Ben An' TH' Bantam A Sequel To 'Besom Ben' - Waugh

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BEN AN’ T11’ BANTAM.
CHAPTER I
“ llow beautiful upon the mnuntains.”—ISAIAH.
' HEN the sun has gone down behind the

| hills on a cloudless summer evening, how
i‘ the splendid hues that trail upon his
7 r " skirts deepen in magnificence as they
melt away—like the cadence of some mighty minstrel’s
song. As the gorgeous pageant fades from the west,
the landscape it is leaving seems to stand still and
gaze upon that departing glory, whilst “all the air a
solemn stillness holds.” The voices of the waters
sink to a softer tone; and the wind glides through the
woods with its finger on its lip. The courteous pla
nets restrain their waiting fires, and hold in the twink
ling children of the sky, till the carlége of the king of
day has left the scene to their milder influence. All
nature seems at pause, in an attitude of breathless ado
B
4 Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam.
ration, and “the holy time is quiet as a nun." It‘ is
the Vesper-hour ; and all the world is stilled to con
templations fine. . . . And by the time these solemn
splendours have passed the outward portals of day,
what a chastely-glorious change has come over the
sun-vacated scene. The aisles of earth are wrapt
in shade: but the sky is robed in its nightly glory;
and the blue fields of heaven are strewn with flowers
of twinkling gold. Those ancient lights—which are
“ but dust in the footsteps of God"—are looking down
in benign comment upon the drowsy world, steeping
the air in a mysterious spell. The sapphire vault is
filled with awful beauty; for where the stars are not,
the unfathomable witchery of the blue sky is there;
and wandering man looks up in speechless awe through
the fumes of his little life to that “brave, o’erhanging
firmament, fretted with golden fires” all through the
silent night. . . . But night is not silent. The tone
alone is changed ; for nature’s music never dies. As
darkness draws her curtains in the wake of retiring
day, viewless minstrels take up the hymn of adoration,
filling the hours of shade with under-songs too fine for
the ear of sun-lit noon. Strange, low melodies, and
plaintive, creeping sounds come upon every sough of
the wind. Soft-footed pipers wander about the night
deserted paths of life, trailing through the listening air
delicate strains of unworldly tenderness, that fondle
the silent haunts of man, then float away to die out
upon bleak wilds where his footing is a wonder.
Anon comes that most mysterious hour of all the
night, just before the timid dawn begins to touch the
Ben an‘ t/f Bantam. 5
eyelids of the stars with drowsiness, and spread her
first tinge of grey upon the sleepy mountain slopes.
That still hour, when “the sightless couriers of the air”
are whispering about the slumbrous earth that morn
is coming; and when, at their summons, the dusky
legions of night wake up to take their wonted west
ward way ; leaving the weary world still wrapt in sleep
behind. “The charm dissolves apace,” and as grey
dawn creeps over the summits of the eastern hills, lift
ing with soft finger, the noiseless latch of day—oh,
the wrapt stillness! oh, the fresh, the lonely, lovely
charm of that enchanted hour! . . . The light-slum
bering flowers begin to feel the tender glow of the yet
unrisen sun ; and the wild rose, half asleep, stirs her
scented leaves, and whispers to her little buds that it
will soon be day. The dew-drop, which has been
sleeping all night in a cowslip-bell, with a star upon
its breast, now roused by the rosy tinge that warms
the morning air, begins to twinkle anew in its scented
bed; and the pale gold lappets of its sweet companion
rustle with delight as they unfold to meet the sunny
ray. The wind turns over in its sleep, and sighs;
then prunes its viewless wings, and takes a matin
flight o’er hill and dale, waking the dew-pearled
heather from its nightly spell. And as it wanders
among the dreaming wild—flowers, it whistles a tiny
call through the grassy portals of the skylark’s cot,
that shakes a pearlet from the lily’s rim that over
hangs the minstrel’s nest. The speckled lyrist trims
his wings, and springs aloft to chant ‘his morning
welcome to the sun. and rain his gladness down upon
_. ..__ __-:..._ .-~.ififi---s_

the new-awakening world. . . And now, “night’s
candles are burnt out; and jocund day stands tip-toe
on the mountain top ;” and all the dewy hills and dales
are dancing once more in rosy light! . . . There is
more of heaven than of earth in these fine transitions
of night and day. How long has this grand proces
sion been going by? Through how many cycles of
strange mutation has this little orb of ours watched
the waning and returning of the stars that stud yon
sapphire dome? How long have the trackless shores
of an unpeopled world listened to the “washing of the
lonely seas, and piping of the salted breeze.”
Through such a glorious summer night as this poor
Ben, the besom-maker and herb—gatherer of Lobden
Moor, slept soundly in the rude, sweet chamber of
his lonely cottage, with his blooming young wife by
his side, and his rosy children laid at rest about him.
And on such a cloudless summer morning he awoke
at cock-crow, to fill another page of the simple annals
of his life. He awoke refreshed, for his slumbers
were sweet, “from pure digestion bred.” The sun’s
glowing disc had risen above the summit of the hills ;
and the landscape was bathing with delight in the
splendour of the morning. A slant gleam of sunshine
crossed Ben’s chamber window like a bar of gold;
and the blue sky was in view from the place where he
lay. Birds were twittering blithely about the eaves
of the cottage, and on the sill of the chamber window,
and the chuckling cry of the red grouse rose wildly,
now and then, from the moorlands around. The dis
tant “moo” of large-uddered kine came up from the
Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam. 7
valley in the stillness of the morning, blending with
the fainter sound of the early mower’s song, as he
sauntered towards the meadows “to dip his scythe
in fragrant dew.”
As Ben lay gazing around, the fresh beauty of the
morning touched his heart with pleasure, although
the first thing that crossed his mind on awaking was a
painful recollection of the folly of the previous day.
He looked round the little chamber where his young
sters lay; and he looked at his sleeping wife, and
he sighed and felt ashamed of himself; and, as he
simmered over the business of the new day, he re
solved to be more careful in the future. Gently
unwinding the round arm of his sweet young dame,
he softly raised himself up, and, shading away a
flaxen tress that had straggled down upon her brow,
he gazed into her face with quiet joy ; for sleep had
laid a strange spell of placid beauty upon her comely
countenance. Her rosy lips were slightly parted, and
her sweet breath came and went in well-timed play
between those tempting portals, as Ben gazed on
her delighted, though he dreamt not why. Rising
carefully from bed, for fear of waking his little house‘
hold before their time, he happed the clothes about
his sleeping wife, and went towards the chamber
window with noiseless tread.
The furniture of the chamber was rude and scanty ,
but all was clean, and sweet as a country garden “ in
simple time ;” and the walls were spotless with new
whitewash, the work of Ben’s own hands, about a
month before. Above the little mantel-piece hung a
rude coloured picture of “Joseph and his Brethren."
Ben and his wife set great store upon this picture.
It was the gift of Betty’s grandmother, when Betty
and Ben began to “set up house together ;” and it
was the only ornament upon the walls of their bed
chamber. In one corner stood the “kist,” which
contained all the family’s stock of clean clothing, well
scented with sprigs of lavender. In another corner
was the little bed on which the children slept. Ben
stopped to look at them. . . The bedclothes had
fallen to the floor; and there the rosy cupids lay, like
breathing statues, in their “cutty sarks,” their soft,
round limbs thrown carelessly at ease, and the pearly
moisture of sleep glittering on their faces, like morning
dew on wild flowers. The youngest had two crushed
butter-cups still clasped in his dimpled hand; and his
little button-hole of a mouth was “sticky” with the
toffy which his mother had given to him at bedtime.
The other lay aslant the bed, with one leg across his
brother’s breast; and a small wooden horse, which
had fallen from his grasp, lay by the bed side, wheels
uppermost. Moving the lads carefully into their
places, Ben lifted the horse from the floor, and
stabled it by the side of its sleepy little owner again ;
and then he laid the fallen clothes softly down upon
them. As he stood by the bed looking at them as
they lay locked in sleep, like two shut daisies waiting
for the sun, he felt inclined to kiss the lads, but he
was afraid that the prickly stubble upon his chin
might disturb their slumbers. Ben’s eyes wandered
with delight over their features; and, as he turned
away to open the chamber window, he muttered
to himself, “God bless ‘em. They’re bonny uns!”
Ben opened the window softly, and looked out.
‘The cottage stood by the side of a rough bridle
path, which led up from the green valley, and away,
in wild meanderings, far northwards through the lonely
hills. It was a solitary spot, about half a mile above
the place to which the last faint evidence of agricul~
ture had crept up the mountain side. The flowering
heather waved all around, except upon a small plot
in front of the house, which Ben had laboured into a
garden, and which he had enclosed with rude low
walls of stone, piled up without mortar. A little
moorland stream ran down a green crease behind
the house, along a well-worn bed of rock ; and on a
Sunday, when the besom-maker’s humble household
was stiller even than usual, the lonely plover’s plain
tive cry, and the wild “hech-hech-hech” of distant
moorfowl, mingling with the low murmur of the
stream, were almost the only sounds astir, except
the tinkling of the spring which trickled down into
the well-trough in front of the cottage window.
The wild heath was all sprinkled with pearls of
sunlit dew; and a still rapture lay upon the lonely
moorland, where the summer “like a hermit dwelt.”
The blooming heather filled the morning air with
delight. Wild birds were twittering all round the
cottage ; and the lark had gone up towards the fount
ains of day with his load of morning music. Ben’s
eyes wandered over the scene with delight, settling
at last upon his own little garden, where a few pet
flowers and aromatic herbs were mingling their sweets
‘ with the “goodly smells” of a bush of sweetbriar and
a bed of flowering mignonette.
“Ay !” said Ben, slowly snifiing the perfumed gale.
and rubbing his hands. “ Eh, it is a bonny mornin’!
It is,—a grand mornin’ !” Then closing the window,
he quietly dressed himself, and crept down stairs in
his stocking feet, muttering to himseif, “ By th’ mon,
aw’ve rivven my breeches again ; an’ there’s a hole
i’ one o’ my stockin’s ; but aw darn’t ax her to mend
’em to-day, at after makin’ sich a foo’ o’ mysel’. Aw’ll
pin my breeches up, till aw see heaw hoo is when hoo
gets eawt o’ bed.”
As he crept down, the stairs creaked. He stopped
and listened ; but the sleepers slept on ; so he crept
end-way. When he had got down he softly opened
the house door to let in the morning air. And then
he stood in the middle of the floor a minute, yawn
ing, and stretching his arms, and looking around him.
. . His shoes were in a corner, near the fire~place, .
under a small shelf, which held his clay pipes, and
tobacco in a brown pot with a lid on it. Above the
shelf a little old-fashioned Dutch clock hung against
the wall ; and its ticking sounded unusually clear in
the stillness of the house. Ben’s jacket lay on the
old couch<chair ; and the cat was asleep upon it as
usual ; but, aroused by the opening of the door, puss
raised her head and yawned and stretched herself;
and then she jumped down and began to scratch the
leg of the table. When she had satisfied herself with
this exercise. she walked with a slow contemplative
Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam. II
air to the door-step, where she sat down, with her
tail folded about her, looking around. On a small
wooden “ winter-hedge ” in front of the fire-place, a
few clean clothes hung, which had been airing all
night. Upon a “brade-fleigh,” or bread-rack, which
was suspended from the ceiling, like a great square
harp, a few oat-cakes were spread, with their ends
curled up about the strings. The pots and other eat
ing utensils were all in their places in the old wooden
rack against the wall ; for Betty was a tidy body, and
she had washed and “sided” the supper things, and
put the house to rights, after Ben had gone to bed on
the previous night. On the window-sill stood two
fine balsams and a myrtle, in pots. There lay Ben’s
tobacco-box, too, which he had left on the table the
night before. In a corner of the same window there
was a little pile of books—an old Bible, a Prayer
Book, “Culpepper’s Herbal,” “Baxter’s Saints‘ Rest,"
and “ Boston’s Four-fold State.” Ben’s whip lay by
the side of his jacket; and a pile of ling besoms
stood behind the door, ready for sale. The floor
was swept clean; and bundles of dried herbs hung,
here and there, from books in the ceiling ; and they
filled all the house with a goodly smell.
Ben drew up a chair, and sat down to put his shoes
on. Then he rose and walked to the doorway ; and,
leaning himself against the lintel, he looked quietly
around.
The water of the spring in front of the cottage was
running over the lip of a green dock-leaf which Betty
had placed in the stone-spout the day before. The
slant sunshine caught the pearly rindle as it fell into
the trough, tinging it with rosy beauty; and golden
ripples shimmered on the surface of the well, for a
little wind had got up; and all the dew-drops on the
blooming moorland were trembling with delight in
morning’s orient smile. It was a sweet nook of soli
tary life, that rough cottage among the wild heather ;
and the fresh elements of nature played about it
lovingly.
The things that lay, here and there, about the out
side of the house, showed the lonely security of the
spot; and they told, also, something of the simple
life of the dwellers therein. . . . Dimple’s panniers
were reared against the green bank in front of the
cottage, close by a small heap of coals, which Ben
had bought at the pit-mouth in the valley, and brought
up the moor side on Dimple’s back. These were
burnt very sparingly, with dried roots, brushwood, and
other bits of wild “ eilding,” and kept sheltered from
the weather in the low part of a rough wooden shed,
which Ben had put up at the house-end. In the upper
part of this shed there was a strong shelf, upon which
were nests of hay, and above that, roosting-rails for
the hens. Ben had seven hens, of prime breeds; and
he was very proud of them. A mop was leaned, han
dle downwards, against the door of the shed. A few
new-washed children’s clothes were bleaching in the
moorland air, upon a low thorn hedge close by; and
a large iron porridge-pan, quite clean, was laid upon
its side, near the stone well-trough. . . . Ben’s don
key was grazing upon a little plot of green ground,
Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam. I3
near the house end. Dimple had free range of the
wild moors, and of all the scanty herbage that grew
upon the margin of the mountain stream. Sometimes,
at close of day, he wandered down towards the
valley, to crop a mouthful of richer grass from the
hedge sides of cultivated grounds; but as morning
returned, he wandered up the bridle-path again towards
the place where he was born. . . . The donkey pricked
his ears when he heard the door open, and he stood,
with lifted head, chewing, and gazing quietly at his
master.
“Well, Dimple,” said Ben, sauntenng up to his
donkey, and scratching his ears, “heaw arto gettin’ on
amung it? Thae looks as iv thae’d bin chewin’ moon
leet, owd lad. Here,” continued he, taking a handful
of wiry hay from the shed at the end of the house,
and flinging it down before Dimple, “get that into
tho, while aw goo an’ look after yon fire.” Dimple
gave his tail 2. double-breasted whisk, and bent down
to the sweet rough fare that lay under his nose; whilst
Ben went to the shed for some dry “eilding,” and
then turned into the house to make the fire. As he
was shifting the “ winter hedge” away from the hearth,
the cat came and rubbed herself against his leg.
“ Neaw, puss,” said Ben, bending down and stroking
her, “thae mun ston fur, whol aw get this fire made.
Aw’ll gi’ tho a saup o’ milk or summat, directly.” And
- puss went and sat down at one side of the cold hearth
stone, watching his operations with a thoughtful look.
As Ben took up the poker to scale the ashes out ot
the fire-grate, he upset the tongs, which were reared
"tT-‘ui- “ix ..._.. ..‘ .......‘ - .._..‘........
I4 Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam.

against the hob. “Nea then, clumsy,” said Ben,
looking at the poker ; “doesn’t tho know yon childer
are asleep? Thae desarves puncin’.” But the din
had wakened Betty; and, creeping to the head of the
stairs, she said, “ Is that thee, Ben l”
‘‘ Ay-U
“ l/Vhat’s o’ that din?"

“ It’s th’ tongs ’at’s fo’n.”
“ Hasto made th’ fire?”
“ Nawe ; but aw’m beawn to do. Wheer’s th’ tinder
box ?”
“Thae‘ll find it upo th’ pot shelf. Dunnot make
sich a din. What time is’t ?”
“Ten minutes past five. Arto beawn to ha’ porritch;
or thae’ll ha’ tay?”
“ Aw think aw’ll have a saup o’ tay this mornin’,”
replied Betty. Aw dunnot feel so weel. But aw’ll
get up.”
“ Where’s th’ hen-meight ?” continued Ben.
“Aw’ll be deawn directly,” replied Betty. “An’
doesto yer, Ben T’—
“ What ?”
“Mind tho doesn’t deet thoose clen clooas."
“ O reet,” replied Ben.
As Ben laid the firing together, he muttered to
himself, “ Th’ owd lass seawnds as iv hoo wur th’
better side eawt this mornin’. It’s moor nor aw ex
pected, too. But—howd oiT—aw’s ha’ to catch it,
yet. Aw‘m flayed hoo’s savin’ it up for a gradely
brast-off.” When he had lit the fire, he filled the
kettle from the well, and set it on ; and then, taking
Ben an’ :71’ Bantam. 15
several besoms from the pile behind the door, he laid
them together outside, so as to be ready for his journey.
Then getting upon a chair, he reached down from
the ceiling four bundles of hyssop and a bunch of
mountain flax, and laid them upon the table under
the window Then he went and stirred the fire and
looked into the kettle. “It’s just startin’ a-singin,”
said he, sitting down and stroking the cat, which had
come to rub itself against his leg again.
In a few minutes Betty came down stairs. “ Does
it boighl?” said she, looking at the kettle, as she stood
in the middle of the floor tying a check lin apron on.
“ It’s just beginnin’, sitho,” replied Ben, pointing at
the steaming spout.
As she bustled about, laying the breakfast things on
the little white-topped round table, she said : “ Let’s
see. Thae’s some eggs to tak’ this mornin’, hasn’to?”
“Yigh,” replied Ben, “A shillin’s-’oth ; and four
besoms; an’ thoose yarbs ‘at’s upo‘ th’ table. They’re
o’ for th’ Bull’s Yed. An’ then aw‘ve six for th’ Tobe’s
Yed ; an’ six for Clement’s, at th’ Failinge; and six for
Owd Jacob’s, at Cronkyshay.”
“Well,” answered Betty, “ come an’ get thi breigk
fast. Will thae ha’ tay, too ?”
“Aw think aw’ll have a cup o’ tay,” replied Ben,
sitting quietly down at the far side of the table.
The meal was sweet and simple. Home-baked
cakes, fresh moorland butter, and a plate full of crisp
salad, new from the garden, and dripping with well
water. Very few words passed between Ben and
Betty as they sat at their morning meal.
“Wilt have another cup 7'” said Betty, holding up
the tea'pot.
“Nawe,” replied Ben, “it tastes to strung o’ th’
wayter for my likin’.”
“ It happen hasn’t studden lung enough,” continued
Betty. “Aw’ll make a saup o’ fresh i’tho likes.
“Nay,” replied Ben, “it doesn’t matter. Aw’ll
sup o’ churn-milk. Ne’er mind makin’ fresh for
me.”
And he rose from the table to prepare for his
journey.
“Here,” said Betty, setting down her cup, “aw’ll
get th’ eggs ready for tho ;” and whilst Ben went and
bridled Dimple, and put his panniers on, she counted
out the eggs ; and taking down a little basket which
hung from the ceiling, she filled the bottom of it
with hay, and laid the eggs carefully inside.
Ben stood with Dimple at the door, arranging his
load in the panniers.
“ Let’s see,” said he, “there’s four besoms for Jem’s
at th’ Bull,—an’ thoose yarbs,—an’ a shillin’-’oth o’
eggs ; an’ hauve a dozen besoms for Owd Clement’s ;
an’ hauve a dozen for th’ Tobe’s Yed. . . Betty, bring
thoose eggs l”
“Neaw,” said Betty, bringing the basket to the
door, “ thae mun mind heaw tho carries ’em.”
“They’n sit nicely o’th’ top here,” replied Ben,
putting the basket into the pannier.
“Neaw, hasto getten o’ reet?” said Betty, sidling
up towards the donkey.
“ As soon as aw’ve tightened this bally-bant a bit,”
Ben an’ :7l’ Bantam. ‘ I7
replied Ben, tugging at the strap. “Neaw, doesto
want aught bringin’ back—afore aw start ?”
“Well, aw don’t know that we wanten ought,”
answered Betty. “But aw’ll tell tho what—thae may
bring a twothre red yerrin’ iv thae can get ’em good
uns.”
“ Red yerrin’ !” said Ben. “ What’s put red yerrin’
into thi yed? Thae’ll be like to have ’em iv thae’s
taen a fancy to ’em. . . Aw’ll bring tho some, thae’s
see. . . My fayther use’t to co’ ’em ‘Lent chickens.’
Aw co’ em’ one-e’ed askards. But, iv thae wants ’em
thae’st have ’em,”
“Eh, Ben,” said Betty; “dunnot begin a-makin’
no mak o’ nonsense. Thae’ll be gettin’ wrang again.
Aw never like to see tho o’ thissens. Thae knows
what a foo thae made o’ thisel’ yesterday. Do mind
what thae’rt doin’, pritho. Aw’d sooner see tho
deawn-hearted nor foolish ony time—for then thae
con tak care o’ thisel’ some bit like. . . Come, aw’ll
goo a bit ov a gate witho.”
And away they went together, slowly down the old
bridle-path.
CHAPTER II.
“ i’oor fellow; he’d a deal o’ heart,

But very little head.”
BENJAMIN PRESTON.
previous day, that he listened silently to

the admonitions of his wife, pretending
. a all the while to be arranging the things
in the panniers. But the poor fellow heard it all;
and every word woke up a fresh pang of shame within
him. The only reply he made was when she con
cluded with the inevitable words, “ An’ do mind what
thae’rt doin’ neaw; doesto yer?” Ben pricked his
ears at the words, as he stood there like a shy lad
smarting under the reprimand of his schoolmaster;
and, as he fumbled with his teeth at an imaginary
knot on the end of his whip-lash, he muttered in reply
to his wife, “Ay ; aw yer.” “Well, for God’s sake
heed then,” answered Betty; “an’ dunnot goo an’
make thisel’ into a country-side’s talk. Have a bit o’
wit—for th’ childer’s sake; doesto yer?” “Ay; aw
yer,” replied Ben “Well, then, do, aw beg on tho,
tak care. :Thae’ll find thi dinner i’th bottom- o’th
basket. Neaw, thae’ll- get back soon, winnot tho?”
“Yigh, aw. will,” replied Ben, giving the donkey a
switch, and beginning to whistle alow tune.
“Well, aw‘ll come deawn a~meetin’ tho. ‘Thae’ll
beback bi four o’clock, winnottho ?” ‘ ‘
“Ay, lung. afore that,” replied Ben, “lung afore
that, iv o’ leets reet. But aw’ll meet tho theer bi that
time, as heaw ’tis.”
It was well that Betty pushed .the thing no further,
for the water was rising into Ben’s eyes as he walked
slowly on, by the side of his donkey, kicking at bits
of stone in the road, and making a tremulous attempt
at whistling, which came sputtering from his lips as if
his mouth was. full of peas. Betty knew what was
going on in his heart as well as if it had been her
own; and she began tothink that she had spoken too
roughly to him, and she sighed as she followed the
poor fellow down the old bridle path. Perhaps there
are few in the world who have parted, even for a short
time, from those they loved well without the heart
being touched with someshadowy thought of the
inevitable hour when. they-return no more. “.Aw
think aw’ll go no fur," said she; “aw mun turnback
to th’-.childer.”. And she stopped and .watched him
wandering on; but, as he drew: near a turn inthe road
round which he would be out of .sight, she cried out,
“Well, good mornin.’ to tho!” .“Good. mornin’l”
replied Ben, giving‘ a sly glance back and playing. with
his whip-lash. In another minute he had-disappeared ;
and as Betty stood gazing at the vacantroad, all the
c
20 Ben an’ a’ Bantam.
tenderness of her nature welled up within her. Turn.
ing away towards home again, she wiped her eyes and
sighed, for her heart was full. As soon as she reached
the cottage, she went up stairs to the children. Little
Billy was sitting up in bed, playing with his wooden
horse. The younger child was still asleep. Snatch
ing Billy up in her arms, she clasped him to her breast,
as she sat down upon the bedside, and burst into tears.
The child gazed into his mother’s face, and stretching
his little round arms up to clip his mother’s neck, he
cried, “Mam! mam! mam!” weeping as if his little
heart would break. This woke up the younger child,
- and it began to cry. Still holding Billy in her arms.
she flew to it, and sat down by its side, trying to
soothe first one then the other of her weeping children.
“Husht, my love!” said she, happing the clothes
about it, “come, husht, my darlin’l” and, as she swayed
to and fro, caressing the little things by turns, the
tears came dreeping from her eyes upon the bed
clothes, like rain-drops from a wind-shaken rose bush.
. . It was some time before the storm of feeling
had swept by, and Betty’s heart was relieved. But at
last the younger child became silent, and Billy had
sobbed himself to sleep again, with his thumb in his
mouth. Betty laid the sleeping lad down in bed
again, by the side of his brother, and when she had
drawn the clothes about them, she took a long look
at their faces, and then crept away; and all the little
house was still ; for the poor woman went very quietly
from side to side about her work. Opening the “kist”
where Ben’s clothes lay, she took them out one by
.x- vv\v-' v'i'F-n-Méw ‘—'
Ben an’ #2’ Bantam. 21

one, and examined them, and brushed them, and
then refolded them, and put them carefully by again,
with a few fresh sprigs of lavender strewn amongst
them.
Meanwhile Ben is wandering on his way towards
the main road in the valley, still touched at heart with
a little sadness. As he descends the hill-side he leaves
the stillness of the lonely moors farther behind, and
draws nearer to morning sounds of life in the green
valley. The bridle-path led through a grove of fir
trees, where the sunshine lay in straggled streaks of
gold on a shady bank flushed with a sky of blue-bells
The moorland stream ran through this grove, and
Ben sat himself down by the ‘water to tie his shoes
again, and to look about him. Dimple had stopped
of his own accord when he saw Ben sit down. They
were great lingerers in the quiet paths, these two
wayfaring friends.
As Ben sat playing with a blue-bell, and listening
to the pleasant sounds which rose on every hand, he
said, as he looked dreamily through an opening in the
trees, “Aw don’t know ’at ever aw see’d a grander
hay-time nor this—never! Aw wish owd Dan o’
Dolly’s would start a-cuttin’. Aw could like a two
thre days amoon th’ hay. Th’ owd lad happen thinks
this weather’s beawn to last for ever. But aw’d begin
this very day iv aw’re him. All things has but a time ;
all things has but a time i’ this world,” continued be,
rising to his feet. “Come up, Dimple. Let’s be
gooin’ a bit fur.”
As they started lazily away, Ben sighed, as he stuck
a sprig of thom-blossom into his button-hole, and
began to sing :—
Good lorjus days, what change there is
Upon this mortal greawnd ;
As time goes creepin’ o’er one’s yed,
Heaw quarely things comes reawnd ;
The ups an’ deawns, the ins an’ eawts,-—
The blendin’ ill an’ weel
There is i’ one poor crayter’s life,—
It is not for to tell.
Ben’s store of country song was replete with quaint

and varied scraps,—as varied as the changeful moods
of his own mind ; and as he emerged from the grove
into full view of the valley, he switched his whip-lash
carelessly from side to side, and chanted again, as he
gazed around with delight :—
It’s aw know not, aw care not,
Aw connot tell heaw to woo ;
But, let’s away to th’ merry greenwood,
An’ we’n get nuts enoo‘.
Ben’s heart grew more cheerful as he got lower into

the vale, where the haymakers were singing at their
work in the meadows, and all the world was smiling
in its flowery summer robe. The ridge of the oppo
site hill, like that he had left behind, was bleak
moorland; but the low grounds were nearly all green
pasture and meadow lands. The wild rose warmed
the thick-leaved hedges with its simple beauty. Birds
were singing in every bush and tree ; and Ben, as he
lounged along, with a heart attuned to the music of
nature, broke out again :—
Tum Posy coom o’ daycent folk
O’th’ good owd moorlan’ breed ;
A seawnder, sweeter-lookin’ lad,
No mortal ever see’d;
He stoode six feet, his een wur breet,
His voice were leawd an’ clear,—
But Tum could whisper low an’ sweet
Into a woman’s car.
And thus, as he went singing and 'sauntering down
towards the main road in the valley, he stopped an
instant again to peep through the hedge at a number
of haymakers at work in a great meadow. It was a
pleasant sight to Ben, and there are few people in the
world who can look upon it without delight. The
farm-house stood at the head of ‘the meadow; and a
stout old woman came to the door, and shading her
eyes from the sun with her hands, she shouted down
the meadow, to the haymakers, in a shrill voice,
“Come to your'breakfasts, lads!” Down went rake
and scythe; and the merry haymakers straggled up
the perfumed meadow, laughing and chattering toge
ther on‘their way to their morning meal. “Aw wish
aw’re amoon that lot!” said Ben, rubbing his hands
as he watched them up‘the slope. He watched them
till the last had disappeared, and then he cracked his
- whip, and went ‘his way again. When Ben came'out
upon the high road, near the little hamlet of Facit, he
became thoughtful ; for as he looked towards the
cluster of houses he had to pass, ‘he felt afraid that
the “Facit folk” might have heard of the foolish
adventure he had‘ been engaged in on the previous
day. Laying hold of' the donkey’s bridle, he stopped.
Then he scratched his head, and looked round, as if
he would rather have gone some other way, so as to
avoid the hamlet. “Aw make no ’ceawnt o’ goin’
through that hole this mornin’,” said he. “But
it’s like to be done. Aw mun co’ at th’ Bull’s Yed
wi’ these things.” And he might well be afraid, for
though the hamlet consisted of only half a dozen
houses or so, in addition to the old inn, the inhabi
tants were too curious to let anything go by without
scrutiny, and very seldom, too, without some rude
comment, bluntly spoken enough. The chief danger
was at the Bull’s Head. Houses of that kind were
rare upon that then comparatively lonely road ; and
though the population, with the exception of the inha
bitants of the half dozen dwellings about the alehouse,
was very thin and widely-scattered, the Bull’s Head
was not often without company—carters, sportsmen,
farmers, and other country folks from solitary nooks
of the hills around—many of them people who lived
partly by farming and partly by woollen weaving,
which last was done at their own houses in those days.
Our poor besom-maker was an unusually sensitive
man. His neighbours knew this very well, and for
the most part they could not understand it. Many of
them looked upon that strange sensibility of his as
something especially unaccountable in one of his
position in life—a kind of disease, in fact, which
needed more than usual rough treatment, and this
was a view which the natural simplicity of the man
helped to strengthen. Ben was afraid of the Bull’s
Head; for he knew his customers. But he had to
leave his besoms, and eggs, and herbs there; so at
last he took heart of grace and went forward, deter
mined not to enter the house. As he drew nearer he
saw that three carts, heavily laden with stone from
the delfs in the neighbourhood, stood in front of
the inn : and he was glad of it, for they partly
screened the windows. But when he got a little
nearer still he heard loud peals of laughter inside,
and the sound went through him like a knife, for be
imagined himself the subject of that boisterous merri
ment. He thought it possible that he might get by
safely, under cover of the carts in front of the house,
if he only had his goods delivered; and he was just
thinking of creeping round the corner to hand them in
at the back door when his plan was changed. An old
broken-down serving-man, or hanger-on, called Dody
o’ Flutter’s, who acted as brewer, ostler, messenger,
scavenger, and man-of-all-work, was holding up a
bucket of water to the mouth of one of the horses
at the door, when, hearing footsteps on the road, he
looked ofi‘ at the side of the horse’s head, and, setting
the bucket down, he cried out, “Hello, Ben, owd
mon! Is tat tee? Thae’rt just i’ time. They’re
havin’ a rare do i’th inside here.”
“Husht !” replied Ben, raising his whip, and pulling
up behind the carts. “ Howd te din, Dody, for God’s
sake! Sing low ; an’ come here ! Aw dunnot want
’em to see me. Come here !”
“What, thae met as weel co’,” said Dody, limping
up to Ben, on the sheltered side of the carts.
“ Nawe, nawe, aw tell tho !” replied Ben. “ Thae
26- Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam.
knows what mak o’ devils they are when they starten.
Beside, aw’ve no time this mornin’. Where’s th’
lonlort ?” '
“ He’s i'th’ tap-re'awm‘,” ‘answered Dody, -“ wi’ a
rook o’ carters, an’ a ‘putterleawt,’ fro Bacup. ‘He’s
just tellin’ ’em ‘abeawt tat bitov=a do }‘at thae had wi’ '
windin‘th" jackass up into th’ mill-chamber, yesterday.
“By th’ mom” said Benw-“aw thought as mich!
They’n getten summatto playoff,- nea'w. Aw wou'ldn’t
co’ for a suvverin’ this mornin,’ Dody !' But aw’ll tell
tho what do.- just ta'k these ‘besoms-an’ that basket,
slyly in at th’ back dur to th’ mistress. ' There’s a lot
o’ -eggs under th’ -yarbs i’th’ basket. Mind thoose
eggs, Dody. Th’ mistress'knows “what'- they come’n
to; ‘Aw’ll ‘watch here'whol'thae brings th’ brass. .
Neaw, dunnot goo an‘ split to yon tother.” '
' "‘ Aw yer,” replied’ the old‘ man‘; and away he
limped, with the ‘besoms and the basket, round the
house-end,‘ and in at-the backdoor, to the landlady
in the kitchen.
“‘ Lobden Ben’s yon, wi’ his jackass,”- said he,-with
a ‘chuckle. *‘He’s brought-‘these besoms.‘ Wheer
mun aw put ’em ?—an" that basket wi’ eggs in. He
says yo’ known what they are ; an’ he’s watchin’for th’
brass at th’back o’ some carts, yon. He begged on
mo not to tell th’ maister.”
“Well, mind thaedoesn’t then,” replied the land
lady. - -
The landlady was a well-grown, buxom country
woman, with good common sense, and a kind'heart.
‘ “ Here,” continued she, plunging her hand into her
Ben an’ :71’ Bantam. 27
pocket, “ aw’ll come to him, eawt at th’ back. Dody,
put thoose besoms deawn at th’ dur, an’ then goo an’
bring him to th’ heawse end.. Aw’ll be theer in a
minute.‘ ‘:‘-‘.“Mary, fill a pint o’ ale.”
The old=marmvent to the house-end, and beckoning
to Ben‘, who stood whistling low, as he turned over
the- things‘ in his ‘panniers,‘he-called to him off the
side of his hand, “Hoo’s comin’ to th’ nook here!
Bring thi jackass!” ' ‘
Ben looked carefully round, then he drew Dimple
up‘to the corner, just‘ 'as the landlady came sailing
down from the back door,'with her white cap-strings
streaming behind her handsome head;
' ‘‘ Eh, Ben,” said she, “whatever wur‘tho‘ doin’ to
goo an’ make sich a fade’ thisel‘, an’ thi‘ bit o’th’
jackass yesterday? --What thae’ll' never yer th’ last
on’t, mon. Here,” continued she, handing the pint
of ale to him, “get-that into tho. Aw thought thae’d
had moor wit nor so. . . Heaw’s Betty an’ th’ childer ?”
- “They’re o’ reet,"='replied Ben, 'unbuttoning the
lowmo'st-btitton of hisWaistcoat, and then‘buttoning
it up again. “They’re-o’ reetynobbutBillyi He’s
getten a‘bit ova nose 'cowdw" His‘ mother missed
him one day, an‘ hoo fund him'up to ‘th’ middle i’th
wayter-stid,Treckonin"'tofish‘ wi a lung pipe ov his
gronny’s. He’s sicha chylt ‘for wayter as never wur.”
“Eh, poor-‘thing,”-said she,--“He’s a pratty lad.'
Thae should let-him come deawn, neaw an’ then;
for a change. These lasses ’ud' tak’ care -on him,
mon. Here,‘ aw’ll pay for these things. 1-Sitho,there’s
three shillin’. Hasto’ ony horehound ?” - -
28 Ben an’ #2’ Bantam.
u Ay."
“ An’ tansy ?”
“ Plenty.”
“Well, bring some th’ next time thae comes deawn.
But, co’ to-neet. Aw think aw can shap a bit of a
frock for Billy. . . An’, let’s see—Tummy o’Plunger‘s
wants four besoms. Aw’ll pay tho for ’em neaw,
i’tho likes.”
“Nay,” replied Ben, “aw’ll ha’ noan o’th brass
whol aw bring th’ stufi."
“Well,” said she, “it makes no matter. But tell
Betty to come deawn to her tay, an’ bring th’
children. Wilto?
“Ay, aw will; an’ thank yo,” said Ben, turning
his donkey’s head towards the road again.
“ Well, mind thae does," said the landlady. “ An’
off witho, neaw,” said she, calling after him; “ofi
witho ; or they’n torment thi life eawt I An’ do tak’
care o’ thisel’, lad !”
In a minute he had disappeared behind the carts,
and was going quietly up the road, hoping to escape
in peace from the wassailers in the tap-room.
“ Poor Ben!” said the landlady, looking up the road
after him. “ Poor Ben ! A daycent lad, very.” And
then, as soon as he had got behind the carts, she
whisked, round, and ran back into the kitchen. . . .
“Neaw, lasses,” said she, nipping up the poker, and
beginning to scale the ashes from the lower bars of
the grate, “it’s time to be shappin’ for th’ dinner.
Bless my life, it’ll be noon afore one knows wheer
they are. Do stir yo. Heaw’s yon parlour fire? Mary,
go thee an’ look at it. We’n six to get ready for bi one
o’clock Aw wonder what yo’r thinkin’ on. . . . Sam,
go thee into th’ garden this minute, and get some pot
yarbs, an’ some potitos, an’ a twothre carrits an’ tur
mits. Doesto yer? Off witho. Thae’rt war nur a snail
trailin’ up an’ deawn. . . . Tell owd Dody aw want
him, some on yo. Mary, hasto getten that forenoon
baggin ready for th’ hayfeelt, yet? Set of to th’ mea
dow wi’t, as fast as ever yo con. Sally, thee help her
to carry it. . . . Wheer’ s that lad gwon—young divle
ment ’at he is—he’s olez i’th lone when he should be
i’th feelt—that he is? . . . Fill that boighler up, some
on yo. Yo should never be short o’ wut wayter in a
heawse like this. . . . That’s th’ parlour bell. Come,
aw’ll goo.” And away she ran ; returning in a minute,
and beginning again: Mary, two glasses o’ brandy i’th
parlour. Stir thisel’, my lass.” Then, setting her hands
upon her hips, and looking thoughtfully at the fire, she
continued : “ These coals are noan as good as tother,
an’ they’re the same price. We’s ha’ to try another
pit th’ next time. Put some naplins under that pon. . .
Sam, reitch that beef deawn, wilto ; an’ then off witho
into th’ yard, an’ pluck thoose chickens. . . . Which
on yo’s laft this bucket here, for folk to breighk their
shins on ? Aw wonder when yo’n lam sense. Away
wi’t, this minute! Gi’ me a clen brat eawt o’ that
drawer—aw mun start o’ my pies. Eh, Sally ; what a
baygle thae’s made o’ thisel! Wipe thi’ nose, mon ;
thae‘s blacked it wi’ th’ pon. . . Neaw, then, they’re
knockin’ i’th tap-reawm. Come, aw’ll goo. . . . Look
to that oon some on yo’ !" and away she went.
30‘ Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam.
She had no sooner got out of the room than one of
the ‘girls began to mimic her: “Sam, clen these shoon.
Sally, sidethese glasses. Dody, fot some coals. Who’s
laft th’ bond-brush upo’ th’ table? Mary, th’ cat’s
agate o’ yon pickles‘ again. That’s parlour ”
As the landlady came into the kitchen again, the
girl'stop‘ped suddenly; and there was a crash in the
tap-room.
-“'Hello," said the landlady. “That’s another glass
brokken'!“ Come, aw’ll goo. Yon’s a weary lot.” '
l w‘ Meanwhile Ben was creeping by the front, as quietly
as possible, when the landlord, who was standing with
uplifted hands in the tap-room, roaring with laughter
amongst-the rest, caught a glimpse of him just as he
was disappearing.
- “By th’ ‘mass,”'cried the landlord, “he’s yon—th’
iackass‘ an’ o’ l"
6‘ !’,
“Aw’ll bate nought at it.”

“Let’shave himin,’-"criedtwoorthree of the company.
' “Come,-'aw*ll‘fotch him back,” said the landlord,
running out, with all the company at his heels.
“ Heigh,- Ben !” shouted the landlord‘; wheerto for?
Here; aw’ve an order for tho. Just a minute. Come!”
But Ben jogged on, and, pointing ahead with his
whip, he cried out,‘ “Shay-cloof! ‘Aw’m beheend i’
my time i” - Then,-seizing Dimple’s bridle, he gave
the poor beast a smart switch. -“-Stirthoose legs 0’
thine,” said he,‘ “aw want no truck wi’ you lot.”
First one-and then another cried out for him to stop;
but Ben held on his way.
Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam. ‘ 3‘I
“ He’s for ofl‘, an’ nought else,” said one of the car?
ters, who stood in the middle of the road, staring after
Ben ; with his whip in one hand,.and a pint pot in the
other.
“ He’ll ha’ noan, aw believe,” said the landlord,
scratching his head. “Aw could ha’ liked to had a
bit o’ gam eawt on him.. Stop, aw’ll see iv aw connot
fotch him back.” And away he ran after Ben.
The poor fellow heard him coming, and he didn’t
like it. But he knew it was no use running. And then
Dimple was not accustomed to galloping, except when
he was returning home, or whenhe took a fit of it to
please himself; and Ben could not find in his heart
to beat him to it. So the landlord overtook him, and,
laying hold of one of the panniers, he said, -“What’s
o’ thi hurry! Aw want tho to runo’er to th’ miller‘s
wi’ a bantam. It isn’t aboon a mile or so ,‘ an’ aw.’ll
gi’ tho a shillin.’ Eawr folk are o’ i’th hay, or else
aw’d ha’ sent Sam.”
“Well,” replied Ben, as he turned Dimple round,
“aw’ve nought again doin’ that.- But aw’m noan beawn
into th’ heawse this mornin.” ‘
“ Thae’s no ’casion, i’tho doesn’t like,” answered the
landlord, walking demurely by the side of the- donkey.
“Neaw, thae mun he- as. sharp astho con. - An’ aw
want tho to co’ wi’ a bit ov‘a note atBill o’ Fair-Offs,
at th’ lone side.” ‘ - '
As they came near the house, the landlord gave a sly
hint to the carters at the door that they were to be
silent, and go inside ; which they did at once, for they
knew him well enough to make them think he had
32 Ben an’ :7l’ Bantam.
better sport in store for them. But they made Ben
uneasy by staring at him through the window. First
one, then another rapped, and cried “Come in!”
holding up their pots by way of inducement. But
Ben laid hold of his donkey’s bridle, as if it was the
one sheet—anchor that could keep him from drifting
into mischance. The landlord tried to persuade him,
too; but Ben stuck to Dimple, and would not enter
the house.
“Wait here, then,” said the landlord, “an’ aw’ll
bring it eawt.”
In a few minutes he came to the door again, with
a bag in his hand, and a bantam cock under his arm.
“Tak’ howd o’ this brid,” said he, handing the
bantam to Ben. “ Neaw put it into that bag, an’ tee
it up, an’ tak’ it deawn to th’ miller's An’ sitho,—
thae mun co’ upo’ th’ road at Bill o’ Fair-Ofi"s, wi’
this note. Thae’ll ha’ to bring an onswer back.
Neaw, be sharp ; an’ there’s a shillin’ for tho. Never
mind takin’ th’ jackass. Aw con fasten it to th’ ring
at th’ dur, here.” But Ben did not relish the idea;
and he said he would rather take Dimple with him.
“Well, ofi" wi’ yo together, then,” replied the land
lord, “ an’ dunnot be long, neaw.”
Away went the simple-minded besom-maker down
the road, between the thick-leaved hawthorn hedges,
delighted with the splendour of the day. He felt glad,
also, to earn a shilling so easily. The wild birds
c‘arolled to him all the way, as if he was a kindred
spirit , and at last Ben himself broke out into song, as
usual when he was alone. and in the green country.
And thus he sauntered along in the sunshine, chanting
quaint fragments of "minstrel memories of days gone
by,” and cracking his whip; and fondling the wild
flowers upon the hedge-side with unconscious ten—
demess
Rather more than half a mile on the way there was
a substantial stone-built cottage, at the head of a slop
ing garden by the road-side. Two steps led up to a
green-painted wooden gate, which opened into the
garden. Close by the road, and embedded in the
grassy bank below the garden hedge, there was a
mossy well-trough, into which an unseen rindle of
spring water came down from somewhere ; and the
low tinkling music it played was clear as the ring of a
fairy’s moonlight festal bell. To the bended listener’s
appreciative ear, its silvery cymbalchimes rose and
fell again in cadences of such exquisite beauty that
the bright ferns which festooned that little recess,
seemed to thrill with delight as they listened to the
tiny minstrel’s melody; interlacing their leaves as if
to screen that fairy choir from all the noisy world
outside.
This pleasant road-side cottage, was the place where
queer old Bill o’ Fair-Off’s lived. Billy was a hearty,
waggish fellow, who had been a farmer and an inn
keeper on the road, but who had now retired from
business. The old man sat smoking in the front par
lour, with the window open, and when he saw Ben stop
at the gate, he came out with his pipe in his mouth.
“ Well, Ben, maw lad,” said be, giving a long puff
into the air, “what’s up?”
“Aw brought awnote fro Jem at the Bull’s Yed,”
replied Ben, handing the document to old Billy ;. “an’
aw’m to wait for an onswer.” ‘ ‘
Old Billy’s eyes began to twinkle, for he had received
many a note from his crony at the Bull’s Head before;
and they generally meant some kind of.humourous
mischief; which Billy delighted in above all things.
“ Come in,” said he, putting the note into his
pocket; and Ben followed. him through the garden
into the front parlour “ Sit tho deawn,” continued
Billy, pointing to a chair at theback side of the room.
“ Wilt have a gill o’ ale ?” ‘
“Aw dunnot care ivehhave,” replied Ben. , ~ ‘.
“ Well, aw’ll be back directly,” said Billy, walking
slowly out, and closing the door behind him. When
he got into the kitchen he said to- his wife,-»who=was a
little deaf, “Doesto ‘yer, lass? Tak’ a pint o’‘ ale to
yon chap i’th parlour, an’ keep him i’. talk a twothre
minutes.”
“Aw yer,” replied the old woman ‘; and as shewent
out heclosed the door quietly behind her, and then
opening an old corner cupboard, he took out a bag
very like the one Ben had brought the bantam in, and
lifting something from the sofa, he whipped it into the
bag, and when he had tied the mouth up, he went
out at the back door. Creeping round to the front of
the house, he took the bag from Dimple’s pannier,
replacing it with the one he had brought. And then,
after leaving Ben’s bag in a little out-house he sidled
back into the parlour again.
“Well, Ben,” said he, “ heaw doesto like that ale 2"
. Ben an’ 1%’ Bantam. 35
“ Oh,” replied Ben, “ nice ale enough. Rayther ov
oather new.”
“Yigh, it is,” answered Billy. “Well,” continued
the old man, “thae mun co‘ as tho comes back fro
th’ miller’s, an’ aw’ll ha’ th’ onswer ready.” And the
old man followed Ben out at the front, and down to
the garden gate.
“Aw’ll not be aboon twenty minutes,” said Ben,
looking back as he started up the road.
“0’ reet,” replied Billy. “ Aw’ll have it ready."
And then he went back into the house, rubbing his
hands with delight.
A few minutes brought Ben to the end of a shady
lane on the left hand, leading down to the miller’s
house, which stood near the brook in the hollow,
between the road and the hill-side.
“ Woigh !” said Ben, stopping Dimple at the gate.
Then taking the bag from the pannier, he walked up
to the open door of a great, low-roofed kitchen, which
was all a-glow with cleanliness and comfort.
“ Is th’ miller in?” said Ben to the miller's wife,
who stood in the door-way.
“Ay,” replied she. “He is yon; i’th arm cheer.
Yo’n let better nor likely, too. He should ha’ bin at
th’ mill ; but he’s sprain’t his anclif a bit, wi’ jumpin’
off th’ hay-moo yesterday.” Then, turning to her
husband, she said, “There’s some mak’‘ov a chap
wi’ a jackass here. He want’s to speighk to tho.
He’s a bag in his hond. Come forrud,” continued
she, turning to Ben; “come forrud; an’ wipe yo’r
shoon.”
D
The miller turned round in his chair; and, seeing
Ben, he said, “Hello! hello! Is it thee, owd lad?
What hasto ?”
“ Jem at th’ Bull’s Yed’s sent yo a bantam cock,”
replied Ben, holding out the bag, as he walked towards
the miller.
“ O, ay !" said the miller, winking to his wife. “Well,
come forrud; an’ shut th’ dur after tho. . . . Neaw
then: tak’ it eawt an‘ let’s have a look at it.”
The millefs two daughters, and a lad about ten
years old, came into the kitchen, from an inner door.
“It’s as pratty a bantam.” said Ben, untying the
the bag, “ as ever aw set e’en on.”
“Well,” replied the miller, “poo it eawt, lad; an’
let’s see what it’s like.”
“In hauve a minute,” answered Ben, taking the
string off. “ It’s a nice colour’t un, too,” continued
be, putting his hand into the bag to take the bantam
out. But, in an instant, his countenance changed;
and, whipping his hand out again, he cried, “Oh ; by
th’ mass l What’s that ?”
“ What’s up neaw ? ’ said the miller ; “has it bitten
tho ?”
“ Bitten mo l” replied Ben. “It’s scrat mo ;—an
ill, too. It’s nought to laugh at, aw can tell yo.
Look theer,” continued be, holding up his hand.
“ Well,” answered the miller, staring at Ben’s hand
with an air of assumed surprise, “ It caps the dule, iv
a bantam-cock can scrat o’ that shap.”
“Bantam or boggart,” replied Ben, putting his hand
to his mouth, “it scrat me,-an’ aboon a bit, too.
Ben an’ t/z’ Banz'am. 37
Yo’ can see for yo’rsel’,” continued he, holding his
hand up again ; “ there’s a pattern theer.”
“Poo’ th’ divvleskin eawt,” said the miller, “ an’
let’s look at ’t. Poo it eawt. Will it ha’ teeth,
thinksto T’
“Well, it’s bitten mo,” said Ben, looking at his
hand again. “ It’s bitten mo,--teeth or no teeth.”
“ By th’ mon,” continued the miller, “rive it eawt!"
“ Here,” answered Ben, offering the bag to the
miller; “ poo’ it eawt yo’rsel’. Aw’ll ha’ no mooar.”
“ Will it be a guinea-pig, thinksto ?” said the
miller.
“ Guinea pig, or hawp’ny pig,” replied Ben, “ aw’ll
poo no moor. By th’ mon, it’d like to poo’d mo
into th’ bag. Here ; tak’ howd,” continued he, holding
the bag to the miller; “tak’ howd. It’s noan o’ mine."
“ Nay, nay,” said the miller, laughing, “doesn’t tho
see ’at aw’ve sprain’t my anclif ?”
“ Well,” answered Ben, laying the bag on the table,
“aw don’t want yo to get howd on’t wi’ yo-‘r fuut. It
is theer. Yo can help yo’rsel’ to it when yo’n a mind.
Aw’ll be gooin’.”
“ Shake th’ bag eawt,” cried the miller, “ an’ let it
leet o’th floor; as what it is.”
“ Come, aw con do that," replied Ben, laying hold
of the bottom of the bag, and flinging the open end
towards the hearthstone, on which the miller’s terrier
lay half asleep. Out rolled a black cat, with blazing
eyes ; and alighting upon the dog’s back, it flew at it
instantly. The terrier sprang instantly upon his foe,
and shook it. Grimalkin kept her talons going with
great vigour, clawing her antagonist with tigerish
fury. The worry and the spitfire scuffles of the com
batauts were wildly exciting. The din of battle rolled
to and fro about the kitchen, with vivid speed ; now
under the table, now in a corner, now between the
miller’s legs, who sat watching the affray with all the
calmness of an Olympian god overlooking some fierce
bit of mortal strife. At last he could stand it no
longer ; and, seizing his crutch, he shuffled after the
fight, sweeping a jug from the table, which shivered
upon the edge of a mug full of dough upon the
hearth. The crash seemed to revive the fury of the
contest.
“Go it, Nip,” cried the miller; “go it, owd lad;
or else thae’rt done for! Thae’s let o’ thi match, owd
lad!”
The girls screamed, and the lad ran up and down
after the combatants, who seemed mixed up together.
Ben, who had got upon a chair, at the beginning
of the fray, jumped down, and cried out, as he ran
to seize the dog, “Nay, by th’ mon, aw’m noan beawn
to ston here an’ see a cat worried.”
“Let ’em alone, said the miller; “th’ owd dog
hasn’t a tooth in his yed, mon. Let ’em alone!”
And certainly, Nip had very much the worst of it,
in spite of his wiry armour; for he was old, and
almost toothless. But this sudden attack upon his
slumbers, by a strange cat, and on his own hearthstone,
too, had revived his “wonted fires” in an extra
ordinary way. But he began to show signs of dis
tress ; and when the cat ran to the top of the clock
Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam; 39
case, and sat there, mewing, and glaring round with
eyes that glowed like melted gold, the old dog came
pufl-ing to the hearth again ; but wagging his tail, and
snorting with joy at having won the field.
The miller’s wife had been swelling the tumult with
screams of fright and indignation all the while it was
going on; but it was not till a lull came that her
shrill voice rose above the storm.
“Aw’ll not ha’ sich gooin’s on !” cried she. “ Look
what lumber yo’n made. Robert,” continued she,
turning to the miller, “aw wonder ’at thae’s no moor
wit.” Then she flew at poor Ben, who stood in the
door-way, looking as penitent as if he had been the
sole cause of the row. “ Go thee whoam wi’ thi cat,”
said she, “ an’ be sharp. Here, tay thi bag, an’ bowt!
We wanten nought i’th’ cat line; so thae may tay
thisel’ off wheer thae coom fro, as fast as tho con.”
“ It’s noan o’ my cat,” replied Ben. “Jem at th’
Bull’s Yed sent it ; an’ it’re a bantam then.”
“ Ay, an’ aw’ll Bull’s Yed him when aw leet on him.
He may keep his cats awhoam. We can manage what
mice we han here nicely; an’ we can do er own scrat
tin’ too, beawt ony ov his cats. Tell him aw say so.
John oppen that dur. Aw’ll shift th’ cat, an’ soon too.”
And then she took up the long brush to drive the
cat from the top of the clock-case. At the first thrust
of the brush head, puss, seeing the door open, jumped
down upon the dresser and flew out at the door, with
the dog after it, and the lad after the dog, and Ben
after the lad.
The miller took up his crutch and followed them,‘
with the bag in his hand. As he went out he said to
his wife: “Aw think thae’rt makin’ a foo o’ thisel’
artn’t tho ?”
“ Aw think thae’rt a ready-made un, to alleaw sich
wark,” replied she.
Ben stood waiting in the road, by the side of his
donkey.
“ Thae’d better goo a bit fur up th’ lone, eawt o’th
seet o’ this woman ov eawrs,” said the miller to Ben,
“ or else there’ll be no quietness. Which gate has th’
cat gwon ?”
“It's taen through th’ garden hedge,” said Ben.
“ Han yo getten th’ bag?"
“Ay," replied the miller, “aw have it here. Goo
a bit fur up th’ lone eawt o’th seet o’ you woman.
Eawr Johnny ’ll look after th’ cat. Aw’ll bring it
directly.”
As soon as Ben was out of sight, the miller slipped
into the stable, and, wrapping a piece of wood in a
handful of hay, he put it into the bag and tied up the
mouth, and then he limped across the corner of the
field and handed the bag down over a lov. thorn hedge
to Ben, who was waiting in the lane below.
“There it is,” said the miller. “ Off witho, neaw I
An’ tell Jim aw dunnot like th’ breed ov his bantams
Aw’d rayther have a two—legged un. Yon woman ov
eawrs is quite reet. We han a cat at eawr heawse.
Off witho ; an’ tell him aw’ll co’ as soon as my fuut’s
well.”
Ben was willing enough to go, and he lost no time
about it; for he had been detained longer than he
Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam. ‘ 4i
expected. The scene in the miller‘s kitchen had
bewildered his simple mind ; and as he urged Dimple
up the lane, thoughts of witchcraft came over him ;
and he gave many a glance at the pannier where the
cat was; thinking to himself that the devil took so
many shapes, that there was no knowing ; beside, he
had always heard that the form of a cat was one 01
his favourite disguises. He stopped now and then
and listened, for he fancied he heard a weird mew ;
and then he hurried on again, anxious to get rid of
his charge.
Bill o’ Fair-Off’s was leaning upon his garden gate
waiting, as Ben came towards his cottage on his way
back. Behind a holly‘bush, beside him, the old man
had the duplicate bag containing the bantam, ready
for exchange. ‘
“ Woigh !” said Ben, stopping his jackass in front
of the gate. Then, wiping his forehead with his
sleeve, he looked up at the old man, and said,
“Aw’ve bin.”
“ Well ;” replied Billy, “ wur he in?”
“ In! Ay! But what dun yo think it wur?”
“ What wur ?”
“ Th’ bantam.”
“ A spreckle’t un, happen ‘i”
“Spreckle’t !” replied Ben. Then, going up
the steps, he whispered to the old man, “It’s a
cat ! ”
“ What saysto?” replied the old man, staring, with
feigned astonishment.
“It's a cat, aw tell yo. A black un,” continued
“W
42 Ben an’ 1%’ Bantam.
Ben, in a whisper, “an’ aw want to get rid on’t. Is
that letther ready ?”
“Ay,” replied Billy. Slip reawnd to th’ kitchen.
Thae’ll find it upo’ th’ dresser."
The moment Ben was on‘ at the end of the garden
hedge, old Billy whipped up the bag containing the
bantam, and exchanged it for the one in the pannier,
which contained, as he supposed, his own cat. Then
he took up his pipe, and leaned upon the gate again;
and when Ben came back with the note in his hand,
the old man was smoking, and looking round at the
fields the same as before.
“ Didto find it ?” said Billy.
“ Ay,” replied Ben, holding the note up ; “its here.”
“Well, then,” continued Billy, “off wi’ tho, an’ lond
that cat wheer it coom fro’ as soon asto con. Aw
don’t mich like on’t.”
“ Nawe, nor me noather,” replied Ben. “ There’s
summut moor nor common abeawt this dooment.”
“ Arto sure it wur a cat ?” inquired Billy.
“A cat ! ay !” said Ben. “Look at my hont ! By
the hectum, yo should ha’ sin heaw it fote (fought; yon
dogr o’th miller’s ! Eh ; sich a do i’ that hole !”
“ Well, away witho ; an get it back to th’ Bull’s Yed
as fast asto con.”
“Aw will do so,” answered Ben, laying hold of the
bridle. “ Aw will do so. Good mornin’ to yo.”
“ Good mornin’,” replied Billy, as he watched them
up the road.
“ Come on, Dimple,” said Ben, pulling at the bridle.
“Let’s get this job o’er, an’ be off. Thae little knows
what there is i’ that thing upo’ thi back. Aw wonder
what that thae’ll ha’ to carry th’ next.” And for the
rest of the way he was too uneasy in mind to enjoy
the beauty of the season, smiling around him, in earth
and sky.
The landlord of the Bull’s Head had been watching
some time through the window for Ben’s return. And
several of the customers who were in when he started
were still waiting to see the fun out. In addition to
these, several of the neighbours had been sent for, and
they were all noisily merry together, when the land
lord, who had caught sight of Ben in the distance,
cried, “ Husht, lads! He’s comin’. Sit still! He
isn’t aboon forty yards off. Be talkin’ abeawt summat
else. Aw’ll goo an’ meet him at th’ dur.”
“Well, thae’s getten back,” said the landlord, hand
ing a shilling to Ben as he came up to the door with
his jackass. “What said he ?”
“ What said he i” replied Ben, as he put the shilling
in his pocket. “He’s sent it back. It had turn’t
into a eat when aw geet theer !”
“A cat! Thae lies, belike.”
“It’re a cat, aw tell yo !” continued Ben. “ It’re a ban
tam here, reet enough; but it’re acat when it geet to th’
tother end,—an’ a pummer too. Look at my hond!
“Well, come; bring it in,” replied the landlord.
“Nay,” said Ben; “aw’ll ha’ no moor truck wi’t.
It is theer. Tak it for yorsel’.” '
“What, thae’rt noan fleyed ov a cat, arto?” con
tinued the landlord.
“ Aw’m fleyed o’ that cat,” replied Ben.
“ Come, aw’ll get it,” said the landlord, going to the
pannier, and taking the bag out. “ Neaw then,” said
he to Ben, “come in a minute, an’ let’s see what mak
ov a cat it is. It’ll happen come in for ‘Joe ov o’
Sorts ;’ he wants one.”
“Neaw then,” said the landlord, beginning to un
loose the bag, when he got into the tap-room, “ Ston
fur, lads; an’ teen th’ dur.”
“ Howd a minute !" cried Ben. “Look eawt ! It’ll
fly at some on yo’! Here; let me get at top o’th
table! Neaw, then, mind yo’r hits! It’s a divvle,
is tat! Oppen that dur, an’ let’s ha’ reawm for runnin!”
The landlord turned the bag upside down, and out
rolled a little strutting bantam, as proud as a heelan’
piper. .
“ Well, by th’ mass !” said Ben, staring—first at the
bantam, and then at the bag. Then jumping down
from the table, and darting out at the door, he shouted,
“ Aw’m off at th’ nook!” and seizing Dimple’s bridle,
he hurried up the road as fast as he could go. The
place rang with laughter when Ben ran out. The
landlord ran after him. But Ben was away. He had
jumped on behind the panniers, and Dimple was gal-
loping off with him.
“By th’ mass,” said Ben, glancing back, when he
had got some distance from the house, “ that’s a
crumper !” And then he jumped down, and wiping
the sweat from his brow, he went thoughtfully on by
the side of Dimple towards the village of Shaw-clough,
still looking back, now and then, with an indefinite
fear of something or another in the rearward.
L" ‘ .Jtlli;
CHAPTER III.
The lark, that tirra-lirra chants,

With heighl with hey! the thrush and the jay,
Are summer songs for me and my aunts,
While we lie tumbling in the bay.
But shall I go mourn for that, my dear!
The pale moon shines by night :
And when I wander here and there,
I then do most go right.
SHAKSPERE.
HE forenoon was creeping on. The sun

was high in the heavens, and there was
not a shadow of cloud on all the blue
sky. The air, that had been dancing
ever since morning woke the wild bird, was dancing
with still more delight now that the quire of noon
was swelled with all its fluttering train. The thick
leaved woods stood still, steeping in sunshine and
listening to the festal glee ; and the little field-mouse,
rushing in tiny journeys about the glades of his grass
forest, stopped now and then and hearkened with
pricked ears, and then rushed on again, chirping
blither than before. The bee was roving in the sun,
playing his little bassoon on his way from flower to
‘ 45 Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam.
flower. Far away aloft, hid in the golden dazzle of
the upper air, the spreckled lark—the topmost singer
of the summer sky—was fanning the sunshine with
ferv'id wing, whilst he poured out his floods of ecstasy
under the windows of the listening gods. His blithe
song streamed down upon the vale, linking earth to
heaven with one wild strain of matchless minstrelsy.
Sweet odours rose from hill and dale, making the air
a boundless region of free delight to every living
thing. The wagoner’s sleek team whisked their tails
as they crept along the dusty road, with their driver
lounging by their side, flirting his whip in the sunshine,
and carolling idly to the beat of their slow-motioned
tread ; and all the world seemed glad.
The beauty of the season soon moved Ben’s elastic
spirit into a temporary forgetfulness of his little
troubles ; and he began to rejoice with rejoicing
nature once more. He met nobody on the road for
a mile or so ; but thin trails of new~mown hay caught
his eye, showing where the loaded carts had come out
from the meadows; and he began to take his time,
and to look about him again. He could hear the
haymakers at work in a meadow close by the road,
and he stopped his donkey that he might get a peep
at them through the thorn-hedge.
“By th’ mon,” said Ben, “ that’s a rare meadow.
There isn’t better yarb-grace i’ this country side ; an’
it’ll be weel getten too, this time. He’s a rare chap
to wortch for is this farmer. Hello, there’s Dick yon,
aw see. Aw wish aw’d bin amoon that lot.”
Ben was still looking through the hedge, when a
Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam. 47 -
little thick-set haymaker came whistling out at the
gate of the meadow, with a great brown bottle in his
hand, and an old crushed billy-cock set jauntily upon
his glowing head. Recognising the besom maker, he
cried out, “ Hello, Ben! Heaw go ?”
“ Heaw go ?” replied Ben, whisking round, “Is that
thee, Jerry, owd lad? Wheerto for ?”
“Aw’m beawn for moor ale,” said Jerry. “ Aw’ll
let tho sup i’tho’ll watch till aw come back.”
“ Aw thought thae’d bin doin’ at th’ Greenbooth.”
replied Ben.
“ Aw’m beawn theer as soon as we’n finished this
meadow. Aw wish we’d another meadow to do here.
It’s a rare shop. As much as ever we can height, an’
noan stinted o’ ’leawance. Watch whol aw come
back, an’ aw’ll let tho sup.” And away he went,
singing :—
Now summer it is coming, lads, what pleasures we shall see ;
The small birds they are singing on every green tree ;
The blackbirds and the throstles are whistling merrilie-a-ee !
Sing wo, my lads, sing wo 1
Drive on, my lads, I-ho !
Who wouldn’t lead the life of a jolly Wagoner?
Ben looked round to see how his jackass was get

ting on. Dimple had turned aside to drink at an over
flowing well on the other side of the road, and Ben
walked across and sat down on the trough, by the side
of the donkey. “Ay,” said Ben, looking at Dimple,
“sup, ow’d lad. It’s thy turn. Aw supped th’ last.
An’ thae desarves it better nor me. . . Eh, it’s a grand
day !” continued he, looking round, as he pulled out
his pipe. “Aw’ll have a wift o’ ’bacco, an’ harken
these lads i’th’ meadow, whol aw unbethink mo a bit.
. . . Let’s see; aw’ve nobbut three plazes to co’ at,
neaw—Tobc’s Yed, an’ th’ Failinge, an Owd Jacob’s,
at th’ Cronkeyshay. Th’ best customers aw have,—~
thoose Cronkeyshay folk. They wear’n their besoms
eawt so fast ; very particular abeawt havin’ things clen
abeawt ’em—very. This’s th’ third lot Iat they’n had
within’s six months. Eh, aw wish they owden me for
a hunderth theawsan’ besoms ! By th’ mon ; nought
to do but knock at th’ dur, an’ ax for th’ brass ; an’
then go n'ckin’ whoam wi’t i’ my pocket. Eh, we’d
ha’ scallions to er baggin every day. There would be
some owd donnin’ an’ doffin’ upo’ Lobden moor, yon.
Eawr Billy’d ha’ to wear a skedlock in his hat; an as
for er Betty, aw dar say hoo’d order a pair o’ red shoon
at Jem th’ cloggers th’ furst go to. . . Ah,” continued
he, “there a rare sort. Noan within doin’ a good turn
to a poor body. An’ they’re o’ alike. It runs i’th
breed on ’em. By th’ mon, aw shouldn’t like Owd
Jacob to ha’ yerd o’ me makin sich a foo o’ mysel,
yesterday. He’d gate a riggin’ me o’er it. Bigo, he’d
happen bag mo. But, aw’m noan so mich fleyed o’
that. Aw’ll bet onybody a suverin’ aw could tak th’
owd lad o’th blynt side, an’ beg on again. Let’s see.
Aw’s ha’ sarve’t thoose folk with besoms neaw aboon
seven year, come wakin’-time.”
Dimple was taking another long pull at the water
when Ben looked round.
“ Hello ;” said Ben, pulling him round by the bridle,
“come come ; be i’ resson, owd mon ; be i’ resson.
Ben an’ at Bantam. 49
That neck o’ thine hides a deeol o’ swillin’. Thae
met ha’ bin havin’ red yerrin’ to thi breakfast, or
whitenin, or summut. Come ofl' that wayter. Thae’ll
be breighkin eawt in a rash, or some lumber. Aw
munnot ha’ thee laid up, Dimple. Go thi ways an’
play wi’ yon hedge-side, whol aw brun this bit o’
’bacco.” Then pushing the tobacco into his pipe with
the end of his finger, Ben slowly re-crossed the road,
and peeped through the hedge at the haymakers again.
They were clustered in a shady corner of the mea
dow, near the road, and they were just tapering ofl
their “forenoon baggin’,” or lunch, which consisted of
bread,—white bread and hard oat cakes,—butter,
cheese, and salad fresh from the farmer’s garden.
Some of them were seated upon the hedge-side, under
a. spreading bush of wild roses. Some sat upon the
ground, leaning their backs against a great hay-cock,
on the top of which sat a little round-faced lad be
longing to one of the mowers, munching at a handful
of bread and cheese. Others lay at full length upon
the new-shorn meadow, basking in the sun, as they
finished their forenoon meal. A little nimble bow
legged fellow, with a humorous phiz, and with an old
crushed milking hat cocked saucily upon his round
close cropped head, went to and fro amongst the group,
buttling out ale in a drinking-horn. Several girls, of
ages ranging from seven to about twenty, and consist
ing chiefly of the farmer’s family and their friends,
hovered about the outer circle of this pleasant group,
laughing wildly as they ran about, trying to bury one
another in the hay.
The little pudgy lad on the top of the hay-cock
watched them till he could stand it no longer. “Here
dad,” cried he, holding out the remains of his bread
and cheese to a tall mower who sat below; “here, dad,
aw connot height no moor.”
“ Hasto had enoof, Joe?" said the mower taking
the bread and cheese from the lad.
u Ay.n
“Here, Dick,” said the mower, “let him have a
seawk at that breawn keaw.”
“Aw will do so,” replied the merry little butler,
handing the horn up to the lad. “ Here, Joe, maw
lad; oppen those bits o’ shoolders o’ thine an’
sup."
The little fellow clipped the horn in his fat hands,
and when he had taken a tiny tug at the home-brewed,
he held up his rosy foam-garnished neb. and gave a
slow, satisfactory sigh as he recovered his breath again.
Then stretching out his arms to the tall mower, he
said, “Dad, heighve mo deawn. Aw want.to goo
an’ play mo wi’ yon tother. Heighve mo deawn.”
Lifting him from his scented perch, and setting him
down upon the meadow, the mower said, as he gave
him a kindly bat behind, “Ofl' witho, my lad. Ofi
witho.” And away the fat-legged urchin waddled,
screaming with delight, towards the children who were
frolicking in the hay.
“Neaw, then, ‘.ads,” said the tall mower, lighting
his pipe and sitting down upon the hay again, “ let’s
have a sungl Come, Dennis, owd lad,” continued
he, addressing a crisp-haired young Irishman who sat
by the hedge, with a piece of bread and butter in one
hand and part of a bunch of radishes in the other,
“Come, Dennis, owd brid, give us an odd stave afore
we starten a-cuttin’ again.”
“Aisy, boys, dear,” replied Dennis, speaking with
his mouth half-full, “Aisy, boys ; till I tuck in this
purty tuft o’ radishes, an’ thin—by dad, it’s miself
that’ll tip yees a stave, wid all my heart, an’ part o’
my shirt. Aisy, boys, dear—wan minute; an’ I’m
yer man !”
“ Here, owd cockolorum !” said Dick, handing the
horn to Dennis, “thae’s ha’ summat to wesh thoose
reditchers deawn. Weet thi whistle, owd tay-pot;
an’ brast off l”
“ Here goes. then,” said Dennis, handing back the
empty horn, and wiping his mouth upon his sleeve.
“Whist, now, till I sing the ‘ County o’ Mayo ;’ an’
bedad, divle a better song I know, barrin’ ‘Willy
Reilly,” an’ the ‘Soggarth Aroon.”’ Then giving
his mouth another wipe, and clearing his throat,
he turned up his face and began, in a shrill, wailing
tone :— -'
On the deck o’ Patrick Lynch’s boat I sat in woful plight,
Through my sighin’ all the weary day, an’ weepin’ all the night.
Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go,
By the blessed sun, its royally I’d sing thy praise, Mayo.
When I lived at home in plinty, and my gowld did much
abound,
In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale wint round—
’Tis a bitter change from those bright days, that now I’m forced
to go,
To lave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo.
E
52 Ben an’ M’ Bzmfam.
They’re altered girls in Irrul now ; they’re grown so proud an’
high,
Wi’ their hair-bags an’ their top-knots, for I pass their buckles by ;
But it’s little now I heed their airs, since God will have it so,
That I must depart for foreign lands, an’ lave my sweet Mayo.
’Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not earl in Irrul still,
And that Brian Duff no longer rules as lord upon the hill ;
An’ that Colonel Hugh M’Grady should be dead and lyin’
low,
An’ I sailin’, sailin’, swiftly from the county o‘ Mayo.
“Bravo Dennis, owd lad,” cried the haymakers ;
“bravo!”
“Aw like th’ sung weel enoug ,” said Ben, quietly
commenting upon the performance, as he looked
through the hedge. “Aw like th’ sung’ but he’s
nought mich of a singer, yon mon isn't.”
The plaintive old Irish melody died away upon the
sunlit vale, as the singer rose to his feet, giving him
self a quiet wriggle from head to foot inside of his
clothing, and said : “There, boys ; my song’s inded ;
an’ by the powders o’ war, it’s dry work singin’ this
day.”
“Here, Dennis,” cried ‘little Dick, filling the horn
again ; “ Aw’ll be witho in a minute. Thae desarves
another tot, owd brid. Tak howd, an’ borne (swill)
thi throttle eawt.”
As Ben stood staring intently through the hedge
at all this, somebody quietly laid a hand upon his
shoulder. Ben started, and turned round. It was
the parson of Whitworth chapel.
“ Hello,” said Ben, blushing, and scratching his
head ; “ Aw didn’t know it wur yo.”
“ Well, Ben, my man," replied the parson, “What
are you doing here i”
“ O ; aw nobbut bin watchin’ th’ haymakers a bit
that’s 0’,” answered Ben.
“But, what’s this I hear about you and your
donkeyl Is it true that you had it wound up into
the Foot Mill chamber yesterday ?”
“ Ay ; aw guess it is,” replied Ben, beginning to
play with his whip-lash.
“Very foolish—very foolish. I expected better
things from you, Ben. Take care of yourself, that’s
a good fellow. How’s the family ?”
“ Oh, they’re o’ reet, thank yo !” replied Ben,
looking down, and scraping the ground with his toe;
“ That’s right. Now, mind and take care of your
self—that’s a good fellow. Good day !”
“Good day !” answered Ben, walking across the
road towards his donkey. “ Come,” said he, taking
hold of the bridle, “let’s be gooin’. He’s yerd abeawt
thee an’ me, Dimple, seemintly. Aw’s get a bonny
name to my back in a bit; wi’ one thing an’ another.
He’ll be yerrin’ abeawt that cat dooment th’ next, aw
guess. By th’ mon," continued he, looking at his
hand, “that cat caps me. Eh, it did scrat."
Just as he was starting to continue his journey,
one of the mowers behind the hedge struck up an old
Lancashire song. It was a favourite ditty of Ben’s,
and he was glad of such a pleasant excuse for linger
ing a little longer where he was. Looking carefully
round, and seeing that the parson had disappeared,
he let go the bridle again, and, taking three sips ot
54 Ben an’ M’ Bam‘am.
water in the hollow of his hand from the well, he said,
as he sat down upon the trough once more, ‘- By th’
mon, aw’ll not goo whol that sung’s o’er, as heaw ’tis.”
It was a song written two centuries ago, by an un
happy Lancashire lady—Mrs. Fleetwood Habergham,
of Habergham, near Burnley. She “ soothed her
sorrows,” says Dr. Whitaker, “by some stanzas yet
remembered among the old people of her neighbour
hood." The song is given in Mr. John Harland’s
second volume of Lancashire Ballad’s, just published‘
The mower trolled it clearly out, in a fine tenor voice,
to its own old quaint and plaintive tune.
I sowed the seeds of love,

And it was all in the spring, -—
In April, May, and June likewise,
\Vhen the small birds they do sing.
O my garden, it’s planted well,

And the flowers are everywhere,
Yet I had not the liberty to choose for myself,
The flower that I loved so dear.
“ Bravo, owd lad!” cries Ben, rising to his feet.

“By th’ mass, thae’s a rare pipe! Aw know that
sung. Here goes !” And to the astonishment of the
haymakers on the other side of the hedge, Ben struck
up the following verse. As he stood there in the
road singing aloud, with his right hand out-stretched,
and his face turned towards the sky, a solitary horse
man rode past, and he stared at the lonely singer as
if he thought the man was mad. But Ben went on
with the song.
Ben an‘ 11:’ Bantam. 55
My gardener he stoode by, '
An’ I askéd him to choose for me ;
He chose me the violet, the lily, and the pink.
But those I refused all three.
0, the violet I forsook,
Because that it fades so soon ;
An’ the lily an’ the pink I did o’erlook,
An’ I vowed I‘d wait till June.
“ Crack that nut !” cried Ben, shouting to the hay

makers behind the hedge. “Brast ofi'again, owd brid?”
“ Who the hangment is it?” said the haymakers,
and some of them were about to rush to the hedge
and look through. But the mower who had begun
the song cried out, “ Howd! Stop a bit, lads. Aw‘ll
have another twirl !”
“Ay do, Joe, owd lad !” said little Dick, handing
another horn to the mower. “ There ; wesh thi pipe
eawt abit, an’ start again,—like a layrock! Aw’ll
back thee to sing you mon for a keaw yed, ony
minute! G0 at it again, owd cockolorum! He con~
not touch that sung where thae comes—nought o’th
sort! Nea then ; off witho ?”
“Here goes!” replied the mower, handing the
empty horn back to Dick.
0 in June there’s a red rosebud,
An’ that’s the flower for me !
But often as I’ve plucked at the red rosebud,
I’ve gainéd the willow tree.
0 the willow tree will twist,
An’ the willow tree will twine ;
An’ I wish that I was in that young man’s arms,
That once had this heart of mine.
“Hurrah!” cried little Dick, giving a twirl round
upon one foot, and flinging his old hat into the air.
“ Hurrah! Capital races! Nea then, owd mon,”
continued he, shouting to Ben, “ Get forrud ; it’s thy
turn th‘ next.”
“Aw‘ll be wi’ yo in a minute,” replied Ben, taking
another sip of water from the well, and clearing his
throat before he began.
My gardener he stoode by ;
He told me to take great care ;
For, oh ! in the middle of the red rosebud,
There groweth a sharp thorn there.
I told him I’d take no care,
Till I did feel the smart ; -
An’ I plucked an’ I plucked at the red rosebud,
Till it pierced me to the heart.
“ Nea then ;” cried Ben to the mower on the other

side of the hedge, “finish it off thisel, owd mon.
Thae licks me o’ to jam-rags! Aw con yer that.
By th’ mon, thae’s a rare pipe! Finish it off, owd
brid.”
“He shall do so!” replied little Dick from the
other side of the hedge. “ He’s a top-sawer, is ’tis,"
continued he, giving the mower a slap on the back,
and then rubbing his hands. “ Go at it again. We
munnot ha’ tho lickt, owd brid. Neaw; get agate!
Husht, lads ! This is the last reawnd.”
I’ll make me a posy of hyssop,—
And no other I will touch ;
That all the world may plainly see
I have loved one flower too much.
’1

My garden is now run wild ;
Where shall I plant anew ;
For my bed that once was sweet with thyme,
Is now o’errun with rue.
“Theighur!” (there!) said the mower, rising to his

feet, “ That’s done wi’.” The haymakers all clapped
their hands, and cried “ Hurrah!” “ Hurrah !" said
little Dick, flinging his hat up again, and squeaking
out in a shrill voice, as he capered round the tri
umphant mower.
He gave three cheers, an’ cried “ Farewell l
A’ve done wi’ the women !” an’ deawn he felL
Fal der dal layrol laddie—oh l
Fal der dal layrol laddie—ohl
“Nea then, lads,” said he, picking his hat up.
“Let’s see who yon is i’th lone,” and there was a
general rush to the hedge-side ; some peeping through
the thorns, others clambering up to get a view over
the top. Dick was first at the hedge ; and, peeping
through a little gap, he caught sight of Ben, as he
walked by towards his donkey, with the intent of
going on his way again.
“Hello, lads,” cried Dick. “By th’ mass, it’s
Besom Ben ! Iv it isn’t, aw’ll go to th’ crows !”
“It’s him, for sure," said Joe, as he looked over
the top of the hedge.
“Neaw, owd lad,” continued he, shouting to Ben,
who was starting off with his donkey, “ heaw go?’
“ Eh, Joe, owd brid !" replied Ben ; “is that thee?
Aw thought it’re somebory ’at knowed what music
belungs to.”
“ Here," continued the mower, “ Poo up a minute.
What’s o’ thi hurry? Thae’rt noan after a labbor.
arto? Dick, hond mo an odd tot up, for Ben.”
“ He’s ha’ two iv he’s a mind,” said Dick, filling
the horn, and handing it up. “ Ax him iv he’ll have
a bit o’ summat to height.”
“ Here,” said the mower, reaching over the ale to
Ben; “come, sup! Wilt have a bit o’ summat to
height? There’s plenty i’th’ basket yet. There’s
loaf an’ butter, an’ cheese. An‘ there’s a twothre
scallions laft. Thea’rt welcome, thae knows.”
“Nay,” replied Ben; “aw dunnot know ’at aw
feel to want aught. Aw ha’ mi dinner lapt up here.”
“ Well, an’ heaw arto gettin’ on, Ben ?”
“ Oh, aw ail nought, ’at aw know on,” replied Ben.
“Aw’ll tell tho what, Joe, aw think thae rayther
missed it i’ that third verse.”
“ Wheer, thinksto ?"
“ Well, just try it o’er again.”
“ Aw will,” replied foe.
“ Howd !” said Ben, in a whisper. “ There’s a
berrin’ comin’.”
It was a straggling country funeral, followed by a
long train of people, old and young, all well and
cleanly clad; though most of them evidently belonged
to the humblest walk of country life. As the body
went by, Ben and the haymakers took their hats off
reverently, and stood silently looking on, simply
nodding to those in the funeral train whom they
happened to know. But, at the end of all, there
came a thin, old, fresh~faced man, leading a little lad
by the hand. Ben knew the old man; and, as he
came up, he went to him, and asked in a whisper
whose funeral it was.
“Didto ever know Rondle o’ Kitter’s, at th’ Owler
Nook ?" said the old man.
“Aw think aw’ve yerd on him,” answered the mower.
“ He wur a walk~miller when he’re yung,” continued
the old man; “an’ be wortched a while at a place
co’de th’ ‘Holmes Chapel.’ It’s somewheer Cliviger
road on. That’d be afore thy time, Ben. But abeawt
thirty year sin he gav o’er millin’; an’ he coom back
to his own country; an’ be sattle’t upov a bit ov a farm
at th’ ‘Owler Nook,’ a piece aboon ‘ Th Thrutch,’ yon.
Aw’m own cousin to him, o’th mother’s side.”
“ O ; aw think aw knowed him,” said Ben.
“ Well, aw know not whether tho did or not,” re
plied the old man ; “ he’re a very quiet chap.” .
“ Did he do a bit i’th bazzoon line, neaw an’ then?"
inquired Joe, who was still looking over the hedge.
“Sure he did !” answered the old man. An’ he
could ha’ tutor’t a double-bass middlin’ weel, when
he’d a mind. Aw dar say thae’d know him, Joe.
They co’de him ‘Tansy’ for a bye-name. He’re a
greight chap for yarbs. They ne’er had no childer,
nobbut one,-—-an’ he’re olez a trouble to ’em. He
would list for a sodiur. Th’ owd fellow bought him
off once; but he went again. An’ he geet kilt at th‘
end ov o’,-—at Sallymanco. Th’ owd woman use’t to
fret terrible o’er that lad.”
“Eh, aw knowed th’ owd chap,” said Joe. “Aw
knowed him. An’ is this him ?”
“ Nawe,” replied the old man; “it’s his wife. It’s
owd Martha. Hoo’re like getten to th’ top side 0’
fourscore. What, yo known, we are not made o’ stufl
at lasts for ever.”
“Nawe, we are not,” replied the mower. “ An’
heaw is th’ owd lad.”
“ He is here wi’th funeral,” answered the old man
“ He’s aboon eighty, too. We had aim’t to ha‘ kept
him awhoam ; but he wouldn’t. He said he couldn’t
sattle to be laft beheend i’th empty heawse, an’ see
her carried eawt bi’ hersel’. He’d followed her o’ her
life; an’ he thought he’d follow her end-way. So, he’s
toddle’t on wi’th berrin’. Th’ owd chap’s quite lost.
He keeps lookin’ reawnd as if he’re seechin’ for sum
mat. He says nought mich, yo’ known. But, aw think
it’s taen his reckillection away. He’ll not be so long
after her, yo’n see. But, aw’m go forrud; or else aw’s
lose th’ end on ’em. Good day to yo’ !”
“Good day to yo’ !” replied Ben and the mower.
“Good day!” said little Dick, who had been hearkening
through the thorn hedge.
“They keepen droppin’ off thae sees, Joe,” said
Ben, as he watched the old man walk away.
“ Ay,” replied the mower, “ it’s a bit ov a job that
we o' han to do once a-piece, Ben. An’ we cannot
hire nobory to do it for us, noather. Deeoth’s no
moor wit nor tayin’ no notis o’ brass, an’ fine clooas,
an’ sich like—not he.”
“ Nawe, he hasn’t,” said Ben, looking thoughtful.
“It’s happen becose he wears noan his-sel’.”
Ben an’ a’ Bantam. 6!
“Who’s singin’ keawnter up at Whit’oth Chapel,
neaw, Ben ?” inquired the mower.
“Doe o’ Deb’s," replied Ben.
“ O, ay !” said the mower. “Is he theer yet? A
good singer, too, he is. But, they’re ov a music
breed, that lot,—bwoth th’ lasses an’ th’ lads. It’s
quare heaw sich like things runs i’ familes”
“Ay, it is,” answered Ben, handing up the empty horn.
“ Neaw, wilt have another “I” said the mower,
reaching over to get the horn.
“ Nawe; no moor," replied Ben. “ Aw’ll be gooin’
to-awrd Shay-cloof.”
“Well, good day to tho,” said the mower.
“ Good day!” replied Ben. “Come up, Dimple !”
Ben met nobody remarkable on the road for more
than two miles, except a farmer-looking man, on a
heavy-limbed horse. The farmer’s wife sat on a
pillion-seat behind him, with a lame lad in her arms.
They were on their way with the lad to the famous
Whitworth doctors. But when he came to the place
where the road overlooks the head of the wild clough
called “The Thrutch,” a poor road-wearied woman
was giving a pale girl, of about six years old, a drink of
water from a little tin can, which she had carried in her
pocket. Both the woman and the child looked ill
and tired, and they were poorly, though cleanly, clad.
As Ben came up she lifted her head, and asked him
how far they were from Oldham yet.
“ It’ll be abeawt eight mile, as near as aw can tell,"
said Ben, looking first at one, then at the other.
“ Han yo to walk to Oldham?”
62 Bm an’ t/z’ Bantam.
Then the poor woman told him that she must get
to Oldham that day.
Ben questioned her again, and when she had looked
well at him she opened out her simple story, telling
him that she had walked all the way from three miles
beyond Bacup. Her husband had been out of work
for weeks, and he had been suddenly taken ill at
Oldham, whilst on tramp in search of a job.
“ Come,” said Ben, ‘f aw’ll gi’ yo a lift wi’ th’ chylt
as far as th’ Shay-cloof. . . . Come, my lass,” con
tinued he, lifting the child up, and settling her into a
comfortable seat amongst the besoms, “ thae’s have a
ride.”
The poor woman thanked him ; and then they
went slowly on their way.
CHAPTER IV.
\Ve wander there, we wander here,

We eye the rose upon the brier,
Unmindful that the thorn is near,
Amaug the leaves. BURNS.
T was about an hour past the stroke of noon

‘ when Ben reached the low end of Shaw
clough village,—a place that he had
- ' looked forward to with a kind of dread,
as he left home, cold and pensive, in the morning, being
so near the scene of his previous day’s adventure.
But, though Ben was habitually a temperate man, his
frank and simple nature was easily misled; and the
chequered course of his forenoon’s ramble had been
so exciting, that he had thoughtlessly imbibed more
drink than was common with him at that time of the
day, and it began to “take hold” of him. He felt un
usually jovial and careless, and he trod the highway
with a free and wandering step, and an unconstrained
mind. The sober outworks of discretion were all
thrown down, and the frolic garrison ‘of his heart lay
open to an insidious foe. And yet he cast many a sly
glance at the doorways and windows of the cottages
by the roadside, for he knew that the fame of himself
and his donkey would have been ringing through the
village during that summer forenoon, and he did not
much relish the thought. But “care had drowned
himsel’ amongst the nappy,” and Ben felt ready for
anything that might befal, as he walked on by Dim
ple’s side, inspired with alcoholic courage, and more
with an air of a conqueror than a culprit.
As he sauntered up the slope, with a sprig of gorse
blossom stuck in his hat-band, and one hand laid on
Dimple’s neck, many a finger was pointed towards
him from cottage doors, and many a laughing face
stared through the windows with mischievous glee,
mingled with no little wonder. For the poor woman’s
child sat upon the top of the pannier, munching the
bread and cheese which Ben had given to it, and
gazing with quiet amazement upon the things around
it. On the other side of the donkey the weary wan
faced woman trailed along, with slow and painful steps,
holding by the skirt of her child’s frock with one hand ;
all her thin and threadbare garments bearing touching
evidence of the honourable struggle which decent
poverty makes to put its best appearance on. For the
poor wayfarer was one of those
. . who would blush
To wear a tattered garb, however coarse,
Whom famine could not reconcile to filth.
As they paced slowly up the village, many an old

crone stared at the well-known besom maker, and
muttered to herself. “Whatever’s he up to neaw?”
The inhabitants were mostly woollen weavers in those
days; and, as they passed the dwelling of one of these
artisans, the window of the loom-house was suddenly
thrown up, and a merry face looked out and cried,—
“ Hello, Ben ; thae’s getten it back, aw see.”
“ Getten what back ?”
“ Thi jackass. Aw thought thae’d sowd it to th’
lonlort at th’ Tobe‘s Yed.”
“ It is here, thae sees," replied Ben ; “an’ it owes
nobry nought, at aw know on.”
“ An’ wheer’s th’ beef ?” continued the weaver.
“Gullook !” cried Ben, running after his donkey,
and walking carelessly on by its side with half-defiant
air, as he trolled out in a low voice—
When good King Olfred rule’t this lond,
Rule’t this lond, rule’t this lond ;
When good King Olfred rule’t this lond,
He wur a goodly king, oh !
He stoole three peck o’ barley-meighl,
Barley-meighl, barley-meighl ;
He stoole three peck o’ barley-meighl,
To make some dumplins on, oh !
He stuck in it greight lumps o’ fat,
Greight lumps o’ fat, greight lumps o’ fat ;
He stuck in it greight lumps o’ fat,
Enough to chauk a mon, oh!
“ Come up, Dimple,” said he, giving his donkey’s

ear a fillip. “Come up! let’s get eawt o’th seet as
soon as we con ;" and then he took up the same strain
again, skipping some verses which he did not remem
ber well :—
An’ what they could’nt heigt that day,
Heigt that day, heigt that day ;
An’ what they could’nt heigt that day,
Th’ next day they had it fried, oh 1
“ Hello, Ben,” said an old man who stood smoking
at his cottage door; “thae sings as iv thae’d had a
lot o’ brass laft tho. Wheerto for ?”
“Aw’m beawn a-’livering’ some besoms a bit fur
up," replied Ben.
“ Arto for co’in’ at th’ Tobe’s Yed ?”
“Ay; aw’s be like. Aw’ve some besoms for ’em.”
“ Thae’rt quarely lodden’t to-day,” continued the
old man, looking at the woman, and at the child in
the pannier. “Is that one o’ thy childer at sits a-top
o’th jackass ?”
“Nawe,” replied Ben, in a whisper; “ it belungs
this woman here. Aw let on her o’ tother side Yealey
Ho’; quite stagged up.”
“ Whau ; who is hoo ?"
“ Nay,” answered Ben, “aw know nought who hoo
is. But hoo’s ill tire’t; an’ hoo looks ill ov’ hersel’
too. Her husban’s bin eawt o’ wark; an’ he’s bin
ta’en ill while he wur seechin’ a job i’ Owdham ; an’
ho’s beawn to him. Hoo looks deawn-hearted.”
“Ay, hoo does look ill,” said the old man, taking a
sly glance at her face again. “It’s a theawsan’ pities—
poor body! Hoo’s gooin’ upov a soory arran.’ There‘s
nobry knows what’s to betide ’em i’ this world.
Doest think hoo’d ha’ sixpence iv aw’re to give her
one ?”
“God bless yo’r owd soul, ]one,” said Ben. “Gi’s
howd o’th’ brass. Aw’ll ax her.”
The poor woman’s pale face flushed with a kind of
shame ; but necessity was strong, and as she took the
sixpence she said, “Yo’ known aw’m not quite beawt;
but it will be a bit ov an help for mo ; an’ aw con
nobbut thank yo i”
“ Stop a minute,” said the old man. “ That chylt
may as weel have a butter-cake. Mary, bring one o’
thoose new-baked moufins.” The old man’s daugh
ter, who had been listening and watching through the
window, ran and brought a well-buttered home-baked
cake, big enough for a wagoner’s dinner. “Here, my
lass,” said the old man, going up to the child, “there’s
a butter-cake for tho.”
“ Neaw ; what doesto say for it?” said her mother.
The child had already eaten its fill; and it was so
overfaced by the size of the cake and the strange
bewildefment of things around, that it put its soft
knuckle up to its eyes, and began to cry.
“ Husht, maw love 2" said the mother, taking the
cake from the child. “Come, aw'll lap it up for thi
supper. Husht, neaw ! We’re beawn to see thi dad,
aren’t we ?”
Ben turned away and looked down the road, for his
heart was made of soft stuff- But as soon as the wo
man had pacified her child he bade the old man good
day, and they set off again.
“ Good day,” said the old man. “ An’ good day
to yo, mistress. Aw hope yo’n find things better nor
likely at th’ fur end.”
“ Ben had not got fifty yards further on his way,
before a slatternly-looking woman, who was standing
F
by the footpath with a child in her arms, beckoned
to him, and called out, “Here, aw say! Aw want
tho a minute.”
“ Well, what’n yo want ?” said Ben, walking towards
her.
“What’s the matter wi’ yo’r Betty? Ho0 looks
terrible torn deawn. Has hoo been ill or summat ?”
“ Yon’s noan ov eawr Betty,” replied Ben. “ It’s a
woman ’at aw’ve let on upo’ th’ road. Aw’m nobbut
givin’ her a lift wi’ th’ chylt.”
“ O, aw see,” answered the suspicious jade. "' What
then, thae’ll be for gooin’ forrud to th’ teawn wi’ her,
aw dar say ?”
"‘ Nay, not I,” said Ben, “ aw’m beawn no fur nor
th’ Tobe’s Yed, an’ then hoo’ll go forrud hetsel.”
“ Oh,” replied she, staring after the woman. “Aw
like as iv aw’d sin yon woman afore, somewheer.
What’s hoo co’de ?”
“Aw know nought what hoo’s co’de,” answered
Ben, walking away a little nettled by her impertinent
curiosity ; “ Hoo is yon. Ax her yorsel’.”
When she had watched him up the road with an evil
eye for a minute or two, she rambled up to the door
of the next cottage, where a congenial gossip dwelt.
“ Mally,” said she, looking in, and addressing a
stout, middle-aged woman, who was washing the pots
after dinner ; “aw never thought yon had had as mich
in him as he has.”
“Who is it ?”
“Lobden Ben. Him ’at had his jackass wund up
into th’ mill-chamber yesterday.”
“Nay,- sure !” replied she, running to the door with
the dish-cloth in her hand, and looking up the road.
“It’s him, for sure; at’ the jackass an’ o’. What’s
he bin agate on again? They say’n he’s noan reet in
his yed.”
“fim’t he ree't? Howd off yon, for bein’ reet. He’s
no better nor he should be. He’s taen up w’ some
tank by a durty trollops ’at he’s let on upo’ th’ road,
an’ he’s carryin’ her chylt upo’ th’ jackass yon.”
“ An’ what’s he for wi’ her, thinksto ?” replied the
portly dame, returning to her pots.
“ He’s beawn to some nook or another, wheer he
thinks nobry knows him.”
“ It’s a nasty dirty trick on him,” answered the fat
potwasher. “ Aw wonder if his wife knows ?”
“ Hoo shall do afore mornin’,” replied the ill~con
trived jade ; “ aw’ll tak care 0’ that.” And away
she sidled to the door of the next cottage to scatter
the baleful influence of her spiteful nature a little
further.
Ben met with no further interruption until he was‘
within a few yards of the inn, when a lad came run
ning up the road after him, crying out, “Stop, stop !
My mother’s come’d in. Hoo says that woman’s to
come back to er heawse, an’ get her tay. Tummy
Ricker’s is beawn to Owdham wi’ th’ cart in hawve
an heawr; an he says he’ll let her ride.”
“ By the mon, mistress,” said Ben, “that’s a nice‘
chance for yo ! Aw’m fain yo’n let in so weel. It’d
ha’ bin a weary trawnce to‘ Owdham. Owd ]one’s a
daycent chap. He’s as good as goose-skins. An.’
they’re o’ alike i’ that family ; sib an’ sib, rib an‘ rib.
Come, my lass,” continued he, lifting the child down
from the pannier and putting threepence into its hand,
“ that’s to buy toffy wi’. Thae’rt beawn to ride in a
cart wi’ thi mam.”
The poor woman took up her child in her arms,
and when she had thanked Ben over and over again
in her simple way, but with a full heart, she followed
the lad back to the old man’s cottage.
Ben pulled up in front of the inn, and began to
take the besoms from his panniers and lay them down
upon the footpath.
Twitchel and Old Enoch had been hanging about
making holiday all the day, and Enoch was sitting at
the window of the tap-room when Ben came up to
the front of the house.
“ Hello i” cried Enoch, staring through the win
dow. “ Ginger for flirtin’ ! He’s here again wi’ a
gowden sallet in his hat!”
“ Who’s here ?” said Twitch, looking round.
“ Besom Ben,” said Enoch. “ Come, aw’ll fot him.”
And he ran to the door and called to him.
“Nea, Ben, owd mon!” cried Enoch, “come in.
An’ bring th’ jackass wi’ tho. Aw’ll ston a pint for
that jackass, bith mon.”
“ Aw’ll be in a minute,” replied Ben. “ These
besoms are for th’ londlort."
The landlord was coming out of the kitchen as
Ben entered, with the besoms in his arms.
“Hello!” said the landlord, “what thae’s londed
safe after o’ ! Gome in here,” continued he, beckon
Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam. 7!
ing Ben into the kitchen, “come in here, Ben. Heaw
mich are thoose besoms ?"
“Two shillin’ ; same as th’ last.”
“ Theer it is, sitho,” replied the landlord, handing
the money to him. “ Nea then, sit tho deawn here ;
never mind you chaps i’th’ tap-reawm. Th’ dinner ’ll
be ready in two or three minutes, an’ thae may have
a bit wi’ us ; i’ tho likes. It’s boighlt beef, an’ broth,
an’ dumplins. . . . Oh, stop,” continued he, remem
bering himself, “thoose chaps agreed to pay for that
beef o’ thine ’at they stoole last neet. Aw should ha’
sent th’ brass up to yo'r heawse iv thae hadn’t come’d.
Theer it is, sitho.”
“ Nawe,” replied Ben, “ aw’ll not have it till they
gettin their sheep’s yed and stuff back. Eawr Betty
says hoo’ll not have it i’th heawse.”
“ Put th’ brass i’ thi pocket,” replied the landlord,
“ an’ heigt th’ sheep‘s yed an’ o’. It’d sarve ’em reet.”
“Put th’ brass i’ th’ pocket, Ben,” cries the land
lady, “and dunnot be a foo. Aw may no’ ceawnt on
‘em playing sich like tricks. They carry’n things too
far. Put it i’ thi pocket. They’n moor to stir on
nor theaw has. Thae’s to scrat hard enough for a
livin.‘ Put it i’ thi pocket, lad !”
“ Well,” replied Ben, pocketing the money, “ aw’ll
send ’em th’ sheep’s yed an’ stuff back as soon as aw
get whoam, or else aw’ll bring it mysel.”
“ Aw never would,” answered the landlady, setting
a pint of ale before him. “Bother noan abeawt it,
but sit still, an’ get that into tho till th’ dinner’s
ready.”
72 Ben. an’ M’ Bantam.
“ Nay,” said Ben, “ aw’d rayther goo an’ ’liver my
besoms furst. Aw’ve nobbut two plazes to co’ at—-
Owd Clement’s at th’ Failinge, and at Owd Jacob’s
at Cronkeyshay. Aw can go to both i’ under an
hour.”
“ Here,” replied the landlord, “ sit the still. Aw’ll
send Joe wi’ ’em. Hea mitch wi’n they be ?’’
“Eh,” said Ben, “aw wish yo would’n send him.
Aw deawt they’n bi riggin’ mo abeawt yesterday.
Aw’d raythur not faze Owd Jacob iv he’s yerd 0’ that
dooment. . . . There’s six besoms for Jacob’s, an’
six for th’ Failinge folk. It’ll be two shillin’ at eyther
plaze. Aw’ll give him a pint for goin’. . . An’ aw
say, Jem ; tell him to tak’ care o’th jackass!”
“Aw’ll see to’t,” replied the landlord, walking out
at the kitchen door.
Whilst Ben was standing with his jackass at the
front of the alehouse, taking his besoms out of the
panniers, several of the villagers thereabouts had
recognised him, and one of them more oflicious than
the rest, ran to the door of old Mally, whose pitcher
was broken by the donkey upsetting her at the end of
the lane on the previous night.
“Heigh, Mally!” cried she, “yon chap’s at th’
Tobe’s Yed dur wi’ his jackass again ! It’s th’ same
jackass at knocked yo o’er at th’ lone end last neet
an’ broke th’ pitcher. Iv aw’re yo aw’d make him
pay! Send yo’r Alick to him ; an’ tell him to crack
o’ fottin law iv he doesn’t turn up some brass. Be
sharp wi’ yo !”
“Aw will do so ;” said old Mally, hobbling out
Bea an’ t/z’ Bantam. 73
at the back of the cottage, and trailing to her grand
son, who was in the garden, “ Aw will do so. Alick!
Alick ! Th’ jackass chap’s yon. He’s at Tobe’s Yed!
Go thee, an’ make him pay; or else have him ta’en
up ‘’!
Just as the landlord was leaving the kitchen, to

give directions to Joe about the delivery of Ben’s
besoms, the old woman’s grandson came clattering
up the steps, and in at the front door. The landlord
met him full in the face, as he was running towards
the door of the taproom.
“ Here, here," said the landlord, stopping him ;
“ What art theaw after? Aw’ll not ha’ thee in theer.”
“Where’s th‘ chap ’at belungs that jackass at th’
dur ?” said the lad, pointing to Dimple.
“What does theaw want wi’ th’ chap at’ belungs
that jackass ?” inquired the landlord.
“ Aw want payin’ for th’ damage ’at he did th’ last
neet,” replied the young fellow, with an impudent air;
“ an’ aw’ll have it, too ; or else he’ll ha’ to goo afore
Clement."
“Why; has he done thee some damage?” continued
the landlord, restraining his rising temper.
“ Nawe," answered the young fellow ; “but his jack
ass knocked my gronmother o’er at th’ end o’th lone,
last meet, an’ broke her pitcher, an’ sheeded th’ milk,—
an’ hoo’ll ha’ to be paid, or else hoo’ll fot a summons
on him.”
“What mak ov a pitcher wur it ?”
“ It wur a quart pitcher," replied the lad. “A blue
an’ white u-n.”
“Well, sitho,” answered the landlord, fetching a
quart pitcher from the bar. “ Give her that. An’ here,”
continued he, “ there’s a shillin’ for her. Hoo’s not a
bit wur. Aw’ve sin her this mornin’. Off witho while
thae’rt weel.”
“ Is this o’ aw mun have, then ?” said the lad, look
ing at the shilling.
“It’s o’ thae mun have, my lad,” replied the land
lord, “ beawt thae’d like a bat o’th ribs.”
“ Are yo noan beawn to pay forth’ milk ’at wur shed,
then ?” continued the unscrupulous manikin.
“ H eaw mich milk wur there?” inquired the landlord.
“ Abeawt hauve a gallon,” replied the lad.
“What! in a quart pitcher ?" said the landlord.
“ Come, off witho; or aw’ll gi’ tho a lifter beheend
wi’ my fuut. Off witho, toawrd that dur-hole! Aw
know yo ! Yo’d skin two divels for one hide! Iv
thi gronmother wants aught moor, send her to me.
Come, shap off.”
The lad went slouching toward the doorway, mut
tering sulkily that the thing was not done with yet.
His gronmother “wur noan beawn to sattle it under a
suvverin’.” ‘
The landlord followed him to the front, and as he
watched the lad lounge across the street, he said to
himself: “ A wastril gang, that.” Then, taking Dim
ple by the bridle, he led him into the back yard, where
Joe was at work, swilling the flags.
“Here Joe,” said the landlord, “put that bucket
deawn a bit : aw’ve a nice job for tho”
Joe set deawn his bucket ; and when the landlord
had given him instructions about the delivery of Ben’s
besoms, he started away, with Dimple, a little tickled
with the novelty of the job. The landlord shouted
after him up the road, telling him to put the donkey
up in the stable as soon as he returned; and then he
went in to dinner, which was just ready.
“ Come, Ben, maw lad ;” said the landlord, taking
his seat at the head of the table, “ get a bit o’ dinner
into tho. Wilto have a bowl o’ broth ?”
“ Ay,” replied Ben, “ aw’m rayther partial to broth."
"‘ Theer," said the landlady, setting a steaming basin
before him ; “get thoose into tho ; they’n do tho
good.”
The broth were mad-hot, and between blowing and
supping Ben had full employment for a few minutes.
“ Wilt have a dumplin’, Ben ?” said the landlord ;
seeing that Ben was finishing his broth.
“Ay,”answered Ben ; “there‘s nobry likes dumplin’
better nor me.”
The landlady handed a plate of dumpling to him ;
and the dinner went on with few words thrown away.
Ben had finished his dumpling, and was just beginning
to attack the beef and potatoes, when Enoch came to
the kitchen door.
“Come, come, owd mon!” said Enoch; “thae’rt
a greight while wi’ fillin! Aw could ha’ etten a keaw
bi neaw. Be slippy ; or else we’n come in here.
Mun we come into the kitchen, Jem? ”
“Nawe, nawe,” cried the landlady; “keep where
yo are. We’n no reawm here. Ofi" wi’ yo till we’n
getten th’ dinner o’er. He’ll not be mony minutes.”
76 Ben an’ 1/? Bantam.
Before the dinner was quite over, Joe came smiling
in from delivering the besoms.
“Thae’rt soon back,” said Ben, speaking with his
mouth half full. “ Heaw didto goo on, owd lad?”
“O reet," replied Joe, putting the money on the
table. “Here’s th’ brass, sitho. Four-shillin."
“Well, an’ what said’n they?”
“ Ohqwhy-.-aw see’d nobry at Owd Clement’s
nobbut Jem, th’ coachman ; an’ he axed what they
wur. So aw tow’d him, an’ he went in an’ geet brass
for mo. An’ they brought moapint o’ ale to th‘ dur.”
“ Well,” an’ heaw didto goo on at Cronkeyshay?
Didto see th’ owd chap? A dar say he’d wonder
heaw it wur ’at aw didn't come wi’ ’em mysel’.”
“Nay,” said Joe, “aw didn’t leet ov owd Jacob.
Aw see’d nobory abeawt, nobbut a bit ov a lad mar
lockin’ wi’ a gath (hoop); an’ a chap wi’ a spade ov
his shoolder. He looked as iv he’d bin wortchin’ i’th
garden. So aw axed him iv Owd Jacob wur abeawt;
an’ he said that he wur gwon up Whit’oth road a’seein’
one o’th bonds ’at had bin taen ill, an‘ he’d taen one o’th
younger end o’th lads wi’ him, ’at wur co’de after hissel’.
So aw went into th’ yard, an’ reet up to th’ back dur.”
“ Eh, thae should ha’ gwon to th’ ceawnting-heawse,
mon,” said Ben.
“ O, bother noan,” continued Joe, “ it wur o’ reet.
As soon as aw’d knocked th’ mistress coom to th’ dur,
an’ hoo axed what wur to do ’at thae hadn’t come’d
thisel’. Well, to tell tho truth, aw towd her a
lie. Aw said ’at thae wur noan so weel, an’ aw’d had
to come for tho, and sich like. An’ then hoo axed
heaw th’ wife an’ childer wur. Well, aw made up some
mak ov a tale abeawt thoose, too. Aw’s ha’ to go to
th’ crows for telLin’ lies for thee, Ben. Aw shall, bigo i
An’ then, hoo wanted to know what ailed tho, like;
an’ aw said aw thought it’re rheumatism, or summat
o’ that ; fur thae’re terrible ill o’ thi inside.”
“ Eh, thee, Joe, for a tup-yedt Thae shouldn’t ha’
said so, mon. What did to say beside?"
“ Well,” replied Joe, “ aw’ll go to th’ say iv aw can
tell justly. Aw know one thing; aw never name’t
that do ’at thae had wi’ th’ jackass- But aw‘d hard
wark to help for laughin’ when the mistress look’t at
Dimple, as- it stoode theer. . . . Aw think hoo aim’t
at sendin’ tho some physio, or summat. Thae knows
they’re a mak o’ doctors amoon poor folk; nobbut
they never chargen nought. An’ they’re gan to rom
min a bit o’ meight an’ stufi’ into nooks where there
is noan. . . . Eh, there wur one o’th’ lads—a
stifl-set un—coom runnin’ into th’ yard, wi’ a face as
red as that fire. He’d bin marlockin’ at the front,
wi’ two or three more from Littlewood schoo’; an’
they’n had fuut-bo’ wi’ ’em, summer an’ o’ as it wur ;
an’ they’d sent it slap through th’ window. Th’ mis
tress axt him who’d brokken th’ parlour window, an’
be said ‘Me !’ So hoo towd him, like, ’at he shouldn’t
ha’ done so. But he reckon’t ’at he couldn’t help it,
becose he didn’t like to miss his puuce. By th’ mon,
he’s a pluck’t-un is that lad, or else aw’m swapt."
“ Oh, aw know him,” said Ben. “He catch’t me
i’th ear-hole wi’ a snow~bo’, as aw’re goin’ through th’
yard th’ last Kesmass.”
“Eh; aw’ll tell tho what, Ben,” continued Joe;
“there wur a little lass coom to th’ dur wi’ th’ mis
tress! Eh, owd lad ; iv ever aw see’d a angel’ it’s
that little lass! That face never wur made i’ this
world ! It’s to good for this cowd country, is yon,—
or else aw’m chetted. . . . Oh; an, aw let ov
Absalom, th’ carter, as aw’re comin’ away. He’d bin
carryin’ dinners eawt to a rook o’ owd folk upo’
Cronkeyshay.”
“Aw dar say,” replied Ben, “It’s one ov owd
Absalom jobs, is that.”
“Well, come, Joe,” said the landlady, “get thi
dinner, an’ let’s ha’ this table sided, so ’at these lasses
can begin o’ their ironin’."
“O’ reet,” replied Joe, flinging his cap upon the
dresser, and pulling a chair up to the table as old
Enoch came into the kitchen again.
“ Neaw then, Ben,” said Enoch, holding his hand
out, as if he was making a speech, “arto beawn to
come, or thae artn’t? We wanten tho to give us a bit
ov a sung. They’re for havin’ a do o’ reawnd. Twitch
says he’ll start th’ furst iv thae’ll do after him. Come
on witho.”
“Iv thae’ll let mo alone five minutes longer,” said
Ben, “aw’ll be ready for ought.”
“Well, aw’ll time tho,” replied Enoch, walking back
to the tap-room.
km‘n.-éégaw
' ‘ -L- '..§\ I ranger'‘: (1,;
CHAPTER V.
Here we come a-wassailing l—-OLD CARoL.

“ ' jfi -‘ HEER !” said Ben, wiping his mouth, and
brushing the crumbs from his knees ;
“aw’ve had a rare good dinner, mistress ;
— _ an’ aw’m very mich obleeg’t to yo.”
“ Oh, thae’rt welcome, lad!” replied the landlady;
“welcome as th’ fleawrs i’ May. Sure thae art. What!
we’re noan within a bite o’ meight, mon: not we.”
“ Nawe, aw know yo are not,” answered Ben. “ But,
yo known, one connot have a do like that every day
eawt o’ besom-makin’. We thinken weel iv we can
get a bit o’ butcher’s meight of a Sunday. But aw
guess it’s a reglar thing wi’ sich as yo.”
“ Well, we gwon nought short i’th heightin’ line—
thank God for that !” answered she.
“ Well, but we kilt a pig o’ Thursda’,” said the land
lord, “ wilt have a link or two o’ black puddin’ ?”
“Aw’ve nought again that, ’at aw know on,”answered
Ben. “But yo’n never had no swillin’s fro us ; an’ aw
dar say yo never win have.”
“ Howd te din abeawt swillin’s,” replied the land
lord. “It’s noather here nor theer. We’n swillin’s
enoo ov er own. Tak some puddin’s whoam wi’ tho.”
80 Ben an’ #1’ Bantam.
‘‘Eome, aw’ll lap tip,” the Mersey,
walking towards the pantry. ‘
‘" Aw care nought abeawt ’em amt,” Saki the land
lord, turning round to look at somebody who was
knocking in the lobby.
It was a trimly-dressed servant lass, who stood play
ing with a shilling in her hand.
“Well, Ellen,” said the landlord, “what is it ‘P’
“ Have yo ony gill bottles o’ porter, James? ” said
‘the lass.
“ Nawe,” replied the landlord ; “but wei’n same
pint bottles ’at doesn’t howd so mich- moo‘n-i—‘lv that’ll
do.”
“ Oh, it’ll do very Well,” answered the girl. “ Aw
want two bottles for th’ mistress. Ho0 thinks a drop
o’ porter would agree with her th’ best ov aught to
night.”
“ Heaw is th’ owd lass ‘V’ said the landlord, walking
into the bar to get the porter.
“ Oh, hoo’s never right, never. An’ aw don’t think
she ails anything but -consate; for she can eat, an’
drink, an’ talk well enough: Talk ‘! Eh, yo should
hear her talk !”
“ Aw don’t think hoo does ail mich, lass, nobbut
consate as thae says. An‘ a consate’s as ill as a con
sumption ony time. Does th’ doctor attend her yet?”
“Th’ doctor ! Eh, doctors an’ parsons; it’s all ‘at
keeps her alive. Eh, yo should ha’ heard her talkin’
to th’ doctor this mornin’. She was tellin’ him what
sort ov a night she’d had. I heard every word. I was
sweepin’ th’ lobby eawt at th’ time. ‘Eh, doctor,’ she
said, ‘aw never was nearer my end than I was last
night. Aw dreamt aw was gettin' to th’ edge o’ Jordan:
an’ aw was goin’ to cross over, when aw bethought
myself all at once that th’ carpets wanted shakin’:
an’ aw thought that aw’d better see ’em done afore
aw went ; or else they never would be done. So aw
turn’t over, an’ aw called ov Ellen, an‘ aw gave her a
right good talkin’ to abeawt these carpets. An’
doctor,’ she said, ‘yo know what a contradictions
little madam that girl is ; aw thought she answered me
back, as she always does, an’ it vexed me so that aw
wakened up; an’ aw do believe, doctor, that it’s done
me good.’ Then th’ doctor felt at her pulse, an‘ he
said he shouldn’t wonder iv it had done her good;
but he thought he’d better alter her physic a bit. . .
She reckons to have no appetite ; but it’s always
‘Ellen, boil me some eggs; Ellen, fry me some ham.
Aw expect th’ doctor here directly, Ellen.’ ”
“Aw think hoo’s a bit canker’: is th’ owd besom,”
said the landlord.
“ Canker’tl Eh, aw think hoo is. Yo should hear
her when she’s in a tantrum.”
“ Then her ailment hasn’t touched her tung, like ?”
continued the landlord.
“Tung ! No! Aw believe she’ll talk in her cofi‘in;
aw do for sure. But, eh ; aw must be gooin’. Good
afternoon.” '
“Good afternoon, Ellen,” said the landlord.
“Yon’s noan beawt tung, noather,” continued the
landlord. walking into the kitchen, where the landlady
and the servants and Ben had all been listening.
“Nawe, hoo isn’t,” replied Ben. “ Who’s hoo bin
agate on T” '
“It’s an owd maid ’at lives a twothri yards aboon
here. Hoo’s lots o’ brass, an’ hoo doesn’t know what
ails her. Hoo’s olez oather for deein’ or for bein’
poor, or some lumber.”
“ Iv aw’re a woman,” said Ben, rising and walking
towards the door, “ aw’d get wed—iv aw rued at after.
Aw couldn’t do bi mysel’ at o’. . . . But aw’ll goo into
th’ tother reawm, and see how you lads are gettin’ on.”
“Well, thae’m mind what thae’rt doin’, thae knows,”
said the landlord. “Thae knows what mak they
are.”
“Oh, aw’m ready for ’em, to-day.” said Ben.
“Where’s th’ jackass? ”
“Th’ jackass is o’ reet,”replied the landlord. “Aw’ll
look after th’ jackass, iv thae’ll look after thisel’.”
“O reet !” replied Ben, walking towards the door,
just as Enoch was coming in for him again.
“Ben,” said Enoch, “art teaw for comin’ or thae
artn’t? Say the word. ’Cose we can do beawt tho,
thae knows, iv thae’rt aboon speigkin.”
“Howd te din!” replied Ben, who was getting as
jovial and frolicsome as the rest. “How’d te din!
Thae’rt war nor a sheep-sheawter. Aw’m comin’—
doesn’to see? An’ aw‘m ready for ought.”
“Come on, then, owd brid !” replied Enoch.
“ Come on! Aw’ll back tho till thi yed flies off.”
There was a curious company in the tap-room of
the Talbot’s Head that summer afternoon, and they
were. one and all, in different stages of inebriation.
Enoch and Twitchel had never been nearer to the
mill that day than they were then. The frolic of the
night before had set them going; and in their maunder
ings about during the forenoon they had beguiled
three slack-minded haymakers from a neighbouring
meadow to join their revels. These, however, be
longed to a class whose waking hours are mostly
passed in drinking, or in looking round the world to
see where the next “gill” is to come from. With
them sobriety had become a strange element, full of
fearfulness.
“Ginger for flirtin’!” cried Enoch, pushing Ben
before him into the tap-room. “ He’s here again, see
yo’, lads. Hutch up lower, some on yo’! Come
here, Ben, an’ sit at side o’ me. Thae’s not be put
on wi’ nobry—not while aw’m here, as heaw’t be.”
“Who want’s to put on him?” said Twitchel. “Iv
it’s onybody it’s thisel’, Enoch. Thae helped to heigt
his beef, didn’to?
“Ay, aw did,—reet enough. But then—we n
made that up again ; hannot, we, Ben ?”
“ Yigh, yo ha’n,” replied Ben.
“ Hasto getten th’ brass, owd crayter ?” continued
Enoch.
“Ay, ‘th’ lonlort’s gan it mo, just neaw."
“Well, then, let’s ha’ no fratchin’. Gi’ mo thi
hont, owd dog. Aw dunnot want to do nought at’s
wrang, mon. Nor thee, noather, doesto, Twitch ?”
“Do aw hectum as like? But then, aw’m noan
again a bit ov a spree, iv it isn’t carried to fur, thae
knows.”
G
“ Hea fur doesto like thi jokes carried, like, afore
tho stops? Thae likes ’em a good height up, judging
bi th’ jackass yesterday, Twitch, owd lad.”
“Eh, by th’ mon, that wur a do,” cried Twitch.
“Ben, thae’re gradely taen in that time. . . . But
what, thae bears no malice, doesto, owd lad? Gi mo
thi hont. Thae’rt noan as ill-contrive’t as Enoch,
theer.”
“Does thae co’ me ill-contrive’t ?” said Enoch,
staring at Twitch with good-humoured surprise.
“ Eh, never name it no moor. It’re my own doin’
as mich as anybody else’s,” said Ben. . . . But what
am aw to do wi’ yon sheep’s yed an’ stuff. It’s noan
o’ mine.”
“ It’s mine !” cried Enoch ; “it’s mine. Height it.
Thae’rt welcome to’t, owd brid !”
“Ay, but eawr Betty’s for sendin’ it back,” replied
Ben.”
“ Hoo’s a foo iv hoo does,” said Enoch. Give it
th’ cat! By th’ mon, aw’ll ha’ noan on’t. Iv hoo
sends it here aw’ll wuzz it into th’ street; so awve
towd to! . . . Come lads, burl eawt some on yo,
an’ let Ben sup. . . . Here,” continued he, filling
a gill pot, and offering it to Ben ; “tak howd,
maw lad. Thae’rt a top-sawer, iv ever there wur one.”
“Come!” said Ben, by way of wishing the com
pany “ good health."
“ Do !" replied three or four of the company in a
breath. ‘
This was the usual laconic form of health-pledging
among these country wassailers.
Ben an’ t/l’ Bantam. 85
As Enoch took the empty pot from Ben, he said,
“Here, aw’s be like to send it reawnd. . . . Come,
Popple, owd lad, wakken, an’ ger howd !”
"What hasto ?” said the half-stupified haymaker.
“ Rum an’ ale. It’ll do tho no harm,” replied
Enoch. “ Ger howd !” and he gave the drowsy hay
maker a slap on the side of the head in a frolicsome
way.
“ Nea, then ; what arto for? Aw’ll set tee one on
i’ tho does that again,” said the over-done haymaker,
slowly opening his foggy eyes, and groping his way to
a sight of the offender.
“ I’ tho does,” replied Enoch, “ aw’ll warm thi ear
hole, owd mon.”
“ Come, come,” said Twitch, rising from his seat
in the corner, “iv there’s ony fo’in’ eawt i’ this cote,
aw’ll be amung it, an’ soon too. As for thee, Popple,
iv, thae wants a twothre wrang words wi’ ony-body,
speigk to me, an’ aw’ll see what aw con do for tho.
Thae’rt just abeawt th’ size ’at aw like to play wi’.
Aw’ve had a good twothri sich like chaps as thee
under hond i’ my time. Iv’ thae’s summat upo thi’
stomach ’at troubles tho’, aw’ve some physic i’ my
shoon ’at’ll help tho off wi’t—an’ soon too.”
“ Nea then, Twitch, said Enoch, turning to his old
friend, “by th’ mon, thae’rt war nor him. . . . Tay
no notice o’ Popple. He’s like a chip i’ porritch,—
he’s noather one thing nor another. Dall it, lads, sup,
an’ don’t start o’ fratchin wi’ one another.”
“Aw want noan to fratch wi’ nobody,” said Popple
struggling to his feet.‘ and holding his shaky hand out
towards Twitchel. “ But thae knows Twitch, aw
dunnot like to ha‘ mi yed pown. But come, aw want
no bother. Gi mo thi hont, owd dog. Thee an’ me
knows one another fro bein’ chylt-little, dunnot we ?”
“Yigh, we dun,” replied Twitchel, taking his hand,
“but aw don’ like the so d weel for o’ that, an’
aw cannot tell what for, justly. But aw’ll tell tho one
thing, Popple, iv thae starts o’ bein reawsty, aw’m thy
maister ony minute. Neaw, what have aw towd to?
An’ i’tho doesn’t sit tho deawn, aw’s find my shoon a
bit ov a job somewheer abeawt latter~end o’ thi
breeches. . . . Doesto yer nought ?"
“ Dunnot tee say so mich abeawt that,” said
Popple, hobbling about on his legs, and giving his
arm a feeble flourish. “ Dunnot tee say so mich
abeawt that, or else—”
“Or else what?” said Twitchel, struggling to his feet.
“ Come, come,” said Enoch, rushing up to Twitchel,
“ we’n ha’ noan o’ yor bother abeawt sich like wark
as that. . . . Twitch, thee sit tho deawn, an’ dunnot
be a foo. Aw can manage yon tother weel enough iv
\ thae’ll howd thi din. . .. ‘. Popple, get tee into that
cheer; an’ iv thae wants to say ought moor, sing it ;
dall it, sing it!”
“Aw’ll sing yo a sung,” said Popple, thumping the
table ; “ Aw’ll sing a sung iv Owd Twitch ’ll sing at
after.”
“By Guy," replied Twitch, “aw dar sing at after
thee, as heaw’t be.”
“ Come Popple,” said Enoch, offering him another
tot of ale and rum ; “sup, an’ then get agate.
Popple emptied the tot ; and then turning his stolid
face towards the ceiling, he said, “ Here goes !” and
he began to howl, in a drawling nasal tone :—
When aw wur bund apprentice,
I‘ famous Lincolnshire,
Full weel aw sarve’t my maister,
For more nor seven lung year ;
Till aw took up wi’ poachin‘, lads,
As you shall quick-1y hear ;
Oh ! it’s my delight ov a shiny night,
In the season of the year.
“ Eh, by th’ mass, Popple,” cried Twitch, “ drop it
a minute or two ; thae’s set maw teeth agate o’
waachin’.”
“ Nawe, let him get it o’er,” said Enoch. “ Here,
sup ; an’ swill those hay-seeds eawt o’ thi throttle, an’
then start again!”
“ Aw’ll sing thee for a stone o’ red cabbich," re
plied Popple.
I “ Well, get agate,” answered Enoch ; “ an’ give
o’er talkin’.”
Up went Popple’s face again as he recommenced
his nasal howl— ‘
As me an’ my two com-a-rades
\Vur settin’ of a snare,
We chanced to see a gamekeeper,—
For him we did not care ;
For we can wrostle an’ fight, my boys,
An’ jump o’er onywheer :—
Oh ! it’s my delight of a shiny night,
In the season of the year.
As me an’ my two com-a-rades
Wur settin’ four or five
Popple stopped, and held out his hands. “Here,
Enoch,” said he, “ let’s sup once again, an’ then aw’ll
do another verse.”
“Aw’ll let tee sup twice i’tho’ll give o’er. It’s
unteein’ my shoon. By th’ mon, drop it,—that’s a good
lad. Thae’ll have us o’ laid up. Aw never yerd sich
a din sin aw’re wick. What hasto had to thi dinner ?”
“Aw’ll sing no moor,” said Popple, rising to his
feet again. “ An’ aw’m noan beawn to be put on bi
nobry i’ this cote, as cliver as yo reckon to be.
. . . Aw con buy o’ th’ rook on yo up. Aw guess yo
thinken aw’m beawt brass! See yo! (clashing a
handful of copper and silver on the table), there’s
five shillin’ theer,—at owes nobry nought. . . . An’
aw’ve a uncle ’at owns two mills i’ Darbyshire—
my uncle Joe. He’s own brother to my feyther. He’s
noather chick nor chylt. Thoose two mills are
mine when he dees. Crack that nut.”
“The dule steawnd thee and thi uncle Joe too," said
Twitch. “ Iv thy uncle Joe owns ony mills i’ Darby
sliire, they’re coffee mills. . . . Thae desarves
jollopin’ for talkin’ sich like foo-scutter as that.
Thae’rt o’ keaw-slaver an’ beggar-berm. Sit to deawn,
thae gawmbless hag-a-knowe, or aw’ll kom thi yure
for tho.”
“ Aw’ll tay thee another day, Twitch,” said Popple.
“Aw’s happen be leetin’ on tho up Whit’oth Road
on afore th’ next fay-berry time.”
“Aw’m here, neaw,” replied Twitch, making a
rush at him. But Enoch met him in full career, and
flinging his arms around him, said, “Nea, then,
Twitch, has thae no moor sense nor botherin’ wi’ sich
a churn-yed as that? Sit tho deawn mon; an’ let’s
ha’ some gam.”
“ Let him come, iv he likes,” replied Popple, “ aw’m
ready for him iv he comes this gate on.”
Twitch was going to rush at him again, when the
landlady came to the door.
“ Nea then, aw’llnot have sich wark. We’n ha no
feightin’ here. We’n had things enoo brokken, at’s
never bin paid for. Popple, iv thae cannot behave
thisel’ thae‘ll ha’ to goo eawt. Twitch, aw wonder ’at
yo’n no moor sense.”
“ Well, Betty," said Twitchel, “aw connot do to be
hector’t o’er wi’ a sodden foo like that, at’s made up
o’ nought but offal an’ block-scrapins—an’ put to
gether cowd, too. What’s he bother me abeawt his
brass, an’ his uncle Joe, for? He’s nought no better
not porritch—as wheer he is.”
“ Aw never name’t my uncle Joe,” replied Popple,
hiccupping in the corner.
“ Theaw’rt a lyin’ mon !” cried Twitchel, jumping
up again.
“ Aw’ll not have it, aw tell yo i" said the landlady,
coming forward. “ Aw’ll not have it. Iv yo want’n
sich like wark as that, yo mun goo eawtside to it.
Eawr James is eawt, or else he’d sattle yo—an’ soon,
too. Popple, go thee whoam !”
“ Aw’ll be quiet, if he will ” said Popple, hiccupping
drowsily in the corner again.
“ Well, keep thi tung between thi teeth, then,” said
Twitch.
90 Ben an’ t/e’ Bantam.
“ Come, come ! Dall it and sink it, lads; let’s be
thick while we are‘ together. Twitch, aw never
thought thae’d bin sich o rivven chap as thae art.”
“ Aw connot bide him, Enoch,” replied Twitchel.
“Well, an’ who’s to bide thee, thinksto?” replied
Enoch.
“Iv aw thought aw’re as ill as him, sitho Enoch,
aw’d height a shool-full o’ red-whut cinders, to put an
end to mysel’.”
“ Husht, husht! Th’ furst man at says another
wrang wort, aw’ll rom my cap into his meawth. Let
him alone ; he’s fo’in asleep, sitho.”
“Aw dunnot like him, aw tell tho, noather asleep
nor wakken ; an’ there’s an end on’t.”
“ Well, thae let him alone, caunt tho? An’ howd
te din, an’ let somebry else talk. Thae wants it o’ to
thisel’. Let somebry else talk a bit. By the mass,
thae mays my yed go reawnd.”
“ Thae has nought ov a yed to speighk on, Enoch.”
“ Neaw, then,” replied Enoch, “ arto beawn to start
o’ me, neaw? . . . It’s time for thee to be goin’
whoam, Twitch; thae gets so rivven. Sup, an’ straighten
that reawsty yure o’ thine. . . . Hello! th’ pot’s
empty again ! . . . Come, aw’ll be th’ next quart.
Here, Betty,” continued he, handing the pitcher to
the landlady, “bring another o’th same breed: and
chalk it up to me.”
“ Nay, nay,” said Twitch, “ come here Betty. We'n
ha’ no ale-shots laft on. Aw’ll pay for’t mysel’ furst.”
“ Well, pay for’t thisel’ th’ furst, an’ ha’ done wi’t.
Ony road for a quiet life, owd mon. . . . Hello!”
Ben an’ #1’ Bantam. 91
continued lie, looking round, “by th’ mass, th'ey’re o’
o’ foin’ asleep. . . . Come, lads, let’s be doin’
summat. This mak o’ wark‘s noather good for king
nor country. Speighk, some on yo. What! are we
0’ jaw-locked? Or, are yo beheend i’ your rent, or
summat? It’s war no fuddlin’ in a bwon-heawse.
There met ha’ bin a funeral i’th hole. . . . Come,
Ben, oppen that meawth o’ thine. Aw’ll ston o’ mi
yed iv some on yo doesn’t do summat or another—iv
aw dunnot aw’ll go th’ say ! . . . Aw’ve a good mind
to sing a sung! Mun aw, Twitch ?”
“ Aw don’t care what tho does, i’tho’ll give o'er
wuzzin up an’ deawn th’ floor. Thae turns me mazy.
Thae’rt war nor a scopperil.”
“ Aw’ll sing, bigo !" said Enoch :—
Owd Fogey live’t i’ Turner Fowd,
At th’ side o’ Wilson Schoo’;
An’ everybody know’d him theer,
Becose he’re sich a foo.
“ Come, wakken, chaps! Ben, thee give us a sung !”
“Ay, gi’s a bit ov a touch, Ben,” said Twitchel,
brightening up, “ thae’s some music in tho aw know.”
“Well, aw’m nought again it,” said Ben, “iv yo’n
co’ silence.”
“Silence! Hea mich silence doest want? It’s as
still as a graveyort. They’re o’ asleep nobbut me an
Owd Twitch.”
“ Aw meon, wakken ’em,” replied Ben.
“Waw then," said Enoch, filling the glass, “tak’
howd again afore tho starts.”
“ Come, chaps, wakken ! Ben’s beawn to sing l"
92 Ben an’ M’ Bantam.
“ Heigh, Popple! Come, Splutter, owd lad ; doesto
yer? Wakken! Yo’r a breet-lookin’ lot, by Guy!
' Come, Ben’s beawn to give us a sung! Get agate,
Ben, that’ll wakken ’em up th’ best ov aught.”
“ Here goes, then,” said Ben—
’Twas on the mom of sweet May day,

When nature painted all things gay,
Taught birds to sing and lambs to play,
And gild the meadows fair ;
Young Jockey, early in the dawn,
Arose and tripped it o’er the lawn ;
His Sunday clothes the youth had on,
For Jenny had vowed away to run
With Jockey to the fair.
For Jenny had vowed away to run
The cheerful parish bells had rung ;

With eager steps he trudged along,
While flowery garlands reawnd him hung,
Which shepherds used to wear.
He tapped the window : “ Haste my dear !”
Jenny, impatient, cried, “Who’s there?”
“ ’Tis I, my love, and no one near.
Step gently down, you’ve nought to fear,
With Jockey to the fair.”
Step gently down, &c.
“ My dad and mam are fast asleep,

My brother’s up and with the sheep ;
And will you still your promise keep,
Which I have heard you swear?
And will you ever constant prove 2”
“ I will, by all the powers above,
And ne’er deceive my charming dove.
Dispel these doubts, and haste, my love,
With Jockey to the fair.”
Dispel these doubts, &c.
“ Goo on, owd layrock ; thae’rt doin’ weel i” cried
Enoch.
“ Behold the ring,” the shepherd cried ;
“ Will Jenny be my charming bride!
Let Cupid be our happy guide,
And Hymen meet us there.”
Then Jockey did his vows renew ;
He would be constant, would be true,
His word was pledged. Away she flew,
O’er cowslips tipped with balmy dew,
O’er cowslips, &c.
In raptures meet the jovial throng,

Their gay companions blithe and young
Each join the dance, each raise the song,
To hail the happy pair: '
In turns there’s none so loud as they,
They bless the kind, propitious day,
The smiling mom of blooming May,
When lovely Jenny ran away
When lovely Jenny, &c.
“Well done, Ben, owd lad!” cried the now

awakened wassailers. and their loud applause was
echoed in the kitchen, where the landlady and the
servants were listening attentively.
Enoch hustled about, handing the drink first to
Ben and then to the rest, as far as it would go. And,
when the pitcher was empty, he knocked upon the
table with it and called for the landlord—
“ Jem ! Bring another in.”
“Yo’r gettin’ on, lads,” said the landlord, taking
up the pitcher and looking round. “Ben,” con
tinued he, seeing that the poor besom-maker was
beginning to look very pale and mazy, “ isn’t it time
for thee to be goin’ whoam ?”
“Nay, aw think aw’s stop a bit lunger wi’ these
lads,” replied Ben, with a hiccup. “ Aw may as
well be in for a sheep as a lamb.”
“ Make it a sheep, owd lad,” cried Enoch, filling Ben
another tot of the aleand-rum, which had just come in.
“Well, but aw’ll tell tho what, Ben,” continued
the landlord, “Joe’s beawn within hauve a mile o’
yor heawse, an’ he’s tak th’ jackass whoam for tho
i’tho likes.”
“Aw’m willin’, replied Ben. “Aw dar trust th’
jackass wi’ Joe. Let him tak it whoam.”
“ So be it, then,” said the landlord, walking out.
“ Nea, then, Twitch," cried Enoch, “ art theaw for
singin’, or thae artn’t? Say the wort.”
“Sing! Ay !” answered Twitchel.
“Well, get on witho, then; an’ give o’er pooin’
sich a feaw faze at folk.”
“Well, neaw for’t,” said Twitchel, clearing his throat.
‘Twas in the prime of summer time,
When pleasant was the weather,
At Stakehill Fold, as I’ve been told,
The women met together;
Old Betty Jacques the "iliair bespeaks,
And then came Sally Turner,
And Collinge wife wi’ fun was rife,
An Mall sat up i’th corner.
The wife o’ Dill would have her will,
And plumpt her deawn i’th middle ;
Whilst Bet-at-Joe’s mpt up her toes,
And fot owd John wi’ th’ fiddle.
When John began, up stepped Nan,
And doanced a heavy raddler,
And, without care, upset a chair,
And deawn hoo knocked owd Paddler.
Then came Mall Wilde, an brought her child,
And put it into th’ keythcr;
\Vhilst John-at-Dick’s good wife had six,
But laft ’em wi’ their feyther.
Of Mary Jos their was no loss,
Nor yet o’ youthful Nelly ;
An’ Sall wur fain to come deawn th’ lane,
An’ doance wi’ neighbour Dolly.
An’ they had ale ’at towd a tale,
’T wur cool, an’ wick, an’ foamin’;
It did ’em good, it warm’t their blood,
An’ set their thoughts 9. roamin’.
An‘ there wur eyes ‘at looked as bright
As ony star i’th welkin,
An’ bosoms like the marble white,
An’ bosoms soft wi’ milk in.
Till echo rang, so sweet they sang,
\Nithin that joyous dwellin’,
The chamber floor, and buttery door,
The music soft repelling.
Whilst up the stairs flew angel airs,
Against the rafters ringin’;
The looms below danced tip a toe,
The lathes began a swingin’.
“There,” said Twitch, as the applause rang in the

room, that’s one o‘ Sam Baemforth sungs."
“Ay, aw know it is,” replied Enoch. “An’, by
the hectum, owd lad, 1v thae’ll sing another, aw’ll do
‘Tim Bobbin Grave.’ ”
“Well, aw will, Enoch,’ said Twitchel.
“Here goes, then !”-
Aw stoode beside Tim Bobbin grave
’At looks o’er Rachda’ teawn ;
An’ th’ owd lad woke within his yerth,
An’ sed, “ Wheer arto beawn ?”
“ Aw’m gooin’ into th’ Packer-street,
As far as th’ Gowden Bell,
To taste 0’ Daniel’s Kesmass ale.”
TIM : “Aw could like a saup mysel’.”
An’ by this bout o’ my reet arm,
If fro that hole thaew’ll reawk,
Theaw’st have a saup o’th best breawn ale
‘At ever lips did seawk.
The greawnd it sturr’d beneath my feet,
An’ then aw yerd a groan ;
He shook the dust fro off his skull,
An’ rowlt away the stone.
I brought him up a deep brown jug,
’At a gallon did contain ;
An’ he took it at one blessed draught,
An’ laid him deawn again.
“ Bravo, owd moon-raker !” cried Twitchel, jumping
up. “ Aw’ve bin at Tim Bobbin grave mony a time,
i’ Rachda’ church-yard—
Rachda’ ! theaw art a bonny,—
Theaw’rt a gradely teawn to me ,
Aw never let ov ony
To be compar’t wi’ thee
“ Neaw then,” said Twitch, sitting down, “ what's
tho think o’ that, Enoch ?”
“ Has thae made that thissel’, reckons tho ?” said
Enoch, staring at Twitchel.
“ Ay, by th’ mass, have aw !” replied Twitchel.
“ What ! eawt o’ thi own yed ?”
“ Ay,” replied Twitchel, “ eawt o’ my own yed.
Doesto think it’s come’d eawt o’th cauve o’ my leg, or
somewh eer T’
“ Well, by th’ mon ?" said Enoch, gazing at him an
instant. “ Gi’ mo thi hond, owd brid. Thae’s capt
me this time reawnd. Aw didn’t know ’at thae’d had
so mich in tho.”
“ Didn‘to ?” replied Twitchel. “ Thae knows
nought, Enoch—wheer a gradely chap comes.”
“ Well, howd te bother, an let mo get agate o’ my
sung,” said Enoch. “ What mun aw sing, Twitch ?”
“ Sing, ‘ Owd Enoch,’ replied Twitch, “he’s a
namesake o’ thine.” '
“Aw will," said Enoch.
Owd Enoch o’ Dan’s laid his pipe deawn o’th hob,
And his thin fingers played i’th‘ white thatch ov his nob
“ Aw’m gettin’ done up,” to their Betty he said ;
“ Dost think thae could doff me an’ dad mo to bed ?”
Derry down, &c.
Then hoo geet him to bed, an’ hoo happed him up weel,
An’ hoo said to him, “ Enoch, lad, heaw doesto feel ?”
“ These limbs o’ mine, Betty—-they’re cranky an’ sore ;
It’s time to shut up when one’s getten four score.”
Derry down.
As hoo potter’t abeawt his poor winterly pate,
Th’ owd fellow looked dreawsily up at his mate,—
“ There’s nought on mo laft, lass,—do o’ at tho con,—
But th’ cratchinly frame 0’ what once wur a mon.”
Derry down.
Then he turn’t his-sel o’er, like a chylt tir’t wi’ play,
An’ Betty crept reawud, while he’re dozin away ;
98 Ben an’ t/z’ Bam’am.
As his e’e lids sank deawn, th’owd lad mutter’t, “ \Vell done!
Aw think there’s a bit o’ seawnd sleep comin’ on.”
' Derry down.
Then hoo thought hoo’d sit by till he’d had his nap o’er,—
Iv hoo’d sit theer till then, hoo’d ha’ risen no more ;
For he doze’t eawt o’th world, an’ his e’en lost their leet,
Like a cinder i’th fire-grate, i’th deeod time o'th neet.
- Derry down.
As Betty sit rockin’ bith’ side ov his bed,
Hoo looked neaw an’ then at owd Enoch’s white yed
An’ hoo thought to hersel’ that hoo’d not lung to stay
Iv ever th’ owd prop ov her life should give way.
Derry down.
Then, wond’rin’ to see him so seawnd an’ so still,
Hoo touched Enoch’s hond, an’ hoo fund it wur chill ;
Says Betty, “ He‘s cowd; aw’ll put summat moor on !”
But o’ wur no use, for Owd Enoch vvur gone.
Derry down.
“Hasn’to done yet?” said Twitchel, rising to his feet.
“ Nawe, not quite,” replied Enoch. “ There's
another verse or two yet.”
“What; o’ th’ same mak”!”
“ Ay ; o’th th’ same mak’. What the hangmunt
doesto want? Thae axed mo to sing it, didn’to ?”
“ Well, get through wi’t as fast as tho con. It’s
makin’ me ill o’ my inside,” answered Twitchel.
“Ay; get done wi’t,” said Popple. “My yed waaches"
(aches). -
“ Thae yed waaches, does it ?" said Enoch, looking
indignant at the sodden piece of humanity in the
corner. “ It’s noan becose thae'rt o’erstock’t wi’
brains, owd lad. But aw’ll finish this sung i’th spite
o’ yo’r teeth ; so howd yo’r din”—
Ben an’ tn’ Bantam. 99
An’ when they put Enoch to bed deawn i’th greawnd,
A rook o’ poor neighbours stoode- bare-yedded reawnd ;
They dropt sprigs o’ rosemary; an’ this wur their text -
“ Th’ owd crayter’s laid by,—we may haply be th’ next.”
Derry down.
So Betty wur laft to toar on bi hersel’ ;
An’ heaw hoo poo’d through it no mortal can tell;
But th’ doctor dropt in to look at her one day,
When hoo’re rockin’ bith’ side ov an odd cup o’ tay.
Derry down.
“ Well, Betty,” said th’ doctor, “heaw dun yo get on?
Aw’m sorry to yer ‘at yo‘n lost yo’r owd mon.
What complaint had he, Betty?" Says hoo, "Aw caunt tell,
We ne’er had no doctor ; he deed ov his-sel’.”
Derry down.
“ Ah, Betty,” said the doctor, "there’s one thing quite sure;
Owd age is a thing that no physic can cure.
Fate will have her way, lass,—do o’ that we con,—
When th’ time’s up we’s ha’ to sign o’er an’ begone.”
Derry down.
“ Both winter an’ summer th’ owd mower’s at wark,
Sidin’ folk eawt o’ seet, both by dayleet an’ dark ;
He’s slavin’ away while we’s snorin’ i’ bed.
An’ he’d slash at a king, if it coom in his yed.”
' Derry down.
“ These soditirs, an’ parsons, an’ maisters o’ lond,
He lays ’em i’th greawnd wi’ their meawths full o’ send,
Rags or riches, an owd greasy cap or a cream—
He sarves o’ alike, for he switches ’em deawn.”
Derry down.
“ The mon that’s larnt up, an’ the mon that’s a foo—
lt mays little odds, for they'n both ha’ to go ;
When they come’n within th’ swing o’his scythe they mun fo’,
Iv yo’n root amung th’ swathe, yo’n find doctors an’ 0’.”
Derry down.
H
100 Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam
“Theighur !” said Enoch, filling a tot for himself;
aw'm fain ’at that’s done !”
“Ay so am aw too,” said Twitchel. “Hello!”
continued he, looking at the doorway, “ what’s comin’
neaw ?”
It was a wandering fiddler, poorly clad, and dusty
with travel. He was on his way to a fair in the nor
thern part of the county.
“ Gentlemen,” said he speaking in a southern
accent, “ would you like a little harmony ?”
“Ay, by th’ maskins, owd mon ! Just the thing !
We’n have a doance. Strike up, owd tweedler !”
The appearance of the fiddler revived the sinking
spirits of the company ; and he struck up “ The
Flowers of Edinburg .” But before they had danced
many minutes poor Ben became so done up that he
crept gently out at the front door and round the
house to the stable, where he laid himself down and
fell sound asleep. His companions missed him soon
after; but, as hour after hour went by, and he did
not return, they felt sure that he had gone home. The
fun grew fast and furious, as night came on, and fresh
arrivals swelled the company in the tap-room.
It was deep twilight, when a hearse, on its way
from Rochdale to Bacup, stopped in front of the inn;
and the driver, in company with another man who
had ridden with him on the box, entered the tap
room, and sat down to drink with the rest, their
funeral suits contrasting strangely with the appearance
of the merry group around them. A few minutes
before the arrival of the hearse, Enoch, whilst wan
Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam. IOI
dering about the back-yard, had discovered Ben, lying
sound asleep among the straw in the stable, and he
had tried to rouse him; but the poor fellow was so
stupified with the sickly swill which he had imbibed,
that Enoch had left him there to sleep. When Enoch
entered the house, and informed the landlord where
Ben was lying, the landlord had begged of him not
to mention the thing to the company in the tap
room, but to let the poor fellow rest awhile where he
was; and for a wonder Enoch had joined his com
panion, and held his tongue about the matter. The‘
appearance of the hearse at the door, however, woke
up in his frolicsome mind a new scheme, which led5
to curious results. But, perhaps, this would be better
told in another chapter.
CHAPTER VI.
The man that makes his toe

\Vhat he his heart should make,
Shall of a corn cry woe,
And turn his sleep to wake.
KING LEAR.
There is some strange thing toward,
Edmund ; pray you be careful.
KING LEAR.
landscape once again, and hill and dale

were breathing perfumes into the air.
Another summer day had fleeted by with
song and sunny toil, amidst the flush of nature’s love
liness, and the tired mower had wandered home to
sleep till “cock-crow” woke him to “dip his scythe in
morning’s fragrant dew” once more. The wind had
dallied with evening’s sweet odours so long that, grow
ing drowsy with delight, it had closed its wings and
gone to rest. The daisy had shut its eye, and fallen
asleep, with its dew pearled head leaned under the
shade of abuttercup’s folded bell. The wild bird was
at roost in his green chamber, dreaming of the sunlit
Ben an‘ t/z’ Bantam. IO3
woods. The very tree tops were hushed and still, and
all the air seemed thick with dreams. The harvest
moon was rising over the edge of the hills, and her early
radiance suffused the atmosphere with such a subtle
splendour, that the hermit leaves that live and die in
cloistral recesses of the woods stirred with delight;
and the little wild-flower slumbering in the open field,
sighed a dreamy benison, and then slept on, lapped in
the silver mantle of the queen of night.
The village, too, was still, except that sounds of
revelry in the old inn rang forth in fitful bursts upon
the evening quietude outside.
By this time Twitchel’s discretion had drowned
itself; and Enoch’s latent love of mischief being in
the ascendant, he was not long in winning over his
more staid crony to lend him a hand in a new frolic.
Beckoning Twitchel out from the tap-room, he led
him to the front door, and pointing at the hearse
standing by the foot-path, he whispered into his ear,
“Does thae see that berrin’-coach ‘t”
“ Ay,” replied Twitchel, “aw see it weel enough ;
an’ what bi that ?”
“ Well, it’s gooin’ to Bacup, thae knows. Th’
driver’s hauve fuddIe’Fi’th tap-reawm yon, an’ he’s
just order’t a fresh glass. Doesn’t thae think at we
could manage to find him an inside passenger or two
afore it gets too moonleet ?”
“ Eh, by th’ mass, ay !” said Twitch. “But aw’ll
g0 noan.”
“ There’s nobry wants thee to goo. But put thi
pipe deawn, an’ nip reawnd to th’ stable an’ see heaw
104. Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam.
Ben is, while I get yon fiddler in. He’s goin to
Bacup, an’ he’ll be fain ov an'de, for th’ owd lad‘s
quite stagged up. . . . Off witho, neaw. Thae’ll find
Ben asleep amoon some strae in a corner, as drunk
as a wheel-yed. Off witho. Aw’ll manage tother.”
Twitchel was delighted with the job ; and, flinging
his pipe into the road, he stole" round the house to
the stable in the back yard, to look for poor Ben.
In the meantime, Enoch went lounging carelessly
back to the tap-room, and creeping slyly up to the
fiddler, he whispered to him—
“Which gate are yo’ beawn ?”
“ I’m going to the town of Bacup."
“ Wilto have a chep ride ?”
“ Well, sir ; thank ye, sir. I’m sure I’m much
obliged. I’ve come a long way to-day, sir.”
“ Then thae’ll goo ?”
“Oh yes, sir, an’ glad of the chance, sir. Thank
you.”
“But it’s a berrin-coach.”
“ A what ‘7”
“ A yerst" (a hearse).
“ What’s that ?”
“One o’ thoose coaches ’at they carry’n cofiins in
at funerals.”
The fiddler stared at Enoch, and gave a quiet
low whistle, long drawn out. “Well, now; upon my
soul. That’s a new idea. . . . But what’s the odds?
I don’t care a rap. . . . It’s better than padding the
hoof to-night, anyhow.”
“ Then yo’n goo ?”
Ben an’ th’ Bantam. 105
“Oh, yes," replied the fiddler. “ I suppose we
shall have to ride in something of that kind some of
these days, and I may as well get my hand in when
there’s a chance.”
“Well, then,” said Enoch; “sup up, an’ slip eawt
as quietly as yo con. Aw’ll be after yo in a minute.”
As soon as the fiddler had gone out, Enoch crept
up to the side of the driver, who sat drinking with the
landlord, and slapping him jovially on the thigh, he
asked him how he was getting on.
“Oh,” replied the driver, “ all right.”
“ Wilto have another gill wi’ me ?”
“Aw've no objections,” replied the driver.
“Bring him another whisky,” said Enoch to the
landlord, handing him the money. “Aw’ll be wi yo in
a minute.”
The fiddler was leaning against the door when
Enoch got to the end of the lobby. He was looking
very doubtfully at the sombre vehicle, and its black
horses, standing by the kerb-stone in the dusky light;
for the moon was still low in the sky.
“ Come on,” said Enoch, “ it’s o’ reet. Yo’r beawn
to Bacup; an’ he’s beawn to Bacup. He gwos no fur.
So, yo’n nought to do but let yorsel’ eawt snugly
when he stops. Creep in ; there’s nobry abeawt. Ger
up to th’ fur corner, yon.”
I don’t much like this, my friend,” said the fiddler,
looking inside. “ But what’s the odds,” continued
he, putting his fiddle inside, and creeping after it.
“What's the odds, so long as you’re happy? Upon my
soul it’s a black~looking shandry‘though, my friend.”
“ Well, its noan ov a leet colour‘t breed ; as yo
say’n,” replied Enoch; “but it‘ll may no difference
i’th neet—time. Its better not walkin’. . . . Neaw, yo
mun creep up to you top end ; there’s another chap
comin’. He’s goin’ th’ same gate; but he doesn’t
go as fur as yo dun. . . . Yo’n nought to be feeor’t
on. He’s fuddle’t to-neet ; but a quieter chap never
broke brade. Hutch up, an’ give him a bit 0’ reawm,
an’ yo’n be o’ reet. He’ll be nice company for yo,
as fur as he gwos. . . . But iv aw’re yo awd
never oppen my lips to him. Dunnot let on at yo’r
i’th inside, an’ he’ll drop asleep in a twothre minutes.
Neaw, are yo 0’ reet ?”
“Well, my friend,” said the fiddler, as he settled
himself down in the far end of the vehicle. “I don’t
know. But what’s the odds1
Then what’s the use of- sighing,

When time is -—”
“Husht! By th’ mon. No singin’. Keep still ;

aw’ll be back in a snift,” said Enoch, closing the door
of the hearse, and running round to the stable to look
after the other passenger.
He found Twitchel trying to get Ben upon his legs
from amongst the straw.
“ Here, Enoch, thee get howd o’th tone arm,’I said
Twitchel. “ He’s as wambly as a barrow-full o’ warp
sizin’. . . . Come, Ben, owd lad,” continued he,
lifting at the other arm, “ gether thisel’ together. It’s
time to go whoam, mon. Come, stur thoose legs.
Dost yer ?” '
“ He’s as drunk as a wheel-yed,” said Enoch.
“Untee his hankitcher," replied Twitchel, “ he’ll be
better when he gets into th’ air. Come, Ben, maw
lad !”
“ We wanten noan 0’ your sheep yeds, nor nought
at belungs yo!” said Ben. . . . “Give o’er, Betty!
Arto beawn to poo my shoolder eawt o’th joint?
Give o’er. Thae’rt rivin my clooas !”
When they got him to his feet, he looked mazily
round at the gloomy stable, as they held him up.
“ Wheer am aw ?” said be. “This is noan ov eawr
heawse. Wheer’s eawr Betty! Aw want to go
whoam.”
“Thae’rt ith Tobe’s Yed stable,” replied Twitch,
“ aw want tho to ride whoam. Come on, mon !”
"' Wheer’s th’ jackass !” said Ben, as he blundered
out at the yard door, supported by Twitch and Riprap.
“ Wheer’s my jackass ?”
“ Th’ jackass is gwon whoam, lung sin,” said Enoch.
“Doesn’t tho remember Joe takin it, mony an hour
sin ?”
“Nobry’s no business wi’ my jackass. Aw’ll ha’
my jackass afore aw stir another peg,” said Ben,
setting his feet doggedly before him to resist further
progress. But half by persuasion and half by force,
they got him to the door of the hearse ; and when,
with considerable difiiculty, they got him lifted in,
Enoch said, “ Theer, owd lad, thae’ll be 0’ reet neaw.”
“Nawe, nawe,” said Ben, as he lay at full length
upon his back. “Bring that jackass herel Aw'll
not stir till aw get my jackass l”
“ Drop asleep !” replied Enoch. “ Thae’rt o’ reet.
Thae’ll find th’ jackass when tho gets whoam ;” and
he closed the door of the hearse, and turned the
handle upon the two inside passengers.
“ Gettin’ dark,” said Ben, turning over on his side ;
and as he settled down with his head upon his arm,
muttering an incoherent monologue, in which demands
for his donkey mingled with broken allusions to red
herrings, and besoms, and quaint affectionate ad
dresses to Betty and the children, sleep fell upon him
again ; and all was still inside but the deep breathing
of the overdone besom-maker.
The poor fiddler was crouched as quiet as a mouse
in the far corner, and he began to feel so uncom~
fortable in that gloomy cotfin-coach, that he was
seriously contemplating an escape into the open air,
when he heard the driver and his companion mount
ing the box-seat ; and Enoch and the landlord joking
with the driver, as he trimmed his reins for a start.
“ Thae’ll co’ at th’ Bull’s Yed, aw guess,” shouted
Enoch from the door-way.
“ O ay,” replied the driver, “ aw’ll co’ there, iv aw
co’ nowheer else. Good neet to yo."
“Good neet, owd mon l" shouted Enoch and the
landlord, as the hearse started o5.
Away rolled the dusty chariot of the dead, with its
black long-tailed horses, contrasting strangely with
the broad moonlight which now flooded all the land
scape. Away down the village slope, with the driver
and his crony chatting men'ily together upon the box
seat. Away it rattled through the glorious night—up
the lonely road beyond the village, through the thick
leaved grove of Healey Hall, and round by the head
of the “ Thrutch ”—that wild ravine, whose lonely
shades and fantastic water-wom rocks, were peopled,
by old Saxon superstition, with a world of weird beings.
The sound of the stream rushing through the rocky
defile called “ The Fairies‘ Chapel,” was faintly
audible, in the quietness of the night. But as the
hearse rattled on, the driver and his friend still chatted
and chanted by turns, unconscious of all these things,
and as merry as if they were returning from a wed
ding, for they were fairly lapped in bacchanalian
thoughtlessness.
Ben slept on, muttering now and then, as a greater
jolt than usual shook him into half wakefulness, then
lapsed into sleep again. The poor fellow’s incan
tious nature had been betrayed into potations stronger
and deeper than he could bear, for Ben was naturally
a temperate man. But he must pay the penalty.
Dame Nature’s laws are loaded with beneficence ; and
she never fails to burn the finger that touches the
fire; because she loves it. But to our tale.
The fiddler had partly reconciled himself to his
strange ride, and he lay huddled silently in the far
corner of the hearse, listening to the deep breathing
and broken exclamations of his mysterious fellow
traveller, and longing for the end of the journey. He
was tired of the wanderings of the day, and he was
glad to rest; but in all his life of strange adventure
he had never ridden in such a coach before. It woke
uncomfortable thoughts within him, and he heartily
1 IO Ben an’ 1/! Bantam.
wished that his ride was over; and stretching his
weary limbs out, he lay along the bottom of the
hearse, listening to the steady roll of the wheels.
When the hearse had got within a mile or so of the
old Bull’s Head, Ben, troubled with “thick-coming
fancies,” began to groan and sprawl his limbs abroad.
In his tumbling restlessness he lifted up his foot,
and letting it fall again, the heel of his hard shoe
came down with full weight upon the sensitive shin
of the recumbent fiddler. The poor minstrel uttered
a wild howl as he sprang up and rubbed his shin.
The strange cry startled Ben thoroughly, and half
sobered him. “ Hello !” cried he, rising to his knees
and staring in the black gloom with wild affn'ght,
“Hello! who’s theer?” The excited fiddler let go
his aching shin; and, striking out in the direction of
Ben’s voice, he caught the terrified besom-maker bang
on the nose. Ben’s eyes flashed ten thousand lights ;
and, roused into a fury of mingled fear and pain, he
struck back and kicked vigorously at his invisible
foe. In their tumbles to and fro the fiddler and the
besom-maker grappled. Ben struggled and shouted
with all the desperation of horror, for his superstitions
were roused to the highest pitch, and the uproar and
clatter of the fray inside the hearse was such that it
instantly caught the ears of the driver andhis com
panion. They were just relating some of the doings
of the man whose body had been carried to its last
resting place in Rochdale Churchyard that day. He
had led an unusually wild and reckless life, and had
been a terror to the whole country-side whilst living.
Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam. III
“Hello i” said the driver, pulling the horses up
suddenly, “what’s that din ‘l” - . . His hair bristled
on his head as he listened to the noise. “ By !”
cried he, letting the reins go. “It’s i’th inside!
Aw’m off!” and he leaped down from his seat and
ran up the road towards the Bull’s Head. “So am
aw too i” said his terrified companion, jumping down
at the opposite side and running after him ; and there
the coach was left standing in the middle of the
moonlit road with the fight raging inside.
At length, panting with fear and want of breath,
they got into opposite corners to recover their wind.
Ben, perspiring with terror, kicked at the door and
crying out, “ Oppen that dur! Let me eawt! Murder!
Oppen this door!” Whilst the poor fiddler swelled
the uproar with curses loud and deep against his
drunken foe.
As it chanced, a company of haymakers, on their
way home from a “ churn~gettin’ ”—as the hay-harvest
supper is called—came up the road, and seeing the
hearse standing in the middle of the highway, without
driver, they stopped and listened to the extraordinary
noises which came from the inside.
They stared at the dark hearse, but none of them
durst go near the mysterious vehicle; in fact, it is
very likely they would all have taken to their heels if
any one of them had set the example.
Ben, hearing a buzz of voices on the road, kicked
and cried out louder than ever, “ Let me eawt!
Oppen this dur, aw tell yol Murder! Let me
eawt!”
r 12 Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam.
“ By th’ mon,” said one of the haymakers, bolder ‘
than the rest, “aw should know that voice!” And
he went nearer and listened.
“ Oppen this dur," cried Ben.
“ Who’s theer ?” said the haymaker.
“ It’s me ! Ben, fro Lobden! Oppen this dur!"
“By Guy; aw thought so,” said the haymaker.
“Heigh, lads, it’s Besom Ben!” , And the whole
company ran up to the door of the hearse.
“Do let me eawt o’ this hole!” cried Ben, still
kicking at the door.
“ Bide a minute,” said the haymaker, as he turned
the handle of the door. “We’n ha’ tho eawt, thae’s
see. Whatever arto doin’ in a berrin-coach, owd
mon? Is thi jackass deeod ?”
“Let mo eawt, aw tell yo!” still cried Ben.
As soon as the door was loose, it flew wide open,
and out rolled the poor besom-maker down upon the
moonlit road. Getting upon his feet as quickly as he
could, he cried out, “ Howd! Ston fur! There’s some
moor in yet!”
“Who the hangment are they?” said the hay
maker, staring into the gloomy interior of the hearse,
where the fiddler sat wiping his face and sputtering
out fierce anathemas with great volubility.
“Who are they ?” said the astonished haymaker.
“Nay,” replied Ben, drawing his jacket-sleeve
across his bleeding face; “aw dunnot know what it
is. But aw’ve had enough on’t. It’s brawsen maw
nose. . . . Look eawt,” continued he, retiring from
the front of the hearse. “Look eawt! It’s comin’ !”
The wondering rustics cleared away from the door
of the hearse, and out scrambled the wandering
fiddler, holding in one hand a lap torn from his coat,
and in the other his instrument, which had escaped in
a. wonderful way with no other damage than a split
bridge and two broken strings. But his eyes and his
swollen lips bore unmistakable marks of the recent
conflict ; and the old hat upon his head was flattened
into acute creases as if the combatants had rolled
over it.
A burst of mingled laughter and surprise from the
haymakers greeted this battered apparition. Ben,
who had still some difficulty in keeping his feet, stood
gazing an instant at the strange figure, wondering
where he had seen it before, when all at once a gleam
of clear recollection broke through the haze of his
foggy mind, and he recognised the fiddler.
“Hello !” cried he, staggering forward. “By th’
maskins, owd mon ; aw think aw’ve sin thee afore.
. . . Aw’ve oather lost my senses, or aw’ve fund a
fiddler l Weren’t it thee at’re tweedling an’ doin’ at
th’ Tobe’s Yed?”
“ Don’t you come the old soldier over me, my fine
fellow,” replied the enraged fiddler, putting Ben’s
hand aside. “I’m as good a man as you any day.
You’re no gentleman, sir. I’m not the man to be
made game of by a yokel like you. Look here ; if
you think so, you’ll find yourself pretty considerably
mistaken. I’ve seen too many Christmas Days to be
afraid of frogs, I can tell you.”
“Aw knowed nought who it wur, owd brid,”
1 14 Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam.
replied Ben, still otfering his hand. “By th’ mon, thae
did gi’ me sich a wusk o’er th’ nose. God bless tho’,
owd lad, it let like a thunner-bowt again this bit o’th
lump o’ mine Gi’ mo thi hont."
“ Oh, you be blowed !” said the fiddler, still refusing
Ben’s offered hand, and becoming all the more
nettled on account of the merriment of the hay
makers, who stood around enjoying the seen amaz
ingly.
Ben still persisted in staggering fondlingly about
the indignant fiddler, holding out his right hand
towards him, and now and then feeling at his own
swollen nose with the other.
“Eh, thae has pown my yed up an’ deawn that
hole, owd lad,” said Ben. “ Mi nose keeps steawngin’
an’ lutchin’, like boighlin’porritch. God bless thi’
heart. owd Tweedler! Gi’ mo thi hont! Aw bear no
malice, mon. Aw didn’t know at there wur onybody
i’th inside, nobbut mysel’. It met ha’ bin Pontius
Pilate, or the dule hissel’, for ought aw could tell.
Iv we’d had a shool-full o’ dayleet in, we could ha’
sin one another. Gi’ me thi hont! Aw bear no
malice!”
“Malice be blowed!" replied the fiddler. “ You
began the game yourself, old fellow; and I’m not
a-going to put up with none 0’ your hanky-
panky tricks. You’re not a-going to come Lanky
over me, I can tell you. If I am astranger, you’ll
find you’ve a rem customer to deal with, when you've
a-got to deal with me. . . . Malice, did you say! I
don’t care —— for your malice. Lookee here,” con
Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam. 1I5
tinued he, holding up the lap torn from his coat, “dy’e
see that ’ere? I’m a man o’ business, I can tell ye,
an’ I means business. The law shall have its course
|n
“Well,” answered Ben, “thae’ll be like to plez

thisel’, owd mon. Aw want to do nought at’s wrang
to nobry, at aw know on. Aw didn’t know who it
wur at’re hommerin’ at mo—not aw.”
Here some of the haymakers interfered, and by
dint of friendly persuasion and fair promises of com
pensation for the damage he had sustained, they
succeeded so far in soothing the wounded feelings of
the furious fiddler, that at last he took Ben’s offered
hand, protesting that he was not the man to bear ill’.
will—if the gentleman and his friends were disposed‘
to do the handsome.
“ Wheer’s th’ driver ‘1” said‘ one of the haymakers,
staring up at the empty seat.
“Nay,” replied Ben, staggering to the front of the
vehicle, “ aw know nought abeawt it. Aw’ve never
sin no drivers.”
“ Whau, han th’ horses come‘d o’ theirsels?"
“ Ay, for aught aw know,” replied Ben.
“ Wheer didto get in at ?”
“ Aw’ll be sunken iv aw know aught about it. Ax
him,” said Ben, pointing to the fiddler.
The fiddler explained the whole thing, except that
he could not account for the disappearance of the:
driver and his friend.
Whilst they were considering amongst themselves
whether to drive the hearse forward to the Bull’s
r
I 16 Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam.
Head, or leave it standing there in the road, a little
party of people were seen approaching from the
direction of the inn.
When the affrighted driver and his friend leaped
down from their seat, they had fled straight to the
Bull’s Head, and told their strange story to the
astonished landlord and his company. Some of them
looked very grave, and shook their heads; others,
less superstitious, laughed heartily at the terrified
fugitives, secretly apprehensive that it was some new
frolic which would yield them merriment for many an
after day ; but nothing could induce the driver to
return alone for the deserted hearse, after the myste
rious noises he had heard inside. But when the
landlord and four or five of the bolder of the com
pany volunteered to accompany him to the hearse,
he consented to return with them, walking timidly in
the rearward of his companions, so as to have free
room for running again, if necessary.
“What’s up ?” said the landlord, walking straight
to the haymakers, who were still clustered about the
hearse in the middle of the road.
Ben’s account of the thing was quite vague and
confused, and he threw no light upon the mystery.
In fact, he hardly remembered where or how he had
got inside. But the fiddler told the whole tale,
mingling with it such a curiously graphic description
of the fight inside, that, heightened as it was by the
comical appearance of the two battered combatants,
the effect was irresistible. The driver was a merry
fellow, who could stand a joke, and he joined in the
—. _ ... _ . -- -.._..--s g s .-... .,7__..-.,,....—...._....__..

Ben an’ #l’ Bantam. II7
boisterous laughter which greeted every quaint turn
of the fiddlei’s story. “ Aw’ll tell you what,” said he,
now coming boldly to the front when the mystery
was cleared up, “this favours one ov owd Enoch
tricks at Shay-cloof.”
“By the hectum! aw believe thae’rt reet,” said
Ben, suddenly remembering something about Enoch
helping him into the coach.
“ Aw thought it wur,” replied the driver.
“Well, come,” said the landlord, turning to the
driver, “jump up, and drive on to eawr house. We
mun wesh this marlock deawn wi’ summat. . . .Here,”
continued he, addressing Ben and the fiddler ; “yo
two may as weel ride to th’ fur-end neaw, if yo can
agree.”
“ Aw’m willin’,” said Ben ; but the fiddler refused ;
declaring that he would never ride in a coach like
that again till he could not help it.
When they had helped Ben inside again, he
insisted upon the door being left open, and away they
went slowly towards the inn,-—-the sombre vehicle
contrasting curiously with the merry party which ac
companied it.
Ben’s wife was in the kitchen, talking with the land
lady, when the hearse came to the door of the inn.
When the donkey arrived at home in the care of a
stranger, Betty had made many inquiries about her
husband, but ]oe’s answers to her questions were so
vague that her heart was filled with apprehensions of
mischance, and she had come down to the inn to
seek her husband.
118 ' Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam.
“ Betty,” said the landlord, looking into the
kitchen, “there’s a parcel at th’ dur yonder for yo.
Be sharp!”
“ Parcel for me!” said Betty, walking to the door.
“ Whatever is it ?” and seeing Ben creeping out at the
door of the hearse, she cried, “ Eh, dear o’ me what
ever‘s to do? . . Whatever hasto bin ridin’ i’ that for?
. . . Eh, Ben, heaw drunk theaw art! . . . What’s to
do wi’ thi nose? Theaw hasn’t bin feightin’, sure ?”
“Ax mo no questions, lass; an’ aw’ll tell tho no
lies,” said Ben.
“ Well iv ever!” replied Betty, looking round in
helpless astonishment, as if she did not know where in
the world to turn for comfort. “Well ; the Lord help
me! What’ll be th’ next ‘F’
“ Wheer’s th’ jackass l” inquired Ben.
“ It’s a-whoam,” answered Betty, in a plaintive,
heart-stricken tone.
“Come in, Ben,” said one of the haymakers ;
“ come in an’ have a gill.”
“ Nawe, he’ll not!” said Betty. “ Drink your own
drink, an never mind him.”
“ Nawe, he shannot,” said the landlady. “Go thi
ways whoam, Ben, lad. . . . Betty, dun yo think yo
con manage to wagon him up th’ broo yorsel’ ?”
“Aw’s be like to try, aw guess. Aw can manage
weel enough, thank yo. . . Come thi ways.”
Ben was painfully recovering his senses now, and
few words passed him and his wife until they reached
the little grove of firs, through which the bridle—path
led up homewards. As they were entering the grove,
imam- 0W“ - ~M.-.
Ben an’ t/e’ Bantam. 119

Ben said, as he went staggering on, “ Aw guess thae’ll
not be for livin’ wi’ mo no longer, neaw ?”
Betty made no answer, but she burst into tears.
This sobered Ben more than all else, and they
wandered up the moor side in silence towards the
solitary cottage.
Before the clock of St. Chad’s old church, at Roch

dale, had tolled the hour of ten, the cottage on Lobden
Moor was still once more, and all its inmates were at
rest. The day had closed sadly upon the simple pair; -
but kind sleep had folded them in his soft arms once
more.
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Ben An' TH' Bantam A Sequel To 'Besom Ben' - Waugh

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Ben An' TH' Bantam A Sequel To 'Besom Ben' - Waugh

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This is a reproduction of a library book that was digitized

by Google as part of an ongoing effort to preserve the

. " Theré is some

‘ ' ‘,7 ' b ‘ . - -

' HEN the sun has gone down behind the

_. ..__ __-:..._ .-~.iﬁﬁ---s_

I4 Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam.

“ l/Vhat’s o’ that din?"

“ i’oor fellow; he’d a deal o’ heart,

previous day, that he listened silently to

Ben an’ #2’ Bantam. 21

Ben’s store of country song was replete with quaint

Ben’s heart grew more cheerful as he got lower into

“Aw’ll bate nought at it.”

The lark, that tirra-lirra chants,

HE forenoon was creeping on. The sun

Ben looked round to see how his jackass was get

I sowed the seeds of love,

O my garden, it’s planted well,

“ Bravo, owd lad!” cries Ben, rising to his feet.

“ Crack that nut !” cried Ben, shouting to the hay

“ Nea then ;” cried Ben to the mower on the other

Ben an’ t/z’ Bantam. 57

“Theighur!” (there!) said the mower, rising to his

\Ve wander there, we wander here,

T was about an hour past the stroke of noon

As they paced slowly up the village, many an old

“ Come up, Dimple,” said he, giving his donkey’s

Just as the landlord was leaving the kitchen, to

Here we come a-wassailing l—-OLD CARoL.

’Twas on the mom of sweet May day,

The cheerful parish bells had rung ;

“ My dad and mam are fast asleep,

In raptures meet the jovial throng,

“Well done, Ben, owd lad!” cried the now

“There,” said Twitch, as the applause rang in the

The man that makes his toe

landscape once again, and hill and dale

Then what’s the use of- sighing,

“Husht! By th’ mon. No singin’. Keep still ;

“Well,” answered Ben, “thae’ll be like to plez

—. _ ... _ . -- -.._..--s g s .-... .,7__..-.,,....—...._....__..

Ben an’ t/e’ Bantam. 119

Before the clock of St. Chad’s old church, at Roch

A. IRELAND AND C0,, PRINTERS, MANCHESTER.

WA U'GH’S. The Goblin’s Grave. 3d.

WA UGH‘S. Norbreck: A Sketch on the Lanca

!VA UGH’S. Birth-Place of Tim Bobbin. 6d.

WA UGH’S. Sketches of Lancashire Life and

W14 UGjf’S. ,Wanllering Minstrels-z 0r, Wails of

WA UGH’S. The Barrel Organ. With Illustra

IVA UGH’S. 'l‘attlin’ Matty- 3d.

‘ 'ition of POEMS, by SAMUEL ‘B-AMFDRDJRLQE - ‘ l

'‘ $91158)‘ author

’ ' Life.” a‘! C-11ron7iclesofr- verlmélg-ﬁgf ' ‘Pi-{(3 ‘

-' fleagettiug firs'thedlfiicultiesef tlié'riialeug:whighfhéiigifl’q

‘1 a? 0° ‘‘ - ‘ “ f‘g‘ffm and I-mmashire mavhe p.oud e

' “mm-“ﬂ‘ “5;

i‘tiqn p ..r printed in-ihigrform. I

‘7* 7 mug is“, itom§65§$§>u1§2fh§¥s time gt‘fifitggifi‘asa”

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