CHAPTER IV

MY POACHING PUSSY—A ROMANY BENISON—MY FIRST TASTE OF HEDGEHOG

MY clerical life has been spent for the most part in green country places, chiefly amid wind-swept hills. Consequently one has learned to delight in the creatures that run and fly, the wild things of wood and wold and brookside, and this love of Nature and her children has never left me; it has companioned with me throughout my wanderings. Give me now an elevated crest commanding a broad sweep of field and forest, with the swift rush of keen air over the furze bushes, a footpath among the thorn-scrub where the finches chatter, the sedgy bank of a moorland stream from which I can hear the “flup” of the trout, or the call of the peewits somersaulting in the sunlight: simple pleasures are these, yet they bring a world of happiness to a man who loves the wilds more than cities, and the windy wold better than the stifling street.

Contrary to the popular notion that Lincolnshire is no more than a dreary expanse of black fenland soil intersected by drains of geometric straightness, I may point out that there are two well-defined hill ranges extending almost throughout the county—the chalk and greensand Wolds, and the limestone “Heights,” running parallel after the manner of the _duplex spina_ of Virgil’s well-bred horse.

On the western edge of the Wolds, overlooking a richly varied landscape, nestles the hamlet where I made my first home after marriage, and the country lying around our hilltop parsonage was an ideal hunting-ground for a naturalist. Borne on the rude March gales the wild pipe of the curlew greeted the ear as you met the buffeting gusts along the unfrequented ridgeways, and over winter snows an observant eye might trace the badger’s spoor. On summer evenings when the far-away minster of Lincoln was a purple cameo upon an amber ground, and the shadows creeping out of the woods began to spread over the hills, a brown owl would sail by on noiseless wings, or Reynard might be seen trotting across the sheep-nibbled sward towards the warren below the clustering firs.

Rambling along the wold one gleaming autumn afternoon, my attention was attracted by the rapid movements of some diminutive, fluffy-looking creature, which to a casual saunterer might have been a wren or a hedgesparrow; but after having stood quietly for a moment or two, a dark velvety ball of fur darted towards me, and in a most confiding manner ran over my boots, and sniffed at the stout ash-plant which I invariably carry with me along the lanes. For some time I stood watching the unconscious play of this tiny mouse. At last, however, I made a move and my wee friend fled like a thought to his retreat in the hedge.

On another occasion, I was seated in my old oak stall in the village church. It was a harvest festival, and a college friend was in the midst of his sermon, when I distinctly felt something nibbling at the hem of my cassock. It was a plump grey mouse, and on moving my foot I saw him speed down the aisle like an arrow. As fortune had it, the ladies in the front pew, being properly rapt in the eloquent discourse, escaped the disquieting vision of my church mousie.

These mice incidents, with a few more like them, were strung together and dispatched to the _Pall Mall Budget_, edited at that time by Mr. Charles Morley. My literary effort was duly printed, with pleasing sketches from the pencil of that peerless lover of pussies, Mr. Louis Wain, the then president of the Cat Club.

It was in the same parish that I had a favourite pussy, “Tony” by name, who would daily follow me to church, and wait at the vestry door for my reappearance after matin-prayers. But, alas, he acquired the poaching habit, a sure path to destruction, as I learned one day to my sorrow in passing the keeper’s gibbet at the end of a woodland glade.

One of my rambles with this pussy I recall quite vividly. One afternoon I set off across the wold intending to make pastoral visits upon a few outlying cottagers. I had got about half a mile from home, and, looking round, there was Tony just at my heels. I strolled along, and presently heard a squealing, and out of a clump of nettles came my cat dragging a plump rabbit. It was dead, and the cat, panting after his effort, looked up at me, as much as to say, “You’re not going to leave it here, are you?” Whereupon I remembered the saying of an old Gypsy, “If you had a dog that brought a hare or a rabbit to your feet, wouldn’t it be flying in the face of providence to refuse to take it?” So, picking up the rabbit, I put it in one of the roomy pockets of my long-tailed coat, and went on. The cat persisted in following. By and by, we drew near to a disused quarry, where the cat captured a second rabbit, which went into the other pocket of my long coat. By this time I began to feel the charm of the sport of that gentleman who sallies forth on “a shiny night at the season of the year.” The pastoral visits had now perforce to be abandoned, but on turning my face homeward, oh, horrors! there, not a hundred yards away, was a man on horseback, accompanied by a dog, and, seeing them, my cat scooted along a gulley up the hill, and was gone. I could not disappear quite so easily. However, as I did not altogether fancy a strange dog sniffing at my coat-tails, I made a detour, and the horseman passed a good way below me on the slope. You should have seen my wife smile as I plumped two nice bunnies on the kitchen table. We observed that those rabbits tasted quite as good as any you purchase at a game-dealer’s stall in the market.

* * * * *

Gypsies, as all the world knows, are fond of the hedgehog.

They do not keep him as a pet. They eat him, and roast hedgehog accompanied with sage and onions is a dish for an episcopal table. I never see one of these prickly fellows without being reminded of several experiences.

Once in passing along a town street on my way to the Archdeacon’s Visitation, I noticed not far ahead of me an elderly woman stepping out with a swinging stride. Her face I could not see, but she wore a tattered shawl about her shoulders, and her black hair was done up in small plaits like a horse’s mane at fair-time. “Gypsy,” said I to myself, and, hastening alongside, I greeted her in the Romany tongue. The words had a magical effect. Instantly she wheeled round and scanned me up and down with a puzzled air. There before her, wearing an orthodox collar and black coat, stood a parson who nevertheless talked like a Gypsy. Now in common with some ladies of high degree, nearly all Gypsy women enjoy a whiff of tobacco smoke. This old lady, however, declined a gift of the weed on the ground that “the brantitus” had troubled her of late, but she gladly stepped with me into a snug coffeehouse close by, where over our steaming cups we conversed aloud in the Gypsy language, to the complete mystification of the prim-looking manageress whose curiosity kept her hovering near. What that good woman’s thoughts were, I have not the faintest idea. I only know that she seemed amazed at the sight of a Gypsy in easy intercourse with a simple-looking cleric who appeared to be enjoying himself. Both, too, were speaking a queer-sounding language understandable to each other, but utterly incomprehensible to the listener. What could it all mean? Well, Gypsies at anyrate are not without a sense of humour; indeed, no one enjoys a bit of fun more than they. Taking in the situation at a glance, my Gypsy companion gave me a sly look, and, waving her hand playfully, exclaimed, “Never mind him, missis, he’s nobbut an Irishman, and can’t a boy and his mither talk a word or two in their own language?”

On my taking leave of the Gypsy mother, she bestowed this benison upon me: “The Lord love you, my son, and _may you always have a big hedgehog in your mouth_.”

Hedgehog, as I have said, is a dainty dish with Gypsies, and the old woman was no more than kindly wishing that there might ever be a titbit ready to slip into my mouth.

* * * * *

I am not likely to forget the occasion of my first actual taste of this Romany delicacy.

Charley Watland (brother of “Durham” Mike), a wide traveller, had told me much of the delights of a certain old-fashioned Midland horse-fair, concluding one of his glowing descriptions by inviting me to meet him in mid-September at this fair. Thus it came to pass that I set out one fine morning with my face towards the distant hills of Leicestershire. Of the day-long journey, I am now concerned only with its closing scenes. Pushing up a long, tiring hill, I spied over a hedge in the dusk two or three _vâdê_ (living-vans), some low tents with flickering fires before them, and dark figures moving to and fro. With what energy I had left, I climbed over a fence and made straight for the Gypsy fires. A tall _Romanitshel_, leaning against a tree-bole, was singing snatches of a song in which I caught the words _Beng_ (Devil) and _puri-dai_ (grandmother), but, on seeing a stranger approach, he ceased. The Romany greeting, which I flung on the evening air, caused a stoutish woman to thrust her head from the doorway of the nearest caravan.

“He’s one o’ the Lees, I’ll be bound. He talks like ’em. He’s come back from over the _pâni_” (water). Which, being interpreted, meant that I was a “lag’s” boy returned from over-sea. The idea tickled me so that I laughed outright.

Beside the fire which was burning brightly at the feet of the tall Gypsy man, children and dogs were rolling over one another in perfect happiness, and at my elbow a lad, peering into my face, exclaimed—

“I’ll swop _diklo_s (kerchiefs) with you, _rai_.”

“No, you won’t,” I replied; “mine’s silk and yours cotton.”

“_Pen mandi_, _baw_” (Tell me, friend), I inquired of the tall man under the trees, “Is Charley Watland here this time?”

“_Keka_, _mi pal_, the _puro_’s _poger_’d his _hĕro_ (No, my brother, the old man’s broken his leg) at Peterborough. He’s got kicked by a hoss, and he’s in the infirmary.” This was bad news, for I had hoped to meet my friend here and spend the night with him.

[Picture: Round the camp-fire. Photo. F. R. Hinkins]

A little way across the fields the lights of a village gleamed through the darkness, and, making my way thither, I sought for a resting-place, but in vain. Every available bed was already engaged. In and out of the taverns passed horse-dealers and rollicking Gypsies. Groups of Romany lads and lasses stood talking in the lane. Burly women with foaming jugs bumped against you in the shadows. Between the barking of dogs and the whinnying of horses, a word or two of Romany floated now and then to one’s ear.

[Picture: A child of the caravan. Photo. Fred Shaw]

Tired after my day in the open air, I turned into a by-lane to think matters over. A gentle wind rustled the leaves on the trees, and on the eastern horizon a growing light told of approaching moon-rise. I sat on a fence and watched Old Silver appear above the hills. Away from the village, I began to notice the sights and sounds of night. An owl on velvety wing fluttered by. Little birds cheeped in the thicket behind me. Field-mice squeaked in the grass on the bank. I began to feel cut off from the world. What was I to do? Walk about all night? Make a bed on the bracken in a neighbouring wood? Renew my search for a more civilized couch in one or other of the adjacent villages? Tramp down the long dusty road to a small town some few miles off, where I knew of more than one snug hostelry? Why indeed? Was I not out for adventure? I resolved to ask the Gypsies to give me a bed. Therefore, without further ado, I slipped through a gap in the hedge, and made tracks for the Gypsy fires already mentioned.

“Hello, here’s the _rai_ back again.” It was the tall Gypsy’s wife who spoke. My tale was soon told, and I was promptly offered a corner under Arthur West’s tilt-hood placed tent-wise on the ground. Now that my mind was at ease, I sat me down by the fire near which a savoury smell of supper arose. It was astonishing how quickly we cleaned the bones of several bird-like objects set before us.

“Did you ever taste of these little things afore?”

“Well, whatever they are, I shouldn’t mind if they had been larger.”

At this they all laughed aloud.

“_Dawdi_, the _rai_ doesn’t _jin_ he’s _haw_’d _hotshwitshi_” (Fancy, the gentleman doesn’t know he’s eaten hedgehog).

So this was the much-vaunted Romany dish, nor did it disappoint me. The blended flavours of pheasant and sucking-pig are still present to my memory as I recall that moonlit meal washed down by a jug of brown ale.

On awaking next morning, I realized the truth of the saying, “Gypsies get something straight from heaven which is never known to people who sleep in stuffy houses and get up to wash in warm water.”

When I recall awakenings in lodgings with the bedclothes, valances, curtains, falderals, antimacassars, all heavy with suggestions of humanity, I marvel no more at the Gypsy’s choice of a bed of crisp bracken or sweet straw, with maybe a wisp of dried river-mint or wild thyme mingled with it.

Walking bare-foot in the dewy grass with the Gypsy children, we made our toilet together in the open, with the light airs of the wold playing about us. Then came breakfast by the wood fire, and during the meal my host’s donkey affectionately put his cold nose on the bare of my neck. In a little while we stood on the common where the fair was in full swing, and, strolling among the horses and dealers, I spied a curly-haired son of old Horace Boswell, just arrived from Leicester, who found time to tell me a funny tale about his father.

Since early morn Horace had been riding a lively horse, and, dismounting, handed the reins to a pal and walked a few yards into the fair. As he was looking about him, he lighted upon George Smith of Coalville, who, arching his bushy eyebrows and stroking his great beard, stood shocked at the sight of a Gypsy walking unsteadily. As a matter of fact, Horace’s legs had not yet thrown off the cramp of many hours’ riding on a skittish animal. When solemn George opened his mouth it was to ask a question—

“Do you drink beer, my good man?”

“Well, my kind gentleman,” replied Horace, “afore I answers that question, I’d reely like to know whether it’s a simple inquiry or an inwitation.”

This was too much for the worthy philanthropist who, turning swiftly on his heel, went his way swinging his Gladstone-bag and gingham.

About the middle of the afternoon I sought out my hospitable friend Arthur West before quitting the fair, and, looking me straight in the eyes, he said, “Are you quite sure that you have enough _lova_ (money) to see you home? For if I thought you hadn’t, I should chuck a handful on the _drom_ (road) and leave it for you to pick up.”

How shall we ever get you to understand the spirit of these wanderers; you who coddle yourselves in hot, close rooms; who are wedded to the life of a mill-horse jogging in convention’s dusty track, and whose souls are imprisoned within the dimensions of a red-ochred flower-pot?