God bless them! it will help me in my age;
My only one,
my widowhood,
A dear good boy! When first he went to sea,
I felt what it would come to-something told me
I should be childless soon. But tell me,
If it be true that for a hurt like his
There is no cure? Please God to spare his life,
Though he be blind, yet I should be so thankful!
I can remember there was a blind man
Lived in our village, one from his youth up
Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man,
And he had none to tend on him so well
As I would tend my boy!
His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help
The land affords, as rightly is his due,
Ever at hand. How happened it he left you?
Was a seafaring life his early choice?
No, sir. Poor fellow, he was wise enough
To be content at home, and 'twas a home
As comfortable, sir, even though I say it,
As any in the country. He was left
A little boy when his poor father died,
Just old enough to totter by himself
And call his mother's name. We two were all,
And as we were not left quite destitute,
We bore up well. In the summer time I worked
Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting,
And in long winter nights my spinning wheel
Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours, too,
And never felt distress. So he grew up
A comely lad, and wondrous well disposed;
I taught him well; there was not in the parish
A child who said his prayers more regular,
Or answered readier through his catechism.
If I had foreseen this! But 'tis a blessing
We don't know what we're born to!
As he grew up he used to watch the birds
In the corn, child's work you know, and easily done. 'Tis an idle sort of task; so he built up
A little hut of wicker-work and clay
Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain.
And then he took, for very idleness,
To making traps to catch the plunderers:
All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make,-
Propping a stone to fall and shut them in,
Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe
Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly,-
And I,-poor, foolish woman! I was pleased
To see the boy so handy. You may guess
What followed, sir, from this unlucky skill.
He did what he should not when he was older:
I warn'd him oft enough; but he was caught
In wiring hares at last, and had his choice-
The prison or the ship.
The choice at least Was kindly left him, and for broken laws This was, methinks, no heavy punishment.
And I tried to think so.
But 'twas a sad blow to me! I was used
To sleep at nights as sweetly as a child,-
Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start
And think of my poor boy, tossing about
Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem'd
To feel that it was hard to take him from me
For such a little fault. But he was wrong,
Oh, very wrong,-a murrain on his traps!
See what they've brought him to!
Well! well! take comfort,
He will be taken care of if he lives;
And should you lose your child, this is a country
Where the brave sailor never leaves a parent
To weep for him in want.
No succour long. In the common course of years
I soon must be at rest; and 'tis a comfort,
When grief is hard upon me, to reflect
It only leads me to that rest the sooner.
FATHER! here, father! I have found a horse-shoe!
Faith, it was just in time, for t'other night
I laid two straws across at Margery's door,
And afterwards I fear'd that she might do me
A mischief for't. There was the miller's boy
Who set his dog at that black cat of hers,
I met him upon crutches, and he told me
'Twas all her evil eye.
I would have gladly given a crown for one
If 'twould have done as well. But where didst find it?
Down on the common; I was going a-field
And neighbour Saunders pass'd me on his mare;
He had hardly said "Good day," before I saw
The shoe drop off; 'twas just upon my tongue
To call him back;-it makes no difference, does it,
Because I know whose 'twas?
The shoe's the same, you know, and you did find it.
That mare of his has got a plaguy road
To travel, father, and if he should lame her,
For she is but tender-footed,-
I should not like to see her limping back,
Poor beast! but charity begins at home;
And, Nat, there's our own horse in such a way
This morning?
Why he ha'n't been rid again!
Last night I hung a pebble by the manger
With a hole through, and everybody says
That 'tis a special charm against the hags.
It could not be a proper natural hole, then,
Or 'twas not a right pebble, for I found him
Smoking with sweat, quaking in every limb,
And panting so! God knows where he had been
When we were all asleep, through bush and brake,
Up-hill and down-hill all alike, full stretch
At such a deadly rate!
By land and water, Over the sea, perhaps !—I have heard tell That 'tis some thousand miles, almost at the end Of the world, where witches go to meet the devil. They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear Some ointment over them, and then away Out of the window! But 'tis worse than all To worry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it, That in a Christian country they should let Such creatures live!
And when there's such plain proof!
I did but threaten her because she robb'd
Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind
That made me shake to hear it in my
How came it that that storm unroofed my barn,
And only mine in the parish? Look at her,
And that's enough; she has it in her face,-
A pair of large dead eyes, sunk in her head,
Just like a corpse, and pursed with wrinkles round;
A nose and chin that scarce leave room between
For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff;
And when she speaks! I'd sooner hear a raven
Croak at my door! She sits there, nose and knees
Smoke-dried and shrivell'd over a starved fire,
With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes
Shine like old Beelzebub's; and to be sure
It must be one of his imps! Ay, nail it hard.
I wish old Margery heard the hammer go!
She'd curse the music.
Here's the curate coming,
He ought to rid the parish of such vermin.
In the old times they used to hunt them out
And hang them without mercy. But, Lord bless us The world is grown so wicked!
Nathaniel, what art nailing to the threshold ?
A horse-shoe, sir; 'tis good to keep off witchcraft,
And we're afraid of Margery.
|