Part 8

“My dear Nanny,” said Tom to the younger sister, as she laid her head on his shoulder and wept, “what art a-cryan for? Thinkan about beean far away from father and mother, next year this time? Cheer up, my darling, for we shall soon have a comfortable home there and they will come to us, perhaps, before next Feast; who can tell? Older folks than they are going away to their children every day, and taking much longer voyages too. Come now, when over there thy Tom may hunt better game than any here, without so much as askan leave or licence, and you will make venison pasties instead of dry ‘fuggans’ or ‘hoggans.’”

“Catch thy dears first,” said the teasing elder sister.

“Well, Nelly,” replied he, “west a believe what Simon Mitchell wrote home? He’s only been there about two years and he said that he wouldn’t be home agen for the fee of Boscarn, and that workan men there may, and do, have turkeys on their tables oftener than we can get rabbits. Now I’ll tell thee, sister Nell,” continued he, rising and taking Nanny to the door, “ef I’d been in thy Honny’s place I’d jest say ef thee westn’t go thee may’st stay, and then we should hear another tune.”

“Never mind her, Tom,” replied Hannibal, “es only that I may court her the more.”

Soon after they had settled on a place to meet next morning with Jackey, the blooming damsels and their lovers left, with a promise to come again early to-morrow evening.

Shortly after the young peoples’ departure Dick got out of his warm corner on the chimney-stool and said “Es time for me to be goan, for I’ve further to go than any of your other feasters.”

“No, no,” said Mary, “stop over to-morrow and till servy day” (Feasten Wednesday) “if you will, and go with me and Grace to the fiddler, for I can shake my shoes in a three-handed reel yet and shall for years to come, I hope.”

“I trust thee west,” said Jackey, “for my old grandmother danced of a Feasten Monday till she was eighty-two, and a better woman there never was. Now do ’e stop,” said he to the guest, “and keep a ‘Mazed Monday’ for once. Master won’t mind et. Whilst I’m after the rabbits, only for a few hours, early in the morning, the boy will go with you to see the youngsters’ games. To be sure they arn’t kept up now like in old times when there was hurling and wrestling, and all the gentle folks of the parish came to see, or join in the sports; a hundred years ago there were many of their old family seats occupied by the owners (one may count five or six of them now, let as farm houses, at no great distance from the road leading through St. Just, from Sennen to Morvah, beginning with Brea and ending with Pendeen.) The prize-wrestling was left till Feasten Monday, the standards having been all made many weeks before hand. Though the weather was often bad and grass wet and slippery, the youngsters in their well barked canvas jackets, didn’t mind a trifle of mud, and the ladies encouraged their lovers’ or brothers’ manliness.

“I’d like to stay and see anything like it now,” said Dick; “but our people have been expectan goods for a long time. Only yesterday the Furley came in and Captain Hosking es goan to have the cargo broken out to-morrow. So I must be home to stow our things in the warehouses; else I shall find everything in a ‘migle-cum-por’ (confusion or mess.) You see the weight of the business es upon my shoulders. How shud’na be, for I’ve ben weth our people all my life-time—, weth my present master’s father first, when I was no bigger than your boy Jackey; so I must love ’e and leave ’e, and you will be sure to come in and see me Madron Feasten Sunday won’t ’e Mary? You shall go to our grand Church and hear the organ. Lots of people go a purpose to hearn, and you’ll see grand folks and things sure nuf.”

“Well, thank ’e,” said Mary, “I’d like to go very well, but don’t see how I can leave Jackey; he’d be like a fish out of water of a Sunday, home without me.”

“Jackey must come too,” replied Dick, “and little Mary and John, ef you will.”

“The four younger ones,” said Mary to her husband, “might be left with their grandmother, the same as to-day, ef she’ll be troubled weth them agen so soon, for I should dread to leave them here weth anybody but myself. They will be always playan weth the fire when they arn’t ploshan in the water, and our wood-corner is a dangerous one.”

“Now I’ll tell ’e how you can manage et,” said Grace. “The Sunday I’ll come over early, to see that you are all to-rights, and the children shall go home weth me; then you can put out the fire, turn down the brandes on the bakan-ire, cross the fire-hook and prong, sweep up the hearthstone, put on it a basin of spring water, for the ‘Smale People (fairies) and good luck,’ like as the old folks ded, and some do still before leaving their houses shut up, then touch the cravel before crossing the drussel, lock the door, and away to Feast. I’ll come and see that you are all smart and tidy to go to Penzance Church and hear the organ. I’ll come over very early and titevate ’e off, for the credit of the parish, before you go to Penzance Feast to see grand people and things; and I’m sure you’ll be made very welcome weth Mr. Rostram.”

“Oh cuss ’e,” cried Dick, “that esn’t my name; that’s a nickname some blackguards put upon me, years ago, and fools keep it up still. I’d as soon hear thunder.”

“Oh laws,” sighed Gracey, “I ded’n know that, and have ben thinkan all day what a pretty name that es and how I shud like to be called by’n.”

“Then take’n and welcome,” said Dick, going outside the door.

“Stop a minute,” said Mary “for me to put on my bonnet and shawl; Jackey and I will go along wh’y to the North Road or farther.”

They didn’t offer a parting dram, knowing that he had taken enough for his old crazy head to bear, nor try to detain him, lest Gracey might shoot more fools’ bolts. Among other talk, by the way, Dick remarked that the elder Morvah damsel seemed unwilling to leave home with the rest.

“That’s only her way of teazing those best liked by her,” Mary replied, “ef Honney were less eager to go with Tom and Nancy then the other would urge him to go, for she likes her sister, and the two men have always been the same as twin brothers.”

“And capital fellows they are,” said Jackey, “to get on in any land where their native tongue is known. Hannibal es as good a man for underground work as may be found; besides, he can do any rough carpenters’ work better than many who served a time to learn the trade, and can make a strong wall in the old fashion by laying the stones to bind each other, without mortar, like they were in our old castle walls, such as Choon; and Tom, besides beean a good miner es very handy with blacksmiths’ tools and so well acquainted with a fire-engine that he’s often trusted to work her, in place of the regular engineman. There’ll few be found in Yankey-land to beat them. And their intended wives can turn their hands to any kind of work fit for women.”

“Well ef I’m never married in this world, I’ll never have old snuffy Gracey,” said Dick to himself. “How can one after seean such dear Morvah maidens?”

“We’re on the great road now to Penzance,” said Jackey, “and I think, mate, that you’ll get home very well ef you don’t try to make any short cuts across the fields. The longest way round is often the shortest way home.”

“Good night, and I wish ’e well,” said Dick. “You’r coman in to Madron Feast, and be sure you come early one and all of ’e.”

After parting, Dick called back several times, “Be sure to come early Madron Feasten Sunday.”

MILL STORIES.

SUPPLEMENTARY TO HALLANTIDE.

I remember being down in Uncle Oliver Pooley’s Mill, in Nancherrow Bottom, one afternoon about the time Dick Rostram went to St. Just feast. Two women were there awaiting their turn to serge their barley-meal. In making remarks about a new house that a neighbour of theirs had just built for himself, one of the women said to the other, “What do ’e think, cheeld-vean? They’ve got a planchan put down in the little room, t’other side of the ‘entry,’ and they cal’n a pare-lar, forsuth; why a es but a good hale and make the most of n. Aw, the pride of some folks who have jest got a sturt! Es enough to make one sick to think o’ them, cheeld-vean.” “Now hold thy clack: thee art sick with envy,” replied the one addressed in such endearing terms. “They have always minded their own business and ben careful enough to save the money to build a new house weth a planched parlour. Thee west like to have one thyself, I suppose. I shud, and hope I may one day, planched parlour and all. Then I’ll have a carpet for’n, to be comfortable in my old years. Now go and mind thy flour; es nearly all down. Thee west dearly like to be a witch,” continued the outspoken dame, “to put a spell of ill luck on thy neighbours and blast both man and beast, but thou artn’t crafty enow yet; but live in hopes that the devil will teach thee some day, for a es of women like thee that witches are made.”

The woman thus reviled, then took her meal with no other sifting than what it had in the jigger, and went away without making any reply.

Then the angry out-spoken one, turning towards An Polly, the old miller’s wife, said, “Ef that faggot hadn’t stopped her jaw I’d a chucked her, by asking her how the little pig was gettan on that her boys, weth their dog, chased into the peth t’other night, thinkan a belonged to somebody else. Have ’e heard the story, An Polly?”

“No, nor I waant,” replied she, “for you are all alike in backbitan one another, and as great as inkle makers sometimes when you’ve got another woman to tear to pieces among ’e. I wish, for my part, that old Oliver could bear the mill-dust, and play the fiddle to set ’e all a dancing, while you’re waiting, like he used to, and like the mellar of Pendeen Mill do still, for you can’t be quiet a minute, and a es better to pass the time dansan than slanderan one t’other.”

Lovey (Loveday) the daughter, came down from the mill-bed, as her mother went into the house. “Do tell me, An Jenny,” said she, “what a es about the pig.” “That woman,” replied An Jenny, “jest gone es as full of spite as an egg es full of meat. She didn’t know, or perhaps forgote, that those she sneered at were cousins to me; a good wey off to be sure they are, but blood es thicker than water, and when fourth cousins get well off they seem nearer than poor first cousins, or others. Well, I was goen to tell ’e how a neighbour’s pig can’t show es nose near her door, but a es sure to be scalped by havan a kettle full of boilan water thrown over am; and her ashes’ pile, close to her door, es always covered weth pieces of sour half-sooked barley fuggans, left to go sour and vinneyed; with fish and other things left to go stale and stinkan. Pigs have good noses, poor things, and when out to lanes will come and muzzle-up the ashes to get at any offal. One night last week a neighbour’s boys, whose pig had often ben ill-used,—sometimes burnt over head and ears weth a showl full of turfey fire, when she had no water boilan,—watched to find the way clear when she was gone out to ‘coursey’ until et was time for her to get supper for Bill and the two boys when they come home from bal. The boys whipped into the crow where Bill’s little white pig had a few days before been put to feed agenst wenter, and they so smeered et with gudgeon gress [4] and soot that a looked jest like one of the new sort of black pigs. Soon after, when they saw light in Bill’s house, they turned his pig out and bolted the crow door. A few minutes after the boys who painted Bill’s pig heard’n screechan and seed’n tearan round the town-place like mad, till he got between his crow and the turf-rick and there stopt. P’raps you dont know what a trap Billy’s peeth es, and more dangerous than before a hedge was made close to one end ofn; the broad, flat stone in which the winze-‘millar’ do work es built into this new hedge, and the hook-handle on another broad stone weth the peeth between, only half-covered weth a few loose, broken pieces of old bal tember. After the poor pig had been there a few minutes Bill’s boys, as ugly as their mother, came home, and their snappish cur found the pig and gave chase to’n; it run’d slap up agen the hedge and tried to turn, but, bean nearly ef not quite blind, and the dog bitean es hinder parts, tha poor little thing in tryan to scramble over the peeth fell into’n. Now they were for life to get ropes, and a ladder to take up the pig lest they got into trouble; they were hours in bringen the pig to grass, and dedn’t find out tell next day that it was their own!

“Whatever An Polly may say,” continued Jenny, after pausing a moment to take snuff, “I never say anything but the truth about anybody. I pity them sometimes, from my very heart, and when I go to meetan pray that the Lord may give them grace to turn from their wicked ways; and I can’t help pittyan Billy even now that I think what a wisht feast a had last year, and don’t suppose he’ll have any this.”

“Stop a minute,” said Lovey, “I must turn off the water from the mill-wheel.”

“Now tell us about Billy’s feast,” said Lovey, on seating herself, “and we won’t interrupt ’e.”

“You know both of ’e and everybody else here-abouts,” said An Jenny, “than ef a San Juster don’t keep up the feast in some way jest as a can he’s looked down on and jeered at.”

A POOR TINNER’S FEAST.

Bill killed his pig, which wasn’t half fat,—not so good to kill as many running the lanes. He took one side to market and left the other hanging in his kitchen. Now Halan Market es the west (worst) in the year for sellan pork; so many Santusters’ poor lean trash are there that they keep down the price, and people who want good pork seldom come to that market. Bill made a few shillans, laid out a trifle in a bit of beef, and kept the rest to pay off a little of his long score at the shop in churchtown, that he might be trusted agen. In the Green Market he met a Zennor man who had been an old comrade of his. He invited him over for feasten Sunday. He didn’t wait to be asked twice before he promised to come early.

Whilst Bill was away, Mary Ann began upon the side of pork, hanging up in the kitchen; cut off a sliver from the back, put the baker upon the brandes, and fried away. Before she was satisfied, there was a great hole made in the side. Then, when the boys came home from bal, they fried again; and, believe me, they weren’t satisfied before nearly half the side was cut off, except the bones. Then, when Bill came home, she had to cut into the leg to have a little for his supper. By Saturday night there was nothing left of the pig but thin flaps of belly-pieces, one shoulder, and pile of bones. She was puzzled to contrive a feasten dinner out of that for a hungry Zennor man, who would eat the bit of beef and look over his shoulder for more! At length she determined to make a pie of all the odds and ends she sould scrape off the bones, the thin bits of skin from the belly, and other scraps.

Now, you know, one may make a pie of a’most anything and pascen off for what one will. If she could have got plenty of parsley she might have passed’n off for a veal-and-paasley pie, she thought; because Zennor folks never get any better veal than “staggering bob” (a calf killed before it can stand steady.) The pie was baked, bit of beef cooked, and plenty of petates boiled (whether there was cabbage or turnips I can’t say;) when two Zennor men arrived and were ready for dinner.

“This es my cousin Mathey,” said the man invited, pushing the other forward; “he’s come for company to me, and he’s one of our best singers. Es late now for church, I spose, but he will sing to ’e after denner, for we’ve none better than Mathey for singan that pretty psalm about the precious ointment runnan down from Aaron’s beard to the skirts of his coat, or t’other pretty one about a timmersome bird.” Bill said nothing, for he knew that Zennor men think themselves welcome to feast or funeral, for the sake of their singing.

They soon finished the bit of beef; then Mary Ann helped them to pie; and even these goats of Zennor men, whose diet when home es fish and potates every day of the week and conger-pie of a Sunday for a change, turned up their noses at the mess of “glit” she put on their plates; then they tried the pie-crust, and found that too dry and hard, though they arn’t particular, as they get nothing but conger-fat put in their cakes and pie-crust at home; that will make them eat short enuf ef somewhat nasty. They stopped to have a cup of tea, but that was hardly coloured, except with the scaled milk and brown sugar; and the cake she made with scroves (remains of lard which has been melted), the only fat left. How she could ever manage to bake anything so as to know when et was ready I can’t tell, I’m sure, for she hadn’t so much as a hour-glass to keep time.

Well, the two feasters couldn’t be without seean what a bad plight Bill was in, and all through his wife’s bad management; they took pity upon am, and, when passan the Square on their way home, asked him into “The Kings Arms,” and treated am to a glass or two of beer.

So much for Bills feast last year, and this they’ll have none at all.

An Jenny took the meal, which the miller’s daughter had serged for her, and brought it to the door. On her coming into the light I noticed that her dress was different from that usually worn by working women. Instead of a bed-gown, skirt, and check apron, or a “towser,” she was attired in a long-waisted gown and kirtle over a quilted petticoat, all of some dark stuff. Her abundant grey hair was turned back over a pad, or cushion, which was crossed by her cap-border, also turned back on a broad ribbon around her head; and a small silk hat, fixed jauntily on one side, finished her head-dress. She also wore a necklace of curious, old-fashioned green and red flowered beads, coated with clear white glass, and large hooped-shaped earrings.

Her figure was remarkably tall, slim, and upright, and her face what is usually called long-featured, with a high forehead, straight nose, and pointed chin.

“Polly would like to set the mill-women a dancing,” said she; “and I han’t forgotten all my steps yet, as you shall see.” Holding out her dress she then showed off several dancing steps with much liveliness, and was preparing for others when the dame of the mill opened the door from her dwelling, and called out, “Come ’e along in, do, like a good boy, I’ve had a cake baked and tea made this ever so long.” The sprightly old damsel then took her bag of meal and went away.

Young Oliver, being gone to buy corn of the neighbouring farmers, and having to await his return, I was glad to pass the time with An Polly. The dwelling-room, entered from the mill, was a long one, with a large open fireplace at the inner end; a small side window near it. All the room was either in strong light or deep shadow, and this old building of the mill and dwelling together, both within and without, afforded good subjects for an artist.

“Well, I should think you liked Miss Jenefer (Genevere) and her stories better than tea; for I’ve called ’e ever so many times. What had she to say about Mary Ann’s boys chasean a pig into a peeth?”

Having told An Polly what Jenefer said about it, and of Bill’s poor feast, “May the Lord forgive the old faggot!” said she, “I never can. Only to think she should make out that one of her parish wed ever be treated by a Zennor man in his own Churchtown, and on the Feasten Sunday too. No, Bill wed eat’s hat rather than suffer such a disgrace as that. Her whole story es made out of an old ‘bam’ told in other parishes about poor tinners tryan to keep up the feast as best they cud. Can ’e tell whose new house they were talkan about when she got into her ‘fegary’ weth the poor woman she abused so?”

“I didn’t hear any name mentioned,” I replied; “they were talkan about a planched parlour when I entered the mill; yet, from what Jenny afterwards said, it’s one of her relations.”

“Her relations,” returned An Polly, “she han’t got a near one in the world, nor has she ever had one since she was left an orphan when quite a child. Then the nearest she had were the two old ladies of Kellinack, who took her as their own; they were only her grandfather’s sisters; and then, when she was about thirteen, with those old ladies she must have heard scores of such stories. Where she could find any kindred near enow to be called relations when her great aunts died, I can’t tell. Yet if you believe her, all the old families of the parish are her kindred; most of them poor folks, whose forefathers owned lands in the parish; there are such sudden ups-and-downs here that some of the Ellises may have made a sturt and be building a house. By her account, and theirs as well, they are all from the same family as the owner of Brea. She says too that the Veals, now all very poor, once owned much lands in this parish and Sancras; so they must be her cousins, of course.