Yorksher Puddin\'
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Yorksher Puddin'
A collection of the most popular dialect stories
From the pen of John Hartley. Born 1839 Died 1915.
Author of "Yorkshire ditties," "Clock Almanack," "Seets i' london," etc.
"This life, sae far's I understand,
is an enchanted fairy land,
where pleasure is the magic wand, that weilded right,
maks hours like minutes, hand in hand dance by fir' light."
_Burns._
The Copyright of this Book is entirely the property of W. Nicholson and
Sons, and no one will be allowed to print any portion of it without
their permission.
Preface
The numerous applications for the productions of Mr. Hartley's pen, the
majority of which have been out of print for many years, warrants us in
believing that this collection of Yorkshire Stories, will be welcomed to
a large circle of his admirers.
Dedication
To my Dear Sister Hannah, to whose love and motherly care I owe more
than I can ever repay, I dedicate this little book as a token of sincere
affection. John Hartley Christmas 1876.
Contents
Frozen to Death Or the Cottage on the Hill.
Pill Jim's Progress Wi' Johns Bunion.
Moravian Knight's Entertainment.
Sperrit Rappin.
Ther's a Mule I' th' Garden.
A Neet at "Widup's Rest."
Tinklin' Tom.
Th' New Schooil Booard.
Tha Caps me Nah!
Nay Fer Sewer!
Th' Battle o' Tawkin.
"Owd Tommy." (A Yorkshire Sketch.)
It Mud ha' been War.
Ha a Dead Donkey Towt a Lesson.
One, Two, Three.
Sammy Bewitched.
Hard to Pleeas.
Ratcatchin'.
Owd Moorcock.
Peace Makkin.
Awr Emma--A False Alarm.
Niver Judge by Appearances.
Mi First Testimonial.
Five Paand Nooat.
Silly Billy.
Put up wi' it.
A Queer Dream.
The Mystery of Burt's Babby
Mak th' best on't.
Mrs Spaiktruth's Pairty.
Why Tommy isn't a Deacon.
One Amang th' Rest.
What's yor Hurry?
Ha Owd Stooansnatch's Dowter gate Wed.
Th' New Railrooad.
Mose Hart's Twelvth Mess.
Th' Hoil-i'th'-Hill Statty.
Owd Dawdles.
Property Huntin'.
Abraham's Sparrib.
A Run ovver th' Year.
Frozen to Death
Or the Cottage on the Hill.
A Christmas Story.
CHAPTER I.
The last strain of the grand old Christmas hymn had just been warbled
forth from the throats and hearts of a number of happy folks, who were
seated around the blazing log one Christmas eve; and on the face of each
one of that family circle the cheering light revealed the look of
happiness; the young--happy in the present, and indulging in hopeful
anticipations for the future; the old,--equally happy as the young, and
revelling in many a darling memory of the past.
"Come, Uncle John!" said a bright-eyed, flaxen-haired beauty, over whose
head not more than ten Christmas days had passed,--"Come, uncle, _do_
tell us a story; you know that we always expect one from you."
"Well, my pretty little niece," he replied, "I fear that I have
exhausted all my store of ghosts and hobgoblins, and if I tell you a
story now, it must be from the cold, stern world of fact, which, I fear,
will be less interesting to you than the romantic fictions I have
rehearsed on former occasions."
"Oh dear, no! tell us a story, a true story--we shall be all the more
delighted to know that we are listening to an account of what has really
occurred. Do begin at once, please".
Knocking the ashes from the bowl of his pipe, and having carefully
reared it against the hob, he commenced:--
"The factory bells had just ceased ringing, and the whistles had given
out their last shrieks, like the expiring yells of some agonized demon,
as the old church clock drowsily tolled the hour of six, on one of the
most miserable of December mornings. High on a bleak hill stood a little
whitewashed cottage, from the door of which issued two children,
apparently about ten years of age. As they stept into the cold morning
air they shuddered, and drew their scanty garments closer around them.
"Nah, yo'll ha' to luk sharp! yond's th' last whew!--yo've nobbut
fifteen minutes," cried a voice from within.
It was with great difficulty that the little couple succeeded in
reaching the high road, for the ground was covered with ice, on which a
continual sleet fell, and the wind, in fitful blasts, howled about them,
threatening at almost every step to overthrow them. But they had no time
to think of these things; slipping and running, giving each other all
the aid in their power, they pressed on in the direction of the
factory--the fear of being too late over-whelming every other
consideration.
"Come on, Susy!" said the little lad, whom we should take to be the
older of the two. "Come on, we shall niver be thear i' time; come on!
stand up! tha hasn't hurt thi, has ta?" he said, as she fell for the
third time upon the slippery pavement.
Tenderly he helped her to rise, but poor Susy had hurt herself, and
although she strove to keep back her tears and smother her sobs, Tom saw
that she had sustained a severe injury.
"Whisht!" he said, "tha munnot cry; whear ar ta hurt? Come, lain o' me,
an' aw'l hug thi basket."
"O, Tom, aw've hurt mi leg--aw cannot bide to goa any farther; tha'd
better leave me, for aw'm sure we'st be too lat."
"Happen net--tha'll be better in a bit,--put thi arm raand mi shoulder,
tha'rt nobbut leet; aw could ommost hug thi if it worn't soa slippy. Sup
o' this tea, si thee, it's warm yet, an' then tha'll feel better: an' if
we are a bit too lat, aw should think they'll let us in this mornin'."
Susy drank of the tea, and, revived by its warmth, she made another
attempt to pursue her way. But it was slow work; Tom did his best to
help her, and tried to cheer her as well as he could, though now an'
then a tear fell silently from his eyes, for his little fingers were
numbed with cold, and he felt the rain had already penetrated to his
skin, and the dreadful prospect of being late, and having to remain in
the cold for two hours, was in itself sufficient to strike dread into
the heart of one older and stronger than he. Even the watchman as he
passed, turned his light upon them for a moment, and sighed. It was no
business of his,--but under his waterproof cape there beat a father's
heart, and he murmured as he paced the solitary street, "Thank God, they
arn't mine."
But we must leave them to pursue as best they can, their miserable way,
whilst we return to have a glance at the occupants of the cottage from
which we saw them start. It is a one storied building, with but one room
and a small out-kitchen; in one corner is a bed, on which is laid a
pale, emaciated young man, to all appearance not yet thirty years of
age: he is asleep, but from the quick short breath, it is not difficult
to infer that his best days are over. In another corner, a number of
boxes are arranged so as to extemporize a bed, now unoccupied, but from
which the two little factory-workers have but lately arisen. A jug of
herb tea is on the table. The fire is very low, and the light from it is
only sufficient to render all indistinctly visible. In a chair opposite
is a young woman with such a mournful, careworn face, that a glance
inspires you with sorrow; and from a bundle of clothes on her knee
issues the fretful wail of a restless child. The monotonous tick of an
old clock is the only sound, saving the longdrawn sigh of that young
mother, or the quick, hollow breathing of the sleeping man. Now and then
the wind whistles more shrilly through the crevices of the door, and the
rain beats with greater force against the little window. The mother
draws still nearer to the few red embers, and turns a timid glance to
the window and then to the bed: another sigh, and then the overburdened
heart overflows at her eyes, and the large bright drops fall quickly on
that dearly loved infant.
The church clock chimes a quarter after six--this rouses the mother once
more to set aside her own griefs; the wind still howls, and the rain
beats with unabated fury against the glass: her thoughts are of those
little ones, and a tremor passes over her as she fears lest they should
be shut out. The man moves wearily in his bed, and opening his eyes, he
looks towards his wife. She is at his side in an instant.
"Have they gooan, Bessy?" he asks.
"Eea, they've gooan, an' aw hooap ther thear before nah."
"It saands vary wild. We ne'er thowt it ud come to this twelve year sin,
Bess,--an' it's all along o' me!"
"Nay, Jim, tha munnot say soa--tha knows we can nooan on us help bein
poorly sometimes, but when spring comes tha'll pick up thi crumbs agean,
an' things 'll be different."
"That's true, lass,--aw feel that's true--things _will_ be different
when spring comes, an' afoor it comes, aw'm feeard. Has ta iver been i'
bed to-neet?"
"Nay, aw couldn't come to bed, 'coss th' child wor cross, but aw've
slept a bit i' th' cheer: dooant thee bother, aw'l look after mi sen.
Will ta have a sup o' this teah?"
"Whisht!" he said, "that's awr Susy callin, aw'm sure it is! Oppen th'
door!"
She flew to oppen th' door, and the storm rushed in with fury; the snow
had begun to fall thickly: she strained her eyes and called, "Susy!
Susy!" but she heard no response: yet her heart misgave her, for the
thoughts of her darlings being exposed to such a storm made her shudder;
but necessity knows no law, and on the slender earnings of these two
children depended the subsistence of herself and husband.
"Aw think tha wor mistakken, Jim: aw con see nowt," she said, as she
returned and closed the door.
"Well, happen aw wor; but it's a sorry mornin to turn aght two little
lambs like them. Bessy," he said, lowering his voice to a whisper, "aw
know aw'm i'th' gate,--aw con do nowt but lig i' bed, an' aw know 'at
thee an' th' childer have to goa short mony a time for what aw get, but
it willn't be for long. Dooant rooar! tha knows it's summat 'at we've
nowt to do wi; an' tha heeard what th' parson said, 'Ther's One aboon at
'll work all things together for gooid,' an' aw feel my time's commin'
varry near; but aw'm nooan freetened like aw used to be; aw think it's
gooin to be a change for th' better--an' He'll luk after thee an' th'
little ens."
"O! Jim! tha munnot talk abaght leavin us yet; tha'll be better in a
bit."
"Niver i' this world, Bessy! Come, put thi heead o' th' pillow here
beside me, aw think aw want to rest."
She placed the little babe upon the coverlet, laid her head upon the
pillow, and worn out with watching, she wept herself asleep.
The church clock had chimed the half-hour before Tom and his little
sister landed at the mill yard, and it was closed. The storm was still
raging, but to his repeated entreaties for admission the same answer was
returned, "Tha'rt too lat! tha connot come in afoor th' braikfast."
Experience had taught him how vain his endeavours would be to obtain
admission; and had it been himself alone that was shut out, he would
have gone quietly away and spent the time as best he might; but he felt
emboldened by the responsibility that was upon him on his sister's
account, and he redoubled his efforts, but the timekeeper was
inexorable:--"My orders iz, az nubdy mun come in after a quarter past,
an' if tha doesn't goa away aw'l warm thi Jacket for thi; tha should ha
come i' time same as other fowk." Poor Tom! there had still lingered
some little faith in the goodness of human nature in his breast, but as
he turned away, the last spark died out. To attempt to go home he knew
would be useless, and therefore he sought as the only alternative, some
place where he might find shelter. At a short distance from the gate,
but within the sound of the whirling wheels, he sat down with his
uncomplaining sister upon his knee. The snow began to fall gently at
first, and he watched it as the feathery flakes grew larger and larger.
He did not feel cold now; he wrapped his little scarf around his
sister's neck. The snow fell still thicker: he felt so weary, so very
weary; his little sister too had fallen asleep on his breast;--he laid
his head against the cold stone wall, and the snow still fell, so
softly, so very gently, that he dozed away and dreamed of sunny lands
where all was bright and warm: and in a short time the passer-by could
not have told that a brother and sister lay quietly slumbering there,
wrapped in their shroud of snow.
The hum of wheels has ceased; the crowd of labourers hurry out to their
morning's meal; a few short minutes, and the discordant whistles again
shriek out their call to work. Tom and Susy, where are they? The gates
will soon be closed again!
Well, let them close! other gates have opened for those little suffering
ones. The gates of pearl have swung upon their golden hinges; no harsh
voice of unkind taskmaster greets them on their entrance, but that
glorious welcome.
"Come, ye blessed!" and their unloosed tongues join in the loud
"Hosannah."
But those pearly gates are not for ever open. The time may come when
those shall stand before them unto whom the words, "Inasmuch as ye did
it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me," shall sound
the death-knell of all hopes throughout an inconceivable eternity.
CHAPTER II.
It is night, and the wind is sighing itself away. The snow has ceased to
fall, and the moon looks down upon the hills in their spotless covering,
shedding her soft, mild light upon all. The little cottage on the hill
side would be imperceptible, were it not for the light that streams
through the window and the open door. The church clock has just struck
eight, and for nearly an hour a woman has stood looking towards the
town, her anxiety increasing every moment. She listens to the sound of
feet on the crisp snow--they come nearer--they are opposite the turn
that leads to the cottage: but they pass on. Again and again she
listens:--once or twice she fancies she sees two children in the
distance--but they come not. Passersby become less frequent; again the
church clock chimes, and all is still. Her husband and her babe are
asleep. Quickly putting on her bonnet and shawl, she runs to her nearest
rleighbour to ask if she will sit with them until she returns, for she
must go and learn how it is that her children have not come home. She
fears no denial, and she meets with none; as soon as she has stated her
case, the good woman replies, "Sit wi' 'em lass! aw'm sure aw will! an'
thee," she said, turning to her husband, "put on thi hat an' coit an'
goa wi' her."
"O, they're nobbut laikin at snowball, or else slurrin a bit," he
said;--at the same time he put on his hat and coat, and showed as
much alacrity to join in the search as the mother herself.
Owd Becca thrust into her capacious pocket a tea cake and two eggs, and
taking the teapot into which she put a good supply of tea, she prepared
for starting off; but suddenly recollecting herself, she returned and
called in loud tones to her daughter: "Sarah I get that sucking bottle,
an' fill it wi' milk for th' little en, an' nah, if yo two 'll nobbut
bring th' childer back, aw'l see 'at all gooas on reight at hooam."
Bessy began to express her thanks, but Becca was determined not to hear
her, and drowned all she said in exhorting her husband to "luk sharp."
Bessy and Old Abe directed their steps to the factory, but often paused
to ask passers-by if they had seen the two lost ones, but as there had
so many children passed whose outward appearance corresponded with
theirs of whom they were in search, they thought it best to go at once
to the works and ascertain at what time they left.
Bessy's heart misgave her as she knocked at the gatekeeper's house; an
indefinable dread came over her, and she scarce knew how to state her
case. Little did she think that within sound of her voice lay the dear
objects of her search; hundreds of feet had passed them during the day,
but none had disturbed them; the whistles had screamed for them in vain,
for they had gone to that lasting "rest prepared for the weary and heavy
laden." From the gatekeeper they learned that the two had arrived too
late in the morning and gone away somewhere, but had not returned or
been seen afterwards. Bessy stood transfixed for a moment, scarce
knowing what to do, but Old Abe could look at the case more calmly; and
taking hold of her hand, he led her gently away, and proceeded forthwith
to the police station, where he gave as full an account and as correct a
description of the missing ones as he was able. It took but a short time
to accomplish this much, but the journey homewards was not so speedily
performed. Every dark corner was explored, and every alley and by-lane
had to be traversed, and the morning was far advanced when they reached
home after their unsuccessful search.
The husband and babe were still sleeping, for Becca had ministered to
all their wants. She had buoyed herself with the hope that they would be
successful: but when she saw them return alone, her spirits sank as low
as those of the mother, and although she was silent, yet the frequent
application of the apron to her eyes showed that she felt as a mother
for one so sorrowfully placed.
Promising to "luk in i' th' morn'," they left the disconsolate Bessy
to her grief.
Who shall attempt to describe the anguish of that bereaved parent?
Statuelike she sat, nursing a sorrow too deep for tears. Hours passed,
and the first faint streak of dawn found her still sitting, with her
eyes intently fixed on vacancy. Her husband's voice was the first thing
that roused her from the state of despondency into which she had sunk.
He spoke with difficulty, and his voice was feeble as a child's.
"Bessy," he gasped, "tha munnot leave me ony moor. It's drawin varry
near. Awr little Tom an' Susy have been here wol tha's been off; aw
heeard 'em calling for me, but aw could'nt goa until aw'd had a word wi'
thee. Aw'm feeard tha'll tak it hard, lass, but if tha finds tha cannot
bide it, ax th' parson to tell thee what he tell'd to me, an' it'll
comfort thee." Bessy was unable to reply. Sorrows had been heaped upon
her so heavily that her feelings were benumbed; she scarcely
comprehended what was said, but in the bitterness of her soul she fell
upon her knees and sobbed--"Lord, help me!"
Her husband feebly took her hand and drew her towards him. "He will help
thee, lassie, niver fear. One kiss, Bessy; gooid bye! Tom! Susy!--It's
varry dark.--Aw think aw want to sleep."--
"And ere that hour departed.
All death reveals, he knew."
CHAPTER III.
A change had taken place in the atmosphere since Bessy and Abe had
returned. Here and there green patches could be seen on the hill side,
and the distant town presented a view of smoke-blackened roofs that
shone, dripping with wet as the sickly' sun glanced over them. Little or
no snow was to be found in the streets, and all the hideous sights stood
out once more rejoicing in their naked deformities.
The giant engine--the factory's heart--was ceasing to beat once more, in
order to allow the workers time to swallow the food necessary to enable
them to bear up until noon. The gates were opened, and the crowd swarmed
forth, but all seemed instinctively directed to a group at a short
distance, whose pallid faces reflected the ghastly sight before them.
The group soon swelled to a vast crowd. Enquiries were made on every
hand by those in the outer circle--"What is it? what is it?" "_Frozen
to death._" Tenderly those rough handed, rough-spoken men raised the
death-frozen little ones. Some there were who knew them and had heard of
their loss. It was to them an easy task to account for their deaths, and
curses low but deep were cast on them, at whose doors the blood of those
innocents must lie.
The bodies were taken to the nearest inn to wait an inquest. Those in
authority were quickly on the alert; whilst some who were acquainted
with the parents prepared to carry them the sorrowful tidings.--Poor
Bessy! thy cup of bitterness is nearly full!
Old Becca had come according to promise, and found Bessy laid partially
upon the bed in a swoon, her arm around the neck of him who had been her
faithful partner for a dozen years. She raised her, bathed her forehead,
and used all means in her power to promote her recovery. After a short
time she was successful; and having prepared the other bed and placed
Bessy upon it, she hastily left to get some assistance.
The poor have but the poor on whom they can depend in an emergency; and
it is a blessing that the request for help to each other is rarely if
ever made in vain.
She soon returned with plenty of willing hands--one took the babe, and
others remained to perform the last sad offices to the remains of him
who had gone "a little while before." Soon the men arrived with the
mournful account of the discovery of the children, but Bessy knew it
not. God had had compassion upon her, and to save her heart from
breaking, had thrown a cloud over her reason.
Silently they stood for a moment in that house of death; and as they
turned to go, one after another placed what money each had, noiselessly
upon the table: the whole perhaps did not amount to much, but who shall
say that it was not a welcome loan to the Lord--an investment in heaven
that should in after time yield to them an interest outweighing the
wealth of the whole world?
As the day advanced, numbers gathered round the inn where the coroner
and jury were assembled. The usual form of viewing the bodies was gone
through; and, with the exception of the girl's ancle, which was found to
be dislocated, there appeared nothing to account for death save exposure
to the cold.
The coroner quickly summed up, and addressing the jury said--"he did not
see how they could bring in any other verdict than 'died from natural
causes.'" With one exception all acquiesced, and this one refused to
agree to such a verdict, saying that death had been caused by unnatural
causes! At last the verdict was altered to "Found frozen to death." To
this a juryman wished to add something about arbitrary laws and
inhumanity, but he was overruled.
It needed nothing now but to put them in the earth, and cover them up.
The following morning the whistles shrieked as fiercely, the wheels went
round as merrily as ever; two other children were in the places of the
lost ones, and it was as if they had never been.
The day for the funeral arrived--the father and children were to be
interred together. There was a large gathering of sympathising friends.
Poor Bessy! had partially recovered, but seemed like one just waking
from a dream; the mournful cortege gained the church yard. The coffins
were slowly lowered into the grave. The grey-haired pastor's voice was
at times almost inaudible--every heart was touched, for all took the
case home to themselves, and asked the question, "How if they were
mine?" "Dust to dust, and ashes to ashes," and the ceremony was
completed.
Few of them had failed to remark the presence of a strange mourner--one
whose dress bespoke him to be a gentleman; and as the widow turned to
leave the grave, he stept up to her and offered her his arm for support.
She took it mechanically, and wended her way to her desolate home. He
was the only one, with the exception of Old Becca, who entered with
Bessy.
He looked around the forlorn room, gazing now here, now there, to hide
his emotion. He seemed about to speak when a knock at the door
interrupted him.
Becca opened it, and returned with a letter stating that the bearer
required an answer. The stranger took it with an air of authority and
broke the seal; as he did so, a five pound note fluttered to the ground.
While he read the letter his eyes flashed with a strange fire, and his
quivering nostril showed the strength of the passion raging within.
Turning to the boy, he thrust the letter into his hand, and bade him
pick up the note. "Take this answer to your master, boy," he said; "we
return the letter and his money with disdain, and tell him that Bessy
Green is not so desolate and friendless that she needs accept five
pounds as the price of two innocent lives. The debt is one that no man
can cancel: but the reckoning day is sure to come! tell him that, boy,
from the brother of Bessy Green, from the uncle of Tom and Susy."
The boy hurried away with the message; and Bessy, who had been aroused
by the stranger's vehemence, at the word "brother," threw herself upon
his neck, crying--"It is George!" What follows is quickly told: Bessy's
grief was deep, and it took long long months before she was fitted to
engage in the ordinary occupations of life; but change of scene and
cheerful company, together with the daily expanding beauties of her only
child, partially healed her lacerated heart. Her generous brother, who
had returned from a distant land,--where fortune had smiled upon his
labours--took her to live with him, and adopted her child as his son.
Becca and Abe became also installed in the house as helpers; and now,
far away from the regions of factory whews, they are all living amicably
together.
"That is my story for this; Christmas. How do you like it?"
It is very sorrowful, uncle John, but we are much obliged to you for
telling it us, but it is surely wrong for children so young to be
compelled to go to work at such an early hour?