Part 14

Yes, the summer is gone, in very truth. With every day now, and every hour of the day, the writing on the wall shows plainer. While the hushed, hot times endured, it was still possible to believe red autumn as far away as ever; for not a leaf in oak or elm has changed, nor will change, perhaps, for weeks to come. But the tell-tale winds of the equinox are upon us, bringing the very voice of autumn with them; and the acorns are falling by the river, and the thistle-down drifting white upon the hills.

I began this day badly—badly, that is to say, from my own private point of view; which is a point, it may well be, like Euclid’s, having position but no dimensions, yet a point nevertheless. Chancing to wake with the dawn, I saw that the day was beginning with a beautiful smoke-pearl trellis in the east, behind which welled up an ever-strengthening fountain of silver white. Coming presently out upon the green under this pure pale glow of morning, I was startled by a cry that came echoing from the misty twilight of the hills.

‘Hi-up! Hi-up! Voller, voller, voller!’

Hoarse, harsh, undeniably brutal it sounded in the sweet, snow-white lustre of the virgin light. And then came the shrill blare of the huntsman’s horn, the confused yelping and baying of the pack, and the dull thunder of beating hoofs, as the hunt drove over the hill-top, and fell to drawing Windle coverts.

At once the silent village awoke. Windows were thrown open and heads appeared. Dark figures burst from cottage doors and went pounding up the lane that led to the hills. Round the covert the horsemen gathered in a motionless ring, while the huntsman drove his pack through the undergrowth, for ever urging them forward with that fierce guttural note, which was more like the cry of a wolf than a man. At length a fine cub fox broke cover, and led the whole company a ding-dong chase over the hills, and out of sight and hearing for good.

Some hours later, I met Farmer Coles and his two sons returning from the sport, the youngest, a mere schoolboy, mounted on a pony, his head, as he rode, reaching scarce to his father’s saddle-peak. He was in huge high spirits, displaying the brush, his share of the spoil, to all acquaintance as he passed. And the face of this yellow-haired, chubby child was bedaubed with blood, thick zebra-like streaks of it smudged across his smooth forehead and rosy baby cheeks. He was going home delighted, to show to an admiring mother how he had been ‘blooded’ at his first cub-hunt; and in all that country-side, I thought to myself as I passed on, there was scarce a man or woman of station and breeding who would not have applauded son of theirs returning home in such a plight.

Nor, though at the time the thing filled me personally with genuine horror and loathing, did I condemn it, nor wish to see its like made impossible in the land. For the sybaritish, lotus-eating danger is too imminent in our midst for any such fabian trifling: it will be a woeful day for England when we have bred out of our young manhood the last instincts of the healthy brute.

I got into Runridge’s skiff, in the absence of its owner, and pushed off into mid-stream, letting the little craft drift whither it would. Wind and tide together were setting strongly up-country. Swiftly the reedy banks glided by, as we bore through the meadows that lie at the foot of the hills. The summer was gone, indeed; and gone with it that sense of striving towards achievement. The year seemed to be resting upon its oars, as I was doing. All its fruit was set: there remained nothing now but to wait and let it ripen. It was just this waiting and resting that made up autumn’s greatest charm.

I set my elbows on my knees and my chin on my hands, and let the little boat choose a destiny for the idle pair of us. The bank was high to windward. We drifted in an almost unruffled calm, while overhead there sailed by an unending cloud of thistle-down, tiny verticals of sunlit silver, each gleaming star-like against the morning blue. Most of them took the broad river at a stride, disappearing over the opposite bank, but many fell upon the water. Thousands of them floated around me, and as far as eye could reach the water was grey and misty with them. And this was only one nook of earth in innumerable miles. How was it, I asked of the wind above me, that with such inexhaustible store of thistle-seed, she could not sow the whole land thick with thistles in a single season, and drive all other things from the fields? The answer was to be obtained for the mere raising of a hand. For it is not the thistle-seed that flies, but only the harmless thistle-down. Moreover, among the millions of air-ships that each thistle-patch sends off upon the wind throughout a breezy autumn day, not one in fifty ever bore a seed, or, if bearing it, contrived to carry its burden more than a yard or two. The curved seed-pod of the thistle is attached to its feathery volute only by the slenderest thread, and is brushed off by the lightest touch of the first grass-blade as it sails low over the sward. But the thistle-down, lightened of its counterpoise, bowls on for ever.

OCTOBER

I

WITH each October in every year for a long time past, I have watched for the going of the martins, but have never yet contrived to witness the moment of their flight. It has always happened in the same way. One day they have been as busy as ever about the roof-eaves, their chattering song pervading the house unceasingly from dark to dark. And then a morning comes, generally towards the end of the first week in the month, when I awaken to a curious sense of strangeness and loss. First I mark the unwonted silence outside the windows, and then I guess what has come about. Looking forth, I see that the little mud-houses, huddled together in a long row under the eaves, are deserted and silent at last.

But to-day, though I missed the departure of the martins as usual, I was not wholly disappointed. Getting up in the new silence and throwing the windows back, I looked along the roof-edge. Save for the chippering and fluttering of a few sparrows, there was nothing to be seen or heard in the dim grey light. But it seemed the little army could have been away only a few minutes before me, for while I looked, I saw the last of them depart. One single note of the remembered song broke out overhead; there was a whir of wings, and the little black-and-white bird lanced straight off, going due south unhesitatingly, as though the vanished throng of her companions was yet visible far away in the skies.

It was a still, grey, warm morning. There had been no dew. Everything, as presently I went along by the wood-side, was quite dry; and though it was barely eight o’clock, all the spiders in the bushes were hard at work weaving their snares. It was almost perfect spinning weather. On windy mornings, though the webs must be made, the task is difficult and the work seldom properly carried out. But to-day there was only a vague air moving from the south-west, and all the spiders had got to work betimes, and with light hearts.

The great charm in all nature study is to find out the truth for yourself at first hand. There are few things in my life I regret so keenly as the reading of nature books. This has robbed me of many a moment of pleasurable surprise; for to recognise a commonly accepted fact is poor substitute for its original discovery, although this discovery may have been made by others a thousand times before. Looking back over twenty years’ poking and prying in the woods and fields round about Windlecombe, I rejoice not so much at the many things I have found out, but at the fact of so many things still unread of, and still remaining to be discovered. This morning, as I went along by the bushes in the lee of the wood, and saw the spiders at work, it suddenly occurred to me that I knew little or nothing about them; and the recognition of this ignorance came to me as truest bliss. I fell to looking on at the ingenious, complicated work with almost as much anxiety and interest as the male spiders themselves.

For it appears to be only the female who spins a web. The big-bodied spider, so industriously occupied in every gap of the thicket, is always the female, though the male is never far off. You are sure to find him peering out from under one of the adjacent leaves, or treading timidly on the circumference of the web, trying to attract the attention, and thereafter, perhaps, the regard of its maker.

Spider nets and their weavers have, I think, never been given quite their place in the world of wonders. As far as human profit is concerned, spiders are useless things; and have therefore missed, because, from that standpoint, they have not merited, popular favour. But no doubt their ingenuity as craftswomen stands very nearly on a level with that of the worker honey-bee. The waxen comb of the bee, whose perfection is due to the combined arts of engineer, mason, and geometrician, is very little superior in design and carrying-out to the spider’s web.

On these still, grey autumn mornings, the tendency of the eye is not to wander far afield, but to concern itself with the little things of the wayside close at hand; and so, more than at any other time of year, perhaps, the spiders and their ways come in for narrow scrutiny. And here is something, in the first loving investigation of which the uninformed, unread observer is much to be envied.

He notices in the outset that these fine silken snares, hung by the spiders in the hedgerows, are of two kinds—the one placed vertically across a gap in the surface of the thicket; the other placed horizontally, closing up some shaft or upward passage-way in the heart of the green bush. The vertical net is seen to be composed of a number of threads radiating from a common centre, and upon these threads an ever-increasing spiral line has been laid, forming a regular, meshed net. But the horizontal web has none of this geometric neatness. It is a mere expanse of fine tissue irregularly woven into a sort of crazy pattern, and slung hammock fashion, completely closing the chimney-like hollow wherein it has been made. From a view of the finished webs, two other facts will be noted—the vertical net is supported only by lines springing from its circumference, and the spider sits at its centre in front; the horizontal net is suspended by numberless fine lines attached at all points in its upper surface, while the spider clings to the under side as she lies in wait for her prey.

But it is in the actual weaving of the nets that the interest of the onlooker will be chiefly centred. The maker of the vertical, or cartwheel, pattern of web begins operations in various ways, according to the conditions imposed upon her by the weather and the spot she has selected. Webs made in calm seasons, or when only light airs are stirring, will have few mainstays, and these may be of considerable length; but in windy times the spider will stretch her snare on only short hawsers, using as many as may be necessary to make assurance doubly sure. But in either case she will commence the work in much the same way.

First she goes to the highest point on the windward side of her gap, and turning her head to the current, begins to pay out a line behind her. As this floats out, she continually tries it with her leg until she knows that the end of the line has caught in the opposite twigs. Then she runs to the middle of this horizontal line, dragging after her another thread which she has previously attached to her original starting-point. From the centre of the first line she lowers herself vertically, always dragging the second line in her rear, until she reaches a twig below. Here she draws her second line tight and fastens it, after which she climbs to the horizontal line and repeats the manœuvre, only this time from its leeward end. Thus the triangle of mainstays—the first essential in all spider-web making—is complete.

The weaving of the net within this triangular frame is the next work undertaken. The spider, when she first dropped from the centre of her uppermost thread, made a vertical line in descending. Some point on this line marks the centre of the future cartwheel pattern of web, and this central point the spider now finds unerringly, and begins to put in one by one the radiating spokes of the wheel. When all these spokes are in place, she returns to the centre, and revolving her body quickly, she forms upon it a close spiral of four or five turns. This is to be her seat and watch-tower, whence she will keep the whole web under observation. Having done this, she now—if the morning is at all breezy—carries temporary stay-lines from spoke to spoke all round the web, these isolated circles of thread occurring at intervals of an inch or so between centre and circumference. But on still mornings this part of her work is omitted as unnecessary, and she proceeds at once to the main spinning of the net.

The construction of the cross-threads between the spokes of the web is always commenced at the extreme outer edges of the space to be filled; and the spider works inwardly, carrying the thread round and round from spoke to spoke until she arrives within half an inch or so of the central small spiral. But the two are never joined: an interval is always left where the web consists of nothing but bare radiating lines. The snare is now finished. The spider takes up her station in the middle of the net, with no more to do for the rest of the day but take what fair chance, and her own crafty ingenuity, may provide.

Yet, having thus watched the making of a spider-web from start to finish, and having noted all the details of construction here set down, there is something more about the matter which, if it escape the observer, will leave him in the rather disgraceful plight of having missed the most wonderful thing of all.

The spider’s snare is not woven throughout of the same kind of thread. Two kinds are used, and the difference between them is apparent even to eyes of very moderate power. While the triangle and the radiating lines are made of plain silk, the cross-threads are corrugated, and look like strings of tiny, transparent beads. A touch of the finger will prove that these beads are really adhering drops of some glutinous fluid, whose use is not difficult to guess. But how do the beads get on the line, seeing that this, when first drawn from the spider’s body, is visibly nothing but a plain filament of silk, like the rest of the web?

The question has been asked many times, and the answer commonly given is, I have come to believe, an entirely erroneous one. We are told that the thread used for the cross-bars in a spider’s web, when it first emerges from the creature’s body, is only smeared, not beaded with the gluten; but that after attaching each segment of the spiral to the spokes, the spider gives it a twang with her foot, thus causing the gluten to separate into beads. Here then is a fact such as one would read in the nature books, and unquestionably accept. But a little independent experiment with various kinds of strings, elastic or non-elastic, and smeared with different glutinous substances, reveals the fact that no amount of twanging will induce the latter to divide into beads, such as one sees in the spider line. In every case, the tendency of the gluten in the experiment is to fly off altogether, or to gather to one side of the string.

But to any that desires to know the truth of the thing, the spider herself will speedily resolve the difficulty. Watch her at work, and it will soon be seen that the beads are formed on the line not by twanging, but by stretching. At the moment each length of sticky thread is drawn from the spider’s spinnerets, it is destitute of beads. But the spider quickly stretches it out to nearly double its original length, and then as quickly slackens it; whereupon, before she has well had time to fasten the thread in its place, the beads will be seen to have formed themselves throughout its entire length.

II

Said Miss Susan Angel this evening, as I leant over the counter of her little dark shop, studying the rows of sweetstuff bottles beyond: ‘Th’ chillern here, ’tis real astonishin’ how changeable they be. One time ’tis all lickrich wi ’em, an’ next ’tis all sherbet-suckers, an’ then maybe ’tis nought but toffee-balls for weeks on end. But you!’—she turned me a glance full of smiling, proud approbation—‘You!—come winter or summer, come rain or shine, I allers knaws ’twill be nobbut black-fours!’

She reached down the ancient glass jar, and stabbed at its contents ruminatively with an iron fork.

‘Black-fours—ah!’ she mused, as the shining magpie lumps rattled into the brass scale-pan. ‘An’ I never smells ’em but I thinks o’ my ould missus as— Lorey me! how many long year ago! Fond on ’em, wur she? Ah! an’ scrunch ’em up, ’a could, quicker ’n e’er wan wi’ a nateral jaw!’

‘What kind of jaw, then, had she, Susan?’

‘Ah! I believe ye! My dear! th’ money as ut costed! All gold, an’ ivory like, an’ red stuff! An’ when ’a died— Did never I show ’em to ye?’

She disappeared into the little kitchen behind the shop. I heard a drawer unlocked; there was a sound of rummaging, accompanied by asthmatic interjections; Miss Susan Angel came forth again bearing a bulky parcel. This, as she removed various coverings, became smaller and smaller until, from a final wrapping of tissue-paper, there appeared a beautiful double set of false teeth. Miss Angel held them up to my gaze admiringly.

‘Left ’em to me, ’a did! ’Twur all writ in her will—“To my faithful servant an’ friend, Susan Angel, I give an’ bequeath”—an’ all th’ rest on ’t. Ah! bless her an’ rest her sowl!’

It seemed rather an appropriate legacy, for Miss Angel had possessed not a single tooth of her own in all the years I had known her. But the display of the treasure provoked a very natural commentary.

‘How long have you had these put by, Susan?’

‘Nigh upon thirty year, my dear.’

‘And never used them yourself all that time, although you—’

‘What!’ The old lady drew herself up, the youthful blue eyes in her wrinkled face flashing indignation. ‘What d’ ye say!—me use ’em? _Me_? Th’ very same as my dear ould missus chawed wi’? Shame on ye! Not if there was nought to eat but cracking-nuts left i’ th’ wureld fer us all!’

I took the rebuke in penitent silence. When she had restored the revered relics to their locker in the back room, she resumed her knitting in the great wicker chair behind the counter. In a minute or two she had alike forgiven me and forgotten the cause of her displeasure, as I knew from her tone.

‘How the evenin’s do draw in, to be sure!’ she observed, laying down her work. ‘A’most dark, ut be, though ’tis no more ’n six o’clock.’

The ancient timepiece in the corner promptly droned out eleven. Miss Angel clapped her hands.

‘What did I tell ye?’ she said triumphantly. ‘Wunnerful good time ’a keeps, when I recollects to putt un back reg’lar.’

She rose and reversed the hands for a circle or two.

‘That’ll do till mornin’,’ said she placidly. ‘Ye warnts to be a little particler i’ country places: ut bean’t like i’ towns where—Gipsies! I do believe! An’ this time o’ night, to be sure!’

I followed her sudden glance to the doorway. A heavy grinding of wheels had sounded outside, and across our field of view, silhouetted against the deep turquoise blue of the night, there passed what looked like a gipsies’ caravan. A bony horse toiled in the shafts, and a long lean man walked in front, dragging at the animal’s bridle with almost as much apparent effort. Lights shone from the windows of the vehicle, and its chimney smoked voluminously against the stars. As it went by, we could see another man sitting upon the steps in its rear, his squat bulky form entirely blocking the open door-place. The caravan pulled up about midway over the green.

‘Now, that wunt do!’ observed Miss Angel decisively. ‘We warnts nane o’ they sort traipsing about Windlecombe after dark, leastways not them as keeps chicken. ’Tis on your road hoame: jest gie ’em a wured as you goos by, my dear. Tell ’em as you warnts to save trouble fer th’ policeman.’

In nowise intending to disturb the gipsies, I nevertheless took the short cut over the green, passing in the darkness close by their queer, spindle-spanked, top-heavy dwelling. As I cut through the beam of light that poured from the doorway, a suave voice hailed me.

‘Hi! my man! Just a moment! Now, Grewes, your difficulty is at an end. I have intercepted one of the inhabitants, and doubtless he will— Yes: inquire of him—very politely now—where we may obtain water.’

The long lean man had blundered into the light beside me, carrying two pails. He was clothed in little better than rags from head to foot. A massive gold watch-chain glittered across his buttonless waistcoat. He turned upon me two gaunt, diffident eyes.

‘Water,’ he hesitated, holding out the pails helplessly before him. ‘Water, you know! Could you be so kind as to—’

The suave, flute-like voice sounded again from the depths of the caravan.

‘Now, Grewes! if I am to carry out the little supper scheme I explained to you, no time must be lost. When once they are peeled, potatoes should never—’ The owner of the voice appeared in the doorway. ‘Dear, dear! My good fellow! there you are, still standing there; and I fully impressed it upon you that if rabbit is permitted to bake one moment longer than— Grewes! give me those pails!’

But the long lean man had drawn me precipitately away. As we hurried across the green together in the direction of the well-house, he seemed to consider himself under some necessity of explanation.

‘It is his caravan,’ he said, ‘Spelthorne’s, you know. And I am travelling with him for a bit, because I was run down, and—and other things. One of the best fellows breathing, he is, though you mightn’t—I mean I so often forget what I— Of course, I really don’t wonder that sometimes he— Why! I have forgotten to unharness the horse! Do remind me—will you?—when we get back; but quietly, you understand? Spelthorne, he is the best fellow breathing, but— Oh, is this the well? It is most kind of you, I’m sure!’

He seemed in so strained and nervous a mood that I did not trust him to handle the heavy bucket and chain, nor to return unaided to the caravan with his burden. When we drew into the beam of light again, I could see Spelthorne inside, stooping over the little cooking-stove in his shirt-sleeves and a great sombrero. If anything, his clothes were even more tattered and soiled than his companion’s. At sound of our clanking pails he turned, stared, then swept me a low bow with the sombrero.

‘Thoughtless, very thoughtless!—indeed, most selfish of Grewes!’ he said confidentially, for the long lean man had hurried away to attend to the horse. ‘A good fellow, such a good fellow, you cannot think! But he has this little failing of sometimes taking advantage of any kindness that— But excuse me: I must get the potatoes on!’

I had hardly gone a dozen paces towards home, when I heard him pounding after me.

‘What is—the name,’ he asked breathlessly, ‘of—of this village?’ And when I had told him: ‘There are beautiful old cottages here, are there not? And quaint people? And charming country round about? Such a spot—isn’t it?—where two artists could find incessant inspiration, and—and—’

But the question had been put to me before, and too often.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ said I discouragingly. ‘The place is very quiet and humdrum, and most inconvenient—no railway and no roads to anywhere and—’

‘The very place!’ he broke in delightedly. ‘I shall persuade poor Grewes to remain here with me a month.’