Adventures and Recollections. Bill o'th' Hoylus End

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СКАЧАТЬ appeared to him to be the “inimy” on Lees Moor. “Nah,” thought Jimmy, “we’re in for’t if we doan’t mind;” and he straightway went down to Keighley and raised the alarm. It was Sunday, and the soldiers, as luck had it, happened to be on a Church parade. Captain Ferrand at once gave the command—like any dutiful general would do—“To arms!” “To arms!” The soldiers thereupon proceeded to the indicated scene of action; I saw the noble warriors gallop past our house “in arms and eager for the fray.” But upon reaching the spot marked out by Jim o’th’ Kiers, the soldiers were somewhat puzzled and “sore amazed” to find no enemy—that is to say, nothing to mean aught. Jimmy couldn’t understand it: he rubbed his eyes to see if he was awake, but rubbing made “not a bit of difference.” The nearest thing which they could even twist or twine into “the inimy” was a poor old man with a pair of “arm-oil” crutches. Jimmy having been severely questioned as to the sincerity of his motive in “hevin’ t’sowgers aht,” the poor old fellow whom they had fallen upon came in for a turn; but the only explanation he could give was that they had been holding a Ranters’ camp-meeting, and that he, not being able to get away as rapidly as he could have wished had been left behind. Now they did make a fool of Jim o’th’ Kiers, they did that, and the soldiers were jeered and scoffed at a good deal by the crowd. I, a little, wandering, curiosity-seeking specimen of humanity, was among the latter, and I trow I had as much fun out of the affair as was good for me.

A REMOVAL

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      Soon after this skirmishing—you will have to excuse the absence of any dates, I didn’t bethink me to keep a diary—my parents removed from Hoylus-end, and went to live at a farm called Wheat-head, in Fell-lane, now known as the Workhouse Farm.

CHARACTER SKETCHES

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      My stay at Wheat-head Farm, which lasted about ten years, was to me a very interesting one. I cannot refrain from making a passing allusion to my acquaintance with a character who created quite a sensation at the time. This “character” was no other than “Old Three Laps”—an individual who at his baptism was known as William Sharp. This singularly eccentric specimen of humanity lived at Whorl’s Farm, and, as it will be generally known took to his bed through being “blighted” in love. He kept to his bed for about forty years. During the period he was “bed-fast,” I often used to go and peep through the window at this freak of nature—for I can scarcely call it anything else. Then, while I was a lad, we had such a thing as a hermit in Holme (House) Wood. The name of this hermit I used to be told was “Lucky Luke.” For a score of years did “Luke” live in Holme Wood. I remember my mother giving the old man his breakfast when he used to call at our house. His personal appearance frightened me very much. He wore the whole of his beard, which was of iron-grey colour and reached down to his waist. His garb was composed of rags, tied to his body by the free use of rope. He once told my mother that he had more than once changed clothes with a scarecrow. Sometimes this queer person would never be seen by mortal man for months together, unless it were that I disturbed his solitude occasionally; but then, of course, I was only a boy. “Luke” had a bad name amongst us lads. I know people couldn’t fairly make out where he lived; he was wonderfully “lucky,” and no doubt he had a comfortable lair somewhere among the rocks and caves. Still the fact remains that farmers often found occasion to complain of pillaging being carried on by night in their gardens and turnip fields. This seems indisputable proof that “Luke” was a vegetarian—maybe, such a one as the Keighley Vegetarian Society might be glad to get hold of! Old Job Senior was not a vegetarian; he went in for a higher art—music. It used to be the boast of the Rombald’s Moor hermit that he had been a splendid singer in his day—could sing in any voice. Job frequently came as far as Keighley and tried to earn “a’ honest penny” by singing in the streets. His legs were encased in straw and ropes, and although at times I own I’m rather backward incoming forward, I hasten to say that Job’s “outer man and appendages” charmed more people than his singing did. But, then, “it’s all in a life-time.”

THE POET’S “PRENTICE HAND”

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      During my sojourn at Wheat-head Farm I took a fancy to trying my “prentice hand” at writing poetry. I got a little encouragement in this at home. My father held singing classes, and gentlemen from the neighbourhood used to meet at our house to have their “lessons.” I remember that the present Mr. Lund, of Malsis Hall, was one of my father’s principal pupils. Some very good “talent” was turned out in the way of glee parties particularly, and just before Christmas my father used to be very busy training singers for carolling. I often wrote a little doggerel-rhyme to please those who came to the classes. One of my earliest efforts was a few verses anent my first pair of britches, which I, in common, I suppose, with other juveniles, regarded with a great amount of pleasure and pride. I must apologise for introducing three verses of the piece I wrote and styled

      “MY FIRST PAIR O’ BRITCHES”

      Aw remember the days o’ mi bell-button jacket,

       Wi’ its little lappels hangin’ dahn ower mi waist;

       And mi grand bellosed cap—noan nicer, I’ll back it—

       Fer her et hed bowt it wor noan without taste;

       Fer shoo wor mi mother, an’ I wor her darlin’,

       And offen sho vowed it, an’ stroked dahn mi’ hair;

       An’ sho tuke me ta see her relations i’ Harden,

       I’t’ first pair o’ britches ’at ivver aw ware.

      Aw remember the time when Aunt Betty an’ Alice

       Sent fer me up ta lewk at mi clooas,

       An’ aw walked up as prahd as a Frenchman fra Calais,

       Wi’ mi tassel at side, i’ mi jacket a rose,

       Aw sooin saw mi uncles, both Johnny and Willy,

       They both gav’ me pennies an’ off aw did steer;

       But aw heeard ’em say this, “He’s a fine lad is Billy,

       I’t’ first pair o’ britches ’at ivver he ware.”

      Aw remember one Sabbath, an’t’ sun it wor shinin’,

       Aw went wi mi father ta Hainworth ta sing,

       An’t’ stage wor hung raand wi’ green cotton linin’,

       An’t’ childer i’ white made t’village ta ring.

       We went to old Mecheck’s that day to wur drinkin’,

       Tho’ poor ther were plenty, an’ summat ta spare;

       Says Mecheck, “That lad, Jim, is just thee awm thinkin’,

       I’t’ first pair o’ britches ’at ivver tha ware.”

CHAPTER II.

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