Part 2

(_b_) That, in their opinion, these children are well treated and cared for by their foster-mother, and that the children are not afraid of being beaten by her.

(_c_) That in their opinion the communications sent by the head teacher and her husband to Dr. Barnardo’s Institution were not warranted by the facts of the case.

The sub-committee, after most carefully reviewing the whole of the evidence, advise: “That it is to the interest of elementary education in this village that the head teacher should seek other employment with as little delay as possible. That no punishment book having been kept in this school by the head teacher prior to this occurrence she be directed faithfully to keep such book.”

So the forces of reaction had triumphed. First, accused and condemned by false stories put in the mouths of babes, eight and nine years’ old respectively; secondly, because the Higdons had written to the Barnardo Institution hoping to receive real justice from an impartial tribunal, not local village justice; thirdly, insulted about an ancient rule of Sir John Gorst’s _re_ punishment book, which other teachers in the county did not possess. Thus they were supposed to have received their quietus.

The inquiry was practically a funless farce. Higdon and his wife received short notice to vacate the schoolhouse (left in the lurch by the N.U.T., as at Wood Dalling and at Burston, where the representative, after promising that a slander action would take place as soon as possible, became frightened at his own bravery, and thought better of it), they felt inclined to understudy poor Joe, and move on.

At this juncture all seemed lost. The Higdons, poor financially and politically, having no rich Liberal nor Tory champion, were confronted with that “remove to a sphere more genial,” which their most Christian friends desired.

The Burston Dyaks seemed to have succeeded, when all at once a change came o’er the scene. Here entereth the school children. Not meaningless are the beautiful words, “A little child shall lead them.”

THE CHILDREN STRIKE.

The school children struck. They refused to attend the Council School. When they knew their beloved teachers had been victimised they refused to go back. They went on strike.

This was the finest, spontaneous, and most loving act of kindness that kind teachers ever had showered upon them. It was a fitting tribute and a real answer to all the calumny and slander.

Children know when they are loved. They cannot pretend as grown-ups can. Had Higdon and his wife been disciples of Whackford Squeers or advocates of the “Big Stick,” the children would gladly have sung Tosti’s “Good-bye for ever,” and good shuttance. But they struck in sympathy.

Here are we confronted with another great factor. The mothers backed them up womanfully. There are at present 56 children on Higdons’ books. There’s a juxtaposition, as the late-lamented Dominie Sampson might have remarked. The Babes o’ Burston and the Burston Braves.

That the women showed bravery is an undeniable fact. It requires more than milksop pluck to brave the farmers, the clerics, and the law.

An open-air meeting was held on the green. The village green is that portion of England left over after the squire and parson have cast lots for the remainder.

What says the good book, slightly altered? “A certain man went to Jericho and fell among landowners.”

Here let me insert the villagers’ reply to the Reverend Managers’ Committee and the Norfolk Education Committee:

That we, the electors and ratepayers of Burston and Shimpling, in peaceable meeting assembled on Burston Common, again protest against the action of certain school managers in bringing about the dismissal of the teachers, Mr. and Mrs. Higdon, whom we all desire to keep; we who are parents have been more than satisfied with the educational progress during the past three years; the children have liked going to school, and have been more regular in their attendances than ever before; the report of His Majesty’s Inspector is a most excellent one, so that upon no grounds whatever can we see any reasonable excuse for the removal of these teachers from the school.

The children wrote essays upon these exciting incidents. I have read them. They have given me great joy. Some are quite dramatic.

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE STRIKE. By a Strike Boy.

The night before we went on strike we had a meeting on the comon. (Nothing common about _his_ spelling is there?) Mr. Durbridge, who is a soldier now, had two lamps a light. All the children goin’ on strike. Went into a ring and held there hands up. So we all went into the ring. There were 66 children. The last night we went to the Council School we all had a Easter egg each and a orange each.

These were Mrs. Higdon’s parting gifts to the children. But she has not parted from them yet (Glory be!) and this was over sixteen months ago.

Other essays tell us how “the strikers marched with flags and banners, with cards on their breasts, ‘We want our teachers back.’”

One boy writes “that God sent fine weather a purpose for us strikers.” I hope he did, sonny.

Another states “how they marched round the candlestick.” This is a route march which consists of a twist and a double to pass the Council School and the Rectory, although there is no mention of the children being invited in to tea.

We gain information from these essays, “as to bobies standing round.” Evidently this boy has studied un-Natural History.

We also learn “how Mrs. Boulton brought a pale of lemonade and nuts, and we sang ‘We will all cling together like the ivy on the old garden wall,’ and we have done so except two Turncote blacklegs.” Not white Wyandottes, blacklegs.

Another budding Jim Mace perchance (for James hailed from “Swarfham where they do tree days’ trashin’ for norfun’”) informs us “that they had three or four policemen to gaurd the school, but (as he quaintly remarks) _there was no need_ for _them as we did not get to fighting_.” Evidently a good job for the policemen that Jack did not tackle them.

Yes, I have had great joy of these essays. Amy informs us “how she brought her mouth organ and Violet brought her accordeon, and how those Barnardo girls told stories, for they had not been caned.” One feels quite young as one reads of “Ben Turner borrowing two planks to write upon, how schoolmistress, whom they term governess, would come and catch us not redein, an’ we would have to do a slate full of trancription”—whatever that may mean.

One may read, mark, and learn “how the boys sat on planks with their legs in the ditch,” and “how when it was sewing day, we sat on the copper in the coal-house, and when it raned we ranned into the cottage,” and “how we had our liteness tooken twice.”

But some of the essays are grand and reflect credit upon all concerned. To read them brings back youthful days.

A SCHOOL ON THE COMMON.

So the children were taught on the Common. They had their old teachers, who taught as a labour of love and without fee. They received in return a few eggs, a little milk, butter, cheese, in fact, anything which poor people share with each other, not forgetting Burston smiles.

However, trouble was a-brewing. The Law Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold. The parents were summoned for not sending their children to school. On the 14th of May, 1914, thirty parents appeared before the magistrates at Diss, three miles away, to show cause whereby, inasmuch, as aforesaid, likewise hereinafter. Why not! Oh, Law! Lor! Perhaps you have had experience of engaging a lawyer to defend you from another lawyer?

The Burston Braves appeared before the Diss Solons for not sending their children to school.

I pause here to blame the children. Had the children been intelligent enough to choose rich parents they could have been taught in their own homes, including Windsor, Knowsley, Welbeck, or anywhere else. Rich parents have this slight advantage over Burston village bairns. Let this be a warning to the bairns.

The solicitor for the defence questioned the School Attendance Officer, who admitted that _he_ had made no inquiries to ascertain whether the children were attending another school.

By the way, what did that well-known writer say, whose name I do not know? “Man is an animal that looks above, behind, but never beneath his nose.”

The attendance officer had nothing to say on behalf of the Education Committee as to the efficiency of the old teachers.

The magistrates heard _one_ case. The Burston Brave proved that her little son had regularly attended a school conducted by the late mistress and master, so the bench inflicted a fine of five shillings upon her and 29 more women. These are hard wooden benches, aren’t they? I wonder what fine would have been inflicted if the children had not attended school!

But, knowing their antipathy to blacklegging, they could not do otherwise than stick to their old teachers.

In the certificate of membership, issued by the National Union of Teachers, is the following:

PROFESSIONAL CONDUCT.

The following is a list of the actions already declared to be unprofessional:

1. For any member to take an appointment from which, in the judgment of the N.U.T. Executive, another member has been unjustly dismissed.

How could the children attend the Council School then, when the N.U.T.E. had allowed this case to go by default? However, the Braves and Babes of Burston marched back to the school, pondering on Diss Law.

Speaking without bias, as the bowler said, I am thoroughly in favour of magistrates being chosen by the shape of their heads, instead of by the size of their wallets. Fancy mulcting poor labourers’ wives (to some of whom one sovereign is a princely week’s salary) of 5s. each.

FINED BUT UNDISMAYED.

They were fined again and again. But they held indignation meetings on Burston Green. Lovers of fair play and freedom flocked in, the money was collected, and the fines paid. They refused to crook the pregnant hinges of the knee. Their children should not return to Council Block, whilst old England stands upon a rock, unless proper inquiry was held, and the teachers re-instated. The opposition has simply strengthened their resolves. A little kindness, a little Christian charity, a little of the spirit of give and take in the early stages, and all would have been better than well. To-day, however, to deny men and women who, out of their daily toil, pay for education, etc., a voice in the management of what concerns them nearly and dearly is simply autocratic presumption. Harassed by law, denied the right to choose those whom they loved to teach their children, they determined not to be coerced. They refused to attend the churches or chapels. They held huge demonstrations upon the village green. The surrounding villagers and townsfolk came to hear and see. So the revolt spreads. “Those who came to scoff oft remained to pray.” Real, live addresses were given by friends, who reanimated the hopes of the past, crystallised the spirit of the dead Christ, and made hearts throb and eyes fill as they vividly brought before others the poor, persecuted, maligned, crucified friend of fishermen, Magdalen, and poor folks. The village green blossomed; the dream of brotherhood, fellowship, and fraternity, as prophesied by murdered John Ball—the so-called mad priest of Kent—became reality.

John Sutton, sheep dipper, baptised the children. John was also christened. Christened after his Christian name, he became John the Baptist.

Higdon and his wife and the villagers hunted around to find some lowly shelter for the little mites, some of whom had come from miles away to be taught. They found one at last. A blind man took pity on them. He let a carpenter’s shop to them.

A carpenter’s shop! And where on earth may we discover a school for budding humanity so pregnant with meaning as a humble carpenter’s shop?

Surely no palace grand, no poplar-dwarfing sun-kissed steeple, no Moslem mosque gold glittering in Eastern city, contains such deep meanings to reverent minds as a carpenter’s shop. No ancient mausoleum, no Egyptian pyramid, containing swathed mummy bones of ancient Pharoah, who scuttled through life’s short day, may call forth such sentiments, or inspiration to die if need be on behalf of the poor and the needy, the homeless and friendless. So to this humble shop came the children. Here came the boys and girls who had struck against Council Syntax and Burston Junkerism.

They were helped by their mothers. If the lot of the agricultural labourer, the Lazarus of civilisation, is hard, the lot of the labourers’ labourer is harder still. Little joy in life has she. Divorced from the beauties of science and art, no electric lights, no hot and cold water on the slopstone, no airy, fairy, decorated bedrooms, no well paved and lighted streets, no quick transit, no musical evenings, scientific lectures, melodious operas, sweet string bands, no cinema, no long cycle. No! Grinding toil. Dark, slushy, snowy lanes in winter, grime and poverty, poor wages, daily struggles, patching and mending, sewing and knitting, washing and baking, sometimes toiling and moiling in rain-swept fields for bare pittance, wearing sodden shoddy, or soaking on wind-swept wastes. Go to Burston and meet your sisters, keeping up their hearts on miserable wages, and even giving out of their scant doles a little offering to their beloved strike school.

With scarce a copper to bless themselves with, they rented the carpenter’s shop at £3 per year. Out o’ poorly furnished homes they gave their chairs, their tables, stools, lamps, knick-knacks, of little value perhaps, but potent as widows’ mite. They cleaned, scrubbed, scoured, and mothered that school, as they are doing it to-day.

Lucky scholars to have so much mother-love enveloping them! To have such mem’ries clustering round. To think that the world’s toiler, sweet son o’ Mary, spent His early college days in the carpenter’s shop. Was He not apprenticed to manual labour? Did He not sanctify it? May He not have rehearsed future discourses and similar surroundings, whilst sawing and planing, mending, making, and creating in His self-chosen University of Adversity, so that He might humanise the world, the world which to-day is deaf to His teachings. Had His parables, His philosophy of honest poverty, His contempt of lordship and riches been laid to heart, Europe would not be in flames to-day.

And, as my labour of love draws to a close, I grieve to say that trouble is coming to Burston village once more. The rector has given notice to three of the glebe tenants. The blind man, who let the carpenter’s shop, is one. This means the closing down of the school. Two other parents are also in similar plight, and this is a presage of further victimisation perchance in the future.

Shall all the anxieties, the struggles, and the hopes of the past sixteen months end in this clearance of the Higdons and their friends, the closing of the carpenter’s shop, shall it end like this? If so, I do not envy the rector his victory. Nay, rather do I think it will not only be a barren one, but a distinct blow against the religion he is supposed to represent. What Christianity is this?

A BISHOP’S ADVICE.

Three people have received notice to quit the globe. The Bishop of Norwich has been appealed to. The _Eastern Daily Press_, July 28th, 1915, which lies on my knee as I write, contains his photo. He is standing outside the Hospital for the Indigent Blind, in Magdalen Street, Norwich, with the Earl and Countess of Leicester, looking as though he had his meals more regularly than many village folk.

Surely he is interested in the blind of Burston, also? Shall they be ousted? Will he allow his rector to press this injustice? But he has been appealed to. Here is his reply:

The Palace, Norwich.

Dear Sir,—I am directed by the Bishop of Norwich to acknowledge receipt of your letter of the 15th, and to say that if the persons named feel aggrieved they should seek redress through the legal tribunals.

Yours faithfully, J. A. Parsons, _Secretary_.

E. B. Reeves.

So His Lordship, with income of £4,500 per year, palace, etc., advises three poor folk, one of whom is blind, to “seek redress through the legal tribunals.” This be certainly His Lordship’s grim joke. How poor folk, waxing lean and keeping families on between £40 and £50 per year, sometimes feasting on bread and lard, whilst glebe owners munch biscuits and cream, can indulge in such luxury as “_The Law_” passes what Darby Doyle would call “the wit av mortial man.”

The only law we can appeal to under these circumstances is the Law of Humanity. The ancient tribunal, _vox populi_, _vox Dei_: The voice of the people is the voice of God.

I would that these people had better advocate than myself. Their cause is founded on justice, reason, and truth. They want public inquiry which, I believe, will end in their well-beloved teachers reinstatement. The tyranny of the countryside is still a menace to freedom of thought and action. I have done my best to explain this.

To the Braves of Burston I tender my appreciation and admiration for their gallant sixteen months’ struggle. They are the pioneers. They are real live women, with red corpuscles dancing in their veins, not the phagocytes of serfdom. None but James Oppenheim, the poet, may do them justice:

BREAD AND ROSES.

As we come marching, marching, in the beauty of the day A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts grey Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses For the people hear us singing, “Bread and Roses, Bread and Roses.”

As we come marching, marching, unnumbered women dead Go crying thro’ our singing, their ancient song of bread. Small art, and love, and beauty, their drudging spirits knew; Yes! ’tis bread we fight for, but we fight for roses, too.

As we come marching, marching, we bring the greater days, The rising of the women means the rising of the race. No more the drudge and idler, ten that toil where one reposes But a sharing of life’s glories, “Bread and Roses,” Bread and Roses.

And you, chance reader, may be able, even in a small way, to focus the light of public opinion by either voice, pen, spoken word, or this booklet, upon this grave miscarriage of justice.

WHAT ARE _YOU_ GOING TO DO?

The time is quickly drawing nigh. Michaelmas Day, September 29th, 1915, sees the expiration of the glebe notices. Trades Councils, Brotherhoods, Co-operative Guilds, Associations of all kinds may help in this matter. Our brothers are laying down their lives in Flanders to preserve that heritage of the ages, Freedom. We want that freedom in Burston. The people require freedom to worship God in their own way. Freedom to have their children taught by those whom they love. Freedom to remain in the villages where their fathers died, and not to be ousted at the caprice of every gentleman whom they do not see eye to eye with.

Freedom is a goddess worth dying for. Here I express the thanks of the Higdons, and the Babes and Braves o’ Burston, to the many friends who have risen up.

A cynic once said, “Gratitude is a lively sense of favours to come.” Granted—and why not?

The recipient confers a pleasure in accepting. Our hearts are still full of hopes of help in the near future. The Trade Union Congress meets in September. Maybe we shall find more friends there. To E. B. Reeves, of The Bungalow, Norwich, I tender thanks. As Robert Louis Stevenson puts it, “He is a bonnie fechter” for freedom, vigilant, tireless, painstaking. To the many noble speakers thanks also.

Offers of help, orders for this pamphlet, friendly suggestions, and letters of advice will find him at the address: E. B. Reeves, The Bungalow, Norwich.

The fight after all is a real fight for “Bread and Roses.”

The same year that Calvin died Shakespeare came on earth. It was a real good exchange without any robbery.

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The National Labour Press, Ltd., Manchester and London. 18991

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“CASEY”

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