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Cuckoo Brow Lane is a bo
Tuppe
Xarifa commenced to explain about the washerwomen up at the tarn; but Je
Tuppe
“Little lad, little lad, where was’t thou born?
Far off in Lancashire under a thorn,
Where they sup sour milk, in a ram’s horn!”
Pippin did not know that tune, so he began another—
“I ploughed it with a ram’s horn,
Sing ivy, sing ivy!
I sowed it all over with one peppercorn,
Sing holly go whistle and ivy!
I got the mice to carry it to the mill
Sing ivy, sing ivy!”
Then he changed his tune, and the chaffinches sang with him—
“I saw a little bird, coming hop, hop, hop!”
Then he played another; and Xarifa pelted him with hempseeds—
“Madam will you walk, madam will you talk—
Madam will you walk and talk with me?”
And then he heard a cuckoo and he played,
“Summer is icumen in!”
The music did sound pretty all the way up Cuckoo Brow Lane.
Where they crossed the beck there was a row of stepping stones, with the water tinkling merrily between them. On a stone, bobbing and curtseying, stood a fat, browny-black little bird with a broad white breast. “Bessie Dooker! Bessie Dooker! Tell all the other little birds and beasties that there will be a circus show this evening. Bid them come to the big hawthorn tree, near the whin bushes by High Green Gate.” Bessie Dooker bobbed her head; she sped swiftly up the beck, whistling as she flew.
The lane was steep after crossing the stream; as they climbed they met the early sunbeams. The bank on their right was full of wild flowers; wood sorrel, spotted orchis, dog violets, germander speedwell, and little blue milkwort. “See!” cried Xarifa, “the milkwort! the milk is coming with the grass in spring; the grass is coming with the soft south wind. Listen to the lambs! they are before us in the other lane.”
Sandy had been in advance of the procession; he turned back. “Wait a little while, Pony Billy; wait with a stone behind the wheel. The sheep are going up to the intake pastures [23] in charge of Bobs and Matt. Let them gain a start before us at the meeting of the lanes; it is slow work driving lambs. How they bleat and run back and forward! Their own mothers’ call, but they run to each other’s mothers, and bawl and push!”
“Here under this su
“May we get down and play? we have been shut up so long, me and Tuppe
Xarifa clapped her little hands, “Oh, look at the flowers.” “What is that peeping at us, Xarifa? with bright black eyes?” said Tuppe
Belinda was a sleek brown mouse; she was larger than the house mice; and more active than Xarifa. Tuppe
Pony Billy rubbed his nose against his foreleg, and gave it up! He moved a little further up the lane, and went on nibbling.
XARIFA’S FAIRY TALE
“Can the flowers feel, Xarifa?” whispered Tuppe
CHAPTER XXIII
The Fairy in the Oak
There is something glorious and majestic about a fine English oak. The ancient Britons held them sacred; and the Saxons who came after revered the Druids’ trees. William the Norman Conqueror ordered a record of all the land. Because there were no maps they wrote down landmarks; I remember an oak in Hertfordshire, that had been a landmark for Doomsday Book.
This north country oak of my story was less old than the Doomsday Oak. It had been a fine upstanding tree in Queen Elizabeth’s reign. For centuries it grew tall and stately, deep-rooted amongst the rocks, by a corner above an old highway that led to a market town.
How many travellers had passed the tree, since that road was a forest track! Hunters, robbers, bowmen; knights on horseback riding along; pikemen, jackmen marching; country folk and drovers; merchants, pedlars with laden pack-horses.
At each change the road was mended and widened. There began to be two-wheeled carts. Then farmers’ wives left off riding on pillions; the gentry drove gigs and coaches; and alas! there came the wood wagons.