More Tales of the Ridings Part 1

More Tales of the Ridings.

by Frederic Moorman.

Melsh d.i.c.k

Melsh d.i.c.k is the last survivor of our woodland divinities. His pedigree reaches back to the satyrs and dryads of Greek mythology; he claims kins.h.i.+p with the fauns that haunted the groves of leafy Tibur, and he lorded it in the green woods of merry England when

The woodweele sang and wold not cease, Sitting upon the spraye, Soe lowde he wakened Robin Hood In the greenwood where he lay.

But he has long since fallen upon evil days, and it is only in the most secluded regions of the Pennines, where vestiges of primeval forest still remain and where modern civilisation has scarcely penetrated, that he is to be met with to-day. Melsh is a dialect word for unripe, and the popular belief is that Melsh d.i.c.k keeps guard over unripe nuts; while "Melsh d.i.c.k'll catch thee, lad" was formerly a threat used to frighten children when they went a-nutting in the hazel-shaws. But we may, perhaps, take a somewhat wider view of this woodland deity and look upon him as the tutelary genius of all the young life of the forest--the callow broods of birds, the litters of foxes and squirrels, and the sapling oaks, hazels, and birches. There was a time when he was looked upon as a genial fairy, who would bring Yule-logs to the farmers on Christmas Eve and direct the woodmen in their tasks of planting and felling; latterly, however, he is said to have grown churlish and malignant. The reckless felling of young trees for fencing and pit-props is supposed to have roused his ill-will, and sinister stories have been told of children who have gone into the woods for acorns or hazel-nuts and have never been seen again.

It was in the Bowland Forest district, which is watered by the Ribble and its tributary becks, that I heard the fullest account of Melsh d.i.c.k; and the following story was communicated to me by an old peasant whose forefathers had for generations been woodmen in Bowland Forest. The region where he lived is rich in legend, and not far away is the old market town of Gisburn, where Guy of that ilk fought with Robin Hood, and where, until the middle of the nineteenth century, a herd of the wild cattle of England roamed through the park.

"Fowks tell a mak o' tales about witches, barguests, an' sike-like," Owd Dont began, "but I tak no count o' all their clash; I reckon nowt o'

tales without they belang my awn family. But what I's gannin to tell you is what I've heerd my mother say, aye scores o' times; so you'll know it's true. A gradely la.s.s were my mother, an' noan gien to leein', like some fowks I could name. There's owd la.s.ses nowadays, gie 'em a sup o'

chatter-watter an' a b.u.t.ter-s.h.i.+ve, an' they'll tell you tales that would fotch t' devil out o' his den to hark tul 'em."

After this attack upon the licence of the tea-table, Owd Dont needed a long draught of March ale to regain his composure. I knew that it was worse than useless to attempt to hurry him in his narrative. Leisurely at the start, the pace of his stories quickened considerably as he warmed to his work, and it was not without reason that he had acquired a reputation of being the best story-teller on the long settle of the Ring o' Bells.

"'Twere back-end o' t' yeer," he continued at last, "an' t' lads had gone into t' woods to gether hesel-nuts an' accorns. There were a two-three big lads amang 'em, but most on 'em were lile uns, an' yan were lame i' t' leg. They called him Doed o' Billy's o' Claypit Lane.

Well, t' lads had gotten a seet o' nuts, an' then they set off home as fast as they could gan, for 'twere gettin' a bit dosky i' t' wood. But lile Doed couldn't keep up wi' t' other lads on account o' his gam leg.

So t' lads kept hollain' out to him to look sharp an' skift hissen, or he'd get left behind. So Doed lowped alang as fast as he were able, but he couldn't catch up t' other lads, choose what he did, an' all t' time t' leet were fadin' out o' t' sky. At lang length he thowt he saw yan o'

t' lads waitin' for him under an oak, but when he'd gotten alangside o'

him, he fan' it were a lad that he'd niver clapped een on afore. He were no bigger nor Doed, but 'twere gey hard to tell how owd he were; and he'd a fearful queer smell about him; 'twere just as though he'd taen t'

juices out o' all t' trees o' t' wood an' smeared 'em ower his body. But what capped all were t' clothes he was donned in; they were covered wi'

green moss, an' on his heead was a cap o' red fur.

"Well, when Doed saw him, he was a bit flaid, but t' lad looked at him friendly-like and says:

"'Now then, Doed, wheer ista boun'?'

"'I's boun' home,' says Doed, an' his teeth started ditherin' wi' freet.

"'Well, I's gannin thy ways,' says t' lad, 'so, if thou likes, thou can coom alang wi' me. Thou'll happen not have seen me afore, but I can tell who thou is by t' way thou favvours thy mother. Thou'll have heerd tell o' thy uncle, Ned Bowker, that lives ower by Sally Abbey; he's my father, so I reckon thou an' me's cousins.'

"Now Doed had heerd his mother tell about his Uncle Ned, an' when t' lad said that Ned Bowker were his father, he gat a bit aisier in his mind; but for all that he didn't altogether like t' looks o' him. Howiver, they gat agate o' talkin', and Doed let on that he were fearful fain o'

squirrels. You see, he kept all nations o' wild birds an' wild animals down at his house; he'd linnets an' nanpies i' cages, and an ark full o'

p.r.i.c.ky-back urchins. But he'd niver catched a squirrel; they were ower wick for him, an' he wanted a squirrel more nor owt else i' t' world.

"When Melsh d.i.c.k heard that--for o' course t' lad was Melsh d.i.c.k hissen--he said that if Doed would coom wi' him, he'd sooin gie him what he wanted. He'd bin climmin' t' trees an' had catched a squirrel an'

putten it i' t' basket he'd browt his dinner in.

"Well, lile Doed hardlins knew what to do. 'Twere gettin' lat, an' there were summat about t' lad that set him agin him. But then he bethowt him o' t' squirrel, an' t' squirrel were ower mich for him. So he said to Melsh d.i.c.k that he'd gan wi' him an' fotch t' squirrel, but he munnot stop lang, or fowks would consate that he'd lossen his way i' t' wood an' would coom seekin' him. When Melsh d.i.c.k heerd him say that he'd coom wi' him, his een fair glistened, an' he set off through t' wood wi' lile Doed followin' efter him. T' wood was full of gert oak-trees, wi' birks set amang 'em that had just begun to turn colour. Efter a while they gat to a dub i' t' middle o' t' wood; 'twere no bigger nor a duck-pond, but t' watter was deep, an' all around t' dub was a ring o' espin-trees wi'

their boughs hingin' ower t' watter. Eh! 'twas a grand seet, sure enif, an' Doed had niver seen owt like it afore. T' sky had bin owercussen wi'

hen-scrattins an' filly-tails, but when they gat to t' dub t' wind had skifted 'em, an' t' mooin were s.h.i.+nin' ower Pendle Hill way an' leetin'

up t' trees and makkin' t' watter glisten like silver. Lile Doed were that fain he started clappin' his hands an' well-nigh forgat all about Melsh d.i.c.k an' t' squirrel. Then all on a sudden he gat agate o'

laughin', for when he saw t' mooin' i' t' watter he bethowt him o' a tale his mother had telled him o' soom daft fowks that had seen t' mooin i' t' watter an' thowt it were a cheese an' started to rake it out wi' a hay-rake.

"When Melsh d.i.c.k heerd him laughin', he were fair mad. He thowt Doed were laughin' at him, an' what maddens fairies more nor owt else is to think that fowks is girnin' at 'em. Howiver, he said nowt, but set hissen down anent t' dub an' Doed did t' same. Then they gat agate o'

talkin', an' Doed axed Melsh d.i.c.k what for he was covered wi' green moss.

"'If thou'd to clim' trees same as I have,' answered Melsh d.i.c.k, 'thou'd be covered wi' moss too, I'll uphod.'

"'An' what for doesta wear yon cap o' red fur**??'

"'Why sudn't I wear a fur cap, I'd like to know. My mother maks 'em o'

squirrel skins, an' they're fearful warm i' winter-time.'

"When lile Doed heerd him tell o' squirrels, he bethowt him o' t'

squirrel i' t' basket an' wanted to set forrard.

"'Bide a bit,' says Melsh d.i.c.k, 'an' I'll show thee more squirrels nor iver thou's seen i' all thy life.'

"With that he taks a whistle out of his pocket; 'twere Just like a penny tin whistle, but 'twere made o' t' rind o' a wandy esh, an' Melsh d.i.c.k had shapped it hissen wi' his whittle. Then he put t' whistle to his mouth an' started to blow. He blew a two-three notes, an' sure enif, there was a scufflin' i' t' trees an' i' less nor hauf-a-minute there were fower or five squirrels sittin' on t' boughs o' t' espins. When Doed saw t' squirrels i' t' mooinleet, he were fair gloppened. He glowered at 'em, an' they glowered back at him, an' their een were as breet as glow-worms.

"All t' while Melsh d.i.c.k kept tootlin' wi' his whistle an' t' squirrels com lowpin' through t' trees, while t' espins round t' dub were fair wick wi' 'em. You could hardlins see t' boughs for t' squirrels. 'Twere same as if all t' squirrels i' Bowland Forest had heerd t' whistle an'

bin foorced to follow t' sound. They didn't mak no babblement, but just set theirsens down on their huggans, p.r.i.c.ked up their lugs, c.o.c.ked their tails ower their rigs, and kept their een fixed on Melsh d.i.c.k.

"Well, when Melsh d.i.c.k thowt he'd gethered squirrels enew, he started to play a tune, an' 'twere an uncouth tune an' all. Soomtimes 'twere like t' yowlin' o' t' wind i' t' chimley, an' soomtimes 'twere like t'

yammerin' o' tewits an' curlews on t' moor. But when t' squirrels heerd t' tune, they gat theirsens into line alang t' boughs, an' there were happen twelve squirrels on ivery bough. Then they gat agate o' lowpin'; they lowped frae tree to tree, reet round t' dub, wi' their tails set straight out behind 'em. They were that close togither, 'twere just like a gert coil o' red rope twinin' round t' watter; and all t' time they kept their faces turned to Melsh d.i.c.k, an' their een were blazin' like coals o' fire. Round an' round they went, as lish as could be, an' lile Doed just hoddled his breeath an' glowered at 'em. He'd seen horses lowpin' in a ring at Slaidburn Fair, but 'twere nowt anent squirrels lowpin' i' t' espins round t' dub.

"Efter a while Doed thowt that Melsh d.i.c.k would sooin give ower playin'

tunes on t' whistle, but he did nowt o' t' sort. He just played faster nor iver, an' all t' time he kept yan eye fixed on squirrels an' yan eye fixed on lile Doed, to see if owt would happen him. An' t' faster he played t' faster lowped t' squirrels. You see, they were foorced to keep time wi' t' whistle. At lang length t' tune gat to be n.o.bbut a shrike an' a skreel. Doed had niver heerd sike-like afore; 'twere as though all t' devils i' h.e.l.l had gotten lowse an' were yammerin' through t' sky wi'

a strang wind drivin' 'em forrard. Eh! 'twere an uncouth sound, and an uncouth seet, too, an' lile Doed's teeth started ditherin' an' every limb in his body was tremmlin' like t' espin leaves on t' trees round t'

dub. An' nows an' thens a gert white ullet would coom fleein' through t'

boughs, an' all t' time there were lile bats flutterin' about ower t'

watter an' coomin' so close agean Doed they ommost brushed his face wi'

their wings.

"Doed was wellnigh flaid to deeath, but for all that he couldn't tak his een off o' t' squirrels; they'd bewitched him, had t' squirrels. He put his hand to his heead, and it felt as though 'twere twinin' round an'

round. Now that was just what Melsh d.i.c.k wanted, and why he'd set t'

squirrels lowpin' in a ring. He couldn't do nowt to Doed so lang as he were maister o' his senses, but if he was to get fair giddy an' drop off into a dwam, then, sure enif, Melsh d.i.c.k would have him i' his power and could turn him intul a squirrel as he'd turned other lads an' la.s.ses afore. Wae's t' heart! but he were in a parlous state, were lile Doed, but he knew nowt about it for all that. When he felt his heead gettin'

mazy, he consated he were fallin' asleep; his een gat that dazed he couldn't see t' squirrels no more, an' he thowt he mun be liggin' i' his bed at home under t' clothes. Then suddenly he bethowt him that he were fallin' asleep without sayin' his prayers. You see, his mother had larnt him a prayer, an' telled him he mun say it to hissen every neet afore he gat into bed. Well, Doed aimed to say his prayer, but t' words had gotten clean out o' his heead. That made him a bit unaisy, for he were a gooid lad an' it hooined him to think that he'd forgotten t' words. All that he could call to mind was an owd nominy that he'd heerd t' lads an'

la.s.ses say when they were coomin' home fra schooil. He reckoned 'twere more like a bit o' fun nor a prayer, but all t' same, when he couldn't bethink him o' t' words his mother had larnt him, he started sayin' t'

nominy, an' sang out, as loud as he could:

Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, Bless the bed that I lig on.

"He'd no sooiner said t' words when all on a sudden Melsh d.i.c.k gav ower playin', t' squirrels gav ower lowpin', t' bats gav ower fleein' across t' dub, t' mooin gat behind a gert thunner-cloud, an' t' wood an' t'

watter were as black as a booit. Then there com a scufflin' an' a skrikin' all ower t' wood. T' squirrels started spittin' an' sweerin'

like mad, t' ullets yammered an' t' wind yowled, an' there was all maks an' manders o' noises owerheead. Then, efter a minute, t' mooin gat clear o' t' thunner-pack, an' Doed glowered around. But there was nowt to be seen nowheer. Melsh d.i.c.k was no langer sittin' anent him, an'

there was niver a squirrel left i' t' trees; all that he could clap een on was t' espin leaves ditherin' i' t' wind an' t' lile waves o' t' dub wappin' agean t' bank.

"Doed was well-nigh starved to deeath wi' cowd an' hunger, an' t' poor lad started roarin' same as if his heart would breek. But he'd sense enif to shout for help, an' efter a while there com an answer. His father an' t' lads frae t' village had bin seekin' him all ower t' wood, and at last they fan him an' hugged him home an' put him to bed. 'Twere a lang while afore he were better, an' choose what fowks said, he'd niver set foot i' t' wood agean without he'd a bit o' witchwood i' his pocket, cut frae a rowan-tree on St Helen's Day."