Part 46

Five and twenty ponies Trotting through the dark; Brandy for the Parson, ’Baccy for the Clerk Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,

And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

Running round the woodlump if you chance to find Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandywined; Don’t you shout to come and look, nor take ’em for your play; Put the brishwood back again,—and they’ll be gone next day!

If you see the stableyard setting open wide; If you see a tied horse lying down inside; If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore; If the lining’s wet and warm—don’t you ask no more!

If you meet King George’s men, dressed in blue and red, You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said. If they call you ’pretty maid,’ and chuck you ’neath the chin, Don’t you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one’s been!

Knocks and footsteps round the house—whistles after dark— You’ve no call for running out till the house-dogs bark. Trusty’s here, and Pincher’s here, and see how dumb they lie— They don’t fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by!

If you do as you’ve been told, likely there’s a chance, You’ll be give a dainty doll, all the way from France, With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood— A present from the Gentlemen, along o’ being good!

Five and twenty ponies, Trotting through the Park— Brandy for the Parson, ’Baccy for the Clerk.

Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie. Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

‘DYMCHURCH FLIT’

THE BEE BOY’S SONG

Bees! Bees! Hark to the Bees! ‘Hide from your neighbours as much as you please, But all that has happened to us you must tell! Or else we will give you no honey to sell.’

A maiden in her glory, Upon her wedding-day, Must tell her Bees the story, Or else they’ll fly away. Fly away—die away— Dwindle down and leave you! But if you don’t deceive your Bees, Your Bees will not deceive you!—

Marriage, birth or buryin’, News across the seas, All you’re sad or merry in, You must tell the Bees. Tell ’em coming in an’ out, Where the Fanners fan, ’Cause the Bees are justabout As curious as a man!

Don’t you wait where trees are, When the lightnings play; Nor don’t you hate where Bees are, Or else they’ll pine away. Pine away—dwine away— Anything to leave you! But if you never grieve your Bees, Your Bees’ll never grieve you.

‘DYMCHURCH FLIT’

Just at dusk, a soft September rain began to fall on the hop-pickers. The mothers wheeled the bouncing perambulators out of the gardens; bins were put away, and tally-books made up. The young couples strolled home, two to each umbrella, and the single men walked behind them laughing. Dan and Una, who had been picking after their lessons, marched off to roast potatoes at the oast-house, where old Hobden, with Blue-eyed Bess, his lurcher-dog, lived all the month through, drying the hops.

They settled themselves, as usual, on the sack-strewn cot in front of the fires, and, when Hobden drew up the shutter, stared, as usual, at the flameless bed of coals spouting its heat up the dark well of the old-fashioned roundel. Slowly he cracked off a few fresh pieces of coal, packed them, with fingers that never flinched, exactly where they would do most good; slowly he reached behind him till Dan tilted the potatoes into his iron scoop of a hand; carefully he arranged them round the fire, and then stood for a moment, black against the glare. As he closed the shutter, the oast-house seemed dark before the day’s end, and he lit the candle in the lanthorn. The children liked all these things because they knew them so well.

The Bee Boy, Hobden’s son, who is not quite right in his head, though he can do anything with bees, slipped in like a shadow. They only guessed it when Bess’s stump-tail wagged against them.

A big voice began singing outside in the drizzle:—

‘Old Mother Laidinwool had nigh twelve months been dead, She heard the hops were doing well, and then popped up her head.’

‘There can’t be two people made to holler like that!’ cried old Hobden, wheeling round.

‘For, says she, “The boys I’ve picked with when I was young and fair, They’re bound to be at hoppin’, and I’m——”’

A man showed at the doorway.

‘Well, well! They do say hoppin’ll draw the very deadest; and now I belieft ’em. You, Tom? Tom Shoesmith!’ Hobden lowered his lanthorn.

‘You’re a hem of a time makin’ your mind to it, Ralph!’ The stranger strode in—three full inches taller than Hobden, a grey-whiskered, brown-faced giant with clear blue eyes. They shook hands, and the children could hear the hard palms rasp together.

‘You ain’t lost none o’ your grip,’ said Hobden. ‘Was it thirty or forty year back you broke my head at Peasmarsh Fair?’

‘Only thirty, an’ no odds ’tween us regardin’ heads, neither. You had it back at me with a hop-pole. How did we get home that night? Swimmin’?’