Wish Upon a Cowboy Marts Jennie

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Also by Jennie Marts
Cowboys of Creedence
Caught Up in a Cowboy
You Had Me at Cowboy
It Started with a Cowboy
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Books. Change. Lives.

Copyright © 2019 by Jennie Marts
Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks
Cover image © Rob Lang Photography
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of
Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any
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storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing
from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are
used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
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 Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11
Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Excerpt from A Cowboy State of Mind

Chapter 1

Back Cover
This book is dedicated to my mom,
Lee Cumba.
Thanks for always believing in me
And for always being there.
I love you, Mom.
 Chapter 1

The crisp mountain air bit her cheeks as Harper Evans stepped off
the Greyhound bus and gazed around the town where her son had
been living for the past two months. She inhaled a deep breath of air
that was better than the stale, canned stuff she’d been sucking for
the last nineteen hours. It felt good to stretch her legs, and she
rubbed at her hip, trying to get the feeling back into it. She swore
her butt had fallen asleep two hours ago. Too bad the rest of her
hadn’t.
She’d spent the time staring out the window, alternately replaying
the mistakes she’d made in the past and brainstorming ways she
could fix them now and avoid making more in the future.
Unfortunately, her brainstorming yielded few results. She couldn’t
accept that she was destined to make the same mistakes again and
again—trusting the wrong people, trying to count on anyone other
than herself—but the same piles of poo kept appearing in her life,
and she kept stepping right into the middle of them.
It wasn’t true that she couldn’t count on anyone. She could count
on Floyd—but he was only eight years old, so he wasn’t that great in
the support department. Although her son did have a way of
dispensing fairly sage wisdom sometimes. She had been able to
count on Michael and her grandmother. But now they were both
gone. And so was Floyd.
 But not for long. Because she was finally here. The small town of
Creedence was barely a blip on one of the highways that crossed the
Rocky Mountains of Colorado. They’d passed through Denver about
an hour ago and had been steadily climbing ever since. Harper
pulled the edges of her jean jacket together and sucked in another
breath. The air felt different here—thinner and drier. She was
definitely not in Kansas anymore.
Hitching her faded backpack further up her shoulder, Harper let out
a sigh as she regarded the truck-stop diner the bus had dropped
them in front of. A tall red-and-white-striped sign heralding the
Creedence Country Café: Home of the best chicken-fried steak in the
county nestled among a grouping of regal pine trees that rose
against the backdrop of a snowcapped mountain range. The grand
beauty would normally have struck her harder—she had always
loved getting away to the mountains—but this wasn’t a getaway, at
least not yet. Not until she had her son.
Then they’d get away as fast as they could.
The air brakes squealed and hissed as the bus pulled away. Harper
coughed through the cloud of exhaust and followed the other
passengers across the asphalt toward the lure of the diner. A light
dusting of snow swirled around the soles of her scuffed and worn
black military boots. Well, to be fair they weren’t really her boots.
They’d been Michael’s, but they were hers now. They were a little
big, but along with being tall, she had clodhopper feet, so with a
couple pairs of socks and a little cotton stuffed in the end, the shoes
worked fine.
And Michael didn’t need them—not anymore. She’d gotten rid of
most of his clothes, saving some of her favorites, but she’d held on
to the boots and just felt a little stronger when she wore them. As if
he was still with her.
 She swallowed, stuffing down the grief that burned her throat
every time she let herself think about Michael and what they might
have had, and fell in behind a mother and son, the towheaded boy
clinging to his mother’s hand. Harper knew the feeling of a small
child’s hand wrapped in hers—the tiny, sometimes sticky fingers
twined through hers—so trusting, believing that their mom wouldn’t
let them go.
Except sometimes moms have to let them go. Do let them go.
Stuff. Stuff. She couldn’t think about that either. No sense reliving
the past. This was the time to focus on the future. She was here
now. That’s what mattered.
She pushed through the door of the diner. The sparse Christmas
decorations and limp tinsel clinging to the side of the register with a
piece of curled tape conveyed about the same amount of
enthusiasm and cheeriness she had for the upcoming holiday.
The air smelled of stale coffee, hot grease, and despair. Not the
kind of despair that came from being locked in a small cell that stank
of urine and body odor, but despair just the same. She’d known that
feeling. Had spent the last two months floundering between misery
and rage, switching between the dull, constant ache of missing her
son and bright-hot fury at her mother—and herself—for putting her
in that cell.
Like mother, like daughter. No matter how hard she’d tried to fight
it, she’d ended up just like her mom—flat broke, busted, and staring
glassy-eyed at the world through the cold steel bars of the county
jail.
Except that her mom wasn’t in county lockup. She was in the
federal penitentiary, which was where they sent the real criminals.
Harper shook her head, trying to dispel the images of the last time
she’d seen Brandy. She couldn’t blame everything on her mom.
She’d been the idiot who’d let herself get roped in by another one of
her mom’s schemes. By the time she figured it out, it was too late.
And she and Brandy had both gone down.
Thankfully, Harper had only been charged with a misdemeanor, but
the county attorney she’d been assigned couldn’t get her out of jail
time. She’d missed Thanksgiving with her son, but Christmas was a
few weeks away, and regardless of how festive she failed to feel, she
was determined to have them both home for the holidays.
Because unlike Brandy, she was a good mother and was doing
everything she could to get her kid back. And she was out now.
Free.
And starving.
She dropped her backpack on the floor and slid into a seat at the
counter as she mentally calculated the last of her money. She’d
found a college student to rent the basement of her house for the
winter break and had barely a hundred dollars remaining after she’d
used that money to pay the December mortgage and the utility bill.
Of that hundred, she had about eight dollars left after she’d
purchased an apple, a jar of peanut butter, a cheap loaf of bread,
and the bus ticket to Creedence. To her son.
Harper hadn’t seen Floyd in two months—two months and
fourteen days, to be exact—not since the night she’d been arrested,
and her chest ached with the pain of missing him. She missed
putting him to bed and smelling the sweet scent of his freshly
washed hair. Missed smoothing down his cowlick, his goofy grin, and
the sparkle in his hazel-brown eyes. His dad’s eyes. He looked so
much like Michael, a mini-me of the only man she’d ever loved.
Her unruly, curly dark hair and colossal stubborn streak seemed to
be the only traits Floyd had inherited from her. That boy could dig in
his heels like nobody else. Well, nobody except her.
 She knew Floyd’s similarities to Michael contributed to the reason
Michael’s mother, Judith, had taken him. And the reason Harper was
here. To get him back.
Harper pulled the last of her money from the front pocket of her
jeans, noting how the pants, which had been snug when she was
arrested, were a little looser around her still ample hips. She’d lost
several pounds while she was in lockup, but it wasn’t a weight-loss
program she’d recommend.
A sigh escaped her lips as she inventoried the cash—a five-dollar
bill, two singles, and some assorted change. She’d been close. She
smoothed the bills onto the counter. The sign above the register
listed the day’s specials: pot roast and potatoes for eight dollars, the
cheeseburger and fries plate for three ninety-nine, and a cup of
Creedence Corn Chowder for ninety-nine cents.
Fingering the corner of the bills, she knew she should save her
money and order the soup, but her stomach howled in protest. She
hadn’t had a real cheeseburger in months.
“That hamburger sure smells good,” Harper heard the towheaded
boy say as he climbed onto the seat next to her. He was younger
than Floyd, probably five or six, and his mother held her hand
protectively behind his chair as she sagged into the stool on his
other side.
“I know, baby, but the soup will be good too,” she said as she
pulled three crumpled dollar bills from a small coin purse. Its leather
was faded and soft from wear, and Harper could see the few
remaining coins left in the bottom.
A waitress appeared at the counter, her blond hair pulled into a
messy ponytail and a friendly smile on her face. She held an order
pad, the skin of her hand dry and chapped but her nails neatly
painted a cheery pastel pink that matched the color of her uniform
dress. Her name tag read Bryn. “Hi there. Welcome to the
Creedence Country Café. What can I get you?”
“We’ll have the soup,” the mother said, “and...”
“A cheeseburger for the boy,” Harper interjected, pulling the five-
dollar bill from the stack and laying it on the counter in front of the
child.
The mother jerked her head up, her expression guarded as she
lifted her chin.
Harper knew that feeling—that gut ache of wanting to feed your
child and still hold on to your pride and not accept charity. She gave
a slight nod and looked directly into the woman’s eyes. Their gazes
locked as she tried to convey a message of understanding instead of
condemnation. “I have a son too. I’ve been there.” I am there.
The other woman glanced down at the boy, then back at Harper.
Harper offered her a sly grin and held up a fist. “Girl power. We
girls got to stick together.”
A smile tugged at the corner of the woman’s lips. Then she nodded
to the waitress and repeated the order. “Cheeseburger for my son,
and a cup of soup for me.”
“I’ll have the soup too,” Harper said. “And waters all around.”
“You got it.” The waitress scribbled on the pad, then ripped it free
as she turned and snapped it into the order carousel for the cook.
“I’m Harper.”
“Rachel,” the woman said, automatically holding out her hand. Her
sleeve pulled up, revealing a series of ugly purple finger-shaped
bruises circling her wrist. She jerked her hand back before Harper
had a chance to shake it.
“I’m Josh,” the boy piped up. “We’re on an adventure. That’s why
we took a bus and only have two suitcases.” He grinned up at
Harper, his missing left canine leaving an adorable gap in his smile.
 “Adventures are good.”
“Are you on an adventure too?”
Not a very good one. “I guess you’d say I’m on more of a quest.
I’m here to find my son. He’s a little older than you.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Why do you have to find him? Did you
lose him? Or did he let go of your hand and wander away? My mom
always tells me to hold tight to her hand.”
“That’s good advice,” Harper told him around the lump in her
throat. Floyd hadn’t let go of her hand or wandered away. She’d
been the one to let go. It had only been for a moment. But it had
cost her everything.
The bell on the counter dinged, and the waitress hustled by, then
plunked three cheeseburger plates on the counter in front of them.
The scent of the crispy pile of fries had Harper’s mouth watering,
and she was tempted to snatch a fry and cram it between her lips
before the waitress caught her mistake. She clasped her hands
tightly in her lap. “I think there’s been a mistake. I ordered the
soup.”
“So did I,” said the boy’s mom.
“I know. But we’re running a special today—three burgers for the
price of one.” The waitress grinned and offered them a conspiratorial
wink as she held up her fist. “We girls gotta stick together.”
The three women smiled at each other, strangers bonding over
life’s struggles.
The boy, oblivious to the situation, picked up the burger and took a
giant bite. A glob of ketchup squeezed from the side of the bun and
hit his plate. He closed his eyes in bliss. “Best burger ever.”
Harper took a bite of her cheeseburger, the sharp tang of the
cheddar blending perfectly with the grilled meat. “I couldn’t agree
more.”
 ***

Logan Rivers winced at the string of swear words he heard coming

from the kitchen as he stepped into the house. He barely contained
a sigh as he looked around the messy living room at the eight or
nine housekeeping chores that had been started the day before but
still weren’t anywhere near finished. The front curtains had been
taken down and were spread across the floor, assorted laundry had
been separated into piles on the sofa, and the vacuum was still in
the same place it had been left the night before.
He’d thought hiring housekeeping help would alleviate some of his
stress, but once again, he’d made a dumb decision and now had an
even bigger problem to solve—how to fire her. His house was a
wreck, and where he should have had holiday decorations and a
brightly trimmed Christmas tree, he had cleaning supplies and dirty
laundry. Not that it mattered. He’d barely had time to think the last
few weeks, let alone worry about putting up a tree or untangling
tinsel.
He hung up his hat and scrubbed a hand across his whiskered
chin. His jaw already carried a five-o’clock shadow, and it was barely
noon. Forcing a smile, he walked into the kitchen. “Hey, Kimberly,
something sure smells good in here,” he told the woman standing at
the stove stirring a pan of gravy.
It didn’t actually smell good at all, and the kitchen was a disaster.
But he knew the woman had a temper hotter than anything she was
cooking, so he tread lightly. But holy cowbells, she must have used
every pot and dish he owned. The sink was piled high with them,
and crumbs and some kind of brown goop littered the countertop. A
blackened glob that he could only guess was a meat loaf sat in a pan
on the stove.
 “I thought you’d be in thirty minutes ago,” Kimberly said, sticking
her lip out in an exaggerated pout. She wore a snug T-shirt and a
tiny apron tied around a pair of jeans that looked like they were
painted on. “I tried to leave the meat loaf in a little longer, but now
it’s burned and practically ruined.”
“Nah. That’s just how I like it,” he reassured her, even though he
knew he’d specifically said he’d come in at noon. “The extra char
just gives it more flavor.”
She turned to him, and her pout changed into a seductive grin.
“You’re sweet to say so. You’ve always been such a good guy. But I
was hoping when you came in, you might be interested in a little
something more than my meat loaf anyway.” She took a step closer
and threaded her arms around his neck, then grazed her lips along
his throat. “Maybe I could take off everything except this apron, and
we could start a little burnin’ of our own.”
Uh-oh. He’d been afraid this would happen. And he did not need
this. Not today.
He’d lain awake most of the night before worrying about the ranch
and all the things he needed to do and had barely made a dent in
his list. With his dad out of town, all the responsibilities of Rivers
Gulch, their family’s ranch, fell to him, and he still had hours of work
ahead of him. He’d skipped breakfast, and his stomach had been
growling for the last hour. He just wanted to wash up, eat a good
meal, drink about a gallon of iced tea, and get back to work.
Which was the whole reason he’d hired Kimberly Cox—even
though he knew it was a bad idea and would probably come back to
bite him in the ass. And that bite was about to happen.
“Listen, Kimmie.” He tried to keep his tone light as he untangled
himself from her arms. “I think you might’ve misunderstood my
intentions when I hired you to do the housekeeping.”
 “Don’t call me that.” Her smile faltered, and she planted a hand on
her hip as a shadow of doubt crossed her face. “We’re not in high
school anymore.”
This was a fact he was well aware of.
If they had still been in high school, he and Kimberly would still be
dating. And he would be oblivious to the fact that she was running
around on him with Buster Cox, the guy she would eventually dump
him for, then marry and raise three children with. Until Buster ran off
last year with the rodeo queen from the Colorado State Fair, and
Kimberly had come sniffing around Logan’s ranch. But he wasn’t
about to tangle with this woman again.
He remembered her angry tantrums, still had the scar on his right
pec to show for one, and by the way her face was turning red, he
figured he was about to get a repeat performance.
Kimberly’s eyes narrowed, and her lips pinched together in a tight
line. “I’ve been working all morning for you and spent the last
several hours preparing this meal.”
“And it looks delicious.” He kept his voice even, placating her.
“Really, I can’t wait to eat it.”
“Oh, so my meat loaf is good enough for you, but I’m not.”
“I didn’t say that. I’m just not interested in getting involved. With
anyone. I was only hoping for a hot meal and some light
vacuuming.”
Pink rose to her cheeks as her eyes narrowed. “So you were just
using me for my cooking and cleaning skills?”
He was tempted to say he hadn’t actually seen any cooking or
cleaning skills, but he kept his mouth shut. He might not be the
smartest guy, but he wasn’t a total fool. “I’m not trying to use you,
Kimberly. I hired you.” He offered her one of his most charming
grins. “Why don’t we just forget all this and sit down and have some
of that delicious meat loaf? I’m starving.”
An angry glint tightened her eyes as she picked up the meat loaf
pan and held it over the sink. “This meat loaf?” She tipped the pan
forward.
“Hold on there, Kimmie… I mean, Kimberly,” he said, holding out
his hands and taking a step toward her. “Let’s not do anything crazy.”
Shit. Wrong word. He’d known it the second it slipped from his
mouth.
“Crazy?” Her eyes widened, and steam might have shot out her
ears. “I’ll show you crazy, Logan Rivers.”
“Please don’t,” he said softly, but it was too late.
She turned the pan upside down, and the meat loaf splattered into
the sink in a greasy mess. “Do you want to eat it now?” She grabbed
the bowl of mashed potatoes from the counter and dumped them on
top of the meat loaf. “How about some potatoes to go with it?”
“Come on, Kim. I’m sorry.” What the heck was he apologizing for?
She was the one dumping his lunch into the sink.
“You’re sorry? For what? For not wanting the meat loaf? Or not
wanting me?” Her voice rose to a fevered pitch as she knocked the
broom that had been leaning against the counter to the floor. It hit
the hardwood with a crack, but she didn’t seem to notice as her
narrowed gaze roamed the rest of the kitchen. “How about a biscuit?
Do you want one of those?” She plucked a biscuit from another bowl
and chucked it toward him.
Not the biscuits.
It hit him square in the chest, leaving a circle of flour on his shirt.
His stomach was growling, and he wished he would have caught it
and stuffed it into his mouth. “I don’t think this is working out, Kim,”
he said, backing up and raising his arms to deflect another hurled
biscuit.
“Good, because I quit,” she screamed at him before marching into
the living room. She pulled her purse and jacket from the pegs by
the door, knocking loose his hockey stick, which fell to the floor with
a clatter. Leaving the stick on the floor, she slammed the door behind
her and stomped down the porch steps.
Logan stuffed a biscuit in his mouth, then grabbed a fork and tried
to find a few palatable bites from the mess in the sink. What had he
been thinking in hiring Kimberly Cox?
The household workings of River’s Gulch had been turned upside
down when his sister, Quinn, got married last summer and moved
out. Not that Logan wasn’t happy for her. He was. He’d been thrilled
when Quinn’s Prince Charming had ridden back into her life in an
expensive convertible and brandishing a hockey stick. Well, maybe
not thrilled—he’d been pretty miffed at Rockford James since he’d
dumped Quinn for his professional hockey career, but the guy had
proven himself. Logan was glad his little sister was getting her
happily-ever-after. And he and his dad, Hamilton, had been doing
fine as bachelors—if “fine” meant they were surviving on frozen
pizzas and beanie weenies.
When his dad’s brother had unexpected surgery and Ham got
called to Montana to help out on his ranch, Logan had the bright
idea to hire someone to help him by cooking a few meals and doing
some light housekeeping. But the last two had been more interested
in getting into his bed then getting the bed made. Well—last three
now, counting Kimberly.
And three were enough for him. He didn’t need the help that badly.
He could go back to frozen meals and bologna sandwiches.

***
Harper swiped the last fry through some ketchup and popped it into
her mouth. That had been the best burger and fries she’d had in
months, and she’d eaten every bite. So had Rachel and little Josh.
Bryn strode up and gave them a nod of approval. “Can I get you all
anything else?”
Harper leaned forward. “Got any specials on jobs today? That’s
what I really need.”
Bryn leaned her hip against the counter, narrowing her eyes as if in
assessment. “What kind of job are you looking for?”
Harper shrugged, trying not to shrink into her faded jean jacket or
straighten her unruly hair. She was sure leaning her head against the
seat of the bus hadn’t done her already messy style any favors.
“Something temporary. I’m only in town for a short time. But I’ll do
just about anything.” Except work with money. She wanted to steer
clear of any job that put her in charge of someone else’s funds.
She’d already shown she couldn’t be trusted, and she had the
embezzlement charges to prove it.
“Let me think about it.” Bryn looked up, and her eyes widened.
Harper turned to see a woman marching angrily into the café. She
flung herself onto a stool at the counter and motioned for the
waitress. “Bryn, I’m madder than a het-up hornet’s nest. I need a
chocolate shake and an order of bacon-and-cheesy fries to go. And
don’t skimp on the bacon.”
Bryn glanced to the cook behind the counter. He was in his
midforties and wore a snug white cap over his shaved head. Given
his hard, lean body and the anchor tattoo on one of his thickly
muscled arms, Harper imagined him to be a surly sailor who had run
his own galley.
A tiny grin threatened his otherwise gruff expression as he nodded
to Bryn. “One ‘furious female’ special coming right up.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Lake country sketches
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Lake country sketches

Author: H. D. Rawnsley

Release date: September 25, 2023 [eBook #71718]

Language: English

Original publication: Glasgow: James MacLehose and Sons, 1902

Credits: Al Haines

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAKE

COUNTRY SKETCHES ***
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, AETAT 77.
 Lake Country
Sketches
By the Rev.

H. D. Rawnsley
Honorary Canon of Carlisle

Author of
"Literary Associations of
the English Lakes."

Glasgow
James MacLehose and Sons
Publishers to the University
1903

GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS

BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO.
 TO A
TRUE LOVER OF NATURE
AND THE ENGLISH LAKES
EDITH MY WIFE

"From Nature and her overflowing soul,

I had received so much, that all my thoughts
Were steeped in feeling; I was only then
Contented, when with bliss ineffable
I felt the sentiment of Being spread
O'er all that moves and all that seemeth still;
O'er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought
And human knowledge, to the human eye
Invisible, yet liveth to the heart;
O'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings,
Or beats the gladsome air; o'er all that glides
Beneath the wave, yea, in the wave itself,
And mighty depth of waters. Wonder not
If high the transport, great the joy I felt,
Communing in this sort through earth and heaven
With every form of creature, as it looked
Towards the Uncreated with a countenance
Of adoration, with an eye of love."

CONTENTS

REMINISCENCES OF WORDSWORTH AMONG THE PEASANTRY OF

WESTMORELAND
WITH THE BLACK-HEADED GULLS IN CUMBERLAND

AT THE GRASMERE PLAY

JAMES CROPPER OF ELLERGREEN

A DAY WITH ROMAN AND NORSE

ARCTIC SPLENDOURS AT THE ENGLISH LAKES

WILLIAM PEARSON OF BORDERSIDE

JOSEPH HAWELL, A SKIDDAW SHEPHERD

A FAMOUS YEW TREE

LODORE AFTER STORM

A NORTH COUNTRY NIMROD

A WINTER DAY ON DERWENTWATER

WORDSWORTH AT COCKERMOUTH

MOUNTAIN SILENCE AND VALLEY SONG

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, AETAT 77, FROM CRAYON DRAWING

BY MR. LEONARD C. WYON, Frontispiece

DOROTHY WORDSWORTH

JAMES CROPPER OF ELLERGREEN

ARCTIC SPLENDOURS AT THE LAKES

JOSEPH HAWELL

THE LORTON YEW

LODORE AFTER STORM

A NORTH COUNTRY NIMROD

A WINTER'S DAY ON DERWENTWATER

FROM MONS BEATA, BRANDELHOW

NOTE

The Publishers have to thank Professor Knight and Mr. David Douglas
for permission to reproduce the first illustration; Mr. Gordon Wordsworth for
the second; Mr. J. Henry Hogg, Kendal, for the third; Mr. G. P. Abraham,
Keswick, for the fourth and eighth; Mr. Mayson, Keswick, for the fifth and
seventh; Mr. Rupert Potter for the sixth; Mr. A. Pettitt, Keswick, for the
ninth and tenth illustrations.

REMINISCENCES OF WORDSWORTH
AMONG THE PEASANTRY OF
WESTMORELAND.
 Having grown up in the neighbourhood of Alfred Tennyson's old home
in Lincolnshire, I had been struck with the swiftness with which,

As year by year the labourer tills

His wonted glebe, or lops the glades,

the memories of the poet of the Somersby Wold had faded 'from off the
circle of the hills.' I had been astonished to note how little real interest was
taken in him or his fame, and how seldom his works were met with in the
houses of the rich or poor in the very neighbourhood.

It was natural that, coming to reside in the Lake country, I should

endeavour to find out what of Wordsworth's memory among the men of the
Dales still lingered on.—how far he was still a moving presence among
them,—how far his works had made their way into the cottages and farm-
houses of the valleys.

But if a certain love of the humorous induced me to enter into or follow

up conversations with the few still living among the peasants who were in
the habit of seeing Wordsworth in the flesh, there was also a genuine wish to
endeavour to find out how far the race of Westmoreland and Cumberland
farm-folk—the 'Matthews' and the 'Michaels' of the poet as described by him
—were real or fancy pictures, or how far the characters of the dalesmen had
been altered in any remarkable manner by tourist influences during the
thirty-two years that have passed since the aged poet was laid to rest.

For notwithstanding the fact that Mr. Ruskin, writing in 1876, had said
'that the Border peasantry (painted with absolute fidelity by Scott and
Wordsworth)' are, as hitherto, a scarcely injured race,—that in his fields at
Coniston he had men who might have fought with Henry V. at Agincourt
without being distinguished from any of his knights,—that he could take his
tradesmen's word for a thousand pounds, and need never latch his garden
gate, nor fear molestation in wood or on moor, for his girl guests; the more
one went about seeking for such good life and manners and simple piety as
Wordsworth knew and described in fell-side homes, or such generous
unselfishness and nobility among the Dale farmers as would seem to have
been contemporaries of the poet, the more one was a little saddened to find a
characteristic something faded away, and a certain beauty vanished that the
simple retirement of old valley-days of fifty years ago gave to the men
amongst whom Wordsworth lived. The strangers with their gifts of gold,
their vulgarity, and their requirements, have much to answer for in the
matter. But it is true that the decent exterior, the shrewd wit, and the manly
independence and natural knightliness of the men of the soil is to a large
extent responsible for raising expectations of nobility of life and morals, the
expectation of which would be justified by no other peasant class in
England, and which, by raising an unfair standard for comparison, ought to
be prepared for some disappointment. All said and done they are Nature's
gentlefolk still.

One's walks and talks with the few who remember Wordsworth, or
Wudsworth as they always call him, have done little to find out more than
the impression that they as outsiders formed of him, but it allowed one to
grasp by the hand a few of those natural noblemen who by their presence
still give testimony to a time and a race of men and women fast fading away,
and in need already of the immortality of lofty tradition that Wordsworth has
accorded them.

While these few of his still living peasant contemporaries show us the
sort of atmosphere of severely simple life, hand-in-hand with a 'joy in
wildest commonalty spread,' that made some of Wordsworth's poems
possible, I think the facts that they seem to establish of Wordsworth's
seclusion, and the distance he seems to have kept from them and their
cottage homes, not a little interesting. For they point to the suggestion that
the poet lived so separate and apart from them, so seldom entered the 'huts
where poor men lie,' or mixed with the fell-side folk at their sports and
junketings, that he was enabled, in his swift selection and appreciation of the
good and pure and true in their surroundings, to forget, quite honestly
perhaps, the faults of the people among whom he lived.

Be that as it may, this paper aims at establishing no new doctrine or view

about the man, but at simply putting on record reminiscences still in the
minds of some of those who often saw him, knew his fancies and his ways
(as only servants know the fancies and ways of their master), and spoke with
him sixty, fifty, or forty years ago.[1]
 [1] This paper was written in 1881 and was read at the annual meeting of
the Wordsworth Society in London in 1882—Robert Browning in the
chair.

These reminiscences may seem worthless to many, just from the fact that
they are the words of outsiders. They will seem to others of interest for that
very reason. And this much must be said, they are trustworthy records from
true mouths. The native love of truth, or perhaps better, the native dislike
ever to hazard suggestion, or to speak without book, is guarantee for that. To
ask questions in Westmoreland is the reverse of asking them of Syrian
fellaheen and Egyptian dragomans. The Cumberland mind is not inventive,
nor swift to anticipate the answer you wish, and one is always brought up
sharp with—

'Nay, I wadnt say that nayther':

'Nay, I'se not sartain aboot that':

'Might bea, but not to my knowledge howivver:

'Its nea good my saaing I kna that, when I doant, noo than,'—and so on.

Twenty summers had let the daisies blossom round Wordsworth's grave,
when, in 1870, I heard of and saw the old lady who had once been in service
at Rydal Mount, and was now a lodging-house keeper at Grasmere. She shall
be called as first witness, but what kind of practical and unimaginative mind
she had may be gathered from the following anecdote. My sister came in
from a late evening walk, and said, 'O Mrs. D——, have you seen the
wonderful sunset?' The good lady turned sharply round, and drawing herself
to her full height, as if mortally offended, answered, 'No, Miss R——, I'm a
tidy cook, I know, and, 'they say,' a decentish body for a landlady, and sic-
like, but I nivver bodder nowt aboot sunsets or them sort of things, they're
nowt ataw i' my line.' Her reminiscence of Wordsworth was as worthy of
tradition as it was explanatory, from her point of view, of the method in
which Wordsworth composed, and was helped in his labours by his
enthusiastic sister.

'Well you kna,' were her words, 'Mr. Wordsworth went bumming and
booing about, and she, Miss Dorothy, kept close behint him, and she picked
up the bits as he let 'em fall, and tak 'em down, and put 'em on paper for him.
And you med,' continued the good dame, 'be very well sure as how she didn't
understand nor make sense out of 'em, and I doubt that he [Wordsworth]
didn't kna much aboot them either himself, but, howivver, there's a gay lock
o' fowk as wad, I dar say.'

And here it will be well to put in a caution. The vernacular of the Lake
district must be understood a little, or wrong impressions would be got of the
people's memory of the bard. 'What was Mr. Wordsworth like in personal
appearance?' I once asked of an old retainer, who still lives not far from
Rydal Mount. 'He was a ugly-faäced man, and a mean liver,' was the answer.
And when he continued, 'Ay, and he was a deal aboot t' roads, ye kna,' one
might have been pardoned if one had concluded that the Lake poet was a sort
of wild man of the woods, an ugly customer of desperate life, or
highwayman of vagrant habit. All that was really meant when translated
was, that he was a man of marked features, and led a very simple life in
matters of food and raiment.

The next witness I shall call to speak of the poet is none other than the
lad whose wont it was to serve the Rydal Mount kitchen with meat, week in
week out, in the poet's days. A grey-haired man himself now, his chief
memory of Wordsworth is that of a tall man, 'rather a fineish man in build,
with a bit of a stoop, and a deal of grey hair upon his head.'

In some of the days of close analysis that are coming upon us, poets will
perhaps be found to have depended for the particular colour of their poems,
or turns and cast of thought, upon the kind of food—vegetable or animal—
that they mostly subsisted on. It will be well to chronicle the fact that
Wordsworth had an antipathy to veal, but was very partial to legs—'lived on
legs, you med amost say.' But as my friend added, almost in the same breath,
that the poet was 'a great walker i' t' daäles,' he had uttered unconsciously a
double truth.

The next fact that remained clear and distinct in the butcher's mind was,
that whenever you met the poet he was sure to be 'quite [pronounced white]
plainly dressed.' Sometimes in a round blue cloak; sometimes wearing a big
wideawake, or a bit of an old boxer, but plainly dressed, almost 'poorly
dressed, ya mun saay, at the best o' times.' 'But for aw that, he was quite an
object man,' he added, meaning that there was a dignity that needed no
dressing to set it off, I suppose, in the poet's mien and manner. It was
interesting to hear, too, how different Wordsworth had seemed in his grave
silent way of passing children without a word, from 'li'le Hartley Coleridge,'
with his constant salutation, uncertain gait, his head on one side, his
walking-stick suddenly shouldered, and then his frantic little rushes along
the road, between the pauses of his thought. 'Many's the time,' said my
friend, 'that me and my sister has run ourselves intil a lather to git clear fra
Hartley, for we allays thowt, ya kna, when he started running he was efter us.
But as fur Mister Wudsworth, he'd pass you, same as if yan was nobbut a
stean. He niver cared for childer, however; yan may be certain of that, for
didn't I have to pass him four times in t' week, up to the door wi' meat? And
he niver oncst said owt. Ye're well aware, if he'd been fond of children he 'ud
'a spoke.'

But Mrs. Wordsworth had made her impressions too on the youth's mind.
'As for Mrs. Wudsworth, she was plainer in her ways than he was. The
plainest wooman in these parts,—for aw the warld the bettermer part of an
auld farm-body.' He intended nothing disrespectful by this simile, he only
wished to say she was simple in manner and dress. But if Mrs. Wordsworth's
personal appearance had impressed him, her powers of housekeeping had
impressed him more. She was very persevering, and 'terb'le particular in her
accounts, never allowed you an inch in the butching-book.' It did not raise
one's opinion of Lake country butcher morality to find this a grievance, but
the man as he spoke seemed to think a little sorely of those old-fashioned
days, when mistresses, not cooks, took supervision of the household
economies.
 I bade my friend good-day, and the last words I heard were, 'But Mr.
Wudsworth was quite an object man, mind ye.'

It is an easy transition from butcher-boy to gardener's lad, and I will now

detail a conversation I had with one who, in this latter capacity at Rydal
Mount, saw the poet daily for some years.

It was Easter Monday, and I knew that the one-time gardener's lad at
Rydal Mount had grown into a vale-renowned keeper of a vale-renowned
beer-house. I had doubts as to calling on this particular day, for Easter
Monday and beer go much together in our Lake country. But I was half
reassured by a friend who said, 'Well, he gets drunk three times a day, but
taks t' air atween whiles, and if you catch him airing he will be verra civil,
but it's a bad day to find him sober, this.' I explained that I wanted to talk
with him of old Wordsworthian days. 'Aw, it's Wudsworth you're a gaan to
see about? If that's the game, you're reet enuff, for, drunk or sober, he can
crack away a deal upon Mr. Wudsworth. An' i'se not so varry seuer but what
he's best drunk a li'le bit.' I was reassured, and soon found myself sitting on
the stone ale-bench outside the public-house, the best of friends with a man
who had been apparently grossly libelled—for he was as sober as a judge—
and whose eye fairly twinkled as he spoke of the Rydal garden days.

'You see, blessed barn, it's a lock o' daäys sin', but I remember them
daäys, for I was put by my master to the Rydal Mount as gardener-boy to
keep me fra bad waays. And I remember one John Wudsworth, Mr.
Wudsworth's nevi, parson he was, dead, like eneuf, afore this. Well, he was
stayin' there along o' his missus, first week as I was boy there, and I was
ter'ble curious, and was like enough to hev bin drowned, for they had a bath,
filled regular o' nights, up above, ya kna, with a sort of curtainment all round
it. And blowed if I didn't watch butler fill it, and then goa in and pull string,
and down came t' watter, and I was 'maazed as owt, and I screamed, and Mr.
John come and fun' me, and saäved my life. Eh, blessed barn, them was
daäys lang sen'.'

I asked whether Mr. Wordsworth was much thought of. He replied,

'Latterly, but we thowt li'le eneuf on him. He was nowt to li'le Hartley. Li'le
Hartley was a philosopher, you see; Wudsworth was a poet. Ter'ble girt
difference betwixt them two wayses, ye kna.' I asked whether he had ever
found that poems of Mr. Wordsworth were read in the cottages, whether he
had read them himself. 'Well you see, blessed barn, there's pomes and
pomes, and Wudsworth's was not for sec as us. I never did see his pomes—
not as I can speak to in any man's house in these parts, but,' he added, 'ye kna
there's bits in t' papers fra time to time bearing his naame.'

This unpopularity of Wordsworth's poems among the peasantry was

strangely corroborated that very same day by an old man whom I met on the
road, who said he had often seen the poet, and had once been present and
heard him make a long speech, and that was at the laying of the foundation
of the Boys' Schoolroom at Bowness, which was built by one Mr. Bolton of
Storrs Hall.

On that occasion Mr. 'Wudsworth talked lang and weel eneuf,' and he
remembered that he 'had put a pome he had written into a bottle wi' some
coins in the hollow of the foundation-stone.'

I asked him whether he had ever seen or read any of the poet's works,
and he answered, 'Nay, not likely; for Wudsworth wasn't a man as wreat on
separate bits, saäme as Hartley Coleridge, and was niver a frequenter of
public-houses, or owt of that sort.' But he added, 'He was a good writer, he
supposed, and he was a man folks thowt a deal on i' t' dale: he was sic a
weel-meaning, decent, quiet man.'

But to return to my host at the public. Wordsworth, in his opinion, was

not fond of children, nor animals. He would come round the garden, but
never 'say nowt.' Sometimes, but this was seldom, he would say, 'Oh! you're
planting peas?' or, 'Where are you setting onions?' but only as a master
would ask a question of a servant. He had, he said, never seen him out of
temper once, neither in the garden, nor when he was along o' Miss Dorothy
in her invalid chair. But, he added, 'What went on i' t' hoose I can't speak till';
meaning that as an outdoor servant he had no sufficiently accurate
knowledge of the in-door life to warrant his speaking of it. Wordsworth was
not an early riser, had no particular flower he was fondest of that he could
speak to; never was heard to sing or whistle a tune in his life; there 'was noa
two words about that, though he bummed a deal';—of this more presently.
 'He was a plain man, plainly dressed, and so was she, ya mun kna. But
eh, blessed barn! he was fond o' his own childer, and fond o' Dorothy,
especially when she was faculty strucken, poor thing; and as for his wife,
there was noa two words about their being truly companionable; and
Wudsworth was a silent man wi'out a doubt, but he was not aboon bein'
tender and quite monstrable [demonstrative] at times in his oan family.'

I asked about Mr. Wordsworth's powers of observation. Had he noticed

in his garden walks how he stooped down and took this or that flower, or
smelt this or that herb? (I have heard since that the poet's sense of smell was
limited.) 'Na, he wadna speak to that, but Mr. Wudsworth was what you
might call a vara practical-eyed man, a man as seemed to see aw that was
stirrin'.'

Perhaps the most interesting bit of information I obtained, before our

pleasant chat was at an end, was a description of the way in which the poet
composed on the grass terrace at Rydal Mount. 'Eh! blessed barn,' my
informant continued, 'I think I can see him at it now. He was ter'ble thrang
with visitors and folks, you mun kna, at times, but if he could git awa fra
them for a spell, he was out upon his gres walk; and then he would set his
head a bit forrad, and put his hands behint his back. And then he would start
a bumming, and it was bum, bum, bum, stop; then bum, bum, bum reet
down till t'other end, and then he'd set down and git a bit o' paper out and
write a bit; and then he git up, and bum, bum, bum, and goa on bumming for
long enough right down and back agean. I suppose, ya kna, the bumming
helped him out a bit. However, his lips was always goan' whoale time he was
upon the gres walk. He was a kind mon, there's no two words about that: if
any one was sick i' the plaace, he wad be off to see til 'em.'

And so ended my Easter Monday talk with the poet's quondam

gardener's boy, the now typical beerhouse-keeper, half pleased, half proud,
to remember his old master in such service as he rendered him, in the days
when it was judged that to keep a boy out of mischief and from bad
company it was advisable to get him a place at Rydal Mount.
 I must ask you next to take a seat with me in a waller's cottage. If tea and
bread and butter is offered, you had better take it also, it is almost sure to be
pressed upon you, and it is of the best. I will be interrogator, only by way of
introduction saying, that our host is a splendid type of the real Westmoreland
gentleman labourer, who was in his days a wrestler too, and whose
occupation at the building of Foxhow and Fiddler's Farm in the Rydal
Valley, often allowed him to see the poet in old times.

'Well, George, what sort o' a man in personal appearance was Mr.
Wordsworth?'

'He was what you might ca' a ugly man,—mak of John Rigg much,—
much about seame height, 6 feet or 6 feet 2,—smaller, but deal rougher in
the face.'

I knew John Rigg by sight, and can fancy from the pictures of the poet
that the likeness is striking in the brow and profile.

'But he was,' continued George, 'numbledy in t' kneas, walked numbledy,

ye kna, but that might o' wussened wi' age.' In George's mind age accounted
for most of the peculiarities he had noticed in the poet, but George's memory
could go back fifty years, and he ought to have remembered Wordsworth as
hale and hearty. 'He wozn't a man as said a deal to common fwoak. But he
talked a deal to hissen. I often seead his lips a gaäin', and he'd a deal o'
mumblin' to hissel, and 'ud stop short and be a lookin' down upo' the ground,
as if he was in a thinkin' waäy. But that might ha' growed on him wi' age, an'
aw, ye kna.'

How true, thought I, must have been the poet's knowledge of himself.

And who is he with modest looks,

And clad in sober russet gown?
He murmurs by the running brooks,
A music sweeter than their own;
He is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noonday grove.
And indeed, in all the reminiscences I have obtained among the peasantry,
these lines force themselves upon one as corroborated by their evidence.

'He' [Mr. Wordsworth], continued George, 'was a deal upo' the road,
would goa moast days to L'Ambleside i' his cloak and umbrella, and in later
times fwoaks would stare and gaum to see him pass, not that we thowt much
to him hereaboots, but they was straängers, ye see.'

It is curious, though natural, perhaps, to find a sort of disbelief among

the natives in the poet's greatness, owing somewhat to the fact that it 'was
straängers as set such store by him.' They distrust strangers still, almost as
much as they did in old Border-times.

But the secret of Wordsworth's unpopularity with the dalesmen seems to

have been that he was shy and retired, and not one who mixed freely or
talked much with them.

'We woz,' said George, 'noan of us very fond on him; eh, dear! quite a
different man from li'le Hartley. He wozn't a man as was very compannable,
ye kna. He was fond o' steanes and mortar, though,' he added. 'It was in '48,
year of revolution, one Frost, they ca'd him rebellious (Monmouth), and a
doment in Ireland. I mind we was at wuk at Fiddler's Farm, and Muster
Wudsworth 'ud come down maist days, and he sed "it sud be ca'ed Model
Farm," and sa it was.'

Speaking of Foxhow, he said, 'He and the Doctor [Dr. Arnold], you've
mappen hard tell o' t' Doctor,—well, he and the Doctor was much i' yan
anudder's company; and Wudsworth was a girt un for chimleys, had summut
to saay in the makkin' of a deal of 'em hereaboot. There was 'maist all the
chimleys Rydal way built efter his mind. I can mind he and the Doctor had
girt argiments aboot the chimleys time we was building Foxhow, and
Wudsworth sed he liked a bit o' colour in 'em. And that the chimley coigns
sud be natural headed and natural bedded, a lile bit red and a lile bit yallar.
For there is a bit of colour i' t' quarry stean up Easedale way. And heed a girt
fancy an' aw for chimleys square up hauf way, and round t'other. And so we
built 'em that road.' It was amusing to find that the house chimney-stacks up
Rydal way are in truth so many breathing monuments of the bard. The man
who with his face to the Continent passed in that sunny pure July morn of
1803 over Westminster Bridge, and noticed with joy the smokeless air,
rejoiced also to sit 'without emotion, hope, or aim, by his half-kitchen and
half-parlour fire' at Town End, and wherever he went seems to have noted
with an eye of love

The smoke forth issuing whence and how it may,

Like wreaths of vapour without stain or blot.

But if from the highland huts he had observed how intermittently the
blue smoke-curls rose and fell, he was most pleased to watch on a still day
the tremulous upward pillars of smoke that rose from the cottages of his
native dale. In his Guide to the Lakes (page 44) Wordsworth has said, 'The
singular beauty of the chimneys will not escape the eye of the attentive
traveller. The low square quadrangular form is often surmounted by a tall
cylinder, giving to the cottage chimney the most beautiful shape that is ever
seen. Nor will it be too fanciful or refined to remark that there is a pleasing
harmony between a tall chimney of this circular form and the living column
of smoke ascending from it through the still air.'

And my friend George's memory of Mr. Wordsworth's dictum about the

need of having the chimney coign 'natural headed and natural bedded, a lile
bit red and a lile bit yaller' is again found to be true to the life from a passage
in the same Guide to the Lakes (p. 60), in which the poet, after stating that
the principle that ought to determine the position, size, and architecture of a
house (viz., that it should be so constructed as to admit of being incorporated
into the scenery of nature) should also determine its colour, goes on to say
'that since the chief defect of colour in the Lake country is an over-
prevalence of bluish-tint, to counteract this the colour of houses should be of
a warmer tone than the native rock allows'; and adds, 'But where the cold
blue tint of the rocks is enriched by an iron tinge, the colours cannot be too
closely imitated, and will be produced of itself by the stones hewn from the
adjoining quarry.' How beautiful the colouring of the Rydal quarry stone is,
and how dutifully the son of the poet carried out his father's will in his recent
rebuilding of a family residence near Foxhow, may be judged by all who
glance at the cylindrical chimneys, or look at the natural material that forms
the panels of the porch of the 'Stepping-stones' under Loughrigg.