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The giant oak stood alone in the fair green pasture. For centuries he had held this place, stretching out his mighty branches, battling with bared arms in the winter winds, and clothing himself with green foliage in honour of gentle spring. All the birds and beasts did homage to him; they called him King and Father. Many field creatures had their homes in his great twisted roots, rabbits burrowed among them, and timid little field mice could be seen scurrying lightly over them. His branches cradled many nests in the summer. The creatures of the pastureland would come and lie in his shade on the hot summer days and would seek shelter there at night; and the heart of the great oak was not so old but that it could glow and expand because of the love and homage all things gave him.
It was autumn now, and the oak looked over the fields to where the slender young rowan trees, with their flame-coloured leaves, glowed in the lane; where the wayfarer berries dangled like rubies under the holly bushes – already crimsoned with their own berries.
“This is a beautiful world,” he said to himself – “A beautiful world.” And the sap thrilled in his veins.
A few of his acorns jumped out of their cups for joy and fell, pink and tender, into the grass.
“Now, now,” said the oak, in his deep voice; “you are too hasty. Never hurry through life; it’s a mistake – a big mistake. You’ll come to the end far too soon.”
But the acorns rolled happily in the grass and thought they would begin to grow into trees straight away, poor things!
The oak was still speaking, when a flock of sheep came floundering up in their silly fashion. They were, as usual, very frightened and rushed behind the oak.
“Well,” asked the oak, “what is the matter now, foolish ones?”
“Oh! King and Father,” they bleated, “man comes to disturb us.”
“Man will not harm you unless he is hungry,” and he laughed scornfully. The sheep shivered and tried to hide behind the oak’s bulk.
They baa’d and bleated and changed places incessantly, while the oak looked over the land and saw three men approaching. One walked before the others; he was very small and young. The others – a big, burly man and down-at-the-heel individual carrying a paint-pot followed.
“It is the Lord of the Land,” said the oak.
“Oh! King and Father, what is this lord?” bleated a trembling sheep, thinking it might be something terrible.
“Even as thou art,” replied the tree – “a foolish one.”
The three men came and stood looking up at the oak, and he looked down at them.
“A mere sapling,” thought he, “and a weak one at that.”
“I say, Blucher,” said the Lord of the Land.
“My Lord?” said the broad man, all attention.
“This is wather a pwetty twee, Blucher.”
“Your lordship is right, as usual,” said Blucher. “But it must come down.”
“But Blucher I- I wather like this tree – it weally is wewy pwetty.”
“My lord, this tree is worth all your other timber put together – and I say it must come down.” He spoke in a loud, bullying tone, and the little lord looked startled.
“All wight, Blucher, old fellow – all wight. Mark it, John,” he said to the down-at-the-heel individual, who had been taking surreptitious pulls at a bottle he kept in his pocket.
“Mark it, John,” said the little lord walking away; but he turned many times to look at this lord of Nature’s realm.
The shabby individual marked the tree with a very crooked white paint line and staggered after his master.
The sap stopped still in the oak’s veins. He to die – and by the hand of this weakling! He, the refuge and King of all, to die! This was to be the end of his battles, his strivings, his joys and his sorrows – he was to die!
A horse, racing past, saw the fatal mark and he ran to tell his companions feeding at the far end of the field. They all came galloping up, followed by the cows and sheep. The hares, rabbits, partridges and pheasants came out of the wood nearby. The birds flew up from far and near. His branches seemed alive with birds- the dreadful tidings, carried by the wind, brought them all.
The animals clustering round his base mourned each in their own particular way. The oak did not speak. The moon came up, and he knew that it was the last time he would look upon her. The stars came out to say goodbye to him, for the wind had wailed his message to the sky.
“Brothers,” said the big black horse and when he spoke all the whinnying, bleating and howling was quiet, “let us pay homage to our King and Father for the last time.”
All the animals ranged themselves round the oak and paid him homage for the last time.
The oak tried to speak.
“My children,” he began. Then the animals were startled by a snapping sound right in the centre of the oak – his great heart had broken.
“Not into the hands of man,” he said, and died.
“Thou shalt not fall into the hands of man,” cried a new voice, as lightning flashed from the sky and rent the mighty oak limb from limb.
The Blackburn Weekly Telegraph, Saturday October 28th, 1911.
Transcribed by Shazia Kasim
The cottage kitchen was suffused with a warm red glow, pouring from the open stove. On the walls and ceiling danced the grotesque shadows of two little children who were roasting chestnuts in the red coals. The great bell, known as the “Bourdon,” boomed from the old cathedral, which stood like a sentinel over the snowbound little town. The mellow voice of this old bell delighted the children, for it told them that this was Christmas Eve.
“Simone,” said Jean, turning a smoking chestnut. “Do you think the Pere Noel WILL come this year?”
“Course he will, Jean,” said Simone, astounded at the idea. “Course he will! He has never missed coming yet. He WOULDN’T. Why last time he brought me a doll, and the time before last time I got a ball, and the time before – before the time before last time, you know, I ____”
“Quick! Simone,” cried her brother, tossing her some chestnuts. “Whew! They’re red hot,” and he threw his from one hand to the other.
There was silence for a little while, except for the crackling of the chestnuts in the stove. Then:
“You don’t – whew! – really think – Hoo! Hoo! – he won’t come – do you, Jean” asked Simone, with a hot chestnut in her mouth.
Jean shook his head doubtfully and began another chestnut.
“I don’t know. Mother said she hadn’t – ooh, that’s hot! – any money to send him a letter.”
“I know he’ll come,” said Simone. Just at this moment there was a noise outside, as if someone were kicking the snow from their boots.
“Daddy!” cried one. “Mother!” cried the other, as they rushed to open the door.
The new comers came in, and a cold blast of air followed them. Nothing could be cold long in this warm, cheery household. The children were hugged and kissed as if they had been left a month instead of an hour.
There was great excitement in putting their little sabots in the hearth place. French children, you know, leave their shoes, not their stockings, for the Pere Noel to fill. And then the two were packed off to bed in the little room off the kitchen – to dream to the sound of the big Bourdon.
Simone woke suddenly in the night to find a bright light streaming through the chinks in the old door – and then she thought she heard a chestnut “pop” in the stove.
“Jean! Jean!” she whispered loudly, shaking him.” There is someone in the kitchen!”
“Le Pere Noel,” murmured sleepy Jean still dreaming.
“Oh! Oh! Perhaps it is! Perhaps it is,” she cried. Oh! Jean! Come and see!”
“See what!” he asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
Simone was out of bed. “Why, the “someone” in the kitchen – come on!”
Jean crept out from between the blankets and tip-toed after her
They peeped through the door – and such a sight met their eyes!
The room was full of light, and there in front of the fire sat a big old man – with a jolly, red face – roasting chestnuts. A fat little black rabbit sat at his feet solemnly chewing. All over the room were scattered animals and dolls, and all sorts of toys. A group of woolly cats were sitting round a glassy-eyed dog. A pig with a squeak in his tail was grunting at a cow with a hinge in his neck, and all the dolls were taking great care of their beautiful toilettes.
“Le Pere Noel! Le Pere Noel!” whispered Simone excitedly.
“Oui! C’est le Pere Noel, » said Jean, craning his neck to see the wonders in the room.
“Pere Noel,” cried a high little voice. “There are two children at the door.”
“Oh!” cried the children backing into the bedroom – for they had heard that the Pere Noel did not like to be seen.
“Ha!” said the old man in a very big voice. “They have found me out then! Fetch them here and let me have a look at them.”
The little black rabbit scampered across the kitchen floor into the bedroom.
“Come along,” he said, rubbing up against Simone’s toes. “Come and see le bon Pere Noel!”
So they went in the kitchen – their eyes very big with wonder and not a little awe, in case Pere Noel should be angry.
But after one look into his kind old face Simone ran into his arms.
“You have come after all,” she said, making room for Jean on Pere Noel’s comfortable knee.
“Off course I have,” he said. “I haven’t brought you much in the toy line, but I have brought you something much better than toys.”
“Oh! What is it?” they both asked.
“I know!” said the Black Rabbit, winking at the fire and pawing out another chestnut.
“Shall I tell you a story?” asked Pere Noel suddenly.
“Do!” cried Simone, nestling closer to the thick folds of his warm red cloak.
“Yes, I do! “cried Jean, doing the same.
“Well,” began the Pere Noel, “one Christmas, when I was going my usual round, I left most of my toys at a very big house where there was only a very little girl. Just opposite the very big house was a little one, and here another little girl lived. Her mother had not been able to send me a letter, but I gave her a doll and a little shining thing I found at the bottom of my bag.”
“Yes,” said the children.
“Well,” he went on, “next morning the rich girl woke up; as soon as she saw her toys she began to cry so loud that everybody came running to see what was the matter. She wouldn’t look at the toys; and I had given her a beautiful black rabbit.
Here the Black Rabbit on the hearth coughed, and said. “That’s me!”
“She even tore his ears off, and bit him right through his body.
“Yes,” interrupted the rabbit again; “that’s how I lost my squeak!”
“So I took him away next morning to be patched up.”
“Yes,” said the rabbit again; “very patched up I am.”
“Behave yourself, sir” said the Pere Noel loudly.
“What about the poor little girl? Asked Simone.
“She was happier with her doll than the rich child could ever be with all her toys because she had the little shining thing called Contentment.”
“Have you brought it to us?” asked Simone and Jean.
“I have,” answered to Pere Noel; so they kissed him on both sides of his kind old face.
They must have gone to sleep soon after this, and the Pere Noel must have put them back into bed again – for there they found themselves next morning.
It was very dark when they awoke, but the big Bourdon was ringing over the snow, followed by countless other merry bells from all the little churches. The two children danced into the kitchen, and there lay their little shoes filled up to the top with oranges and bon-bons and dragees as big as eggs. And by Simone’s shoe sat a battered little black rabbit, with a brand new doll; while Jean found a boat and an engine. They both found the little shining thing in their sabots, and Simone hung hers carefully round her neck, and so did Jean.
Then thy ran to wish their parents a Happy Christmas.
“Oh, Mother!” cried Simone, when the greetings were over; “I love the little black rabbit.”
“Madame X gave it to me for her,” whispered the mother to her husband. “Her little one would not look at it.”
“But the little shining thing is the best,” said Simone
The Blackburn Weekly Telegraph, 16th December 1911
Transcribed by Philip Crompton
Transcribed by Philip Crompton
All at once another shadow, bigger and blacker than all the rest, blotted them out- it was the shadow of a little boy who ought to have been asleep long ago.
“Bay,” he whispered across to the other little bed, “Bay.”
Silence.
“Bay! Bay! Wake up! Don’t you know it’s New Year’s Ever?”
At last, his loud whispers drew Bay from her land of dreams, and she sat up quickly. “Hugh, What’s the matter?”
“It’s New Year’s Eve.”
“Well? I knew that before,” said Bay rather crossly and thumping her pillow, preparing to lie down again.
“But aren’t you coming?” asked Hugh.
“Coming, where?”
“On to the hill. You know you said you’d come.” Hugh’s voice was very reproachful.
“Oh dear! Did I? It’s so warm in bed and I’m dreaming such a nice dream about a fat little dwarf. I’m just up to where he’s climbing a rope made of eels.”
“P’raps, if you come on the hill you’ll see a real live dwarf,” said Hugh, getting out of bed and tip-toing to the window. “Oh! Look Bay,” he cried. “Do come and look!”
Bay left her warm bed reluctantly and went to the window. But all her drowsiness vanished at the first glimpse of the world outside quietly sleeping under its glittering counterpane of snow. Not far away, the hill loomed big and black against the stars. It looked more mysterious than ever, with its groups of black trees and juts of rock breaking through the snow, and its watercourses, like dark scars lining its old face.
“Come on, Hugh, we’ll go!” said Bay excitedly.
“Yes, come on,” and Hugh skipped about the room in search of his clothes.
They dressed themselves, after a fashion, then stole downstairs with many breathless pauses, unbarred the side door and went out into the snow. They soon reached the hill and stood hand in hand looking up at it.
“It’s very dark,” said Bay.
“It’s very big,” said Hugh. There was a long silence, then, “come along,” said Bay.
So, they climbed slowly up the rough, crooked path, talking in whispers and looking eagerly into every gorse bush and hollow. Suddenly, Hugh stopped and called out, “Bay! There’s a little light on the top of the hill!”
And so there was, a tiny, flickering spark of light, no bigger than a single yellow gorse flower.
“Come on! Come on!” cried Bay, excitedly, and began to climb hurriedly up the steep face of the hill.
“Perhaps it’s a dwarf,” said Hugh.
“Or a princess!”
“Or a fairy!”
“Or a witch!”
At this they stopped again.
“Oh! Bay- supposin’ it should be a witch!” quavered Hugh.
Bay’s reply, whatever it might have been, was cut short by a cry from Hugh. “The light’s coming nearer!”
Yes! The light was coming nearer- flickering from side to side, growing bigger and bigger every minute.
Some little stones fell hurry-scurry down the side of the hill, as if someone higher up had knocked them out of place. Very soon the children heard the sound of someone or something running very fast down the hill. The light grew bigger; the footfalls grew louder; stones fell helter-skelter down; the children could even hear someone breathing very loudly and very shortly. They held each other tightly and kept their eyes fixed on the light. Another fall of heavy stones and the light became a lantern, dangling about a pair of very short, thin legs, which gradually became attached to a short, thin body – until, at last, the very queerest little old man came into view. He ran right against them before he saw them, and then he bounded backwards. “Ha! Who dares to stop me?” he roared and as he held the lantern up the light fell on his face -and at the sight of it the children felt more frightened than ever. A thick shock of long hair was tousled all over his face; and behind the hair rolled a pair of big loose eyes – and the children could see a huge mouth grinning in the face too.
“Oh Hugh,” whispered Bay, trembling.
“Now then!” shouted the object in front of them, in a voice that seemed much too big for his body. “What are you doing here?”
“We__ we aren’t doing anything,” faltered Hugh.
“Well then, right about turn and go back to where you came from,” snapped the old man, sharply.
“No! we don’t want to do that,” said Bay, plucking up courage.
“What do you want then,” he screamed impatiently.
“To go with you!” said Bay, with surprising boldness. Perhaps she had seen that the rolling eyes had a twinkle of kindness in them.
“Go with me?” The old man was too amazed to be cross. “Go with me! Why, do you know where I am goings?”
“No!” said the children.
“I am going to ring the New Year bells.”
“Oh!” they cried. “Do let us go, too! Do let us!”
“I never heard such a thing. No, not all the time I have lived on the hill, and goodness knows how long that is!” said the old man, staring at the audacious pair before him.
“Let us go. Oh! Do let us go,” they pleaded. “We’ll help you to ring!”
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” said the old man, slowly, “I don’t see why you shouldn’t.”
“Of course not!” said Bay.
“Of course not!” echoed Hugh.
“Of course not!” said the old man at last.
“Well come along then. Only don’t ask question and be careful when the wind comes along. He’s rather rough at times.”
“What ___?” began Hugh, but Bay stopped him – and they stood wondering and very excited on the hillside. The little man stamped up and down – stopping now and then to look at the children and to mutter to himself, “I never heard of such a thing – I really never did!”
Soon a sighing sound made itself heard very faintly. The old man said, “Ah!” and looked expectantly towards the north. The sigh grew to a whistle, the trees in the distance were lashed to and fro, and the snow was whipped into the air like sea foam. Then with a mighty roar the wind rushed at the hill as if he would like to blow that away too.
“When I say three, hold your breath and jump,” shouted the old man above the noise of the wind. “Now then! One, two, three! Jump!”
So, they jumped. The wind caught them up and tossed them about for a little in the air, rolled them up and blew them straight again- then bundled them one after the other in a line, or rather a zigzag, for the nearest church tower.
What a wind he was. What a strong, merry wind! How he teased Bay’s curls and what tricks he played with the old man’s poor little legs! At last, he landed them, breathless, on the belfry tower, and went to play among the gravestones and make believe a moan through the weeping willows. When the old man and the children recovered their breath, they crept into the belfry where the great iron bells hung, silent and old and dusty.
“Now be careful, and quiet,” said the old man. “They mustn’t be wakened too soon.”
“What mustn’t?” asked Hugh, but Bay stopped him again.
As the church clock struck twelve, the old man leapt at the big bell, and seizing the clapper, filled the air with a thunderous noise that shook the tower.
Then a strange thing happened. From out of all the bells there poured strange, white, little forms. They were scattered in all directions and some of them crowded the air near the children. Some were very thin, and tears and frowns lined their faces. Some were round and fat and jolly, with big smiles. Others were small and dark and sad. Oh! There were hundreds of them, of all sorts and shapes. The children were looking on in the greatest amazement and whispering together, when the old man jumped up to them again, and gathering the crowds of little beings together, he and they and the children jumped on the wind once more, and were whirled along, leaving the bells ringing of their own accord.
They went round the round of the churches in this way and when they had completed it there were countless multitudes of the little beings.
“Now then,” shouted the old man “get into line. Cares- Smiles- Tears- Riches- Sorrows- come along!”
They were crowded into an irregular line; the wind hurled them along through the streets of the town.
Suddenly the old man called a halt, and the wind put them down gently on the snow. They had stopped in front of a little house to look through the blinds and watch the pretty children dancing and playing. A great many smiles went in here – though tears and worries and cares went along with the riches. They went to a great many houses and sent the little people to those to which they did not go. At last, the old man and the children found themselves alone again – and they had a splendid blow home.
The queer little old man left them at the front of the hill. They watched him until his lantern looked like a tiny star in the sky and they shouted for the hundredth time,
“A Happy New Year,”
And the wind, who seemed inclined to stay up all night, carried the cry along until all the world echoed –
“A Happy New Year!”
The Blackburn Weekly Telegraph, Saturday 30th December, 1911.
Transcribed by Shazia Kasim
Spring
The Tour
The Trials Of An Amateur Gardner
A "Worthy" Face
The Modern Beau Tibbs
The morning’s at seven,
The hillside’s dew-pearled.
I was just that. “Just seven o’clock” the sparrows told each other as they grubbed for berries in the earth; and as for the hillside, it glittered with crystal dew – shinning out in all sorts of unexpected places and winking a thousand eyes at the child tripping down the pathway. She was out early, but, you see, everything was calling to her, and, being a child, she understood and answered. She wore a freshly-gathered snowdrop just over her heart; and the flower heard all the secrets which were hidden in that wonderful treasure-house.
At the foot of the hill a little stream was making a good deal of unnecessary noise as it rushed on its way to the far, far sea. The child sat down on a mossy stone.
“Good-morning,” she said to the stream.
“Good-morning,” shouted the stream above its bubbles. “But I really haven’t time to stop. I’m trying to get to the sea before Springtime.”
“Why?”
“To show her I have done something worth doing,” the stream roared. The child bent down and moved some branches clotted with dead leaves out of his way, and he bounded on with a great gurgling “Thank you.”
Willow branches, covered the silver-velvet catkins, waved over her head, and she could not hear them saying:
“Push on. Turn more to the sun. That’s right. Now then, all to work. Send up some sap for our breakfast. We are coming on very well. But Spring will soon be here.”
“Why don’t you wait till summer comes?” asked the child. “The sun would bring you out without any trouble then.”
“But Spring is the first of all,” they cried together, and we must make a good beginning. Hi, there! Hurry up with that sap.”
The child left them to their breakfast and wandered on the stream bank. Already a few little red-tipped daises were appearing like solitary stars, here and there. She watched them wake up, slowly curling back each dainty petal until the golden centre showed. The snowdrop thought that the child’s heart was like the daises – gold set in a white little soul.
“Why are you out so early? The child asked.
“Spring is going to pass this way,” was the answer. “We make her path for her. If you followed it you would find her.”
“I would find her?” the child was surprised. “Well, I will start straight away.” And she set off down the daisy path. The snowdrop lifted her delicate head and looked out of her pretty green eye. She whispered the way to the heart that beat beneath her, for she wanted to see the Spring – even though she knew she would die afterwards.
On went the child, up hill and down dale, through wood and meadow.
“We are coming near,” said the snowdrop. “Give me a drink.” The child unfastened the flower and dabbled the stem in the stream.
“Put me back,” implored the flower. “I want to die on your heart.”
“Die!” the child exclaimed. But everything else is just beginning.”
“We are the snow flowers; some one must cheer the winter. Flowers are needed more on dark days.”
The daisy path had been getting rosier and rosier, and now the child came upon a bower of trees in leaf. In the middle Spring slept. The violets grew around her white feet, primroses and anemones around her hair, May flowers kissed her hands, and all the lords and ladies stood round on guard. The child went in very softly and kissed her. Spring woke. She did not speak, but her eyes said everything. Then they went hand in hand down the daisy path, Spring and the child, and all the flowers followed them. They passed by the stream, and Spring stopped and drank. The child heard him shout, “The sea! The sea.” And knew that he had reached it just in time. They came to the willows, and spring stroked the catkins and left gold upon them.
At the foot of the hill Spring left the child and went on her way.
The child climbed up again. She looked down at the earth, lying in all its dewy freshness. The peewits wheeled round her and the cuckoo called from the woods. The snowdrop, almost dead, heard the heart leap up with a desire to follow the example of the stream and the willow.
But as she laid the dead flower in the damp earth the child whispered, “I would rather be like you – a snow flower in the dark days.”
The Blackburn Weekly Telegraph, 23rd March 1912
Transcribed by Philip Crompton
Transcribed by Philip Crompton