Robert Michael Ballantyne
Freaks on the Fells: Three Months' Rustication
Story 1—Chapter 8.
Concerning Fowls and Pools
One morning the Sudberry Family sat on the green hill-side, in front of the White House, engaged in their usual morning amusement—feeding the cocks and hens.
It is astonishing what an amount of interest may be got up in this way! If one goes at it with a sort of philanthropico-philosophical spirit, a full hour of genuine satisfaction may be thus obtained—not to speak of the joy imparted to the poultry, and the profound glimpses obtained into fowl character.
There were about twenty hens, more or less, and two cocks. With wonderful sagacity did these creatures come to perceive that when the Sudberrys brought out chairs and stools after breakfast, and sat down thereon, they, the fowls, were in for a feed! And it was surprising the punctuality with which they assembled each fine morning for this purpose.
Most of the family simply enjoyed the thing; but Mr Sudberry, in addition to enjoying it, studied it. He soon came to perceive that the cocks were cowardly wretches, and this gave him occasion to point out to his wife the confiding character and general superiority of female nature, even in hens. The two large cocks could not be prevailed on to feed out of the hand by any means. Under the strong influence of temptation they would strut with bold aspect, but timid, hesitating step, towards the proffered crumb, but the slightest motion would scare them away; and when they did venture to peck, they did so with violent haste, and instantly fled in abject terror.
It was this tendency in these ignoble birds that exasperated poor Jacky, whose chief delight was to tempt the unfortunate hens to place unlimited confidence in him, and then clutch them by the beaks or heads, and hold them wriggling in his cruel grasp; and it was this tendency that induced him, in the heat of disappointment, and without any reference whatever to sex, to call the cocks “big hens!”
The hens, on the other hand, exhibited gentle and trusting natures. Of course there was vanity of character among them, as there is among ladies; but, for the most part, they were wont to rush towards their human friends in a body, and peck the crumbs—at first timidly, then boldly—from their palms. There was one hen—a black and ragged one, with only half a tail, and a downtrodden aspect—which actually went the length of jumping up on little Tilly’s knee, and feeding out of her lap. It even allowed her to stroke its back, but it evidently permitted rather than enjoyed the process.
On the morning in question, the black hen was bolder than usual; perhaps it had not breakfasted that day, for it was foremost in the rush when the family appeared with chairs and stools, and leaped on Tilly’s knee, without invitation, as soon as she was seated; whereupon Tilly called it “a dear darling pretty ’ittle pet,” and patted its back.
“Why, the creature seems quite fond of you, my child,” said Mrs Sudberry.
“So it is, mamma. It loves me, I know, by the way it looks at me with its beautiful black eye. What a pity the other is not so nice! I think the poor darling must be blind of that eye.”
There was no doubt about that. Blackie’s right eye was blinder than any bat’s; it was an opaque white ball—a circumstance which caused it no little annoyance, for the other eye had to do duty for both, and this involved constant screwing of the head about, and unwearied watchfulness. It was as if a solitary sentinel were placed to guard the front and back doors of a house at one and the same time. Despite Blackie’s utmost care, Jacky got on her blind side more than once, and caught her by the remnant of her poor tail. This used to spoil Tilly’s morning amusement, and send her sorrowful into the house. But what did that matter to Jacky? He sometimes broke out worse than usual, and set the whole brood into an agitated flutter, which rather damaged the happiness of the family. But what did that matter to Jacky?
Oh! he was a “darling child,” according to his mother.
For some time the feeding went on quietly enough. The fowls were confiding. Mr Sudberry was becoming immensely philosophical; Mrs Sudberry was looking on in amiable gratification; George had prevailed on a small white hen to allow him to scratch her head; Fred was taking a rapid portrait of the smallest cock; Lucy had drawn the largest concourse towards herself by scattering her crumbs on the ground; Jacky had only caught two chickens by their beaks and one hen by its tail, and was partially strangling another; and the nine McAllister dogs were ranged in a semicircle round the group, looking on benignantly, and evidently inclined to put in for a share, but restrained by the memory of past rebuffs—when little Blackie, standing on Tilly’s knee, and having eaten a large share of what was going, raised itself to its full height, flapped its wings, and gave utterance to a cackle of triumph! A burst of laughter followed—and Tilly gave a shriek of delighted surprise that at once dissolved the spell, and induced the horrified fowl to seek refuge in precipitate flight.
“By the way,” said Mrs Sudberry, “that reminds me that this would be a most charming day for your excursion over the mountains to that Lake What-you-may-call-it.”
What connection there was between the little incident just described and the excursion to Lake “What-you-may-call-it” we cannot pretend to state; but there must have been some sort of connection in Mrs Sudberry’s brain, and we record her observation because it was the origin of this day’s proceedings. Mr Sudberry had, for some time past, talked of a long walking excursion with the whole family to a certain small loch or tarn among the hills. Mrs Sudberry had made up her mind,—first, that she would not go; and second, that she would get everyone else to go, in order to let Mrs Brown and Hobbs have a thorough cleaning-up of the house. This day seemed to suit for the excursion—hence her propounding of the plan. Poor delicate Tilly seldom went on long expeditions,—she was often doomed to remain at home.
Mr Sudberry shouted, “Capital! huzza!” clapped his hands, and rushed into the house to prepare, scattering the fowls like chaff in a whirlwind. Fired by his example, the rest of the family followed.
“But we must have our bathe first, papa,” cried Lucy.
“Certainly, my love, there will be time for that.” So away flew Lucy to the nursery, whence she re-issued with Jacky, Tilly, Mrs Brown, and towels.
The bathing-pool was what George called a “great institution.” In using this slang expression George was literally correct, for the bathing-pool was not a natural feature of the scenery: it was artificial, and had been instituted a week after the arrival of the family. The loch was a little too far from the house to be a convenient place of resort for ablutionary purposes. Close beside the house ran a small burn. Its birthplace was one of those dark glens or “corries” situated high up among those mountains that formed a grand towering background in all Fred’s sketches of the White House. Its bed was rugged and broken—a deep cutting, which the water had made on the hill-side. Here was quite a forest of dwarf-trees and shrubs; but so small were they, and so deep the torrent’s bed, that you could barely see the tree-tops as you approached the spot over the bare hills. In dry weather this burn tinkled over a chaos of rocks, forming myriads of miniature cascades and hosts of limpid little pools. During heavy rains it ran roaring riotously over its rough bed with a force that swept to destruction whatever chanced to come in its way.
In this burn, screened from observation by an umbrageous coppice, was the bathing-pool. No pool in the stream was deep enough, in ordinary weather, to take Jacky above the knees; but one pool had been found, about two hundred yards from the house, which was large enough, if it had only been deeper. To deepen it, therefore, they went—every member of the family.
Let us recall the picture:—
Father, in shirt sleeves rolled up to the shoulders, and trousers rolled up to the knees, in the middle of the pool, trying to upheave from the bottom a rock larger than himself—if he only knew it! But he doesn’t, because it is deeply embedded, therefore he toils on in hope. George building, with turf and stone, a strong embankment with a narrow outlet, to allow the surplus water to escape. Fred, Lucy, Tilly, and Peter cutting turf and carrying stones. Mother superintending the whole, and making remarks. Jacky making himself universally disagreeable, and distracting his mother in a miscellaneous sort of way.
“It’s as good as Robinson Crusoe any day!” cries father, panting and wiping his bald forehead. “What a stone! I can’t budge it.” He stoops again, to conquer, if possible; but the great difficulty with father is, that the water comes so near to his tucked-up trousers that he cannot put forth his full strength without wetting them; and mother insists that this must not be done. “Come, George and Fred, bring the pick-axe and the iron lever, we must have this fellow out, he’s right in the middle of the pool. Now, then, heave!”
The lads obey, and father straddles so fiercely that one leg slips down.
“Hah! there, you’ve done it now!” from mother.
“Well, my dear, it can’t be helped,” meekly, from father, who is secretly glad, and prepares to root out the stone like a Hercules. Jacky gets excited, and hopes the other leg will slip down and get wet, too!
“Here, hand me the lever, George; you don’t put enough force to it.” George obeys and grins. “Now then, once more, with will—ho! hi! hup!” Father strains at the lever, which, not having been properly fixed, slips, and he finds himself suddenly in a sitting posture, with the water round his waist. As the cool element embraces his loins, he “h–ah–ah!” gasps, as every bather knows how; but the shock to his system is nothing compared with the aggravation to his feelings when he hears the joyful yell of triumph that issues from the brazen lungs of his youngest hope.
“Never mind, I’ll work all the better now—come, let us be jolly, and clear out the rest of the pool.” Good man! nothing can put him out. Gradually the bottom is cleared of stones, (excepting the big one), and levelled, and the embankment is built to a sufficient height.
“Now for the finishing touch!” cries George; “bring the turf; Fred—I’m ready!” The water of the burn is rushing violently through the narrow outlet in the “dike.” A heavy stone is dropped into the gap, and turf is piled on.
“More turf! more stones! quick, look alive!—it’ll burst everything—there, that’s it!”
All hands toil and work at the opening, to smother it up. The angry element leaks through, bursts, gushes—is choked back with a ready turf; and squirts up in their faces. Mother is stunned to see the power of so small a stream when the attempt is made to check it thoroughly; she is not mechanically-minded by nature, and has learned nothing in that way by education. It is stopped at last, however.
For a quarter of an hour the waters from above are cut off from those below, as completely as were those of the Jordan in days of old. They all stand panting and silent, watching the rising of the water, while George keeps a sharp eye on the dike to detect and repair any weakness. At last it is full, and the surplus runs over in a pretty cascade, while the accommodating stream piles mud and stones against the dike, and thus unwittingly strengthens the barrier. The pool is formed, full three feet deep by twenty broad. Jacky wants to bathe at once.
“But the pool is like pea-soup, my pet—wait until it clears.”
“I won’t—let me bathe!”
“O Jacky, my darling!”
He does; for in his struggles he slips on the bank, goes in head foremost, and is fished out in a disgusting condition!
So the bathing-pool was made. It was undoubtedly a “great institution;” they did not know at the time, that, like many such institutions, it was liable to destruction; but they lived to see it.
Meanwhile, to return from this long digression, Lucy, Tilly, and Jacky bathed, while Mrs Brown watched and scolded. This duty performed, they returned to the house, where they found the remainder of the party ready for a journey on foot to Lake “What-you-may-call-it,” which lake Lucy named the Lake of the Clouds, its Gaelic cognomen being quite unpronounceable.
Story 1—Chapter 9.
A Grand Excursion over the Mountains
Little did good Mr Sudberry think what an excursion lay before him that day, when, in the pride of untried strength and unconquerable spirits, he strode up the mountain-side, with his dutiful family following like a “tail” behind him. There was a kind of narrow sheep-path, up which they marched in single file. Father first, Lucy next, with her gown prettily tucked-up; George and Fred following, with large fishing-baskets stuffed with edibles; Jacky next, light and active, but as yet quiescent; timorous Peter bringing up the rear. He, also, was laden, but not heavily. Mr Sudberry carried rod and basket, for he had been told that there were large trout in the Lake of the Clouds.
Ever and anon the party halted and turned round to wave hats and kerchiefs to Mrs Sudberry, Tilly, and Mrs Brown, who returned the salute with interest, until the White House appeared a mere speck in the valley below, and Mrs Brown became so small, that Jacky, for the first time in his life, regarded her as a contemptible little thing! At last a shoulder of the hill shut out the view of the valley, and they began to feel that they were in a deep solitude, surrounded by wild mountain peaks.
It is a fact, that there is something peculiarly invigorating in mountain air. What that something is we are not prepared to say. Oxygen and ozone have undoubtedly something to do with it, but in what proportions we know not. Scientific men could give us a learned disquisition on the subject, no doubt; we therefore refer our readers to scientific men, and confine our observations to the simple statement of the fact, that there is something extremely invigorating in mountain air. Every mountaineer knows it; Mr Sudberry and family proved it that day beyond dispute, excepting, by the way, poor Peter, whose unfortunate body was not adapted for rude contact with the rough elements of this world.
The whole party panted and became very warm as they toiled upwards; but, instead of growing fatigued, they seemed to gather fresh strength and additional spirit at every step—always excepting Peter, of course. Soon a wild spirit came over them. On gaining a level patch of springy turf, father gave a cheer, and rushed madly, he knew not, and cared not, whither. Sons and daughters echoed the cheer, and followed his example. The sun burst forth at the moment, crisping the peaks, gorges, and clouds—which were all mingled together—with golden fires. Each had started off without definite intention, and they were scattered far and wide in five minutes, but each formed the natural resolve to run to the nearest summit, in order to devour more easily the view. Thus they all converged again and met on a neighbouring knoll that overtopped a terrific precipice which over hung a small lake.
“The—Lake—of the—Clouds!” exclaimed Lucy, as she came up, breathless and beaming.
“Impossible!” cried her father; “McAllister says it is on the other side of the ridge, and we’re not near the top yet. Where are Peter and Jacky?”
“I cannot see them!” said George and Fred, in a breath.
“No more can I,” cried Lucy.
No more could anybody, except a hunter or an eagle, for they were seated quietly among grey rocks and brown ferns, which blended with their costume so as to render them all but invisible.
The party on the knoll were, however, the reverse of invisible to Jacky and his exhausted companion. They stood out, black as ink, against the bright blue sky, and were so sharply defined that Jacky declared he could see the “turn-up of Lucy’s nose.”
The reader must not suppose that Master Jacky was exhausted, like his slender companion. A glance at his firm lip, flushed cheek, sturdy little limbs, and bright eyes, would have made that abundantly plain. No, Jacky was in a peculiar frame of mind—that was all. He chose to sit beside Peter, and, as he never condescended to give a reason for his choice, we cannot state one. He appeared to be meditatively inclined that day. Perhaps he was engaged in the concoction of some excruciating piece of wickedness—who knows?
Suddenly Jacky turned with a look of earnest gravity towards his companion, who was a woebegone spectacle of exhaustion. “I say, we’d better go on, don’t you think?”
Peter looked up languidly, sighed heavily, and laid his hand on the fishing-basket full of sandwiches, which constituted his burden. It was small and light, but to the poor boy it felt like a ton. Jacky’s eyes became still more owlishly wide, and his face graver than ever. He had never seen him in this condition before—indeed, Jacky’s experience of life beyond the nursery being limited, he had never seen any one in such a case before.
“I say, Peter, are you desprit blow’d?”
“Desprit,” sighed Peter.
Jacky paused and gazed at his companion for nearly a minute.
“I say, d’ye think you could walk if you tried?”
“Oh, yes!” (with a groan and a smile;) “come, I’ll try to push ahead now.”
“Here, give me the basket,” cried Jacky, starting up with sudden and tremendous energy, and wrenching the basket out of Peter’s hand. He did it with ease, although the small clerk was twice the size of the imp.
Peter remonstrated, but in vain. Mrs Brown, a woman of powerful frame and strong mind, could not turn Jacky from his purpose—it was not likely, therefore, that an amiable milk-and-water boy, in a state of exhaustion, could do it. Jacky swung the basket over his shoulder with an amount of exertion that made him stagger, and, commanding Peter to follow, marched up the hill with compressed lips and knitted brows.
It was an epoch in the mental development of Jacky—it was a new sensation to the child. Hitherto he had known nothing but the feeling of dependence. Up to this point he had been compelled by the force of circumstances to look up to everyone—and, alas! he had done so with a very bad grace. He had never known what it was to help any one. His mother had thoroughly spoiled him. Strange infatuation in the mother! She had often blamed the boy for spoiling his toys; but she had never blamed herself for spoiling the boy. “Darling Jacky! don’t ask the child to do anything for you—he’s too young yet.” So Jacky was never asked to help any one in any way, except by Mrs Brown, who did not “ask,” but commanded, and, although she never rewarded obedience with the laurel, either literally or figuratively, she invariably punished disobedience with the palm. Little Tilly always did everything she wanted done herself; and could never do enough for Jacky, so that she afforded no opportunity for her brother to exercise amiable qualities. Thus was Jacky trained to be a selfish little imp, and to this training he superadded the natural wickedness of his own little heart. But now, for the first time, the tables were turned. Jacky felt that Peter was dependent on him—that he could not get on without him.
“Poor Peter, I’ll help him—he’s a weak skinny chap, and I’m strong as a lion—as a elephant—as a crokindile—anything! Come on, Peter, are you getting better now?” Thus they went up the hill together.
“Ha! there they are at last, close under this mound. Why, I do believe that Jacky’s carrying the basket!”
Mr Sudberry was bereft of breath at this discovery; so was everyone else. When the boy stumped up the hill and flung down the basket with an emphatic, “there!” his father turned to the small clerk—
“How now, sir, did you bid Jacky carry that?”
“Please, sir—no, sir;” (whimpering), “but Master Jacky forced it out of my hand, sir, and insisted on carrying it. He saw that I was very tired, sir—and so I am, but I would not have asked him to carry it, if I had been ever so tired—indeed I would not, sir.”
“I’m not displeased, my boy,” said Mr Sudberry, kindly, patting him on the head; “I only wanted to know if he offered.”
“Of course I did,” cried the imp, stoutly, with his arms akimbo—“and why not? Don’t you see that the poor boy is dead beat; and was I goin’ to stand by and see him faint by his-self; all alone on the mountain?”
“Certainly not!” and Mr Sudberry seized Jacky and whirled him round till he was quite giddy, and fell on the heather with a cheer, and declared that he would not budge from that spot until they had lunched. Need we say that Mr Sudberry himself was the subject of a new sensation that day,—a sensation of a peculiarly hopeful nature,—as he gazed at his youngest son; while that refined little creature crammed himself with sandwiches and ginger-bread, and besmeared his hands and visage with a pot of jam, that had been packed away by his mother for her own darling’s special use?
“My poor lad, you must not come any farther with us. I had no idea you were so much fatigued. Remain here by the provisions, and rest in the sunshine till we return.”
So Mr Sudberry gave Peter a plaid that had been carried up to serve as a table-cloth, and told him to wrap well up in it, lest he should catch cold. They left him there on the knoll, refreshed and happy, and with a new feeling in his breast in regard to Jacky, whom, up to that day, he had regarded as an imp of the most hopelessly incorrigible description.
“Over the mountain and over the moor” the Sudberrys wandered. The ridge was gained, and a new world of mountains, glens, gorges, and peaks was discovered on the other side of it, with the Lake of the Clouds lying, like a bright diamond, far below them. They descended into this new world with a cheer. A laugh or a cheer was their chief method of conversation now—their spirits as well as their bodies being so high. “Not a house to be seen! not a sign of man! the untrodden wilderness!” cried Mr Sudberry.
“Robinson Crusoe! Mungo Park! Pooh!” shouted George. “Hooray!” yelled Jacky. The whole party laughed again, and down the slope they went, at such a pace that it was a miracle they did not terminate their career in the lake with the poetic name.
At this point everyone was suddenly “seized.” Mr Sudberry and George were seized with an irresistible desire to fish; Fred was seized with a burning desire to sketch; Lucy was seized with a passionate desire to gather wild flowers; and Jacky was seized with a furious desire to wet himself and wade with his shoes on. He did it too, and, in the course of an hour, tumbled into so many peat-bogs, and besmeared himself with so much coffee-coloured mud, that his own mother would have failed to recognise him. He was supremely happy—so was his father. At the very first cast he, (the father), hooked a trout of half a pound weight, and lost it, too! but that was nothing. The next cast he caught one of nearly a pound. George was equally successful. Fortune smiled. Before evening began to close, both baskets were half full of splendid trout; Lucy’s basket was quite full of botanical specimens; Fred’s sketch was a success, and Jacky was as brown as a Hottentot from head to foot. They prepared to return home, rejoicing.
Haste was needful now. A short cut round the shoulder of the ridge was recommended by George, and taken. It conducted them into a totally different gap from the one which led to their own valley. If followed out, this route would have led them to a spot ten miles distant from their Highland home; but they were in blissful ignorance of the fact. All gaps and gorges looked much the same to them. Suddenly Mr Sudberry paused:—
“Is this the way we came?”
Grave looks, but no reply.
“Let us ascend this ridge, and make sure that we are right.”
They did so, and made perfectly certain that they were wrong. Attempting to correct their mistake, they wandered more hopelessly out of their way, but it was not until the shades of night began to fall that Mr Sudberry, with a cold perspiration on his brow, expressed his serious belief that they were “lost!”
