Lob Lie-By-The-Fire by Juliana
Lob Lie-By-The-Fire—the Lubber-fiend, as Milton calls him—is a rough
kind of Brownie or House Elf, supposed to haunt some north-country
homesteads, where he does the work of the farm labourers, for no grander
"------to earn his cream bowl duly set."
Not that he is insensible of the pleasures of rest, for
"—When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn
That ten day-labourers could not end,
Then lies him down the Lubber-fiend,
And, stretched out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength."
It was said that a Lob Lie-by-the-fire once haunted the little old Hall
at Lingborough. It was an old stone house on the Borders, and seemed to
have got its tints from the grey skies that hung above it. It was
cold-looking without, but cosy within, "like a north-country heart,"
said Miss Kitty, who was a woman of sentiment, and kept a commonplace
It was long before Miss Kitty's time that Lob Lie-by-the-fire first came
to Lingborough. Why and whence he came is not recorded, nor when and
wherefore he withdrew his valuable help, which, as wages rose, and
prices rose also, would have been more welcome than ever.
This tale professes not to record more of him than comes within the
memory of man.
Whether (as Fletcher says) he were the son of a witch, if curds and
cream won his heart, and new clothes put an end to his labours, it does
not pretend to tell. His history is less known than that of any other
sprite. It may be embodied in some oral tradition that shall one day be
found; but as yet the mists of forgetfulness hide it from the
storyteller of to-day as deeply as the sea fogs are wont to lie between
Lingborough and the adjacent coast.
THE LITTLE OLD LADIES.—ALMS DONE IN SECRET.
The little old ladies of Lingborough were heiresses.
Not, mind you, in the sense of being the children of some mushroom
millionnaire, with more money than manners, and (as Miss Betty had seen
with her own eyes, on the daughter of a manufacturer who shall be
nameless) dresses so fine in quality and be-furbelowed in construction
as to cost a good quarter's income (of the little old ladies), but
trailed in the dirt from "beggarly extravagance," or kicked out behind
at every step by feet which fortune (and a very large fortune, too) had
never taught to walk properly.
"And how should she know how to walk?" said Miss Betty. "Her mother
can't have taught her, poor body! that ran through the streets of Leith,
with a creel on her back, as a lassie; and got out of her coach (lined
with satin, you mind, sister Kitty?) to her dying day, with a bounce,
all in a heap, her dress caught, and her stockings exposed (among
ourselves, ladies!) like some good wife that's afraid to be late for the
market. Aye, aye! Malcolm Midden—good man!--made a fine pocket of
silver in a dirty trade, but his women'll jerk, and toss, and bounce,
and fuss, and fluster for a generation or two yet, for all the silks and
satins he can buy 'em."
From this it will be seen that the little old ladies inherited some
prejudices of their class, and were also endowed with a shrewdness of
observation common among all classes of north-country women.
But to return to what else they inherited. They were heiresses, as the
last representatives of a family as old in that Border country as the
bold blue hills which broke its horizon. They were heiresses also in
default of heirs male to their father who got the land from his uncle's
dying childless, sons being scarce in the family. They were heiresses,
finally, to the place and the farm, to the furniture that was made when
folk seasoned their wood before they worked it, to a diamond brooch
which they wore by turns, besides two diamond rings, and two black lace
shawls, that had belonged to their mother and their Auntie Jean, long
since departed thither where neither moth nor rust corrupt the true
As to the incomings of Lingborough, "It was nobody's business but their
own," as Miss Betty said to the lawyer who was their man of business,
and whom they consulted on little matters of rent and repairs at as much
length, and with as much formal solemnity, as would have gone elsewhere
to the changing hands of half a million of money. Without violating
their confidence, however, we may say that the estate paid its way, kept
them in silk stockings, and gave them new tabbinet dresses once in three
years. It supplied their wants the better that they had inherited house
plenishing from their parents, "Which they thanked their stars was not
made of tag-rag, and would last their time," and that they were quite
content with an old home and old neighbours, and never desired to change
the grand air that blew about their native hills for worse, in order to
be poisoned with bad butter, and make the fortunes of extortionate
The rental of Lingborough did more. How much more the little old ladies
did not know themselves, and no one else shall know, till that which was
done in secret is proclaimed from the housetops.
For they had had a religious scruple, founded upon a literal reading of
the scriptural command that a man's left hand should not know what has
right hand gives in alms, and this scruple had been ingeniously set at
rest by the parson, who, failing in an attempt to explain the force of
Eastern hyperbole to the little ladies' satisfaction, had said that Miss
Betty, being the elder, and the head of the house, might be likened to
the right hand, and Miss Kitty, as the younger, to the left, and that if
they pursued their good works without ostentation, or desiring the
applause even of each other, the spirit of the injunction would be
The parson was a good man and a clever. He had (as Miss Betty justly
said) a very spiritual piety. But he was also gifted with much
shrewdness in dealing with the various members of his flock. And his
word was law to the sisters.
Thus it came about that the little ladies' charities were not known even
to each other—that Miss Betty turned her morning camlet twice instead
of once, and Miss Kitty denied herself in sugar, to carry out benevolent
little projects which were accomplished in secret, and of which no
record appears in the Lingborough Ledger.
AT TEA WITH MRS. DUNMAW.
The little ladies of Lingborough were very sociable, and there was, as
they said, "as much gaiety as was good for anyone" within their reach.
There were at least six houses at which they drank tea from time to
time, all within a walk. As hosts or guests, you always met the same
people, which was a friendly arrangement, and the programmes of the
entertainments were so uniform, that no one could possibly feel awkward.
The best of manners and home-made wines distinguished these tea parties,
where the company was strictly genteel, if a little faded. Supper was
served at nine, and the parson and the lawyer played whist for love with
different partners on different evenings with strict impartiality.
Small jealousies are apt to be weak points in small societies, but there
was a general acquiescence in the belief that the parson had a friendly
preference for the little ladies of Lingborough.
He lived just beyond them, too, which led to his invariably escorting
them home. Miss Betty and Miss Kitty would not for worlds have been so
indelicate as to take this attention for granted, though it was a custom
of many years' standing. The older sister always went through the form
of asking the younger to "see if the servant had come," and at this
signal the parson always bade the lady of the house good night, and
respectfully proffered his services as an escort to Lingborough.
It was a lovely evening in June, when the little ladies took tea with
the widow of General Dunmaw at her cottage, not quite two miles from
their own home.
It was a memorable evening. The tea party was an agreeable one. The
little ladies had new tabbinets on, and Miss Kitty wore the diamond
brooch. Miss Betty had played whist with the parson, and the younger
sister (perhaps because of the brooch) had been favoured with a good
deal of conversation with the lawyer. It was an honour, because the
lawyer bore the reputation of an esprit fort, and was supposed to
have, as a rule, a contempt for feminine intellects, which good manners
led him to veil under an almost officious politeness in society. But
honours are apt to be uneasy blessings, and this one was at least as
harassing as gratifying. For a somewhat monotonous vein of sarcasm, a
painful power of producing puns, and a dexterity in suggesting doubts of
everything, were the main foundation of his intellectual reputation, and
Miss Kitty found them hard to cope with. And it was a warm evening.
But women have much courage, especially to defend a friend or a faith,
and the less Miss Kitty found herself prepared for the conflict the
harder she esteemed it her duty to fight. She fought for Church and
State, for parsons and poor people, for the sincerity of her friends,
the virtues of the Royal Family, the merit of Dr. Drugson's
prescriptions, and for her favourite theory that there is some good in
everyone and some happiness to be found every where.
She rubbed nervously at the diamond brooch with her thin little mittened
hands. She talked very fast; and if the lawyer were guilty of feeling
any ungallant indifference to her observations, she did not so much as
hear his, and her cheeks became so flushed that Mrs. Dunmaw crossed the
room in her China crape shawl and said, "My dear Miss Kitty, I'm sure
you feel the heat very much. Do take my fan, which is larger than
But Miss Kitty was saved a reply, for at this moment Miss Betty turned
on the sofa, and said, "Dear Kitty, will you kindly see if the
And the parson closed the volume of "Friendship's Offering" which lay
before him, and advanced towards Mrs. Dunmaw and took leave in his own
Miss Kitty was so much flustered that she had not even presence of mind
to look for the servant, who had never been ordered to come, but the
parson relieved her by saying in his round, deep voice, "I hope you will
not refuse me the honour of seeing you home, since our roads happen to
lie together," And she was glad to get into the fresh air, and beyond
the doubtful compliments of the lawyer's nasal suavity—"You have been
very severe upon me to-night, Miss Kitty. I'm sure I had no notion I
should find so powerful an antagonist," etc.
MIDSUMMER EVE.—A LOST DIAMOND.
It was Midsummer Eve. The long light of the North was pale and clear,
and the western sky shone luminous through the fir-wood that bordered
the road. Under such dim lights colours deepen, and the great bushes of
broom, that were each one mass of golden blossom, blazed like fairy
watch-fires up the lane.
Miss Kitty leaned on the left arm of the parson and Miss Betty on his
right. She chatted gaily, which left her younger sister at leisure to
think of all the convincing things she had not remembered to say to the
lawyer, as the evening breeze cooled her cheeks.
"A grand prospect for the crops, sir," said Miss petty; "I never saw the
broom so beautiful." But as he leaned forward to look at the yellow
blaze which foretells good luck to farmers, as it shone in the hedge on
the left-hand side of the road, she caught sight of the brooch in Miss
Kitty's lace shawl. Through a gap in the wood the light from the western
sky danced among the diamonds. But where one of the precious stones
should have been there was a little black hole.
"Sister, you've lost a stone out of your brooch!" screamed Miss Betty.
The little ladies were well-trained, and even in that moment of despair
Miss Betty would not hint that her sister's ornaments were not her sole
When Miss Kitty burst into tears the parson was a little astonished as
well as distressed. Men are apt to be so, not perhaps because women cry
on such very small accounts, as because the full reason does not always
transpire. Tears are often the climax of nervous exhaustion and this is
commonly the result of more causes than one. Ostensibly Miss Kitty was
"upset" by the loss of the diamond, but she also wept away a good deal
of the vexation of her unequal conflict with the sarcastic lawyer, and
of all this the parson knew nothing.
Miss Betty knew nothing of that, but she knew enough of things in
general to feel sure that the diamond was not all the matter.
"What is amiss, sister Kitty?" said she. "Have you hurt yourself? Do you
feel ill? Did you know the stone was out?"—"I hope you're not going to
be hysterical, sister Kitty," added Miss Betty anxiously; "there never
was a hysterical woman in our family yet."
"Oh dear no, sister Betty," sobbed Miss Kitty; "but it's all my fault. I
know I was fidgeting with it whilst I was talking; and it's a punishment
on my fidgety ways, and for ever presuming to wear it at all, when
you're the head of the family, and solely entitled to it. And I shall
never forgive myself if it's lost, and if it's found I'll never, never
wear it any more." And as she deluged her best company pocket-handkerchief
(for the useful one was in a big pocket under her dress, and could not be
got at, the parson being present), Church, State, the royal family, the
family Bible, her highest principles, her dearest affections, and the
diamond brooch, all seemed to swim before her disturbed mind in one sea
There was not a kinder heart than the parson's toward women and children
in distress. He tucked the little ladies again under his arms, and
insisted upon going back to Mrs. Dunmaw's searching the lane as they
went. In the pulpit or the drawing room a ready anecdote never failed
him, and on this occasion he had several. Tales of lost rings, and even
single gems, recovered in the most marvellous manner and the most
unexpected places—dug up in gardens, served up to dinner in fishes, and
so forth. "Never," said Miss Kitty, afterward, "never, to her dying day,
could she forget his kindness."
She clung to the parson as a support under both her sources of trouble,
but Miss Betty ran on and back, and hither and thither, looking for the
diamond. Miss Kitty and the parson looked too, and how many aggravating
little bits of glass and silica, and shining nothings and
good-for-nothings there are in the world, no one would believe who has
not looked for a lost diamond on a high road.
But another story of found jewels was to be added to the parson's stock.
He had bent his long back for about the eighteenth time, when such a
shimmer as no glass or silica can give flashed into his eyes, and he
caught up the diamond out of the dust, and it fitted exactly into the
little black hole.
Miss Kitty uttered a cry, and at the same moment Miss Betty, who was
farther down the road, did the same, and these were followed by a third,
which sounded like a mocking echo of both. And then the sisters rushed
"A most miraculous discovery!" gasped Miss Betty.
"You must have passed the very spot before," cried Miss Kitty.
"Though I'm sure, sister, what to do with it now we have found it I
don't know," said Miss Betty, rubbing her nose, as she was wont to do
"It shall be taken better care of for the future, sister Betty," said
Miss Kitty penitently. "Though how it got out I can't think now."
"Why, bless my soul! you don't suppose it got there of itself, sister?"
snapped Miss Betty. "How it did get there is another matter."
"I felt pretty confident about it, for my own part," smiled the parson
as he joined them.
"Do you mean to say, sir, that you knew it was there?" asked Miss Betty,
"I didn't know the precise spot, my dear madam, but----"
"You didn't see it, sir, I hope?" said Miss Betty.
"Bless me, my dear madam, I found it!" cried the parson.
Miss Betty bridled and bit her lip.
"I never contradict a clergyman, sir," said she, "but I can only say
that if you did see it, it was not like your usual humanity to leave it
I've got it in my hand, ma'am!"
He's got it in his hand, sister!"
cried the parson and Miss Kitty in one breath. Miss Betty was too much
puzzled to be polite.
"What are you talking about?" she asked.
"The diamond, oh dear, oh dear! The diamond!" cried Miss Kitty. "But
what are you talking about, sister?"
"The baby" said Miss Betty.
WHAT MISS BETTY FOUND.
It was found under a broom-bush. Miss Betty was poking her nose near the
bank that bordered the wood, in her hunt for the diamond, when she
caught sight of a mass of yellow of a deeper tint than the mass of
broom-blossom above it, and this was the baby.
This vivid color, less opaque than "deep chrome" and a shade more
orange, seems to have a peculiar attraction for wandering tribes.
Gipsies use it, and it is a favorite color with Indian squaws. To the
last dirty rag it is effective, whether it flutters near a tent on
Bagshot Heath, or in some wigwam doorway makes a point of brightness
against the grey shadows of the pine forest.
A large kerchief of this, wound about its body, was the baby's only
robe, but he seemed quite comfortable in it when Miss Betty found him,
sleeping on a pillow of deep hair moss, his little brown fists closed as
fast as his eyes, and a crimson toadstool grasped in one of them.
When Miss Betty screamed the baby awoke, and his long black lashes
tickled his cheeks and made him wink and cry. But by the time she
returned with her sister and the parson, he was quite happy again,
gazing up with dark eyes full of delight into the glowing broom-brush,
and fighting the evening breeze with his feet, which were entangled in
the folds of the yellow cloth, and with the battered toadstool which was
still in his hand.
"And, indeed, sir," said Miss Betty, who had rubbed her nose till it
looked like the twin toadstool to that which the baby was flourishing in
her face, "you won't suppose I would have left the poor little thing
another moment, to catch its death of cold on a warm evening like this;
but having no experience of such cases, and remembering that murder at
the inn in the Black Valley, and that the body was not allowed to be
moved till the constables had seen it, I didn't feel to know how it
might be with foundlings, and—"
But still Miss Betty did not touch the bairn. She was not accustomed to
children. But the parson had christened too many babies to be afraid of
them, and he picked up the little fellow in a moment, and tucked the
yellow rag round him, and then addressing the little ladies precisely as
if they were sponsors, he asked in his deep round voice, "Now where on
the face of the earth are the vagabonds who have deserted this child?"
The little ladies did not know, the broom bushes were silent, and the
question has remained unanswered from that day to this.
There were no railways near Lingborough at this time. The coach ran
three times a week, and a walking postman brought the letters from the
town to the small hamlets. Telegraph wires were unknown, and yet news
travelled quite as fast then as it does now, and in the course of the
following morning all the neighbourhood knew that Miss Betty had found a
baby under a broom bush, and the lawyer called in the afternoon to
inquire how the ladies found themselves after the tea party at Mrs.
Miss Kitty was glad on the whole. She felt nervous, but ready for a
renewal of hostilities. Several clinching arguments had occurred to her
in bed last night, and after hastily looking up a few lines from her
common-place book, which always made her cry when she read them, but
which she hoped to be able to hurl at the lawyer with a steady voice,
she followed Miss Betty to the drawing-room.
It was half a relief and half a disappointment to find that the lawyer
was quite indifferent to the subject of their late contest. He
overflowed with compliments; was quite sure he must have had the worst
of the argument, and positively dying of curiosity to hear about the
The little ladies were very full of the subject themselves. An active
search for the baby's relations, conducted by the parson, the clerk,
the farm-bailiff, the constable, the cowherd, and several
supernumeraries, had so far proved quite vain. The country folk were
most anxious to assist, especially by word of mouth. Except a small but
sturdy number who had seen nothing, they had all seen "tramps," but
unluckily no two could be got together whose accounts of the tramps
themselves, of the hour at which they were seen, or of the direction in
which they went, would tally with each other.
The little ladies were quite alive to the possibility that the child's
parents might never be traced, indeed the matter had been constantly
before their minds ever since the parson had carried the baby to
Lingborough, and laid it in the arms of Thomasina, the servant.
Miss Betty had sat long before her toilette-table that evening, gazing
vacantly at the looking-glass. Not that the reflection of the eight
curl-papers she had neatly twisted up was conveyed to her brain. She was
in a brown study, during which the following thoughts passed through her
mind, and they all pointed one way:
That that fine little fellow was not to blame for his people's
That they would never be found.
That it would probably be the means of the poor child's ruin, body and
soul, if they were.
That the master of the neighbouring workhouse bore a bad character.
That a child costs nothing to keep—where cows are kept too—for years.
That just at the age when a boy begins to eat dreadfully and wear out
his clothes, he is very useful on a farm (though not for these reasons).
That Thomasina had taken to him.
That there need be no nonsense about it, as he could be brought up in
his proper station in life in the kitchen and the farm yard.
That tramps have souls.
That he would be taught to say his prayers.
Miss Betty said hers, and went to bed; but all through that midsummer
night the baby kept her awake, or flaunted his yellow robe and crimson
toadstool through her dreams.
The morning brought no change in Miss Betty's views, but she felt
doubtful as to how her sister would receive them. Would she regard them
as foolish and unpractical, and her respect for Miss Betty's opinion be
The fear was needless. Miss Kitty was romantic and imaginative. She had
carried the baby through his boyhood about the Lingborough fields whilst
she was dressing; and he was attending her own funeral in the capacity
of an attached and faithful servant, in black livery with worsted frogs,
as she sprinkled salt on her buttered toast at breakfast, when she was
startled from this affecting daydream by Miss Betty's voice.
"Dear sister Kitty, I wish to consult you as to our plans in the event
of those wicked people who deserted the baby not being found."
The little ladies resolved that not an inkling of their benevolent
scheme must be betrayed to the lawyer. But they dissembled awkwardly,
and the tone in which they spoke of the tramp-baby roused the lawyer's
quick suspicions. He had a real respect for the little ladies, and was
kindly anxious to save them from their own indiscretion.
"My dear ladies," said he, "I do hope your benevolence—may I say your
romantic benevolence?—of disposition is not tempting you to adopt this
"I hope we know what is due to ourselves, and to the estate—small, as
it is—sir," said Miss Betty, "as well as to Providence, too well to
attempt to raise any child, however handsome, from that station of life
in which he was born."
"Bless me, madam! I never dreamed you would adopt a beggar child as your
heir; but I hope you mean to send it to the workhouse, if the gipsy
tramps it belongs to are not to be found?"
"We have not made up our minds, sir, as to the course we propose to
pursue," said Miss Betty, with outward dignity proportioned to her
"My dear ladies," said the lawyer anxiously, "let me implore you not to
be rash. To adopt a child in the most favorable circumstances is the
greatest of risks. But if your benevolence will take that line, pray
adopt some little boy out of one of your tenants' families. Even your
teaching will not make him brilliant, as he is likely to inherit the
minimum of intellectual capacity; but he will learn his catechism,
probably grow up respectable, and possibly grateful, since his
forefathers have (so Miss Kitty assures me) had all these virtues for
generations. But this baby is the child of a heathen, barbarous, and
wandering race. The propensities of the vagabonds who have deserted him
are in every drop of his blood. All the parsons in the diocese won't
make a Christian of him, and when (after anxieties I shudder to foresee)
you flatter yourself that he is civilized, he will run away and leave
his shoes and stockings behind him."
"He has a soul to be saved, if he is a gipsy," said Miss Kitty,
"The soul, my dear Miss Kitty "—began the lawyer, facing round upon
"Don't say anything dreadful about the soul, sir, I beg," said Miss
Betty, firmly. And then she added in a conciliatory tone, "Won't you
look at the little fellow, sir? I have no doubt his relations are
shocking people; but when you see his innocent little face and his
beautiful eyes, I think you'll say yourself that if he were a duke's son
he couldn't be a finer child."
"My experience of babies is so limited, Miss Betty," said the lawyer,
"that really—if you'll excuse me—but I can quite imagine him. I have
before now been tempted myself to adopt stray—puppies, when I have seen
them in the round, soft, innocent, bright-eyed stage. And when they have
grown up in the hands of more credulous friends into lanky,
ill-conditioned, misconducted curs, I have congratulated myself that I
was not misled by the graces of an age at which ill-breeding is less
apparent than later in life."
The little ladies both rose. "If you see no difference, sir," said Miss
Betty in her stateliest manner, "between a babe with an immortal soul
and the beasts that perish, it is quite useless to prolong the
"Reason is apt to be useless when opposed to the generous impulses of a
sex so full of sentiment as yours, madam," said the lawyer, rising also.
"Permit me to take a long farewell, since it is improbable that our
friendship will resume its old position until your protegé has—run
The words "long farewell" and "old friendship" were quite sufficient to
soften wrath in the tender hearts of the little ladies. But the lawyer
had really lost his temper, and, before Miss Betty had decided how to
offer the olive branch without conceding her principles he was gone.
The weather was warm. The little ladies were heated by discussion and
the parson by vain scouring of the country on foot, when they asked his
advice upon their project, and related their conversation with the
lawyer. The two gentlemen had so little in common that the parson felt
it his duty not to let his advice be prejudiced by this fact. For some
moments he sat silent, then he began to walk about as if he were
composing a sermon; then he stopped before the little ladies (who were
sitting as stiffly on the sofa as if it were a pew) and spoke as if he
were delivering one.
"If you ask me, dear ladies, whether it is your duty to provide for this
child because you found him, I say that there is no such obligation. If
you ask if I think it wise in your own interests, and hopeful as to the
boy's career, I am obliged to agree with your legal adviser. Vagabond
ways are seldom cured in one generation, and I think it is quite
probable that, after much trouble and anxiety spent upon him, he may go
back to a wandering life. But, Miss Betty," continued the parson in
deepening tones, as he pounded his left palm with his right fist for
want of a pulpit, "If you ask me whether I believe any child of any race
is born incapable of improvement, and beyond benefit from the charities
we owe to each other, I should deny my faith if I could say yes. I shall
not, madam, confuse the end of your connection with him with the end of
your training in him, even if he runs away, or fancy that I see the one
because I see the other. I do not pretend to know how much evil he
inherits from his forefathers as accurately as our graphic friend; but I
do know that he has a Father whose image is also to be found in His
children—not quite effaced in any of them—and whose care of this one
will last when yours, madam, may seem to have been in vain."
As the little ladies rushed forward and each shook a hand of the parson,
he felt some compunction for his speech.
"I fear I am encouraging you in grave indiscretion," said he. "But,
indeed, my dear ladies, I am quite against your project, for you do not
realize the anxieties and disappointments that are before you, I am
sure. The child will give you infinite trouble. I think he will run
away. And yet I cannot in good conscience say that I believe love's
labour must be lost. He may return to the woods and wilds; but I hope he
will carry something with him."
"Did the reverend gentleman mean Miss Betty's teaspoons?" asked the
lawyer, stroking his long chin, when he was told what the parson had
BABYHOOD.—PRETTY FLOWERS.—THE ROSE-COLOURED TULIPS.
The matter of the baby's cap disturbed the little ladies. It seemed so
like the beginning of a fulfilment of the lawyer's croakings.
Miss Kitty had made it. She had never seen a baby without a cap before,
and the sight was unusual if not indecent. But Miss Kitty was a quick
needlewoman, and when the new cap was fairly tied over the thick crop of
silky black hair, the baby looked so much less like Puck, and so much
more like the rest of the baby world, that it was quite a relief.
Miss Kitty's feelings may therefore be imagined when, going to the baby
just after the parson's departure, she found him in open rebellion
against his cap. It had been tied on whilst he was asleep, and his eyes
were no sooner open than he commenced the attack. He pulled with one
little brown hand and tugged with the other; he dragged a rosette over
his nose and got the frills into his eyes; he worried it as a puppy
worries your handkerchief if you tie it around its face and tell it to
"look like a grandmother." At last the strings gave way, and he cast it
triumphantly out of the clothes-basket which served him for cradle.
Successive efforts to induce him to wear it proved vain, so Thomasina
said the weather was warm and his hair was very thick, and she parted
this and brushed it, and Miss Kitty gave the cap to the farm-bailiff's
baby, who took to it as kindly as a dumpling to a pudding-cloth.
How the boy was ever kept inside his christening clothes, Thomasina said
she did not know. But when he got into the parson's arms he lay quite
quiet, which was a good omen. That he might lack no advantage, Miss
Betty stood godmother for him, and the parish clerk and the sexton were
He was named John.
"A plain, sensible name," said Miss Betty. "And while we are about it,"
she added, "we may as well choose his surname. For a surname he must
have, and the sooner it is decided upon the better."
Miss Kitty had made a list of twenty-seven of her favourite Christian
names, which Miss Betty had sternly rejected, that everything might be
plain, practical, and respectable at the outset of the tramp-child's
career. For the same reason she refused to adopt Miss Kitty's
suggestions for a surname.
"It's so seldom there's a chance of choosing a surname for anybody,
sister," said Miss Kitty, "it seems a pity not to choose a pretty one."
"Sister Kitty," said Miss Betty, "don't be romantic. The boy is to be
brought up in that station of life for which one syllable is ample. I
should have called him Smith if that had not been Thomasina's name. As
it is, I propose to call him Broom. He was found under a bush of broom,
and it goes very well with John, and sounds plain and respectable."
So Miss Betty bought a Bible, and on the flyleaf of it she wrote in her
fine, round, gentlewoman's writing—"John Broom. With good wishes for
his welfare, temporal and eternal. From a sincere friend!" And when the
inscription was dry the Bible was wrapped in brown paper, and put by in
Thomasina's trunk till John Broom should come to years of discretion.
He was slow to reach them, though in other respects he grew fast.
When he began to walk he would walk barefoot. To be out of doors was his
delight, but on the threshold of the house he always sat down and
discarded his shoes and stockings. Thomasina bastinadoed the soles of
his feet with the soles of his shoes "to teach him the use of them," so
she said. But Miss Kitty sighed, and thought of the lawyer's prediction.
There was no blinking the fact that the child was as troublesome as he
was pretty. The very demon of mischief danced in his black eyes, and
seemed to possess his feet and fingers as if with quicksilver. And if,
as Thomasina said, you "never knew what he would be at next," you might
also be pretty sure that it would be something he ought to have left
John Broom early developed a taste for glass and crockery, and as the
china cupboard was in that part of the house to which he by social
standing also belonged, he had many chances to seize upon cups, jugs,
and dishes. If detected with any thing that he ought not to have had, it
was his custom to drop the forbidden toy and toddle off as fast as his
unpractised feet would carry him. The havoc which this caused amongst
the glass and china was bewildering in a household where tea-sets and
dinner-sets had passed from generation to generation, where slapdash,
giddy-pated kitchenmaids never came, where Miss Betty washed the best
teacups in the parlor, where Thomasina was more careful than her
mistress, and the breaking of a single plate was a serious matter, and,
if beyond rivetting, a misfortune.
Thomasina soon found that her charge was safest, as he was happiest, out
of doors. A very successful device was to shut him up in the drying
ground, and tell him to "pick the pretty flowers." John Broom preferred
flowers even to china cups with gilding on them. He gathered nosegays of
daisies and buttercups, and the winning way in which he would present
these to the little ladies atoned, in their benevolent eyes, for many a
But the tramp-baby's restless spirit was soon weary of the
drying-ground, and he set forth one morning in search of "fresh woods
and pastures new." He had seated himself on the threshold to take off
his shoes, when he heard the sound of Thomasina's footsteps, and,
hastily staggering to his feet, toddled forth without farther delay. The
sky was blue above him, the sun was shining, and the air was very sweet.
He ran for a bit and then tumbled, and picked himself up again, and got
a fresh impetus, and so on till he reached the door of the kitchen
garden, which was open. It was an old-fashioned kitchen garden with
flowers in the borders. There were single rose-colored tulips which had
been in the garden as long as Miss Betty could remember, and they had
been so increased by dividing the clumps that they now stretched in two
rich lines of colour down both sides of the long walk. And John Broom
"Pick the pretty flowers, love," said he, in imitation of Thomasina's
patronising tone, and forthwith beginning at the end, he went steadily
to the top of the right-hand border, mowing the rose-coloured tulips as
Meanwhile, when Thomasina came to look for him he could not be found,
and when all the back premises and the drying-ground had been searched
in vain, she gave the alarm to the little ladies.
Miss Kitty's vivid imagination leaped at once to the conclusion that
the child's vagabond relations had fetched him away, and she became
rigid with alarm. But Miss Betty rushed out into the shrubbery, and Miss
Kitty took a whiff of her vinaigrette and followed her.
When they came at last to the kitchen-garden, Miss Betty's grief for the
loss of John Broom did not prevent her observing that there was
something odd about the borders, and when she got to the top, and found
that all the tulips had been picked from one side, she sank down on the
roller which happened to be lying beside her.
And John Broom staggered up to her, and crying, "For 'oo, Miss Betty,"
fell headlong with a sheaf of rose-coloured tulips into her lap.
As he did not offer any to Miss Kitty, her better judgment was not
warped, and she said, "You must slap him, sister Betty."
"Put out your hand, John Broom," said Miss Betty much agitated.
And John Broom, who was quite composed, put out both his little grubby
paws so trustfully that Miss Betty had not the heart to strike him. But
she scolded him, "Naughty boy!" and she pointed to the tulips and shook
her head. John Broom looked thoughtfully at them, and shook his.
"Naughty boy!" repeated Miss Betty, and she added in very impressive
tones, "John Broom's a very naughty boy!"
After which she took him to Thomasina, and Miss Kitty collected the
rose-colored tulips and put them into water in the best old china
In the course of the afternoon she peeped into the kitchen, where John
Broom sat on the floor under the window, gazing thoughtfully up into the
"As good as gold, bless his little heart!" murmured Miss Kitty. For as
his feet were tucked under him, she did not know that he had just put
his shoes and stockings into the pig-tub, into which he all but fell
himself from the exertion. He did not hear Miss Kitty, and thought on.
He wanted to be out again, and he had a tantalizing remembrance of the
ease with which the tender juicy stalks of the tulips went snap, snap,
in that new place of amusement he had discovered. Thomasina looked into
the kitchen and went away again. When she had gone, John Broom went away
He went both faster and steadier on his bare feet. And when he got into
the kitchen garden, it recalled Miss Betty to his mind. And he shook his
head, and said, "Naughty boy!" And then he went up the left-hand border,
mowing the tulips as he went; after which he trotted home, and met
Thomasina at the back door. And he hugged the sheaf of rose-coloured
tulips in his arms, and said, "John Broom a very naughty boy!"
Thomasina was not sentimental, and she slapped him well—his hands for
picking the tulips, and his feet for going barefoot.
But his feet had to be slapped with Thomasina's slipper, for his own
shoes could not be found.
In spite of all his pranks, John Broom did not lose the favor of his
friends. Thomasina spoiled him, and Miss Betty and Miss Kitty tried not
to do so.
The parson had said, "Treat the child fairly. Bring him up as he will
have to live hereafter. Don't make him half pet and half servant." And
following this advice, and her own resolve that there should be "no
nonsense" in the matter, Miss Betty had made it a rule that he should
not be admitted to the parlor. It bore more heavily on the tender hearts
of the little ladies than on the light heart of John Broom, and led to
their waylaying him in the passages and gardens with little gifts,
unknown to each other. And when Miss Kitty kissed his newly-washed
cheeks, and pronounced them "like ripe russets," Miss Betty murmured,
"Be judicious, sister Kitty;" and Miss Kitty would correct any possible
ill effects by saying, "Now make your betters, John Broom, and say,
'Thank you, ma'am!'" which was accomplished by the child's giving a tug
to the forelock of his thick black hair, with a world of mischief in his
When he was old enough, the little ladies sent him to the village
The total failure of their hopes for his education was not the smallest
of the disappointments Miss Betty and Miss Kitty endured on his behalf.
The quarrel with the lawyer had been made up long ago, and though there
was always a touch of raillery in his inquiries after "the young gipsy,"
he had once said, "If he turns out anything of a genius at school, I
might find a place for him in the office, by-and-by." The lawyer was
kind-hearted in his own fashion, and on this hint Miss Kitty built up
hopes, which unhappily were met by no responsive ambition in John Broom.
As to his fitness to be an errand boy, he could not carry a message from
the kitchen to the cowhouse without stopping by the way to play with the
yard-dog, and a hedgehog in the path would probably have led him astray,
if Thomasina had had a fit and he had been despatched for the doctor.
During school hours he spent most of his time under the fool's cap when
he was not playing truant. With his schoolmates he was good friends. If
he was seldom out of mischief, he was seldom out of temper. He could
beat any boy at a foot race (without shoes); he knew the notes and nests
of every bird that sang, and whatever an old pocket-knife is capable of,
that John Broom could and would do with it for his fellows.
Miss Betty had herself tried to teach him to read, and she continued to
be responsible for his religious instruction. She had hoped to stir up
his industry by showing him the Bible, and promising that when he could
read it he should have it for his "very own." But he either could not or
would not apply himself, so the prize lay unearned in Thomasina's trunk.
But he would listen for any length of time to Scripture stories, if
they were read or told him, especially to the history of Elisha, and the
adventures of the judges.
Indeed, since he could no longer be shut up in the drying-ground,
Thomasina had found that he was never so happy and so safe as when he
was listening to tales, and many a long winter evening he lay idle on
the kitchen hearth, with his head on the sheep dog, whilst the more
industrious Thomasina plied her knitting-needles, as she sat in the
inglenook, with the flickering firelight playing among the plaits of her
large cap, and told tales of the country side.
Not that John Broom was her only hearer. Annie "the lass" sat by the
hearth also, and Thomasina took care that she did not "sit with her
hands before her." And a little farther away sat the cowherd.
He had a sleeping-room above the barn, and took his meals in the house.
By Miss Betty's desire he always went in to family prayers after supper,
when he sat as close as possible to the door, under an uncomfortable
consciousness that Thomasina did not think his boots clean enough for
the occasion and would find something to pick off the carpet as she
followed him out, however hardly he might have used the door-scraper
It might be a difficult matter to decide which he liked best, beer or
John Broom. But next to these he liked Thomasina's stories.
Thomasina was kind to him. With all his failings and the dirt on his
boots, she liked him better than the farm-bailiff. The farm-bailiff was
thrifty, and sensible and faithful, and Thomasina was faithful and
sensible and thrifty, and they each had a tendency to claim the monopoly
of those virtues. Notable people complain, very properly, of thriftless
and untidy ones, but they sometimes agree better with them than with
rival notabilities. And so Thomasina's broad face beamed benevolently as
she bid the cowherd "draw up" to the fire, and he who (like Thomasina)
was a native of the country, would confirm the marvels she related, with
a proper pride in the wonderful district to which they both belonged.
He would help her out sometimes with names and dates in a local
biography. By his own account he knew the man who was murdered at the
inn in the Black Valley so intimately that it turned Annie the lass as
white as a dish-cloth to sit beside him. If Thomasina said that folk
were yet alive who had seen the little green men dance in Dawborough
Croft the cowherd would smack his knees and cry, "Scores on 'em!" And
when she whispered of the white figure which stood at the cross roads
after midnight, he testified to having seen it himself—tall beyond
mortal height, and pointing four ways at once. He had a legend of his
own too, which Thomasina sometimes gave him the chance of telling, of
how he was followed home one moonlight night by a black Something as big
as a young calf, which "wimmled and wammled," around him till he fell
senseless into the ditch, and being found there by the farm-bailiff on
his return from market was unjustly accused of the vice of intoxication.
"Fault-finders should be free of flaws," Thomasina would say with a prim
chin. She had seen the farm-bailiff himself "the worse" for more than
his supper beer.
But there was one history which Thomasina was always loth to relate, and
it was that which both John Broom and the cowherd especially
preferred—the history of the Lob Lie-by-the-fire.
Thomasina had a feeling (which was shared by Annie the lass) that it was
better not to talk of "anything" peculiar to the house in which you were
living. One's neighbours' ghosts and bogles are another matter.
But to John Broom and the cowherd no subject was so interesting as that
of the Lubber-fiend. The cowherd sighed to think of the good old times
when a man might sleep on in spite of cocks, and the stables be cleaner,
and the beasts better tended than if he had been up with the lark. And
John Broom's curiosity was never quenched about the rough, hairy
Good-fellow who worked at night that others might be idle by day, and
who was sometimes caught at his hard earned nap, lying "like a great
hurgin bear," where the boy loved to lie himself, before the fire, on
this very hearth.
Why and where he had gone, Thomasina could not tell. She had heard that
he had originally come from some other household, where he had been
offended. But whether he had gone elsewhere when he forsook
Lingborough, or whether "such things had left the country" for good, she
did not pretend to say.
And when she had told, for the third or fourth time, how his porridge
was put into a corner of the cowhouse for him over night, and how he had
been often overheard at his work, but rarely seen, and then only lying
before the fire, Miss Betty would ring for prayers, and Thomasina would
fold up her knitting and lead the way, followed by Annie the lass, whose
nerves John Broom would startle by treading on her heels, the rear being
brought up by the cowherd, looking hopelessly at his boots.
Miss Betty and Miss Kitty did really deny themselves the indulgence of
being indulgent, and treated John Broom on principles, and for his good.
But they did so in their own tremulous and spasmodic way, and got little
credit for it. Thomasina, on the other hand, spoiled him with such a
masterful managing air, and so much sensible talk, that no one would
have thought that the only system she followed was to conceal his
misdemeanours, and to stand between him and the just wrath of the
The farm-bailiff, or grieve, as he liked to call himself, was a
Scotchman, with a hard-featured face (which he washed on the Sabbath), a
harsh voice, a good heart rather deeper down in his body than is usual,
and a shrewd, money-getting head, with a speckled straw hat on the top
of it. No one could venture to imagine when that hat was new, or how
long ago it was that the farm-bailiff went to the expense of purchasing
those work-day clothes. But the dirt on his face and neck was an orderly
accumulation, such as gathers on walls, oil-paintings, and other places
to which soap is not habitually applied; it was not a matter of spills
and splashes, like the dirt John Broom disgraced himself with. And his
clothes, if old, fitted neatly about him; they never suggested
raggedness, which was the normal condition of the tramp-boy's jacket.
They only looked as if he had been born (and occasionally buried)in
them. It is needful to make this distinction, that the good man may not
be accused of inconsistency in the peculiar vexation which John Broom's
disorderly appearance caused him.
In truth, Miss Betty's protegé had reached the age at which he was to
"eat dreadfully, wear out his clothes, and be useful on the farm;" and
the last condition was quite unfulfilled. At eleven years old he could
not be trusted to scare birds, and at half that age the farm-bailiff's
eldest child could drive cattle.
"And no' just ruin the leedies in new coats and compliments, either,
like some ne'er-do-weels," added the farm-bailiff, who had heard with a
jealous ear of sixpences given by Miss Betty and Miss Kitty to their
When the eleventh anniversary of John Broom's discovery was passed, and
his character at school gave no hopes of his ever qualifying himself to
serve the lawyer, it was resolved that—"idleness being the mother of
mischief," he should be put under the care of the farm-bailiff, to do
such odd jobs about the place as might be suited to his capacity and
love of out-door life. And now John Broom's troubles began. By fair
means or foul, with here an hour's weeding and there a day's bird
scaring, and with errands perpetual, the farm-bailiff contrived to "get
some work out of" the idle little urchin. His speckled hat and grim face
seemed to be everywhere, and always to pop up when John Broom began to
They lived "at daggers drawn." I am sorry to say that John Broom's
fitful industry was still kept for his own fancies. To climb trees, to
run races with the sheep dog, to cut grotesque sticks, gather hedge
fruits, explore a bog, or make new friends among beasts and birds—at
such matters he would labor with feverish zeal. But so far from trying
to cure himself of his indolence about daily drudgery, he found a new
and pleasant excitement in thwarting the farm-bailiff at every turn.
It would not sound dignified to say that the farm-bailiff took pleasure
in thwarting John Broom. But he certainly did not show his satisfaction
when the boy did do his work properly. Perhaps he thought that praise is
not good for young people; and the child did not often give him the
chance of trying. Of blame he was free enough. Not a good scolding to
clear the air, such as Thomasina would give to Annie the lass, but his
slow, caustic tongue was always growling, like muttered thunder, over
John Broom's incorrigible head.
He had never approved of the tramp-child, who had the overwhelming
drawbacks of having no pedigree and of being a bad bargain as to
expense. This was not altogether John Broom's fault, but with his
personal failings the farm bailiff had even less sympathy. It had been
hinted that he was born in the speckled hat, and whether this were so or
not, he certainly had worn an old head whilst his shoulders were still
young, and could not remember the time when he wished to waste his
energies on any thing that did not earn or at least save something.
Once only did any thing like approval of the lad escape his lips.
Miss Betty's uncle's second cousin had returned from foreign lands with
a good fortune and several white cockatoos. He kept the fortune himself,
but he gave the cockatoos to his friends, and he sent one of them to the
little ladies of Lingborough.
He was a lovely creature (the cockatoo, not the cousin, who was plain),
and John Broom's admiration of him was boundless. He gazed at the
sulphur-colored crest, the pure white wings with their deeper-tinted
lining, and even the beak and the fierce round eyes, as he had gazed at
the broom bush in his babyhood, with insatiable delight.
The cousin did things handsomely. He had had a ring put round one of the
cockatoo's ankles, with a bright steel chain attached and a fastener to
secure it to the perch. The cockatoo was sent in the cage by coach, and
a perch, made of foreign wood, followed by the carrier.
Miss Betty and Miss Kitty were delighted both with the cockatoo and the
perch, but they were a good deal troubled as to how to fasten the two
together. There was a neat little ring on the perch, and the cockatoo's
chain was quite complete, and he evidently wanted to get out, for he
shook the walls of his cage in his gambols. But he put up his crest and
snapped when any one approached, in a manner so alarming that Annie the
lass shut herself up in the dairy, and the farm-bailiff turned his
speckled hat in his hands, and gave cautious counsel from a safe
"How he flaps!" cried Miss Betty. "I'm afraid he has a very vicious
"He only wants to get out, Miss Betty," said John Broom. "He'd be all
right with his perch, and I think I can get him on it."
"Now Heaven save us from the sin o' presumption!" cried the
farm-bailiff, and putting on the speckled hat, he added, slowly: "I'm
thinking, John Broom, that if ye're engaged wi' the leddies this morning
it'll be time I turned my hand to singling these few turnips ye've been
thinking about the week past."
On which he departed, and John Broom pressed the little ladies to leave
him alone with the bird.
"We shouldn't like to leave you alone with a wild creature like that,"
said Miss Betty.
"He's just frightened on ye, Miss Betty. He'll be like a lamb when
you're gone," urged John Broom.
"Besides, we should like to see you do it," said Miss Kitty.
"You can look in through the window, miss. I must fasten the door, or
he'll be out."
"I should never forgive myself if he hurt you, John," said Miss Betty,
irresolutely, for she was very anxious to have the cockatoo and perch in
full glory in the parlour.
"He'll none hurt me, miss," said John, with a cheerful smile on his rosy
face. "I likes him, and he'll like me."
This settled the matter. John was left with the cockatoo. He locked the
door, and the little ladies went into the garden and peeped through the
They saw John Broom approach the cage, on which the cockatoo put up his
crest, opened his beak slowly, and snarled, and Miss Betty tapped on the
window and shook her black satin workbag.
"Don't go near him!" she cried. But John Broom paid no attention.
"What are you putting up that top-knot of yours at me for?" said he to
the cockatoo. "Don't ye know your own friends? I'm going to let ye out,
I am. You're going on to your perch, you are."
"Eh, but you're a bonny creature!" he added, as the cockatoo filled the
cage with snow and sulphur flutterings.
"Keep away, keep away!" screamed the little ladies, playing a duet on
the window panes.
"Out with you!" said John Broom, as he unfastened the cage door.
And just when Miss Betty had run round, and as she shouted through the
keyhole, "Open the door, John Broom. We've changed our minds. We've
decided to keep it in its cage," the cockatoo strode solemnly forth on
his eight long toes.
"Pretty Cocky!" said he.
When Miss Betty got back to the window, John Broom had just made an
injudicious grab at the steel chain, on which Pretty Cocky flew fiercely
at him, and John, burying his face in his arms, received the attack on
his thick poll, laughing into his sleeves and holding fast to the chain,
whilst the cockatoo and the little ladies screamed against each other.
"It'll break your leg—you'll tear its eyes out!" cried Miss Kitty.
"Miss Kitty means that you'll break its leg, and it will tear your eyes
out," Miss Betty explained through the glass. "John Broom! Come away!
Lock it in! Let it go!"
But Cocky was now waddling solemnly round the room, and John Broom was
creeping after him, with the end of the chain in one hand, and the perch
in the other, and in a moment more he had joined the chain and the ring,
and just as Miss Betty was about to send for the constable and have the
door broken open, Cocky—driven into a corner—clutched his perch and
was raised triumphantly to his place in the bow-window.
He was now a parlour pet, and John Broom saw little of him. This vexed
him, for he had taken a passionate liking for the bird. The little
ladies rewarded him well for his skill, but this brought him no favour
from the farm-bailiff, and matters went on as ill as before.
One day the cockatoo got his chain entangled, and Miss Kitty promptly
advanced to put it right. She had unfastened that end which secured it
to the perch, when Cocky, who had been watching the proceeding with much
interest, dabbed at her with his beak. Miss Kitty fled, but with great
presence of mind shut the door after her. She forgot, however, that the
window was open, in front of which stood the cockatoo scanning the
summer sky with his fierce eyes, and flapping himself in the breeze.
And just as the little ladies ran into the garden, and Miss Kitty was
saying, "One comfort is, sister Betty, that it's quite safe in the room,
till we can think what to do next," he bowed his yellow crest, spread
his noble wings, and sailed out into the aether.
In ten minutes the whole able-bodied population of the place was in the
grounds of Lingborough, including the farm-bailiff.
The cockatoo was on the top of a fir-tree, and a fragment of the chain
was with him, for he had broken it, and below on the lawn stood the
little ladies, who, with the unfailing courage of women in a hopeless
cause, were trying to dislodge him by waving their pocket-handkerchiefs
and crying "sh!"
He looked composedly down out of one eye for some time, and then he
began to move.
"I think it's coming down now," said Miss Kitty.
But in a quarter of a minute, Cocky had sailed a quarter of a mile, and
was rocking himself on the top of an old willow-tree. And at this moment
John Broom joined the crowd which followed him.
"I'm thinking he's got his chain fast," said the farm-bailiff; "if
onybody that understood the beastie daured to get near him----"
"I'll get him," said John Broom, casting down his hat.
"Ye'll get yer neck thrawed," said the farm-bailiff.
"We won't hear of it," said the little ladies.
But to their horror, John Broom kicked off his shoes, after which he
spat upon his hands (a shock which Miss Kitty thought she never could
have survived), and away he went up the willow.
It was not an easy tree to climb, and he had one or two narrow escapes,
which kept the crowd breathless, but he shook the hair from his eyes,
moistened his hands afresh, and went on. The farm-bailiff's far-away
heart was stirred. No Scotchman is insensible to gallantry. And courage
is the only thing a "canny" Scot can bear to see expended without
"John Broom," screamed Miss Betty, "come down! I order, I command you to
The farm-bailiff drew his speckled hat forward to shade his upward gaze,
and folded his arms.
"Dinna call on him, leddies," he said, speaking more quickly than usual.
"Dinna mak him turn his head. Steady, lad! Grip wi' your feet. Spit on
your pawms, man."
Once the boy trod on a rotten branch, and as he drew back his foot, and
it came crashing down, the farm-bailiff set his teeth, and Miss Kitty
fainted in Thomasina's arms.
"I'll reward anyone who'll fetch him down," sobbed Miss Betty. But John
Broom seated himself on the same branch as the cockatoo, and undid the
chain and prepared his hands for the downward journey.
"You've got a rare perch, this time," said he. And Pretty Cocky crept
towards him, and rubbed its head against him and chuckled with joy.
What dreams of liberty in the tree tops, with John Broom for a
playfellow, passed through his crested head, who shall say? But when he
found that his friend meant to take him prisoner, he became very angry
and much alarmed. And when John Broom grasped him by both legs and began
to descend, Cocky pecked him vigorously. But the boy held the back of
his head towards him, and went steadily down.
"Weel done!" roared the farm-bailiff. "Gently, lad! Gude save us! ha'e
a care o' yoursen. That's weel. Keep your pow at him. Dinna let the
beast get to your een."
But when John Broom was so near the ground as to be safe, the
farm-bailiff turned wrathfully upon his son, who had been gazing
open-mouthed at the sight which had so interested his father.
"Ye look weel standing gawping here, before the leddies," said he,
"wasting the precious hours, and bringing your father's grey hairs wi'
sorrow to the grave; and John Broom yonder shaming ye, and you not so
much as thinking to fetch the perch for him, ye lazy loon. Away wi' ye
and get it, before I lay a stick about your shoulders."
And when his son had gone for the perch, and John Broom was safely on
the ground, laughing, bleeding, and triumphant, the farm-bailiff said,—
"Ye're a bauld chiel, John Broom, I'll say that for ye."
INTO THE MIST.
Unfortunately the favourable impression produced by "the gipsy lad's"
daring soon passed from the farm-bailiff's mind. It was partly effaced
by the old jealousy of the little ladies favour. Miss Betty gave the boy
no less than four silver shillings, and he ungraciously refused to let
the farm-bailiff place them in a savings bank for him.
Matters got from bad to worse. The farming man was not the only one who
was jealous, and John Broom himself was as idle and restless as ever.
Though, if he had listened respectfully to the Scotchman's counsel, or
shown any disposition to look up to and be guided by him, much might
have been overlooked. But he made fun of him and made a friend of the
cowherd. And this latter most manifest token of low breeding vexed the
respectable taste of the farm-bailiff.
John Broom had his own grievances too, and he brooded over them. He
thought the little ladies had given him over to the farm-bailiff,
because they had ceased to care for him, and that the farm-bailiff was
prejudiced against him beyond any hope of propitiation. The village folk
taunted him, too, with being an outcast, and called him Gipsy John, and
this maddened him. Then he would creep into the cowhouse and lie in the
straw against the white cow's warm back, and for a few of Miss Betty's
coppers, to spend in beer or tobacco, the cowherd would hide him from
the farm-bailiff and tell him countryside tales. To Thomasina's stories
of ghosts and gossip, he would add strange tales of smugglers on the
near-lying coast, and as John Broom listened, his restless blood
rebelled more and more against the sour sneers and dry drudgery that he
got from the farm-bailiff.
Nor were sneers the sharpest punishment his misdemeanours earned. The
farm-bailiff's stick was thick and his arm was strong, and he had a
tendency to believe that if a flogging was good for a boy, the more he
had of it the better it would be for him.
And John Broom, who never let a cry escape him at the time, would steal
away afterwards and sob out his grief into the long soft coat of the
sympathising sheep dog.
Unfortunately he never tried the effect of deserving better treatment as
a remedy for his woes. The parson's good advice and Miss Betty's
entreaties were alike in vain. He was ungrateful even to Thomasina. The
little ladies sighed and thought of the lawyer. And the parson preached
"Cocky has been tamed," said Miss Kitty thoughtfully, "perhaps John
Broom will get steadier by-and-by."
"It seems a pity we can't chain him to a perch, Miss Kitty," laughed the
parson; "he would be safe then, at any rate."
Miss Betty said afterwards that it did seem so remarkable that the
parson should have made this particular joke on this particular
night—the night when John Broom did not come home.
He had played truant all day. The farm-bailiff had wanted him, and he
had kept out of the way.
The wind was from the east, and a white mist rolled in from the sea,
bringing a strange invigorating smell, and making your lips clammy with
salt. It made John Broom's heart beat faster, and filled his head with
dreams of ships and smugglers, and rocking masts higher than the
willow-tree, and winds wilder than this wind, and dancing waves.
Then something loomed through the fog. It was the farm-bailiff's
speckled hat. John Broom hesitated—the thick stick became visible.
Then a cloud rolled between them, and the child turned, and ran, and
ran, and ran coastwards, into the sea mist.
THE SEA.—THE ONE-EYED SAILOR.—THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WORLD.
John Broom was footsore when he reached the coast, but that keen,
life-giving smell had drawn him on and held him up. The fog had cleared
off, and he strained his black eyes through the darkness to see the sea.
He had never seen it—that other world within this, on which one lived
out of doors, and climbed about all day, and no one blamed him.
When he did see it, he thought he had got to the end of the world. If
the edge of the cliff were not the end, he could not make out where the
sky began; and if that darkness were the sea, the sea was full of stars.
But this was because the sea was quiet and reflected the colour of the
night sky, and the stars were the lights of the herring-boats twinkling
in the bay.
When he got down by the water he saw the vessels lying alongside, and
they were dirtier than he had supposed. But he did not lose heart, and
remembering, from the cowherd's tales, that people who cannot pay for
their passage must either work it out or hide themselves on board ship,
he took the easier alternative, and got on to the first vessel which had
a plank to the quay, and hid himself under some tarpaulin on the deck.
The vessel was a collier bound for London, and she sailed with the
When he was found out he was not ill-treated. Indeed, the rough skipper
offered to take him home again on his return voyage. He would have liked
to go, but pride withheld him, and homesickness had not yet eaten into
his very soul. Then an old sailor with one eye (but that a sly one) met
him, and told him tales more wonderful than the cowherd's. And with him
he shipped as cabin-boy, on a vessel bound for the other side of the
A great many sins bring their own punishment in this life pretty
clearly, and sometimes pretty closely; but few more directly or more
bitterly than rebellion against the duties, and ingratitude for the
blessings, of home.
There was no playing truant on board ship; and as to the master poor
John Broom served now, his cruelty made the memory of the farm-bailiff a
memory of tenderness and gentleness and indulgence. Till he was
half-naked and half-starved, and had only short snatches of sleep in
hard corners, it had never struck him that when one has got good food
and clothes, and sound sleep in a kindly home, he has got more than
many people, and enough to be thankful for.
He did everything he was told now as fast as he could do it, in fear for
his life. The one-eyed sailor had told him that the captain always took
orphans and poor friendless lads to be his cabin-boys, and John Broom
thought what a nice kind man he must be, and how different from the
farm-bailiff, who thought nobody could be trustworthy unless he could
show parents and grand-parents, and cousins to the sixth degree. But
after they had sailed, when John Broom felt very ill, and asked the
one-eyed sailor where he was to sleep, the one-eyed sailor pleasantly
replied that if he hadn't brought a four-post bed in his pocket he must
sleep where he could, for that all the other cabin-boys were sleeping in
Davy's Locker, and couldn't be disturbed. And it was not till John Broom
had learned ship's language that he found out that Davy's Locker meant
the deep, and that the other cabin-boys were dead. "And as they'd nobody
belonging to 'em, no hearts was broke," added the sailor, winking with
his one eye.
John Broom slept standing sometimes for weariness, but he did not sleep
in Davy's Locker. Young as he was he had dauntless courage, a careless
hopeful heart, and a tough little body; and that strong, life-giving sea
smell bore him up instead of food, and he got to the other side of the
Why he did not stay there, why he did not run away into the wilderness
to find at least some easier death than to have his bones broken by the
cruel captain, he often wondered afterwards. He was so much quicker and
braver than the boys they commonly got, that the old sailor kept a sharp
watch over him with his one eye whilst they were ashore; but one day he
was too drunk to see out of it, and John Broom ran away.
It was Christmas Day, and so hot that he could not run far, for he was
at the other side of the world, where things are upside down, and he sat
down by the roadside on the outskirts of the city; and as he sat, with
his thin, brown face resting on his hands, a familiar voice beside him
said, "Pretty Cocky!" and looking up he saw a man with several cages of
birds. The speaker was a cockatoo of the most exquisite shades of cream
colour, salmon and rose, and he had a rose-coloured crest. But lovely as
he was, John Broom's eyes were on another cage, where, silent, solemn,
and sulky, sat a big white one with sulphur-coloured trimmings and
fierce black eyes; and he was so like Miss Betty's pet, that the poor
child's heart bounded as if a hand had been held out to him from home.
"If you let him get at you, you'll not do it a second time, mate," said
the man. "He's the nastiest tempered beast I ever saw. I'd have wrung
his neck long ago if he hadn't such a fine coat."
But John Broom said, as he had said before, "I like him and he'll like
When the cockatoo bit his finger to the bone, the man roared with
laughter, but John Broom did not draw his hand away. He kept it still
at the bird's beak, and with the other he gently scratched him under the
crest and wings. And when the white cockatoo began to stretch out his
eight long toes, as cats clutch with their claws from pleasure, and
chuckled, and sighed, and bit softly without hurting, and laid his head
against the bars till his snow and sulphur feathers touched John Broom's
black locks, the man was amazed.
"Look here, mate," said he, "you've the trick with birds, and no
mistake. I'll sell you this one cheap, and you'll be able to sell him
"I've not a penny in the world," said John Broom.
"You do look cleaned out too," said the man, scanning him from head to
foot. "I tell you what, you shall come with me a bit and tame the birds,
and I'll find you something to eat."
Ten minutes before, John Broom would have jumped at this offer, but now
he refused it. The sight of the cockatoo had brought back the fever of
home-sickness in all its fierceness. He couldn't stay out here. He would
dare anything, do anything, to see the hills about Lingborough once more
before him died; and even if he did not live to see them, he might live
to sleep in that part of Davy's Locker which should rock him on the
shores of home.
The man gave him a shilling for fastening a ring and chain on to the
Cocky's ankle, and with this he got the best dinner he had eaten since
he lost sight of the farm-bailiff's speckled hat in the mist.
And then he went back to the one-eyed sailor, and shipped as cabin-boy
again for the homeward voyage.
THE HIGHLANDER.—BARRACK LIFE.—THE GREAT CURSE.—JOHN BROOM'S
When John Broom did get home he did not go to sea again. He lived from
hand to mouth in the seaport town, and slept, as he was well accustomed
to sleep, in holes and corners.
Every day and every night, through the long months of the voyage, he had
dreamed of begging his way barefoot to Miss Betty's door. But now he did
not go. His life was hard, but it was not cruel. He was very idle, and
there was plenty to see. He wandered about the country as of old. The
ships and shipping too had a fascination for him now that the past was
past, and here he could watch them from the shore; and, partly for shame
and partly for pride, he could not face the idea of going back. If he
had been taunted with being a vagrant boy before, what would be said now
if he presented himself, a true tramp, to the farm-bailiff? Besides,
Miss Betty and Miss Kitty could not forgive him. It was impossible!
He was wandering about one day when he came to some fine high walls with
buildings inside. There was an open gateway, at which stood a soldier
with a musket. But a woman and some children went in, and he did not
shoot them; so when his back was turned, and he was walking stiffly to
where he came from, John Broom ran in through the gateway.
The first man he saw was the grandest-looking man he had ever seen.
Indeed, he looked more like a bird than a man—a big bird with a big
black crest. He was very tall. His feet were broad and white, like the
feathered feet of some plumy bird, his legs were bare and brown and
hairy. He was clothed in many colours. He had fur in front, which swung
as he walked, and silver and shining stones about him. He held his head
very high and from it drooped great black plumes. His face looked as if
it had been cut—roughly but artistically—out of a block of old wood,
and his eyes were the colour of a summer sky. And John Broom felt as he
had felt when he first saw Miss Betty's cockatoo.
In repose the Highlander's eye was as clear as a cairngorm and as cold,
but when it fell upon John Broom it took a twinkle not quite unlike the
twinkle in the one eye of the sailor; and then, to his amazement, this
grand creature beckoned to John Broom with a rather dirty hand.
"Yes, sir," said John Broom, staring up at the splendid giant, with eyes
"I'm saying," said the Highlander, confidentially (and it had a pleasant
homely sound to hear him speak like the farm-bailiff)—"I'm saying, I'm
confined to barracks, ye ken; and I'll gi'e ye a hawpenny if ye'll get
the bottle filled wi' whusky. Roun' yon corner ye'll see the 'Britain's
But at this moment he erected himself, his turquoise eyes looked
straight before them, and he put his hand to his head and moved it
slowly away again, as a young man with more swinging grandeur of colors
and fur and plumes, and with greater glittering of gems and silver,
passed by, a sword clattering after him.
Meanwhile John Broom had been round the corner and was back again.
"What for are ye stan'in' there, ye fule?" asked his new friend. "What
for didna ye gang for the whusky?"
"It's here, sir."
"My certy, ye dinna let the grass grow under your feet," said the
Highlander; and he added, "If ye want to run errands, laddie, ye can
come back again."
It was the beginning of a fresh life for John Broom. With many other
idle or homeless boys he now haunted the barracks, and ran errands for
the soldiers. His fleetness of foot and ready wit made him the
favourite. Perhaps, too, his youth and his bright face and eyes pleaded
for him, for British soldiers are a tender-hearted race.
He was knocked about, but never cruelly, and he got plenty of coppers
and broken victuals, and now and then an old cap or pair of boots, a
world too large for him. His principal errands were to fetch liquor for
the soldiers. In arms and pockets he would sometimes carry a dozen
bottles at once, and fly back from the canteen or public-house without
Before the summer was over he was familiar with every barrack-room and
guard-room in the place; he had food to eat and coppers to spare, and he
shared his bits with the mongrel dogs who lived, as he did, on the
good-nature of the garrison.
It must be confessed that neatness was not among John Broom's virtues.
He looped his rags together with bits of string, and wasted his pence or
lost them. The soldiers standing at the bar would often give him a drink
out of their pewter-pots. It choked him at first, and then he got used
to it, and liked it. Some relics of Miss Betty's teachings kept him
honest. He would not condescend to sip by the way out of the soldiers'
jugs and bottles, as other errand-boys did, but he came to feel rather
proud of laying his twopence on the counter, and emptying his own pot of
beer with a grimace to the bystanders through the glass at the bottom.
One day he was winking through the froth of a pint of porter at the
canteen sergeant's daughter, who was in fits of laughing, when the
pewter was knocked out of his grasp, and the big Highlander's hand was
laid on his shoulder and bore him twenty or thirty yards from the place
in one swoop.
"I'll trouble ye to give me your attention," said the Highlander, when
they came to a standstill, "and to speak the truth. Did ye ever see me
the worse of liquor?"
John Broom had several remembrances of the clearest kind to that effect,
so he put up his arms to shield his head from the probable blow, and
said, "Yes, M'Alister."
"How often?" asked the Scotchman.
"I never counted," said John Broom; "pretty often."
"How many good-conduct stripes do you ken me to have lost of your ain
"Is there a finer man than me in the regiment?" asked the Highlander,
drawing up his head.
"That there's not," said John Broom, warmly.
"Our sairgent, now," drawled the Scotchman, "wad ye say he was a better
man than me?"
"Nothing like so good," said John Broom, sincerely.
"And what d'ye suppose, man," said the Highlander, firing with sudden
passion, till the light of his clear blue eyes seemed to pierce John
Broom's very soul—"what d'ye suppose has hindered me that I'm not
sairgent, when yon man is? What has keepit me from being an officer,
that had served my country in twa battles when oor quartermaster hadna
enlisted? Wha gets my money? What lost me my stripes? What loses me
decent folks' respect and, waur than that, my ain? What gars a hand that
can grip a broadsword tremble like a woman's? What fills the canteen and
the kirkyard? What robs a man of health and wealth and peace? What
ruins weans and women, and makes mair homes desolate than war? Drink,
man, drink! The deevil of drink!"
It was not till the glare in his eyes had paled that John Broom ventured
to speak. Then he said,—
"Why don't ye give it up, M'Alister?"
The man rose to his full height, and laid his hand heavily on the boy's
shoulder, and his eyes seemed to fade with that pitiful, weary look,
which only such blue eyes show so well, "Because I canna" said he;
"because, for as big as I am, I canna. But for as little as you are,
laddie, ye can, and, Heaven help me, ye shall."
That evening he called John Broom into the barrack-room where he slept.
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, and had a little wooden money-box
in his hands.
"What money have ye, laddie?" he asked.
John Broom pulled out three halfpence lately earned, and the Scotchman
dropped them slowly into the box. Then he turned the key, and put it
into his pocket, and gave the box to the boy.
"Ye'll put what ye earn in there," said he, "I'll keep the key, and
ye'll keep the box yoursel; and when it's opened we'll open it together,
and lay out your savings in decent clothes for ye against the winter."
At this moment some men passing to the canteen shouted, "M'Alister?" The
Highlander did not answer, but he started to the door. Then he stood
irresolute, and then turned and reseated himself.
"Gang and bring me a bit o' tobacco," he said, giving John Broom a
penny. And when the boy had gone he emptied his pocket of the few pence
left, and dropped them into the box, muttering, "If he manna, I wunna."
And when the tobacco came, he lit his pipe, and sat on the bench
outside, and snarled at every one who spoke to him.
OUTPOST DUTY.—THE SERGEANT'S STORY.—GRAND ROUNDS.
It was a bitterly cold winter. The soldiers drank a great deal, and John
Broom was constantly trotting up and down, and the box grew very heavy.
Bottles were filled and refilled, in spite of greatly increased
strictness in the discipline of the garrison, for there were rumours of
invasion, and penalties were heavy, and sentry posts were increased, and
the regiments were kept in readiness for action.
The Highlander had not cured himself of drinking, though he had cured
John Broom. But, like others, he was more wary just now, and had
hitherto escaped the heavy punishments inflicted in a time of probable
war; and John Broom watched over him with the fidelity of a sheep dog,
and more than once had roused him with a can of cold water when he was
all but caught by his superiors in a state of stupor, which would not
have been credited to the frost alone.
The talk of invasion had become grave, when one day a body of men were
ordered for outpost duty, and M'Alister was among them. The officer had
got a room for them in a farmhouse, where they sat round the fire, and
went out by turns to act as sentries at various posts for an hour or two
at a time.
The novelty was delightful to John Broom. He hung about the farmhouse,
and warmed himself at the soldiers' fire.
In the course of the day M'Alister got him apart and whispered, "I'm
going on duty the night at ten, laddie. It's fearsome cold, and I hav'na
had a drop to warm me the day. If ye could ha' brought me a wee drappie
to the corner of the three roads—it's twa miles from here I'm
"It's not the miles, M'Alister," said John Broom, "but you're on outpost
"And you're misdoubting what may be done to ye for bringing liquor to a
sentry on duty? Aye, aye, lad, ye do weel to be cautious," said the
Highlander, and he turned away.
But it was not the fear of consequences to himself which had made John
Broom hesitate, and he was stung by the implication.
The night was dark and very cold, and the Highlander had been pacing up
and down his post for about half-an-hour, when his quick ear caught a
faint sound of footsteps.
"Wha goes there?" said he.
"It's I, M'Alister," whispered John Broom.
"Whisht, laddie," said the sentry; "are ye there after all? Did no one
"Not a soul; I crept by the hedges. Here's your whiskey, M'Alister; but
oh be careful!" said the lad.
The Scotchman's eyes glittered greedily at the bottle.
"Never fear," said he, "I'll just rub a wee drappie on the pawms of my
hands to keep away the frost-bite, for its awsome cold, man. Now away
wi' ye, and take tent, laddie, keep off the other sentries."
John Broom went back as carefully as he had come, and slipped in to warm
himself by the guardroom fire.
It was a good one, and the soldiers sat close round it. The officer was
writing a letter in another room, and in a low, impressive voice, the
sergeant was telling a story which was listened to with breathless
attention. John Broom was fond of stories, and he listened also.
It was of a friend of the sergeant's, who had been a boy with him in the
same village at home, who had seen active service with him abroad, and
who had slept at his post on such a night as this, from the joint
effects of cold and drink. It was war time, and he had been tried by
court-martial, and shot for the offence. The sergeant had been one of
the firing party to execute his friend, and they had taken leave of each
other as brothers, before the final parting face to face in this last
The man's voice was faltering, when the tale was cut short by the
jingling of the field officer's accoutrements as he rode by to visit the
outposts. In an instant the officer and men turned out to receive him;
and, after the usual formalities, he rode on. The officer went back to
his letter, and the sergeant and his men to their fireside.
The opening of the doors had let in a fresh volume of cold, and one of
the men called to John Broom to mend the fire. But he was gone.
John Broom was fleet of foot, and there are certain moments which lift
men beyond their natural powers, but he had set himself a hard task.
As he listened to the sergeant's tale, an agonising fear smote him for
his friend M'Alister. Was there any hope that the Highlander could keep
himself from the whiskey? Officers were making their rounds at very
short intervals just now, and if drink and cold overcame him at his
Close upon these thoughts came the jingling of the field officer's
sword, and the turn out of the guard. "Who goes there?"—"Rounds."—"What
rounds?"—"Grand rounds."—"Halt, grand rounds, advance one, and give the
counter-sign!" The familiar words struck coldly on John Broom's heart, as
if they had been orders to a firing party, and the bandage was already
across the Highlander's blue eyes. Would the grand rounds be challenged at
the three roads to-night? He darted out into the snow.
He flew, as the crow flies, across the fields, to where M'Alister was
on duty. It was a much shorter distance than by the road, which was
winding; but whether this would balance the difference between a horse's
pace and his own was the question, and there being no time to question,
he ran on.
He kept his black head down, and ran from his shoulders. The clatter,
clatter, jingle, jingle, on the hard road came to him through the still
frost on a level with his left ear. It was terrible, but he held on,
dodging under the hedges to be out of sight, and the sound lessened, and
by-and-by, the road having wound about, he could hear it faintly, but
And he reached the three roads, and M'Alister was asleep in the ditch.
But when, with jingle and clatter, the field officer of the day reached
the spot, the giant Highlander stood like a watch-tower at his post,
with a little snow on the black plumes that drooped upon his shoulders.
John Broom did not see the Highlander again for two or three days. It
was Christmas week, and, in spite of the war panic, there was festivity
enough in the barracks to keep the errand-boy very busy.
Then came New Year's Eve—"Hogmenay," as the Scotch call it—and it was
the Highland regiment's particular festival. Worn-out with
whiskey-fetching and with helping to deck barrack-rooms and carrying
pots and trestles, John Broom was having a nap in the evening, in
company with a mongrel deer-hound, when a man shook him, and said, "I
heard some one asking for ye an hour or two back; M'Alister wants ye."
"Where is he?" said John Broom, jumping to his feet.
"In hospital; he's been there a day or two. He got cold on outpost duty,
and it's flown to his lungs, they say. Ye see he's been a hard drinker,
has M'Alister, and I expect he's breaking up."
With which very just conclusion the speaker went on into the canteen,
and John Broom ran to the hospital.
Stripped of his picturesque trappings, and with no plumes to shadow the
hollows in his temples, M'Alister looked gaunt and feeble enough, as he
lay in the little hospital bed, which barely held his long limbs. Such a
wreck of giant powers of body, and noble qualities of mind as the
drink-shops are preparing for the hospitals every day!
Since the quickly-reached medical decision that he was in a rapid
decline, and that nothing could be done for him, M'Alister had been left
a good deal alone. His intellect (and it was no fool's intellect,) was
quite clear, and if the long hours by himself, in which he reckoned with
his own soul, had hastened the death-damps on his brow, they had also
written there an expression which was new to John Broom. It was not the
old sour look, it was a kind of noble gravity.
His light-blue eyes brightened as the boy came in, and he held out his
hand, and John Broom took it with both his, saying.
"I never heard till this minute, M'Alister. Eh, I do hope you'll be
"The Lord being merciful to me," said the Highlander. "But this warld's
nearly past, laddie, and I was fain to see ye again. Dinna greet, man,
for I've important business wi' ye, and I should wish your attention.
Firstly, I'm aboot to hand ower to ye the key of your box. Tak it, and
put it in a pocket that's no got a hole in it, if you're worth one.
Secondly, there's a bit bag I made mysel', and it's got a trifle o'
money in it that I'm giving and bequeathing to ye, under certain
conditions, namely, that ye shall spend the contents of the box
according to my last wishes and instructions, with the ultimate end of
your ain benefit, ye'll understand."
A fit of coughing here broke M'Alister's discourse; but, after drinking
from a cup beside him, he put aside John Broom's remonstrances with a
dignified movement of his hand, and continued,—
"When a body comes of decent folks, he won't just care, maybe, to have
their names brought up in a barrack-room. Ye never heard me say ought of
my father or my mither?"
"I'd a good hame," said the Highlander, with a decent pride in his tone.
"It was a strict hame—I've no cause now, to deceive mysel', and I'm
thinking it was a wee bit ower strict—but it was a good hame. I left
it, man—I ran away."
The glittering blue eyes turned sharply on the lad, and he went on:—
"A body doesna care to turn his byeganes oot for every fool to pick at.
Did I ever speer about your past life, and whar ye came from?"
"But that's no to say that, if I knew manners, I didna obsairve. And
there's been things now and again, John Broom, that's gar'd me think
that ye've had what I had, and done as I did. Did ye rin awa', laddie?"
John Broom nodded his black head, but tears choked his voice.
"Man!" said the Highlander, "ane word's as gude's a thousand. Gang back!
Gang hame! There's the bit siller here that's to tak ye, and the love
yonder that's waiting ye. Listen to a dying man, laddie, and gang hame!"
"I doubt if they'd have me," sobbed John Broom, "I gave 'em a deal of
"And d'ye think, lad, that that thought has na' cursed me, and keepit
me from them that loved me? Aye, lad, and till this week I never
"Weel may I want to save ye, bairn," added the Highlander tenderly, "for
it was the thocht of a' ye riskit for the like of me at the three roads
that made me consider wi' mysel' that I've aiblins been turning my back
a' my wilfu' life on love that's bigger than a man's deservings. It's
near done now, and it'll never lie in my poor power so much as rightly
to thank ye. It's strange that a man should set store by a good name
that he doesna deserve; but if any blessings of mine could bring ye
good, they're yours, that saved an old soldier's honour, and let him die
respectit in his regiment."
"Oh, M'Alister, let me fetch one of the chaplains to write a letter to
fetch your father," cried John Broom.
"The minister's been here this morning," said the Highlander, "and I've
tell't him mair than I've tell't you. And he's jest directed me to put
my sinful trust in the Father of us a'. I've sinned heaviest against
Him, laddie, but His love is stronger than the lave."
John Broom remained by his friend, whose painful fits of coughing, and
of gasping for breath, were varied by intervals of seeming stupor. When
a candle had been brought in and placed near the bed, the Highlander
roused himself and asked,—
"Is there a Bible on yon table? Could ye read a bit to me, laddie?"
There is little need to dwell on the bitterness of heart with which John
"I can't read big words, M'Alister."
"Did ye never go to school?" said the Scotchman.
"I didn't learn," said the poor boy; "I played."
"Aye, aye. Weel, ye'll learn, when ye gang hame," said the Highlander,
in gentle tones.
"I'll never get home," said John Broom, passionately. "I'll never
forgive myself. I'll never get over it, that I couldn't read to ye when
ye wanted me, M'Alister."
"Gently, gently," said the Scotchman. "Dinna daunt yoursel' owermuch wi'
the past, laddie. And for me—I'm not that presoomtious to think I can
square up a misspent life as a man might compound wi's creditors. 'Gin
HE forgi'es me, He'll forgi'e; but it's not a prayer up or a chapter
doun that'll stan' between me and the Almighty. So dinna fret yoursel',
but let me think while I may."
And so, far into the night, the Highlander lay silent, and John Broom
watched by him.
It was just midnight when he partly raised himself, and cried,—
"Whisht, laddie! do ye hear the pipes?"
The dying ears must have been quick, for John Broom heard nothing; but
in a few moments he heard the bagpipes from the officers' mess, where
they were keeping Hogmenay. They were playing the old year out with
"Auld lang syne," and the Highlander beat the tune out with his hand,
and his eyes gleamed out of his rugged face in the dim light, as
cairngorms glitter in dark tartan.
There was a pause after the first verse, and he restless, and turning
doubtfully to where John Broom sat, as if his sight were failing, he
said, "Ye'll mind your promise, ye'll gang hame?" And after awhile he
repeated the last word.
But as he spoke there settled over his face a smile so tender and so
full of happiness, that John Broom held his breath as he watched him. As
the light of sunrise creeps over the face of some rugged rock, it crept
from chin to brow, and the pale blue eyes shone tranquil, like water
that reflects heaven.
And when it had passed it left them still open, but gems that had lost
LUCK GOES.—AND COMES AGAIN.
The spirit does not always falter in its faith because the flesh is
weary with hope deferred. When week after week, month after month, and
year after year, went by and John Broom was not found, the
disappointment seemed to "age" the little ladies, as Thomasina phrased
it. But yet they said to the parson, "We do not regret it."
"God forbid that you should regret it," said he.
And even the lawyer (whose heart was kinder than his tongue) abstained
from taunting them with his prophecies, and said, "The force of habits
of early education is a power as well as that of inherent tendencies. It
is only for your sake that I regret a too romantic benevolence." And
Miss Betty and Miss Kitty tried to put the matter quite away. But John
Broom was very closely bound up with the life of many years past.
Thomasina mourned him as if he had been her son, and Thomasina being an
old and valuable servant, it is needless to say that when she was
miserable no one in the house was permitted to be quite at ease.
As to Pretty Cocky, he lived, but Miss Kitty fancied that he grew less
pretty and drooped upon his polished perch.
There were times when the parson felt almost conscience-stricken because
he had encouraged the adoption of John Broom. Disappointments fall
heavily upon elderly people. They may submit better than the young, but
they do not so easily revive. The little old ladies looked greyer and
more nervous, and the little old house looked greyer and gloomier than
Indeed there were other causes of anxiety. Times were changing, prices
were rising, and the farm did not thrive. The lawyer said that the
farm-bailiff neglected his duties, and that the cowherd did nothing but
drink; but Miss Betty trembled, and said they could not part with old
The farm-bailiff had his own trouble, but he kept it to himself. No one
knew how severely he had beaten John Broom the day before he ran away,
but he remembered it himself with painful clearness. Harsh men are apt
to have consciences, and his was far from easy about the lad who had
been entrusted to his care. He could not help thinking of it when the
day's work was over, and he had to keep filling up his evening
whiskey-glass again and again to drown disagreeable thoughts.
The whiskey answered this purpose, but it made him late in the morning:
it complicated business on market days, not to the benefit of the farm,
and it put him at a disadvantage in dealing with the drunken cowherd.
The cowherd was completely upset by John Broom's mysterious
disappearance, and he comforted himself as the farm-bailiff did, but to
a larger extent. And Thomasina winked at many irregularities in
consideration of the groans of sympathy with which he responded to her
tears as they sat round the hearth where John Broom no longer lay.
At the time that he vanished from Lingborough the gossips of the country
side said, This comes of making pets of tramps' brats, when honest
folk's sons may toil and moil without notice. But when it was proved
that the tramp-boy had stolen nothing, when all search for him was vain,
and when prosperity faded from the place season by season and year by
year, there were old folk who whispered that the gaudily-clothed child
Miss Betty had found under the broom-bush had something more than common
in him, and that whoever and whatever had offended the eerie creature,
he had taken the luck of Lingborough with him when he went away.
It was early summer. The broom was shining in the hedges with uncommon
wealth of golden blossoms. "The lanes looked for all the world as they
did the year that poor child was found," said Thomasina, wiping her
eyes. Annie the lass sobbed hysterically, and the cowherd found himself
so low in spirits that after gazing dismally at the cowstalls, which had
not been cleaned for days past, he betook himself to the ale-house to
refresh his energies for this and other arrears of work.
On returning to the farm, however, he found his hands still feeble, and
he took a drop or two more to steady them, after which it occurred to
him that certain new potatoes which he had had orders to dig were yet in
the ground. The wood was not chopped for the next day's use, and he
wondered what had become of a fork he had had in the morning and had
laid down somewhere.
So he seated himself on some straw in the corner to think about it all,
and whilst he was thinking he fell fast asleep.
By his own account many remarkable things had befallen him in the course
of his life, including that meeting with a Black Something to which
allusion has been made, but nothing so strange as what happened to him
When he awoke in the morning and sat up on the straw, and looked around
him, the stable was freshly cleaned, the litter in the stalls was shaken
and turned, and near the door was an old barrel of newly dug potatoes,
and the fork stood by it. And when he ran to the wood house there lay
the wood neatly chopped and piled to take away.
He kept his own counsel that day and took credit for the work, but when
on the morrow the farm-bailiff was at a loss to know who had thinned the
turnips that were left to do in the upper field, and Annie the lass
found the kitchen cloths she had left overnight to soak, rubbed through
and rinsed, and laid to dry, the cowherd told his tale to Thomasina, and
begged for a bowl of porridge and cream to set in the barn, as one might
set a mouse-trap baited with cheese.
"For," said he, "the luck of Lingborough's come back, missis. It's Lob
"It's Lob Lie-by-the-fire!"
So Thomasina whispered exultingly, and Annie the lass timidly. Thomasina
cautioned the cowherd to hold his tongue, and she said nothing to the
little ladies on the subject. She felt certain that they would tell the
parson, and he might not approve. The farm-bailiff knew of a farm on the
Scotch side of the Border where a brownie had been driven away by the
minister preaching his last Sunday's sermon over again at him, and as
Thomasina said, "There'd been little enough luck at Lingborough lately,
that they should wish to scare it away when it came."
And yet the news leaked out gently, and was soon known all through the
neighborhood—as a secret.
"The luck of Lingborough's come back. Lob's lying by the fire!"
He could be heard at his work any night, and several people had seen
him, though this vexed Thomasina, who knew well that the good people do
not like to be watched at their labours.
The cowherd had not been able to resist peeping down through chinks in
the floor of the loft above the barn, where he slept, and one night he
had seen Lob fetching straw for the cowhouse. "A great rough, black
fellow," said he, and he certainly grew bigger and rougher and blacker
every time the cowherd told the tale.
The Lubber-fiend appeared next to a boy who was loitering at a late hour
somewhere near the little ladies' kitchen-garden, and whom he pursued
and pelted with mud till the lad nearly lost his wits with terror. (It
was the same boy who was put in the lock-up in the autumn for stealing
Farmer Mangel's Siberian crabs.)
For this trick, however, the rough elf atoned by leaving three pecks of
newly-gathered fruit in the kitchen the following morning. Never had
there been such a preserving season at Lingborough within the memory of
The truth is, hobgoblins, from Puck to Will-o'-the-wisp, are apt to play
practical jokes and knock people about whom they meet after sunset. A
dozen tales of such were rife, and folks were more amused than amazed by
Lob Lie-by-the-fire's next prank.
There was an aged pauper who lived on the charity of the little ladies,
and whom it was Miss Betty's practice to employ to do light weeding in
the fields for heavy wages. This venerable person was toddling to his
home in the gloaming with a barrow load of Miss Betty's new potatoes,
dexterously hidden by an upper sprinkling of groundsel and hemlock, when
the Lubber-fiend sprang out from behind an elder-bush, ran at the old
man with his black head, and knocked him, heels uppermost, into the
ditch. The wheelbarrow was afterwards found in Miss Betty's farmyard,
And when the cowherd (who had his own opinion of the aged pauper, and it
was a very poor one) went that evening to drink Lob Lie-by-the-fire's
health from a bottle he kept in the harness room window, he was nearly
choked with the contents, which had turned into salt and water, as fairy
jewels turn to withered leaves.
But luck had come to Lingborough. There had not been such crops for
twice seven years past.
The lay-away hens' eggs were brought regularly to the kitchen.
The ducklings were not eaten by rats.
No fowls were stolen.
The tub of pig-meal lasted three times as long as usual.
The cart-wheels and gate-hinges were oiled by unseen fingers.
The mushrooms in the croft gathered themselves and down on a dish in the
It is by small savings that a farm thrives, and Miss Betty's farm
Everybody worked with more alacrity. Annie the lass said the butter came
in a way that made it a pleasure to churn.
The neighbours knew even more than those on the spot. They said—That
since Lob came back to Lingborough the hens laid eggs as large as
turkeys' eggs, and the turkeys' eggs were—oh, you wouldn't believe the
That the cows gave nothing but cream, and that Thomasina skimmed butter
off it as less lucky folk skim cream from milk.
That her cheeses were as rich as butter.
That she sold all she made, for Lob took the fairy butter from the old
trees in the avenue, and made it up into pats for Miss Betty's table.
That if you bought Lingborough turnips, you might feed your cows on them
all the winter and the milk would be as sweet as new-mown hay.
That horses foddered on Lingborough hay would have thrice the strength
of others, and that sheep who cropped Lingborough pastures would grow
three times as fat.
That for as good a watchdog as it was, the sheep dog never barked at
Lob, a plain proof that he was more than human.
That for all its good luck it was not safe to loiter near the place
after dark, if you wished to keep your senses. And if you took so much
as a fallen apple belonging to Miss Betty, you might look out for palsy
or St. Vitus` dance, or be carried off bodily to the underground folk.
Finally, that it was well all the cows gave double, for that Lob
Lie-by-the-fire drank two gallons of the best cream every day, with
curds, porridge, and other dainties to match. But what did that matter,
when he had been overheard to swear that luck should not leave
Lingborough till Miss Betty owned half the country side?
MISS BETTY IS SURPRISED.
Miss Betty and Miss Kitty having accepted a polite invitation from Mrs.
General Dunmaw, went down to tea with that lady one fine evening in this
Death had made a gap or two in the familiar circle during the last
fourteen years, but otherwise it was quite the same, except that the
lawyer was married and not quite so sarcastic, and that Mrs. Brown Jasey
had brought a young niece with her dressed in the latest fashion, which
looked quite as odd as new fashions are wont to do, and with a
coiffure "enough to frighten the French away," as her aunt told her.
It was while this young lady was getting more noise out of Mrs. Dunmaw's
red silk and rosewood piano than had been shaken out of it during the
last thirty years, that the lawyer brought his cup of coffee to Miss
Betty's side, and said, suavely, "I here wonderful accounts of
Lingborough, dear Miss Betty."
"I am thankful to say, sir, that the farm is doing well this year. I am
very thankful, for the past few years have been unfavourable, and we had
begun to face the fact that it might be necessary to sell the old place.
And I will not deny, sir, that it would have gone far to break my heart,
to say nothing of my sister Kitty's."
"Oh, we shouldn't have let it come to that," said the lawyer, "I could
have raised a loan—"
"Sir," said Miss Betty with dignity, "if we have our own pride, I hope
it's an honest one. Lingborough will have passed out of our family when
it's kept up on borrowed money."
"I could live in lodgings," added Miss Betty, firmly, "little as I've
been accustomed to it, but not in debt."
"Well, well, my dear madam, we needn't talk about it now. But I'm dying
of curiosity as to the mainstay of all this good luck."
"The turnips—" began Miss Betty.
"Bless my soul, Miss Betty!" cried the lawyer, "I'm not talking of
turnips. I'm talking of Lob Lie-by-the-fire, as all the country side is
for that matter."
"The country people have plenty of tales of him," said Miss Betty, with
some pride in the family goblin. "He used to haunt the old barns, they
say, in my great-grandfather's time."
"And now you've got him back again," said the lawyer.
"Not that I know of," said Miss Betty.
On which the lawyer poured into her astonished ear all the latest news
on the subject, and if it had lost nothing before reaching his house in
the town, it rather gained in marvels as he repeated it to Miss Betty.
No wonder that the little lady was anxious to get home to question
Thomasina, and that somewhat before the usual hour she said,—
"Sister Kitty, if it's not too soon for the servant—"
And the parson, threading his way to where Mrs. Dunmaw's china crape
shawl (dyed crimson) shone in the bow window, said, "The clergy should
keep respectable hours, madam; especially when they are as old as I am.
Will you allow me to thank you for a very pleasant evening, and to say
THE PARSON AND THE LUBBER-FIEND.
"Do you think there'd be any harm in leaving it alone, sister Betty?"
said Miss Kitty, tremulously.
They had reached Lingborough, and the parson had come in with them, by
Miss Betty's request, and Thomasina had been duly examined.
"Eh, Miss Betty, why should ye chase away good luck with the minister?"
"Sister Kitty! Thomasina!" said Miss Betty. "I would not accept good
luck from a doubtful quarter to save Lingborough. But if It can face
this excellent clergyman, the Being who haunted my great-grandfather's
farm is still welcome to the old barns, and you, Thomasina, need not
grudge It cream or curds."
"You're quite right, sister Betty," said Miss Kitty. "You always are;
but oh dear, oh dear!"—
"Thomasina tells me," said Miss Betty, turning to the parson, "that on
chilly evenings It sometimes comes and lies by the kitchen fire after
they have gone to bed, and I can distinctly remember my grandmother
mentioning the same thing. Thomasina has of late left the kitchen door
on the latch for Its convenience, and as they had to sit up late for us,
she and Annie have taken their work into the still-room to leave the
kitchen free for Lob Lie-by-the-fire. They have not looked into the
kitchen this evening, as such beings do not like to be watched. But they
fancy that they heard It come in. I trust, sir, that neither in myself
nor my sister Kitty does timidity exceed a proper feminine sensibility,
where duty is concerned. If you will be good enough to precede us, we
will go to meet the old friend of my great-grandfather's fortunes, and
we leave it entirely to your valuable discretion to pursue what course
you think proper on the occasion."
"Is this the door?" said the parson, cheerfully, after knocking his head
against black beams and just saving his legs down shallow and unexpected
steps on his way to the kitchen—beams so unfelt and steps so familiar
to the women that it had never struck them that the long passage was not
the most straightforward walk a man could take—"I think you said It
generally lies on the hearth?"
The happy thought struck Thomasina that the parson might be frightened
out of his unlucky interference.
"Aye, aye, sir," said she from behind. "We've heard him rolling by the
fire, and growling like thunder to himself. They say he's an awful size,
too, with the strength of four men, and a long tail, and eyes like coals
But Thomasina spoke in vain, for the parson opened the door, and as they
pressed in, the moonlight streaming through the latticed window showed
Lob lying by the fire.
"There's his tail! Ay—k!" screeched Annie the lass, and away she went,
without drawing breath to the top garret, where she locked and bolted
herself in, and sat her bandbox flat, and screamed for help.
But it was the plumy tail of the sheep dog, who was lying there with the
Lubber-fiend. And Lob was asleep, with his arms around the sheep dog's
neck, and the sheep dog's head lay on his breast, and his own head
touched the dog's.
And it was a smaller head than the parson had been led to expect, and it
had thick black hair.
As the parson bent over the hearth, Thomasina took Miss Kitty round the
waist, and Miss Betty clutched her black velvet bag till the steel beads
ran into her hands, and they were quite prepared for an explosion, and
sulphur, and blue lights, and thunder.
And then the parson's deep round voice broke the silence, saying,—
"Is that you, lad? GOD bless you, John Broom. You're welcome home!"
Some things—such as gossip—gain in the telling, but there are others
before which words fail, though each heart knows its own power of
sympathy. And such was the joy of the little ladies and of Thomasina at
John Broom's return.
The sheep dog had had his satisfaction out long ago, and had kept it to
himself, but how Pretty Cocky crowed, and chuckled, and danced, and
bowed his crest, and covered his face with his amber wings, and kicked
his seed-pot over, and spilled his water-pot on to the Derbyshire marble
chess-table, and screamed till the room rang again, and went on
screaming, with Miss Kitty's pocket-handkerchief over his head to keep
him quiet, my poor pen can but imperfectly describe.
The desire to atone for the past which had led John Broom to act the
part of one of those Good-Fellows who have, we must fear, finally
deserted us, will be easily understood. And to a nature of his type, the
earning of some self-respect, and of a character before others, was
perhaps a necessary prelude to future well-doing.
He did do well. He became a good scholar, as farmers were then. He
spent as much of his passionate energies on the farm as the farm would
absorb, and he restrained the rest. It is not cockatoos only who have
sometimes to live and be happy in this unfinished life with one wing
In fine weather, when the perch was put into the garden, Miss Betty was
sometimes startled by stumbling on John Broom in the dusk, sitting on
his heels, the unfastened chain in his hand, with his black head
lovingly laid against Cock's white and yellow poll, talking in a low
voice, and apparently with the sympathy of his companion; and as Miss
Betty justly feared, of that "other side of the world," which they both
knew, and which both at times had cravings to revisit.
Even after the sobering influences of middle age had touched him, and a
wife and children bound him with the quiet ties of home, he had (at long
intervals) his "restless times," when his good "misses" would bring out
a little store laid by in one of the children's socks, and would bid
him. "Be off, and get a breath of the sea-air," but on condition that
the sock went with him as his purse. John Broom always looked ashamed to
go, but he came back the better, and his wife was quite easy in his
absence with that confidence in her knowledge of the "master," which is
so mysterious to the unmarried, and which Miss Betty looked upon as
"want of feeling" to the end. She always dreaded that he would not
return, and a little ruse which she adopted of giving him money to make
bargains for foreign articles of vertu with sailors, is responsible
for many of the choicest ornaments in the Lingborough parlour.
"The sock'll bring him home," said Mrs. Broom, and home he came, and
never could say what he had been doing. Nor was the account given by
Thomasina's cousin, who was a tide-waiter down yonder, particularly
satisfying to the women's curiosity. He said that John Broom was always
about; that he went aboard of all the craft in the bay, and asked whence
they came and whither they were bound. That being once taunted to do it,
he went up the rigging of a big vessel like a cat, and came down it
looking like a fool. That as a rule, he gossipped and shared his tobacco
with sailors and fishermen, and brought out the sock much oftener than
was prudent for the benefit of the ragged boys who haunt the quay.
He had two other weaknesses, which a faithful biographer must chronicle.
A regiment on the march would draw him from the plough-tail itself, and
"With daddy to see the pretty soldiers" was held to excuse any of Mrs.
Broom's children from household duties.
The other shall be described in the graphic language of that acute
observer the farm-bailiff.
"If there cam' an Irish beggar, wi' a stripy cloot him and a bellows
under 's arm, and ca'd himsel' a Hielander, the lad wad gi'e him his
silly head off his shoulders."
As to the farm-bailiff, perhaps no one felt more or said less than he
did on John Broom's return. But the tones of his voice had tender
associations for the boy's ears as he took off his speckled hat, and
after contemplating the inside for some moments, put it on again, and
"Aweel, lad, sae ye've cam' hame?"
But he listened with quivering face when John Broom told the story of
M'Alister, and when it was ended he rose and went out, and "took the
pledge" against drink, and—kept it.
Moved by similar enthusiasm, the cowherd took the pledge also, and if he
didn't keep it, he certainly drank less, chiefly owing to the vigilant
oversight of the farm-bailiff, who now exercised his natural severity
almost exclusively in the denunciation of all liquors whatsoever, from
the cowherd's whiskey to Thomasina's elder-flower wine.
The plain cousin left his money to the little old ladies, and
Lingborough continued to flourish.
Partly perhaps because of this, it is doubtful if John Broom was ever
looked upon by the rustics as quite "like other folk."
The favourite version of his history is that he was Lob under the guise
of a child; that he was driven away by new clothes; that he returned
from unwillingness to see an old family go to ruin "which he had served
for hundreds of years;" that the parson preached his last Sunday's
sermon at him; and that, having stood that test, he took his place among
Whether a name invented off-hand, however plain and sensible, does not
stick to a man as his father's does, is a question. But John Broom was
not often called by his.
With Scotch caution, the farm-bailiff seldom exceeded the safe title of
"Man!" and the parson was apt to address him as "My dear boy" when he
had certainly outgrown the designation.
Miss Betty called him John Broom, but the people called him by the name
he had earned.
And long after his black hair lay white and thick on his head, like snow
on the old barn roof, and when his dark eyes were dim in an honoured old
age, the village children would point him out to each other, crying,
"There goes Lob Lie-by-the-fire, the Luck of Lingborough!"