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Cool is the air above the craggy summit. Clear is the water of the mountain keld. [24] Green grows the grass in droughty days beneath the brackens! What though the hailstorm sweep the fell in winter – through tempest, frost, or heat – we live our patient day’s allotted span.
Wild and free as when the stone-men [49] told our puzzled early numbers [12]; untamed as when the Norsemen named our grassings [15] in their stride. Our little feet had ridged [38] the slopes before the passing Romans. On through the fleeting centuries, when fresh blood came from Iceland, Spain, or Scotland – stubborn, unchanged, UNBEATEN – we have held the stony waste.
Dunmail; Faulds; Blue Joe; Wastwater Will and Thistle; Rawlins; Sworla; Wonder – old Pride of Helvellyn – pass the tough lineage forward; keep the tarrie woo’ unsoftened! Hold the proud ancient heritage of our Herdwick sheep. [18]
CHAPTER XI
Habbitrot
“Now one more tale before the sun goes down. Come Habbitrot, tell us of the spi
Long, long ago, long before the acorn ripened that has grown into yonder oak – there lived a bo
Her parents were willing for the match, and Bo
Her mother would give her her blessing; but not without shame and a scolding. Now this was the trouble – two elder daughters when they married had had great store of blankets and sheets. For it was a good old custom in the dale that all menseful [30] lasses should spin flax and wool, and have the yarn woven by the webster, [58] so that they had ready against their bridewain [04] a big oak bedding chest [01] well filled with linen and blankets.
But this youngest daughter, Bo
Bo
In Pringle Wood across the beck the hazels grew as still they grow, and wind flowers and violets and primroses twinkled. Bo
‘Hey, Bo
‘With spi
‘Spi
‘Dry your eyes and listen, Bo
But when he rode away next morning her troubles recommenced – her mother, with a hazel-rod, drove her up the steps to the loft, ‘It wants but three weeks to thy wedding – go spin, idle daughter, go spin!’ Many were the fleeces and the bags of wool and flax. So many that when she took away a load upon her pony – the wool was never missed; not although she made four journeys to and fro from Pringle Wood. ‘Bring more, bring more to old Habbitrot! Thou shalt have wealth of sheets and blankets!’ Down below under the hollow stone there was the noise of spi
Little way made Bo
Bo
Wonders will never cease! which of her sisters had ever had such yarn for the weaver? Worsted so strong and even; or thread so fine and fair? Her fame as a spi
The wedding day came. They were a handsome pair. The sun shone; the bells were rung; all the folk in the dale came to the kirk to see them married. And the wedding feast at the farm was thronged and merry. The trenchers were piled with meat; there were cakes and pies and pasties; the jugs of ale went round, and Bo
Someone knocked at the house-door. The bride sprang to open it. At her feet upon the threshold stood a little ugly woman, a little gray old woman, with a kindly crooked smile.
‘Good dame, come in! Welcome to my wedding feast!’ Bo
‘Oh ho!’ said the yeoman, ‘is that what comes of spi
The old woman munched and munched and munched. ‘Hey, little woman,’ said Henry, ‘why is thy back so bent, thine eyes so bleared, and thy foot so flat?’ ‘With spi