Dr. McQueen, and with a mother and
sister who will live as Jess) and Leeby. After an academy course
at Dumfries he entered the University of Edinburgh at eighteen,
where he graduated M. A. , and took honors in the English Literature
class. A few months later he took a place on a newspaper in Not-
tingham, England, and in the spring of 1885 went to London, where
the papers had begun to accept his work.
Above all, the St. James's Gazette had pub-
lished the first of the "Auld Licht Idylls)
November 17th, 1884; and the editor, Fred-
erick Greenwood, instantly perceiving a new
and rich genius, advised him to work the
vein further, enforcing the advice by refus-
ing to accept his contributions on other
subjects.
He had the usual painful struggle to
become a successful journalist, detailed in
(When a Man's Single'; but his real work
was other and greater. In 1887 When a
JAMES M. BARRIE
Man's Single' came out serially in the
British Weekly; it has little merit except in the Scottish prelude,
which is of high quality in style and pathos. It is curious how
utterly his powers desert him the moment he leaves his native
heath: like Antæus, he is a giant on his mother earth and a pigmy
off it. His first published book was Better Dead (1887); it works
out a cynical idea which would be amusing in five pages, but is
diluted into tediousness by being spread over fifty. But in 1889 came
a second masterpiece, A Window in Thrums,' a continuation of the
Auld Licht series from an inside instead of an outside standpoint, —
not superior to the first, but their full equals in a deliciousness of
which one cannot say how much is matter and how much style. My
Lady Nicotine appeared in 1890;- it was very popular, and has some
amusing sketches, but no enduring quality. An Edinburgh Eleven'
(1890) is a set of sketches of his classmates and professors.
In 1891 the third of his Scotch works appeared, -- "The Little Min-
ister,' — which raised him from the rank of an admirable sketch
writer to that of an admirable novelist, despite its fantastic plot and
## p. 1572 (#370) ###########################################
1572
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
detail. Since then he has written three plays,—'Walker, London,'
Jane Annie,' and 'The Professor's Love Story,' the latter very suc-
cessful and adding to his reputation; but no literature except his
novel Sentimental Tommy, just closed in Scribner's Magazine.
This novel is not only a great advance on (The Little Minister in
symmetry of construction, reality of matter, tragic power, and in-
sight, but its tone is very different. Though as rich in humor, the
humor is largely of a grim, bitter, and sardonic sort. The light,
gay, buoyant fun of The Little Minister,' which makes it a per-
petual enjoyment, has mostly vanished; in its stead we feel that the
writer's sensitive nature is wrung by the swarming catastrophes he
cannot avert, the endless wrecks on the ocean of life he cannot suc-
cor, and hardly less by those spiritual tragedies and ironies so much
worse, on a true scale of valuation, than any material misfortune.
The full secret of Mr. Barrie's genius, as of all genius, eludes
analysis; but some of its characteristics are not hard to define. His
wonderful keenness of observation and tenacity of remembrance of
the pettinesses of daily existence, which in its amazing minuteness
reminds us of Dickens and Mark Twain, and his sensitiveness to the
humorous aspects of their little misfits and hypocrisies and lack of
proportion, might if untempered have made him a literary cynic like
some others, remembered chiefly for the salience he gave to the
ugly meannesses of life and the ironies of fate. But his good angel
added to these a gift of quick, sure, and spontaneous sympathy and
wide spiritual understanding. This fills all his higher work with a
generous appreciativeness, a justness of judgment, a tenderness of
feeling, which elevate as well as charm the reader. He makes us
love the most grotesque characters, whom in life we should dislike
and avoid, by the sympathetic fineness of his interpretation of their
springs of life and their warping by circumstance. The impression
left on one by the studies of the Thrums community is not primarily
of intellectual and spiritual narrowness, or niggardly thrift, or dour
natures: all are there, but with them are souls reaching after God
and often flowering into beauty, and we reverence the quenchless
aspiration of maligned human nature for an ideal far above its reach.
He achieves the rare feat of portraying every pettiness and preju-
dice, even the meannesses and dishonors of a poor and hidebound
country village, yet leaving us with both sincere respect and warm
liking for it; a thing possible only to one himself of a fine nature as
well as of a large mind. Nor is there any mawkishness or cheap
surface sentimentality in it all. His pathos never makes you wince:
you can always read his works aloud, the deadly and unfailing test
of anything flat or pinchbeck in literature. His gift of humor saves
him from this: true humor and true pathos are always found together
## p. 1573 (#371) ###########################################
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
1573
a
because they are not two but one, twin aspects of the very same
events.
He who sees the ludicrous in misfits must see their sadness
too; he who can laugh at a tumble must grieve over it: both are
inevitable and both are coincident.
As a literary artist, he belongs in the foremost rank. He has that
sense of the typical in incident, of the universal in feeling, and of
the suggestive in language, which mark the chiefs of letters. No one
can express an idea with fewer strokes; he never expands a sufficient
hint into an essay. His management of the Scotch dialect is mas-
terly: he uses it sparingly, in the nearest form to English compatible
with retaining the flavor; he never makes it so hard as to interfere
with enjoyment; in few dialect writers do we feel so little alienness.
(Auld Licht Idylls) is a set of regular descriptions of the life of
« Thrums, with special reference to the ways and character of the
“Old Lights,” the stubborn conservative Scotch Puritans; it contains
also a most amusing and characteristic love story of the sect (given
below), and satiric political skit. A Window in Thrums) is
mainly a series of selected incidents in detail, partly from the point
of view of a crippled woman (“Jess”), sitting at her window and
piecing out what she sees with great shrewdness from her knowledge
of the general current of affairs, aided by her daughter «Leeby. ”
(The Little Minister' is developed from the real story of a Scotch
clergyman who brought home a wife from afar, of so alien a sort to
the general run that the parish spent the rest of her short life in
speculating on her previous history and weaving legends about her.
Barrie's imagined explanation is of Arabian Nights preposterousness
of incident, and indeed is only a careless fairy-tale in substance; but
it is so rich in delicious filling, so full of his best humor, sentiment,
character-drawing, and fine feeling, that one hardly cares whether it
has any plot at all. (Sentimental Tommy) is a study of a sensitive
mobile boy, a born poseur, who passes his life in cloud-castles where
he always dramatizes himself as the hero, who has no continuity of
purpose, and no capacity of self-sacrifice except in spasms of impulse,
and in emotional feeling which is real to itself; a spiritual Proteus
who deceives even himself, and only now and then recognizes his
own moral illusiveness, like Hawthorne's scarecrow-gentleman before
the mirror: but with the irresistible instincts also of the born literary
creator and constructor. The other characters are drawn with great
power and truth.
The judgment of contemporaries is rarely conclusive; and we will
not attempt to anticipate that of posterity. It may be said, how-
ever, that the best applicable touchstone of permanency is that of
seeming continuously fresh to cultivated tastes after many readings;
and that Mr. Barrie's four best books bear the test without failure.
## p. 1574 (#372) ###########################################
1574
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
THE COURTING OF T'NOWHEAD'S BELL
From Auld Licht Idylls)
FR
OR two years it had been notorious in the square that Sam'l
Dickie was thinking of courting T'nowhead's Bell, and that
if little Sanders Elshioner (which is the Thrums pronunci-
ation of Alexander Alexander) went in for her, he might prove a
formidable rival. Samʼl was a weaver in the Tenements, and San-
ders a coal-carter whose trade-mark was a bell on his horse's neck
that told when coals were coming. Being something of a public
man, Sanders had not, perhaps, so high a social position as Sam'l;
but he had succeeded his father on the coal-cart, while the weaver
had already tried several trades, It had always been against
Sam'l, too, that once when the kirk was vacant he had advised
the selection of the third minister who preached for it, on the
ground that it came expensive to pay a large number of candi-
dates. The scandal of the thing was hushed up, out of respect
for his father, who was a God-fearing man, but Sam'l was known
by it in Lang Tammas's circle. The coal-carter was called Little
Sanders, to distinguish him from his father, who was not much
more than half his size. He had grown up with the name, and
its inapplicability now came home to nobody. Sam’l's mother had
been more far-seeing than Sanders's. Her man had been called
Sammy all his life, because it was the name he got as a boy, so
when their eldest son was born she spoke of him as Sam'l while
still in his cradle. The neighbors imitated her, and thus the
young man had a better start in life than had been granted to
Sammy, his father.
It was Saturday evening - the night in the week when Auld
Licht young men fell in love. Sam'l Dickie, wearing a blue
Glengarry bonnet with a red ball on the top, came to the door of
a one-story house in the Tenements, and stood there wriggling,
for he was in a suit of tweeds for the first time that week, and
did not feel at one with them. When his feeling of being a
stranger to himself wore off, he looked up and down the road,
which straggles between houses and gardens, and then, picking
his way over the puddles, crossed to his father's hen-house and
sat down on it. He was now on his way to the square.
Eppie Fargus was sitting on an adjoining dike, knitting stock-
ings, and Sam’l looked at her for a time.
"Is't yersel, Eppie ? ” he said at last.
## p. 1575 (#373) ###########################################
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
1575
"It's a' that,” said Eppie.
"Hoo's a' wi' ye ? ” asked Sam'l.
“We're juist aff an' on,” replied Eppie, cautiously.
There was not much more to say, but as Sam'l sidled off the
hen-house, he murmured politely, “Ay, ay. ” In another minute
he would have been fairly started, but Eppie resumed the con-
versation.
“Sam'1,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye, "ye can tell Lis-
beth Fargus I'll likely be drappin' in on her aboot Munday or
Teisday. ”
Lisbeth was sister to Eppie, and wife of Thomas McQuhatty,
better known as T’nowhead, which was the name of his farm.
She was thus Bell's mistress.
Sam'l leaned against the hen-house, as if all his desire to
depart had gone.
"Hoo d'ye kin I'll be at the T'nowhead the nicht? ” he asked,
grinning in anticipation.
“Ou, I'se warrant ye'll be after Bell,” said Eppie.
"Am no sae sure o' that,” said Sam'l, trying to leer. He was
enjoying himself now.
"Am no sure o' that,” he repeated, for Eppie seemed lost in
stitches.
« Sam 'l ? ”
Ay. ”
« Ye'll be speirin' her sune noo, I dinna doot ? "
This took Sam'l, who had only been courting Bell for a year
or two, a little aback.
"Hoo d'ye mean, Eppie ? ” he asked.
"Maybe ye'll do't the nicht. ”
Na, there's nae hurry,” said Sam 'l.
“Weel, we're a' coontin' on't, Sam'l. ”
«Gae wa wi' ye. ”
What for no ? »
"Gae wa wi' ye,” said Sam'l again.
“Bell's gei an' fond o' ye, Sam'l. ”
“Ay,” said Sam'l.
“But am dootin' ye're a fell billy wi' the lasses »
“Ay, oh, I d’na kin, moderate, moderate,” said Sam'l, in high
delight.
"I saw ye,” said Eppie, speaking with a wire in her mouth,
"gaen on terr'ble wi' Mysy Haggart at the pump last Saturday. ”
## p. 1576 (#374) ###########################################
1576
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
(
(We was juist amoosin' oorsels,” said Sam'l.
“It'll be nae amoosement to Mysy,” said Eppie, "gin ye brak
her heart. "
“Losh, Eppie,” said Sam'1, "I didna think o' that. ”
“Ye maun kin weel, Sam'], 'at there's mony a lass wid jump
at ye. ”
“Ou, weel,” said Sam'l, implying that a man must take these
things as they come.
"For ye're a dainty chield to look at, Sam 'l. ”
“Do ye think so, Eppie ? Ay, ay; oh, I d'na kin am onything
by the ordinar. »
“Ye mayna be,” said Eppie, “but lasses doesna do to be ower
partikler. ”
Sam'l resented this, and prepared to depart again.
«Ye'll no tell Bell that ? ” he asked, anxiously.
« Tell her what ? »
“Aboot me an' Mysy. "
“We'll see hoo ye behave yersel, Sam'l. ”
"No 'at I care, Eppie; ye can tell her gin ye like. I widna
think twice o' tellin' her mysel. ”
“The Lord forgie ye for leein', Sam'l,” said Eppie, as he dis-
appeared down Tammy Tosh's close. Here he came upon Hen-
ders Webster.
« Ye're late, Sam'1,” said Henders.
«What for? ”
“Ou, I was thinkin' ye wid be gaen the length o' T'nowhead
the nicht, an' I saw Sanders Elshioner makkin's wy there an oor
syne. ”
"Did ye? ” cried Sam'l, adding craftily; but its naething to
me. »
« Tod, lad,” said Henders; "gin ye dinna buckle to, Sanders 'll
be carryin' her off!
Sam'1 flung back his head and passed on.
“Sam'l! cried Henders after him.
"Ay,” said Sam'l, wheeling round.
“Gie Bell a kiss frae me. ”
The full force of this joke struck neither all at once. Sam'1
began to smile at it as he turned down the school-wynd, and it
came upon Henders while he was in his garden feeding his ferret.
Then he slapped his legs gleefully, and explained the conceit to
Will'um Byars, who went into the house and thought it over.
## p. 1577 (#375) ###########################################
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
1577
There were twelve or twenty little groups of men in the square,
which was lighted by a flare of oil suspended over a cadger's
cart. Now and again a staid young woman passed through the
square with a basket on her arm, and if she had lingered long
enough to give them time, some of the idlers would have ad-
dressed her, As it was, they gazed after her, and then grinned
to each other.
"Ay, Sam'1,” said two or three young men, as Sam'l joined
them beneath the town clock.
“Ay, Davit,” replied Sam'l.
This group was composed of some of the sharpest wits in
Thrums, and it was not to be expected that they would let this
opportunity pass. Perhaps when Sam'l joined them he knew what
was in store for him.
“Was ye lookin' for T'nowhead's Bell, Sam'1 ? ” asked one.
«Or mebbe ye was wantin' the minister ? ” suggested another,
the same who had walked out twice with Chirsty Duff and not
married her after all.
Sam'l could not think of a good reply at the moment, so he
laughed good-naturedly.
“Ondoobtedly she's a snod bit crittur,” said Davit, archly.
"An' michty clever wi' her fingers,” added Jamie Deuchars.
“Man, I've thocht o' makkin' up to Bell myself,” said Pete
Ogle. “Wid there be ony chance, think ye, Sam'1 ? ”
« I'm thinkin' she widna hae ye for her first, Pete,” replied
Sam'l, in one of those happy flashes that come to some men,
“but there's nae sayin' but what she micht tak ye to finish up wi'. ”
The unexpectedness of this sally startled every one. Though
Sam'1 did not set up for a wit, however, like Davit, it was noto-
rious that he could say a cutting thing once in a way.
"Did ye ever see Bell reddin' up? ” asked Pete, recovering
from his overthrow. He was a man who bore no malice,
It's a sicht,” said Sam'l, solemnly.
«Hoo will that be ? ” asked Jamie Deuchars.
“It's weel worth yer while,” said Pete, “to ging atower to
the T'nowhead an' see. Ye'll mind the closed-in beds i' the
kitchen ? Ay, weel, they're a fell spoilt crew, T'nowhead's litlins,
an' no that aisy to manage. Th'ither lasses Lisbeth's ha'en had
a michty trouble wi' them. When they war i' the middle o'
their reddin up the bairns wid come tumlin' about the floor, but,
sal, I assure ye, Bell didna fash lang wi' them. Did she, Sam'1 ? »
## p. 1578 (#376) ###########################################
1578
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
« She
“She did not,” said Sam'l, dropping into a fine mode of speech
to add emphasis to his remark.
“I'll tell ye what she did,” said Pete to the others.
juist lifted up the litlins, twa at a time, an' flung them into the
coffin-beds. Syne she snibbit the doors on them, an' keepit them
there till the floor was dry. ”
“Ay, man, did she so ? ” said Davit, admiringly.
“I've seen her do't myself,” said Sam'l.
« There's no a lassie maks better bannocks this side o' Fetter
Lums,” continued Pete.
«Her mither tocht her that,” said Sam'l; "she was a gran'
han' at the bakin', Kitty Ogilvy. ”
"I've heard say,” remarked Jamie, putting it this way so as
not to tie himself down to anything, “'at Bell's scones is equal
to Mag Lunan's. ”
“So they are,” said Sam'l, almost fiercely.
“I kin she's a neat han’ at singein' a hen,” said Pete.
“An' wi't a',” said Davit, “she's a snod, canty bit stocky in
her Sabbath claes. »
“If onything, thick in the waist,” suggested Jamie.
“I dinna see that, said Sam'l.
"I d'na care for her hair either,” continued Jamie, who was
very nice in his tastes; "something mair yallowchy wid be an
improvement. ”
“A’body kins,” growled Sam'l, « 'at black hair's the bonniest. ”
The others chuckled.
Puir Sam'l! ” Pete said.
Sam'l, not being certain whether this should be received with
a smile or a frown, opened his mouth wide as a kind of compro-
mise. This was position one with him for thinking things over.
Few Auld Lichts, as I have said, went the length of choos-
ing a helpmate for themselves. One day a young man's friends
would see him mending the washing-tub of a maiden's mother.
They kept the joke until Saturday night, and then he learned
from them what he had been after, It dazed him for a time,
but in a year or so he grew accustomed to the idea, and they
were then married. With a little help, he fell in love just like
other people.
Sam'l was going the way of the others, but he found it diffi-
cult to come to the point. He only went courting once a week,
and he could never take up the running at the place where he left
## p. 1579 (#377) ###########################################
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
1579
off the Saturday before. Thus he had not, so far, made great
headway. His method of making up to Bell had been to drop
in at T’nowhead on Saturday nights and talk with the farmer
about the rinderpest.
The farm-kitchen was Bell's testimonial. Its chairs, tables,
and stools were scoured by her to the whiteness of Rob Angus's
saw-millboards, and the muslin blind on the window was
starched like a child's pinafore. Bell was brave, too, as well as
energetic. Once Thrums had been overrun with thieves. It is
now thought that there may have been only one; but he had the
wicked cleverness of a gang. Such was his repute, that there
were weavers who spoke of locking their doors when they went
from home. He was not very skillful, however, being generally
caught, and when they said they knew he was a robber he gave
them their things back and went away. If they had given him
time there is no doubt that he would have gone off with his
plunder. One night he went to T'nowhead, and Bell, who slept
in the kitchen, was awakened by the noise. She knew who it
would be, so she rose and dressed herself, and went to look for
him with a candle. The thief had not known what to do when
he got in, and as it was very lonely he was glad to see Bell.
She told him he ought to be ashamed of himself, and would
not let him out by the door until he had taken off his boots, so
as not to soil the carpet.
On this Saturday evening Samʼl stood his ground in the
square, until by and by he found himself alone.
There were
other groups there still, but his circle had melted away. They
went separately, and no one said good-night. Each took him-
self off slowly, backing out of the group until he was fairly
started.
Sam'l looked about him, and then, seeing that the others had
gone, walked round the town-house into the darkness of the brae
that leads down and then up to the farm of T'nowhead.
To get into the good graces of Lisbeth Fargus you had to
know her ways and humor them. Sam'l, who was a student of
women, knew this, and so, instead of pushing the door open and
walking in, he went through the rather ridiculous ceremony of
knocking. Sanders Elshioner was also aware of this weakness of
Lisbeth, but though he often made up his mind to knock, the
absurdity of the thing prevented his doing so when he reached
the door. T'nowhead himself had never got used to his wife's
## p. 1580 (#378) ###########################################
1580
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
refined notions, and when any one knocked he always started to
his feet, thinking there must be something wrong.
Lisbeth came to the door, her expansive figure blocking the
way in.
“Sam'l,” she said.
Lisbeth,” said Sam '1.
He shook hands with the farmer's wife, knowing that she
liked it, but only said, “Ay, Bell,” to his sweetheart, “Ay, T'now-
head,” to McQuhatty, and “It's yersel, Sanders,” to his rival.
They were all sitting round the fire; T'nowhead with his feet
on the ribs, wondering why he felt so warm, and Bell darned a
stocking, while Lisbeth kept an eye on a goblet full of potatoes.
«Sit in to the fire, Sam'l,” said the farmer, not, however,
making way for him.
“Na, na,” said Sam'l, “I'm to bide nae time. ” Then he sat
in to the fire. His face was turned away from Bell, and when
she spoke he answered her without looking round. Sam'l felt a
little anxious. Sanders Elshioner, who had one leg shorter than
the other, but looked well when sitting, seemed suspiciously at
home. He asked Bell questions out of his own head, which was
beyond Sam'l, and once he said something to her in such a low
voice that the others could not catch it. T'nowhead asked curi-
ously what it was, and Sanders explained that he had only said,
“Ay, Bell, the morn's the Sabbath. ” There was nothing start-
ling in this, but Sam'l did not like it. He began to wonder if
he was too late, and had he seen his opportunity would have
told Bell of a nasty rumor, that Sanders intended to go over to
the Free Church if they would make him kirk-officer.
Sam'l had the good will of T'nowhead's wife, who liked a
polite man. Sanders did his best, but from want of practice he
constantly made mistakes. To-night, for instance, he wore his
hat in the house, because he did not like to put up his hand and
take it off. T'nowhead had not taken his off either, but that
was because he meant to go out by and by and lock the byre
door. It was impossible to say which of her lovers Bell pre-
ferred. The proper course with an Auld Licht lassie was to
prefer the man who proposed to her.
«Ye'll bide a wee, an' hae something to eat? ” Lisbeth asked
Sam'l, with her eyes on the goblet.
“No, I thank ye,” said Sam'l, with true gentility.
« Ye'll better? »
## p. 1581 (#379) ###########################################
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
1581
“I dinna think it. ”
« Hoots ay; what's to hender ye ? »
« Weel, since ye're sae pressin', I'll bide. ”
No one asked Sanders to stay. Bell could not, for she was
but the servant, and T'nowhead knew that the kick his wife had
given him meant that he was not to do so either. Sanders
whistled to show that he was not uncomfortable.
“Ay, then, I'll be stappin' ower the brae,” he said at last.
He did not go, however. There was sufficient pride in him
to get him off his chair, but only slowly, for he had to get
accustomed to the notion of going. At intervals of two or three
minutes he remarked that he must now be going. In the same
circumstances Sam'l would have acted similarly. For a Thrums
man it is one of the hardest things in life to get away from
anywhere.
At last Lisbeth saw that something must be done. The
potatoes were burning, and T'nowhead had an invitation on his
tongue.
“Yes, I'll hae to be movin',” said Sanders, hopelessly, for the
fifth time.
“Guid-nicht to ye, then, Sanders,” said Lisbeth. “Gie the
door a fling-to ahent ye. ”
Sanders, with a mighty effort, pulled himself together.
looked boldly at Bell, and then took off his hat carefully. Sam'l
saw with misgivings that there was something in it which was
not a handkerchief. It was a paper bag glittering with gold
braid, and contained such an assortment of sweets as lads bought
for their lasses on the Muckle Friday.
“Hae, Bell,” said Sanders, handing the bag to Bell in an off-
hand way, as if it were but a trifle. Nevertheless, he was a
little excited, for he went off without saying good-night.
No one spoke. Bell's face was crimson. T'nowhead fidgeted
on his chair, and Lisbeth looked at Sam'l. The weaver
strangely calm and collected, though he would have liked to
know whether this was a proposal.
“Sit in by to the table, Sam'l,” said Lisbeth, trying to look
as if things were as they had been before.
She put a saucerful of butter, salt, and pepper near the fire
to melt, for melted butter is the shoeing-horn that helps over a
meal of potatoes. Sam'l, however, saw what the hour required,
and jumping up, he seized his bonnet.
was
## p. 1582 (#380) ###########################################
1582
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
1
“Hing the tatties higher up the joist, Lisbeth,” he said with
dignity; "I'se be back in ten meenits. ”
He hurried out of the house, leaving the others looking at
each other.
“What do ye think ? ” asked Lisbeth.
“I d’na kin,” faltered Bell.
“Thae tatties is lang o' comin' to the boil,” said T'nowhead.
In some circles a lover who behaved like Sam'l would have
been suspected of intent upon his rival's life, but neither Bell
nor Lisbeth did the weaver that injustice. In a case of this
kind it does not much matter what T’nowhead thought.
The ten minutes had barely passed when Sam'l was back in
the farm-kitchen. He was too flurried to knock this time, and
indeed Lisbeth did not expect it of him.
Bell, hae! ” he cried, handing his sweetheart a tinsel bag
twice the size of Sanders' gift.
"Losh preserve's! ” exclaimed Lisbeth; "I'se warrant there's
a shillin's worth. ”
« There's a' that, Lisbeth — an' mair,” said Sam'l, firmly.
“I thank ye, Sam'l,” said Bell, feeling an unwonted elation as
she gazed at the two paper bags in her lap.
"Ye're ower extravegint, Sam'l,” Lisbeth said.
“Not at all,” said Sam’l; "not at all. But I wouldna advise
ye to eat thae ither anes, Bell — they're second quality. ”
Bell drew back a step from Sam’l.
“How do ye kin ? ” asked the farmer, shortly; for he liked
Sanders.
"I speired i’ the shop,” said Sam'l.
The goblet was placed on a broken plate on the table, with
the saucer beside it, and Sam'l, like the others, helped himself.
What he did was to take potatoes from the pot with his fingers,
peel off their coats, and then dip them into the butter.
of love. She knows the cheat, but, feigning ignorance, lends her
pouting lips and gives a gentle blast, which warms the husband's
heart more than it cools his pudding.
T"
HE days grow short; but though the falling sun
To the glad swain proclaims his day's work done,
Night's pleasing shades his various tasks prolong,
And yield new subjects to my various song.
For now, the corn-house filled, the harvest home,
The invited neighbors to the husking come;
A frolic scene, where work and mirth and play
Unite their charms to chase the hours away.
Where the huge heap lies centred in the hall,
The lamp suspended from the cheerful wall,
Brown corn-fed nymphs, and strong hard-handed beaux,
Alternate ranged, extend in circling rows,
Assume their seats, the solid mass attack;
The dry husks rustle, and the corn-cobs crack;
The song, the laugh, alternate notes resound,
And the sweet cider trips in silence round.
The laws of husking every wight can tell;
And sure, no laws he ever keeps so well:
For each red ear a general kiss he gains,
With each smut ear he smuts the luckless swains;
But when to some sweet maid a prize is cast,
Red as her lips, and taper as her waist,
She walks the round, and culls one favored beau,
Who leaps, the luscious tribute to bestow.
Various the sport, as are the wits and brains
Of well-pleased lasses and contending swains;
Till the vast mound of corn is swept away,
And he that gets the last ear wins the day.
Meanwhile the housewife urges all her care,
The well-earned feast to hasten and prepare.
The sifted meal already waits her hand,
The milk is strained, the bowls in order stand,
## p. 1561 (#359) ###########################################
· JOEL BARLOW
1561
The fire flames high; and as a pool (that takes
The headlong stream that o'er the mill-dam breaks)
Foams, roars, and rages with incessant toils,
So the vexed caldron rages, roars and boils.
First with clean salt she seasons well the food,
Then strews the flour, and thickens well the flood.
Long o'er the simmering fire she lets it stand;
To stir it well demands a stronger hand :
The husband takes his turn, and round and round
The ladle flies; at last the toil is crowned;
When to the board the thronging huskers pour,
And take their seats as at the corn before.
I leave them to their feast. There still belong
More useful matters to my faithful song.
For rules there are, though ne'er unfolded yet,
Nice rules and wise, how pudding should be ate.
Some with molasses grace the luscious treat,
And mix, like bards, the useful and the sweet;
A wholesome dish, and well deserving praise,
A great resource in those bleak wintry days,
When the chilled earth lies buried deep in snow,
And raging Boreas dries the shivering cow.
Blest cow! thy praise shall still my notes employ,
Great source of health, the only source of joy;
Mother of Egypt's god, but sure, for me,
Were I to leave my God, I'd worship thee.
How oft thy teats these pious hands have pressed !
How oft thy bounties prove my only feast !
How oft I've fed thee with my favorite grain !
And roared, like thee, to see thy children slain.
Ye swains who know her various worth to prize,
Ah! house her well from winter's angry skies.
Potatoes, pumpkins, should her sadness cheer,
Corn from your crib, and mashes from your beer;
When spring returns, she'll well acquit the loan,
And nurse at once your infants and her own.
Milk, then, with pudding I should always choose;
To this in future I confine my muse,
Till she in haste some further hints unfold,
Good for the young, nor useless to the old.
First in your bowl the milk abundant take,
Then drop with care along the silver lake
Your flakes of pudding: these at first will hide
Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide;
## p. 1562 (#360) ###########################################
1562
JOEL BARLOW
But when their growing mass no more can sink,
When the soft island looms above the brink,
Then check your hand; you've got the portion due,
So taught my sire, and what he taught is true.
There is a choice in spoons. Though small appear
The nice distinction, yet to me 'tis clear.
The deep-bowled Gallic spoon, contrived to scoop
In ample draughts the thin diluted soup,
Performs not well in those substantial things,
Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings;
Where the strong labial muscles must embrace
The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space.
With ease to enter and discharge the freight,
A bowl less concave, but still more dilate,
Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the size,
A secret rests, unknown to vulgar eyes.
Experienced feeders can alone impart
A rule so much above the lore of art.
These tuneful lips that thousand spoons have tried,
With just precision could the point decide,
Though not in song — the muse but poorly shines
In cones, and cubes, and geometric lines;
Yet the true form, as near as she can tell,
Is that small section of a goose-egg shell,
Which in two equal portions shall divide
The distance from the centre to the side.
Fear not to slaver; 'tis no deadly sin ;-
Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin
Suspend the ready napkin; or like me,
Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee;
Just in the zenith your wise head project,
Your full spoon rising in a line direct,
Bold as a bucket, heed no drops that fall.
The wide-mouthed bowl will surely catch them all!
## p. 1563 (#361) ###########################################
1563
WILLIAM BARNES
(1800-1886)
AD he chosen to write solely in familiar English, rather than
in the dialect of his native Dorsetshire, every modern an-
thology would be graced by the verses of William Barnes,
and to multitudes who now know him not, his name would have
become associated with many a country sight and sound. Other
poets have taken homely subjects for their themes,—the hayfield,
the chimney-nook, milking-time, the blossoming of high-boughed
hedges”; but it is not every one who has sung out of the fullness of
his heart and with a naïve delight in that of which he sung: and so
by reason of their faithfulness to every-day life and to nature, and
by their spontaneity and tenderness, his lyrics, fables, and eclogues
appeal to cultivated readers as well as to the rustics whose quaint
speech he made his own.
Short and simple are the annals of his life; for, a brief period
excepted, it was passed in his native county — though Dorset, for
all his purposes, was as wide as the world itself. His birthplace was
Bagbere in the vale of Blackmore, far up the valley of the Stour,
where his ancestors had been freeholders. The death of his parents
while he was a boy threw him on his own resources; and while he
was at school at Sturminster and Dorchester he supported himself by
clerical work in attorneys' offices. After he left school his education
was mainly self-gained; but it was so thorough that in 1827 he
became master of a school at Mere, Wilts, and in 1835 opened a
boarding-school in Dorchester, which he conducted for a number of
years.
A little later he spent a few terms at Cambridge, and in
1847 received ordination. From that time until his death in 1886,
most of his days were spent in the little parishes of Whitcombe and
Winterbourne Came, near Dorchester, where his duties as rector left
him plenty of time to spend on his favorite studies. To the last,
Barnes wore the picturesque dress of the eighteenth century, and to
the tourist he became almost as much a curiosity as the relics of
Roman occupation described in a guide-book he compiled.
When one is at the same time a linguist, a musician, an antiquary,
a profound student of philology, and skilled withal in the graphic
arts, it would seem inevitable that he should have more than a local
reputation; but when, in 1844, a thin volume entitled Poems of
Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect' appeared in London, few bookshop
## p. 1564 (#362) ###########################################
1564
WILLIAM BARNES
frequenters had ever heard of the author. But he was already
well known throughout Dorset, and there he was content to be
known; a welcome guest in castle and hall, but never happier
than when, gathering about him the Jobs and Lettys with whom
Thomas Hardy has made us familiar, he delighted their ears by recit-
ing his verses. The dialect of Dorset, he boasted, was the least
corrupted form of English; therefore to commend it as a vehicle of
expression and to help preserve his mother tongue from corruption,
and to purge it of words not of Anglo-Saxon or Teutonic origin,
this was one of the dreams of his life, — he put his impressions of
rural scenery and his knowledge of human character into metrical
form. He is remembered by scholars here and there for a number
of works on philology, and one (“Outline of English Speech-Craft')
in which, with zeal, but with the battle against him, he aimed to
teach the English language by using words of Teutonic derivation
only; but it is through his four volumes of poems that he is better
remembered. These include 'Hwomely Rhymes? (1859), Poems of
Rural Life' (1862), and Poems of Rural Life in Common English
(1863). The three collections of dialect poems were brought out in
one volume, with a glossary, in 1879.
“A poet fresh as the dew,” « The first of English purely pastoral
poets,” “The best writer of eclogues since Theocritus,” — these are
some of the tardy tributes paid him. With a sympathy for his fel-
low-man and a humor akin to that of Burns, with a feeling for nature
as keen as Wordsworth's, though less subjective, and with a power
of depicting a scene with a few well-chosen epithets which recalls
Tennyson, Barnes has fairly earned his title to remembrance.
(The Life of William Barnes, Poet and Philologist,' written by
his daughter, Mrs. Baxter, was published in 1887. There are numer-
ous articles relating to him in periodical literature, one of which, a
sketch by Thomas Hardy, in Vol. 86 of the 'Athenæum,' is of peculiar
interest.
## p. 1565 (#363) ###########################################
WILLIAM BARNES
1565
BLACKMWORE MAIDENS
The primhevose sinthe sheäden do blow,
He primrwose in the sheäde do blow,
The cowslip in the zun,
The thyme upon the down do grow,
The clote where streams do run;
An' where do pretty maïdens grow
An' blow, but where the tow'r
Do rise among the bricken tuns,
In Blackmwore by the Stour?
If you could zee their comely gaït,
An' pretty feäces' smiles,
A-trippen on so light o' waight,
An' steppen off the stiles;
A-gwaïn to church, as bells do swing
An’ ring 'ithin the tow'r,
You'd own the pretty maidens' pleäce
Is Blackmwore by the Stour?
If you vrom Wimborne took your road,
To Stower or Paladore,
An' all the farmers' housen show'd
Their daughters at the door;
You'd cry to bachelors at hwome —
“Here, come: 'ithin an hour
You'll vind ten maïdens to your mind,
In Blackmwore by the Stour. ”
An' if you look'd 'ithin their door,
To zee em in their pleäce,
A-doèn housework up avore
Their smilèn mother's feäce;
You'd cry,—“Why, if a man would wive
An' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r,
Then let en look en out a wife
In Blackmwore by the Stour. ”
As I upon my road did pass
A school-house back in May,
There out upon the beäten grass
Wer maïdens at their play;
An' as the pretty souls did tweil
An' smile, I cried, “The flow'r
O' beauty, then, is still in bud
In Blackmwore by the Stour. ”
## p. 1566 (#364) ###########################################
1566
WILLIAM BARNES
MAY
CO
nome out o' door, 'tis Spring! 'tis May!
The trees be green, the vields be gay;
The weather's warm, the winter blast,
Wi' all his traïn o'clouds, is past;
The zun do rise while vo’k do sleep,
To teäke a higher daily zweep,
Wi’ cloudless feäce a-flingen down
His sparklèn light upon the groun'.
The aïr's a-streamèn soft, come drow
The windor open; let it blow
In drough the house, where vire, an' door
A-shut, kept out the cwold avore.
Come, let the vew dull embers die,
An' come below the open sky;
An' wear your best, vor fear the groun'
In colors gäy mid sheäme your gown:
An' goo an' rig wi' me a mile
Or two up over geäte an' stile,
Drough zunny parrocks that do lead,
Wi' crooked hedges, to the mead,
Where elems high, in steätely ranks,
Do rise vrom yollow cowslip-banks,
An' birds do twitter vrom the spray
O' bushes deck'd wi' snow-white mäy;
An' gil' cups, wi' the deäisy bed,
Be under ev'ry step you tread.
We'll wind up roun' the hill, an' look
All down the thickly timber'd nook,
Out where the squier's house do show
His gray-walled peaks up drough the row
O'sheädy elems, where the rock
Do build her nest; an' where the brook
Do creep along the meads, an’ lie
To catch the brightness o' the sky;
An' cows, in water to their knees,
Do stan' a-whisken off the vlees.
Mother o' blossoms, and ov all
That's feäir a-vield vrom Spring till Fall,
The gookoo over white-weäv'd seas
Do come to zing in thy green trees,
An' buttervlees, in giddy flight,
Do gleäm the mwost by thy gäy light.
## p. 1567 (#365) ###########################################
WILLIAM BARNES
1567
Oh! when, at last, my fleshly eyes
Shall shut upon the vields an' skies,
Mid zummer's zunny days be gone,
An' winter's clouds be comèn on:
Nor mid I draw upon the e'th,
O'thy sweet air my leätest breath;
Alassen I mid want to stay
Behine' for thee, O flow'ry May!
MILKEN TIME
Poems of Rural Life)
T"
WER when the busy birds did vlee,
Wi’ sheenen wings, vrom tree to tree,
To build upon the mossy lim'
Their hollow nestes' rounded rim;
The while the zun, a-zinkèn low,
Did roll along his evenèn bow,
I come along where wide-horn'd cows,
'Ithin a nook, a-screen'd by boughs,
Did stan' an' flip the white-hooped pails
Wi' heäiry tufts o' swingen tails;
An' there were Jenny Coom a-gone
Along the path a vew steps on,
A-beären on her head, upstraïght,
Her pail, wi' slowly-riden waight,
An hoops a-sheenèn, lily-white,
Ageän the evenèn's slantén light;
An' zo I took her païl, an' left
Her neck a-freed vrom all his heft;
An' she a-lookèn up an' down,
Wi’ sheäply head an' glossy crown,
Then took my zide, an' kept my peace,
A-talkèn on wi' smilèn feäce,
An' zetten things in sich a light,
I'd faïn ha' heär'd her talk all night;
An' when I brought her milk avore
The geäte, she took it in to door,
An' if her pail had but allow'd
Her head to vall, she would ha' bow'd;
An' still, as 'twer, I had the zight
Ov' her sweet smile, droughout the night.
## p. 1568 (#366) ###########################################
1568
WILLIAM BARNES
JESSIE LEE
A
BOVE the timber's bendèn sh'ouds,
The western wind did softly blow;
An' up avore the knap, the clouds
Did ride as white as driven snow.
Vrom west to east the clouds did zwim
Wi' wind that plied the elem's lim';
Vrom west to east the stream did glide,
A sheenen wide, wi' windèn brim.
How feäir, I thought, avore the sky
The slowly-zwimmèn clouds do look;
How soft the win's a-streamèn by;
How bright do roll the weavy brook:
When there, a-passèn on my right,
A-walkèn slow, an' treadèn light,
Young Jessie Lee come by, an' there
Took all my ceäre, an' all my right.
Vor lovely wer the looks her feäce
Held up avore the western sky:
An' comely wer the steps her peace
Did meäke a-walkèn slowly by :
But I went east, wi' beaten breast,
Wi' wind, an' cloud, an' brook, vor rest,
Wi' rest a-lost, vor Jessie gone
So lovely on, toward the west.
Blow on, O winds, athirt the hill;
Zwim on, clouds; O waters vall,
Down maeshy rocks, vrom mill to mill:
I now can overlook ye all.
But roll, O zun, an' bring to me
My day, if such a day there be,
When zome dear path to my abode
Shall be the road o' Jessie Lee.
## p. 1569 (#367) ###########################################
WILLIAM BARNES
1569
THE TURNSTILE
A.
H! SAD wer we as we did peace
The wold church road, wi' downcast feäce,
The while the bells, that mwoan'd so deep
Above our child a-left asleep,
Wer now a-zingen all alive
Wi' tother bells to meäke the vive.
But up at woone pleäce we come by,
'Twere hard to keep woone's two eyes dry;
On Steän-cliff road, 'ithin the drong,
Up where, as vo'k do pass along,
The turnén stile, a-painted white,
Do sheen by day an' show by night.
Vor always there, as we did goo
To church, thik stile did let us drough,
Wi' spreaden eärms that wheeld to guide
Us each in turn to tother zide.
An' vu'st ov all the train he took
My wife, wi' winsome gait an' look ;
An' then zent on my little maid,
A-skippen onward, overjäy'd
To reach ageän the pleäce o' pride,
Her comely inother's left han' zide.
An' then, a-wheelèn roun' he took
On me, 'ithin his third white nook.
An' in the fourth, a-sheäken wild,
He zent us on our giddy child.
But eesterday he guided slow
My downcast Jenny, vull o' woe,
An' then my little maid in black,
A-walken softly on her track;
An' after he'd a-turn'd ageän,
To let me goo along the leäne,
He had noo little bwoy to vill
His last white eärms, an' they stood still.
III-99
## p. 1570 (#368) ###########################################
1570
WILLIAM BARNES
TO THE WATER-CROWFOOT
O
SMALL-FEÄC'D flow'r that now dost bloom,
To stud wi' white the shallow Frome,
An' leäve the *clote to spread his flow'r
On darksome pools o' stwoneless Stour,
When sof'ly-rizèn airs do cool
The water in the sheenèn pool,
Thy beds o' snow white buds do gleam
So feäir upon the sky-blue stream,
As whitest clouds, a-hangèn high
Avore the blueness of the sky.
* The yellow water-lily.
ZUMMER AN' WINTER
Whethe pride Lea, as naighbours thought her,
HEN I led by zummer streams
The pride o' Lea, as naïghbours thought her,
While the zun, wi' evenèn beams,
Did cast our sheädes athirt the water:
Winds a-blowen,
Streams a-flowèn,
Skies a-glowèn,
Tokens ov my jay zoo feetèn,
Heightened it, that happy meetèn.
Then, when maid and man took pleäces,
Gay in winter's Chris’mas dances,
Showèn in their merry feäces
Kindly smiles an' glisnèn glances:
Stars a-winkèn,
Days a-shrinken.
Sheädes a-zinken,
Brought anew the happy me
That did meäke the night too fleetèn.
## p. 1571 (#369) ###########################################
1571
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
(1860-)
AMES MATTHEW BARRIE was born May 9th, 1860, at Kirriemuir,
Scotland (“Thrums'); son of a physician whom he has lov-
ingly embodied as Dr. McQueen, and with a mother and
sister who will live as Jess) and Leeby. After an academy course
at Dumfries he entered the University of Edinburgh at eighteen,
where he graduated M. A. , and took honors in the English Literature
class. A few months later he took a place on a newspaper in Not-
tingham, England, and in the spring of 1885 went to London, where
the papers had begun to accept his work.
Above all, the St. James's Gazette had pub-
lished the first of the "Auld Licht Idylls)
November 17th, 1884; and the editor, Fred-
erick Greenwood, instantly perceiving a new
and rich genius, advised him to work the
vein further, enforcing the advice by refus-
ing to accept his contributions on other
subjects.
He had the usual painful struggle to
become a successful journalist, detailed in
(When a Man's Single'; but his real work
was other and greater. In 1887 When a
JAMES M. BARRIE
Man's Single' came out serially in the
British Weekly; it has little merit except in the Scottish prelude,
which is of high quality in style and pathos. It is curious how
utterly his powers desert him the moment he leaves his native
heath: like Antæus, he is a giant on his mother earth and a pigmy
off it. His first published book was Better Dead (1887); it works
out a cynical idea which would be amusing in five pages, but is
diluted into tediousness by being spread over fifty. But in 1889 came
a second masterpiece, A Window in Thrums,' a continuation of the
Auld Licht series from an inside instead of an outside standpoint, —
not superior to the first, but their full equals in a deliciousness of
which one cannot say how much is matter and how much style. My
Lady Nicotine appeared in 1890;- it was very popular, and has some
amusing sketches, but no enduring quality. An Edinburgh Eleven'
(1890) is a set of sketches of his classmates and professors.
In 1891 the third of his Scotch works appeared, -- "The Little Min-
ister,' — which raised him from the rank of an admirable sketch
writer to that of an admirable novelist, despite its fantastic plot and
## p. 1572 (#370) ###########################################
1572
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
detail. Since then he has written three plays,—'Walker, London,'
Jane Annie,' and 'The Professor's Love Story,' the latter very suc-
cessful and adding to his reputation; but no literature except his
novel Sentimental Tommy, just closed in Scribner's Magazine.
This novel is not only a great advance on (The Little Minister in
symmetry of construction, reality of matter, tragic power, and in-
sight, but its tone is very different. Though as rich in humor, the
humor is largely of a grim, bitter, and sardonic sort. The light,
gay, buoyant fun of The Little Minister,' which makes it a per-
petual enjoyment, has mostly vanished; in its stead we feel that the
writer's sensitive nature is wrung by the swarming catastrophes he
cannot avert, the endless wrecks on the ocean of life he cannot suc-
cor, and hardly less by those spiritual tragedies and ironies so much
worse, on a true scale of valuation, than any material misfortune.
The full secret of Mr. Barrie's genius, as of all genius, eludes
analysis; but some of its characteristics are not hard to define. His
wonderful keenness of observation and tenacity of remembrance of
the pettinesses of daily existence, which in its amazing minuteness
reminds us of Dickens and Mark Twain, and his sensitiveness to the
humorous aspects of their little misfits and hypocrisies and lack of
proportion, might if untempered have made him a literary cynic like
some others, remembered chiefly for the salience he gave to the
ugly meannesses of life and the ironies of fate. But his good angel
added to these a gift of quick, sure, and spontaneous sympathy and
wide spiritual understanding. This fills all his higher work with a
generous appreciativeness, a justness of judgment, a tenderness of
feeling, which elevate as well as charm the reader. He makes us
love the most grotesque characters, whom in life we should dislike
and avoid, by the sympathetic fineness of his interpretation of their
springs of life and their warping by circumstance. The impression
left on one by the studies of the Thrums community is not primarily
of intellectual and spiritual narrowness, or niggardly thrift, or dour
natures: all are there, but with them are souls reaching after God
and often flowering into beauty, and we reverence the quenchless
aspiration of maligned human nature for an ideal far above its reach.
He achieves the rare feat of portraying every pettiness and preju-
dice, even the meannesses and dishonors of a poor and hidebound
country village, yet leaving us with both sincere respect and warm
liking for it; a thing possible only to one himself of a fine nature as
well as of a large mind. Nor is there any mawkishness or cheap
surface sentimentality in it all. His pathos never makes you wince:
you can always read his works aloud, the deadly and unfailing test
of anything flat or pinchbeck in literature. His gift of humor saves
him from this: true humor and true pathos are always found together
## p. 1573 (#371) ###########################################
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
1573
a
because they are not two but one, twin aspects of the very same
events.
He who sees the ludicrous in misfits must see their sadness
too; he who can laugh at a tumble must grieve over it: both are
inevitable and both are coincident.
As a literary artist, he belongs in the foremost rank. He has that
sense of the typical in incident, of the universal in feeling, and of
the suggestive in language, which mark the chiefs of letters. No one
can express an idea with fewer strokes; he never expands a sufficient
hint into an essay. His management of the Scotch dialect is mas-
terly: he uses it sparingly, in the nearest form to English compatible
with retaining the flavor; he never makes it so hard as to interfere
with enjoyment; in few dialect writers do we feel so little alienness.
(Auld Licht Idylls) is a set of regular descriptions of the life of
« Thrums, with special reference to the ways and character of the
“Old Lights,” the stubborn conservative Scotch Puritans; it contains
also a most amusing and characteristic love story of the sect (given
below), and satiric political skit. A Window in Thrums) is
mainly a series of selected incidents in detail, partly from the point
of view of a crippled woman (“Jess”), sitting at her window and
piecing out what she sees with great shrewdness from her knowledge
of the general current of affairs, aided by her daughter «Leeby. ”
(The Little Minister' is developed from the real story of a Scotch
clergyman who brought home a wife from afar, of so alien a sort to
the general run that the parish spent the rest of her short life in
speculating on her previous history and weaving legends about her.
Barrie's imagined explanation is of Arabian Nights preposterousness
of incident, and indeed is only a careless fairy-tale in substance; but
it is so rich in delicious filling, so full of his best humor, sentiment,
character-drawing, and fine feeling, that one hardly cares whether it
has any plot at all. (Sentimental Tommy) is a study of a sensitive
mobile boy, a born poseur, who passes his life in cloud-castles where
he always dramatizes himself as the hero, who has no continuity of
purpose, and no capacity of self-sacrifice except in spasms of impulse,
and in emotional feeling which is real to itself; a spiritual Proteus
who deceives even himself, and only now and then recognizes his
own moral illusiveness, like Hawthorne's scarecrow-gentleman before
the mirror: but with the irresistible instincts also of the born literary
creator and constructor. The other characters are drawn with great
power and truth.
The judgment of contemporaries is rarely conclusive; and we will
not attempt to anticipate that of posterity. It may be said, how-
ever, that the best applicable touchstone of permanency is that of
seeming continuously fresh to cultivated tastes after many readings;
and that Mr. Barrie's four best books bear the test without failure.
## p. 1574 (#372) ###########################################
1574
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
THE COURTING OF T'NOWHEAD'S BELL
From Auld Licht Idylls)
FR
OR two years it had been notorious in the square that Sam'l
Dickie was thinking of courting T'nowhead's Bell, and that
if little Sanders Elshioner (which is the Thrums pronunci-
ation of Alexander Alexander) went in for her, he might prove a
formidable rival. Samʼl was a weaver in the Tenements, and San-
ders a coal-carter whose trade-mark was a bell on his horse's neck
that told when coals were coming. Being something of a public
man, Sanders had not, perhaps, so high a social position as Sam'l;
but he had succeeded his father on the coal-cart, while the weaver
had already tried several trades, It had always been against
Sam'l, too, that once when the kirk was vacant he had advised
the selection of the third minister who preached for it, on the
ground that it came expensive to pay a large number of candi-
dates. The scandal of the thing was hushed up, out of respect
for his father, who was a God-fearing man, but Sam'l was known
by it in Lang Tammas's circle. The coal-carter was called Little
Sanders, to distinguish him from his father, who was not much
more than half his size. He had grown up with the name, and
its inapplicability now came home to nobody. Sam’l's mother had
been more far-seeing than Sanders's. Her man had been called
Sammy all his life, because it was the name he got as a boy, so
when their eldest son was born she spoke of him as Sam'l while
still in his cradle. The neighbors imitated her, and thus the
young man had a better start in life than had been granted to
Sammy, his father.
It was Saturday evening - the night in the week when Auld
Licht young men fell in love. Sam'l Dickie, wearing a blue
Glengarry bonnet with a red ball on the top, came to the door of
a one-story house in the Tenements, and stood there wriggling,
for he was in a suit of tweeds for the first time that week, and
did not feel at one with them. When his feeling of being a
stranger to himself wore off, he looked up and down the road,
which straggles between houses and gardens, and then, picking
his way over the puddles, crossed to his father's hen-house and
sat down on it. He was now on his way to the square.
Eppie Fargus was sitting on an adjoining dike, knitting stock-
ings, and Sam’l looked at her for a time.
"Is't yersel, Eppie ? ” he said at last.
## p. 1575 (#373) ###########################################
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
1575
"It's a' that,” said Eppie.
"Hoo's a' wi' ye ? ” asked Sam'l.
“We're juist aff an' on,” replied Eppie, cautiously.
There was not much more to say, but as Sam'l sidled off the
hen-house, he murmured politely, “Ay, ay. ” In another minute
he would have been fairly started, but Eppie resumed the con-
versation.
“Sam'1,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye, "ye can tell Lis-
beth Fargus I'll likely be drappin' in on her aboot Munday or
Teisday. ”
Lisbeth was sister to Eppie, and wife of Thomas McQuhatty,
better known as T’nowhead, which was the name of his farm.
She was thus Bell's mistress.
Sam'l leaned against the hen-house, as if all his desire to
depart had gone.
"Hoo d'ye kin I'll be at the T'nowhead the nicht? ” he asked,
grinning in anticipation.
“Ou, I'se warrant ye'll be after Bell,” said Eppie.
"Am no sae sure o' that,” said Sam'l, trying to leer. He was
enjoying himself now.
"Am no sure o' that,” he repeated, for Eppie seemed lost in
stitches.
« Sam 'l ? ”
Ay. ”
« Ye'll be speirin' her sune noo, I dinna doot ? "
This took Sam'l, who had only been courting Bell for a year
or two, a little aback.
"Hoo d'ye mean, Eppie ? ” he asked.
"Maybe ye'll do't the nicht. ”
Na, there's nae hurry,” said Sam 'l.
“Weel, we're a' coontin' on't, Sam'l. ”
«Gae wa wi' ye. ”
What for no ? »
"Gae wa wi' ye,” said Sam'l again.
“Bell's gei an' fond o' ye, Sam'l. ”
“Ay,” said Sam'l.
“But am dootin' ye're a fell billy wi' the lasses »
“Ay, oh, I d’na kin, moderate, moderate,” said Sam'l, in high
delight.
"I saw ye,” said Eppie, speaking with a wire in her mouth,
"gaen on terr'ble wi' Mysy Haggart at the pump last Saturday. ”
## p. 1576 (#374) ###########################################
1576
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
(
(We was juist amoosin' oorsels,” said Sam'l.
“It'll be nae amoosement to Mysy,” said Eppie, "gin ye brak
her heart. "
“Losh, Eppie,” said Sam'1, "I didna think o' that. ”
“Ye maun kin weel, Sam'], 'at there's mony a lass wid jump
at ye. ”
“Ou, weel,” said Sam'l, implying that a man must take these
things as they come.
"For ye're a dainty chield to look at, Sam 'l. ”
“Do ye think so, Eppie ? Ay, ay; oh, I d'na kin am onything
by the ordinar. »
“Ye mayna be,” said Eppie, “but lasses doesna do to be ower
partikler. ”
Sam'l resented this, and prepared to depart again.
«Ye'll no tell Bell that ? ” he asked, anxiously.
« Tell her what ? »
“Aboot me an' Mysy. "
“We'll see hoo ye behave yersel, Sam'l. ”
"No 'at I care, Eppie; ye can tell her gin ye like. I widna
think twice o' tellin' her mysel. ”
“The Lord forgie ye for leein', Sam'l,” said Eppie, as he dis-
appeared down Tammy Tosh's close. Here he came upon Hen-
ders Webster.
« Ye're late, Sam'1,” said Henders.
«What for? ”
“Ou, I was thinkin' ye wid be gaen the length o' T'nowhead
the nicht, an' I saw Sanders Elshioner makkin's wy there an oor
syne. ”
"Did ye? ” cried Sam'l, adding craftily; but its naething to
me. »
« Tod, lad,” said Henders; "gin ye dinna buckle to, Sanders 'll
be carryin' her off!
Sam'1 flung back his head and passed on.
“Sam'l! cried Henders after him.
"Ay,” said Sam'l, wheeling round.
“Gie Bell a kiss frae me. ”
The full force of this joke struck neither all at once. Sam'1
began to smile at it as he turned down the school-wynd, and it
came upon Henders while he was in his garden feeding his ferret.
Then he slapped his legs gleefully, and explained the conceit to
Will'um Byars, who went into the house and thought it over.
## p. 1577 (#375) ###########################################
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
1577
There were twelve or twenty little groups of men in the square,
which was lighted by a flare of oil suspended over a cadger's
cart. Now and again a staid young woman passed through the
square with a basket on her arm, and if she had lingered long
enough to give them time, some of the idlers would have ad-
dressed her, As it was, they gazed after her, and then grinned
to each other.
"Ay, Sam'1,” said two or three young men, as Sam'l joined
them beneath the town clock.
“Ay, Davit,” replied Sam'l.
This group was composed of some of the sharpest wits in
Thrums, and it was not to be expected that they would let this
opportunity pass. Perhaps when Sam'l joined them he knew what
was in store for him.
“Was ye lookin' for T'nowhead's Bell, Sam'1 ? ” asked one.
«Or mebbe ye was wantin' the minister ? ” suggested another,
the same who had walked out twice with Chirsty Duff and not
married her after all.
Sam'l could not think of a good reply at the moment, so he
laughed good-naturedly.
“Ondoobtedly she's a snod bit crittur,” said Davit, archly.
"An' michty clever wi' her fingers,” added Jamie Deuchars.
“Man, I've thocht o' makkin' up to Bell myself,” said Pete
Ogle. “Wid there be ony chance, think ye, Sam'1 ? ”
« I'm thinkin' she widna hae ye for her first, Pete,” replied
Sam'l, in one of those happy flashes that come to some men,
“but there's nae sayin' but what she micht tak ye to finish up wi'. ”
The unexpectedness of this sally startled every one. Though
Sam'1 did not set up for a wit, however, like Davit, it was noto-
rious that he could say a cutting thing once in a way.
"Did ye ever see Bell reddin' up? ” asked Pete, recovering
from his overthrow. He was a man who bore no malice,
It's a sicht,” said Sam'l, solemnly.
«Hoo will that be ? ” asked Jamie Deuchars.
“It's weel worth yer while,” said Pete, “to ging atower to
the T'nowhead an' see. Ye'll mind the closed-in beds i' the
kitchen ? Ay, weel, they're a fell spoilt crew, T'nowhead's litlins,
an' no that aisy to manage. Th'ither lasses Lisbeth's ha'en had
a michty trouble wi' them. When they war i' the middle o'
their reddin up the bairns wid come tumlin' about the floor, but,
sal, I assure ye, Bell didna fash lang wi' them. Did she, Sam'1 ? »
## p. 1578 (#376) ###########################################
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JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
« She
“She did not,” said Sam'l, dropping into a fine mode of speech
to add emphasis to his remark.
“I'll tell ye what she did,” said Pete to the others.
juist lifted up the litlins, twa at a time, an' flung them into the
coffin-beds. Syne she snibbit the doors on them, an' keepit them
there till the floor was dry. ”
“Ay, man, did she so ? ” said Davit, admiringly.
“I've seen her do't myself,” said Sam'l.
« There's no a lassie maks better bannocks this side o' Fetter
Lums,” continued Pete.
«Her mither tocht her that,” said Sam'l; "she was a gran'
han' at the bakin', Kitty Ogilvy. ”
"I've heard say,” remarked Jamie, putting it this way so as
not to tie himself down to anything, “'at Bell's scones is equal
to Mag Lunan's. ”
“So they are,” said Sam'l, almost fiercely.
“I kin she's a neat han’ at singein' a hen,” said Pete.
“An' wi't a',” said Davit, “she's a snod, canty bit stocky in
her Sabbath claes. »
“If onything, thick in the waist,” suggested Jamie.
“I dinna see that, said Sam'l.
"I d'na care for her hair either,” continued Jamie, who was
very nice in his tastes; "something mair yallowchy wid be an
improvement. ”
“A’body kins,” growled Sam'l, « 'at black hair's the bonniest. ”
The others chuckled.
Puir Sam'l! ” Pete said.
Sam'l, not being certain whether this should be received with
a smile or a frown, opened his mouth wide as a kind of compro-
mise. This was position one with him for thinking things over.
Few Auld Lichts, as I have said, went the length of choos-
ing a helpmate for themselves. One day a young man's friends
would see him mending the washing-tub of a maiden's mother.
They kept the joke until Saturday night, and then he learned
from them what he had been after, It dazed him for a time,
but in a year or so he grew accustomed to the idea, and they
were then married. With a little help, he fell in love just like
other people.
Sam'l was going the way of the others, but he found it diffi-
cult to come to the point. He only went courting once a week,
and he could never take up the running at the place where he left
## p. 1579 (#377) ###########################################
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
1579
off the Saturday before. Thus he had not, so far, made great
headway. His method of making up to Bell had been to drop
in at T’nowhead on Saturday nights and talk with the farmer
about the rinderpest.
The farm-kitchen was Bell's testimonial. Its chairs, tables,
and stools were scoured by her to the whiteness of Rob Angus's
saw-millboards, and the muslin blind on the window was
starched like a child's pinafore. Bell was brave, too, as well as
energetic. Once Thrums had been overrun with thieves. It is
now thought that there may have been only one; but he had the
wicked cleverness of a gang. Such was his repute, that there
were weavers who spoke of locking their doors when they went
from home. He was not very skillful, however, being generally
caught, and when they said they knew he was a robber he gave
them their things back and went away. If they had given him
time there is no doubt that he would have gone off with his
plunder. One night he went to T'nowhead, and Bell, who slept
in the kitchen, was awakened by the noise. She knew who it
would be, so she rose and dressed herself, and went to look for
him with a candle. The thief had not known what to do when
he got in, and as it was very lonely he was glad to see Bell.
She told him he ought to be ashamed of himself, and would
not let him out by the door until he had taken off his boots, so
as not to soil the carpet.
On this Saturday evening Samʼl stood his ground in the
square, until by and by he found himself alone.
There were
other groups there still, but his circle had melted away. They
went separately, and no one said good-night. Each took him-
self off slowly, backing out of the group until he was fairly
started.
Sam'l looked about him, and then, seeing that the others had
gone, walked round the town-house into the darkness of the brae
that leads down and then up to the farm of T'nowhead.
To get into the good graces of Lisbeth Fargus you had to
know her ways and humor them. Sam'l, who was a student of
women, knew this, and so, instead of pushing the door open and
walking in, he went through the rather ridiculous ceremony of
knocking. Sanders Elshioner was also aware of this weakness of
Lisbeth, but though he often made up his mind to knock, the
absurdity of the thing prevented his doing so when he reached
the door. T'nowhead himself had never got used to his wife's
## p. 1580 (#378) ###########################################
1580
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
refined notions, and when any one knocked he always started to
his feet, thinking there must be something wrong.
Lisbeth came to the door, her expansive figure blocking the
way in.
“Sam'l,” she said.
Lisbeth,” said Sam '1.
He shook hands with the farmer's wife, knowing that she
liked it, but only said, “Ay, Bell,” to his sweetheart, “Ay, T'now-
head,” to McQuhatty, and “It's yersel, Sanders,” to his rival.
They were all sitting round the fire; T'nowhead with his feet
on the ribs, wondering why he felt so warm, and Bell darned a
stocking, while Lisbeth kept an eye on a goblet full of potatoes.
«Sit in to the fire, Sam'l,” said the farmer, not, however,
making way for him.
“Na, na,” said Sam'l, “I'm to bide nae time. ” Then he sat
in to the fire. His face was turned away from Bell, and when
she spoke he answered her without looking round. Sam'l felt a
little anxious. Sanders Elshioner, who had one leg shorter than
the other, but looked well when sitting, seemed suspiciously at
home. He asked Bell questions out of his own head, which was
beyond Sam'l, and once he said something to her in such a low
voice that the others could not catch it. T'nowhead asked curi-
ously what it was, and Sanders explained that he had only said,
“Ay, Bell, the morn's the Sabbath. ” There was nothing start-
ling in this, but Sam'l did not like it. He began to wonder if
he was too late, and had he seen his opportunity would have
told Bell of a nasty rumor, that Sanders intended to go over to
the Free Church if they would make him kirk-officer.
Sam'l had the good will of T'nowhead's wife, who liked a
polite man. Sanders did his best, but from want of practice he
constantly made mistakes. To-night, for instance, he wore his
hat in the house, because he did not like to put up his hand and
take it off. T'nowhead had not taken his off either, but that
was because he meant to go out by and by and lock the byre
door. It was impossible to say which of her lovers Bell pre-
ferred. The proper course with an Auld Licht lassie was to
prefer the man who proposed to her.
«Ye'll bide a wee, an' hae something to eat? ” Lisbeth asked
Sam'l, with her eyes on the goblet.
“No, I thank ye,” said Sam'l, with true gentility.
« Ye'll better? »
## p. 1581 (#379) ###########################################
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
1581
“I dinna think it. ”
« Hoots ay; what's to hender ye ? »
« Weel, since ye're sae pressin', I'll bide. ”
No one asked Sanders to stay. Bell could not, for she was
but the servant, and T'nowhead knew that the kick his wife had
given him meant that he was not to do so either. Sanders
whistled to show that he was not uncomfortable.
“Ay, then, I'll be stappin' ower the brae,” he said at last.
He did not go, however. There was sufficient pride in him
to get him off his chair, but only slowly, for he had to get
accustomed to the notion of going. At intervals of two or three
minutes he remarked that he must now be going. In the same
circumstances Sam'l would have acted similarly. For a Thrums
man it is one of the hardest things in life to get away from
anywhere.
At last Lisbeth saw that something must be done. The
potatoes were burning, and T'nowhead had an invitation on his
tongue.
“Yes, I'll hae to be movin',” said Sanders, hopelessly, for the
fifth time.
“Guid-nicht to ye, then, Sanders,” said Lisbeth. “Gie the
door a fling-to ahent ye. ”
Sanders, with a mighty effort, pulled himself together.
looked boldly at Bell, and then took off his hat carefully. Sam'l
saw with misgivings that there was something in it which was
not a handkerchief. It was a paper bag glittering with gold
braid, and contained such an assortment of sweets as lads bought
for their lasses on the Muckle Friday.
“Hae, Bell,” said Sanders, handing the bag to Bell in an off-
hand way, as if it were but a trifle. Nevertheless, he was a
little excited, for he went off without saying good-night.
No one spoke. Bell's face was crimson. T'nowhead fidgeted
on his chair, and Lisbeth looked at Sam'l. The weaver
strangely calm and collected, though he would have liked to
know whether this was a proposal.
“Sit in by to the table, Sam'l,” said Lisbeth, trying to look
as if things were as they had been before.
She put a saucerful of butter, salt, and pepper near the fire
to melt, for melted butter is the shoeing-horn that helps over a
meal of potatoes. Sam'l, however, saw what the hour required,
and jumping up, he seized his bonnet.
was
## p. 1582 (#380) ###########################################
1582
JAMES MATTHEW BARRIE
1
“Hing the tatties higher up the joist, Lisbeth,” he said with
dignity; "I'se be back in ten meenits. ”
He hurried out of the house, leaving the others looking at
each other.
“What do ye think ? ” asked Lisbeth.
“I d’na kin,” faltered Bell.
“Thae tatties is lang o' comin' to the boil,” said T'nowhead.
In some circles a lover who behaved like Sam'l would have
been suspected of intent upon his rival's life, but neither Bell
nor Lisbeth did the weaver that injustice. In a case of this
kind it does not much matter what T’nowhead thought.
The ten minutes had barely passed when Sam'l was back in
the farm-kitchen. He was too flurried to knock this time, and
indeed Lisbeth did not expect it of him.
Bell, hae! ” he cried, handing his sweetheart a tinsel bag
twice the size of Sanders' gift.
"Losh preserve's! ” exclaimed Lisbeth; "I'se warrant there's
a shillin's worth. ”
« There's a' that, Lisbeth — an' mair,” said Sam'l, firmly.
“I thank ye, Sam'l,” said Bell, feeling an unwonted elation as
she gazed at the two paper bags in her lap.
"Ye're ower extravegint, Sam'l,” Lisbeth said.
“Not at all,” said Sam’l; "not at all. But I wouldna advise
ye to eat thae ither anes, Bell — they're second quality. ”
Bell drew back a step from Sam’l.
“How do ye kin ? ” asked the farmer, shortly; for he liked
Sanders.
"I speired i’ the shop,” said Sam'l.
The goblet was placed on a broken plate on the table, with
the saucer beside it, and Sam'l, like the others, helped himself.
What he did was to take potatoes from the pot with his fingers,
peel off their coats, and then dip them into the butter.
