A Shepherd's Life: Impressions of the South Wiltshire Downs Part 13

It was well put; but I was not perhaps so entirely ignorant as he imagined of the nature of that special knowledge, or shall we say faculty, which he claimed. I take it to be cunning--the cunning of a wild animal with a man's brain--and a small, an infinitesimal, dose of something else which eludes us. But that something else is not of a spiritual nature: the gipsy has no such thing in him; the soul growths are rooted in the social instinct, and are developed in those in whom that instinct is strong. I think that if we a.n.a.lyse that dose of something else, we will find that it is still the animal's cunning, a special, a sublimated cunning, the fine flower of his whole nature, and that it has nothing mysterious in it. He is a parasite, but free and as well able to exist free as the fox or jackal; but the parasitism pays him well, and he has followed it so long in his intercourse with social man that it has come to be like an instinct, or secret knowledge, and is nothing more than a marvellously keen penetration which reveals to him the character and degree of credulity and other mental weaknesses of his subject.

It is not so much the wind on the heath, brother, as the fascination of lawlessness, which makes his life an everlasting joy to him; to pit himself against gamekeeper, farmer, policeman, and everybody else, and defeat them all, to flourish like the parasitic fly on the honey in the hive and escape the wrath of the bees.

I must now return from this long digression to my conversation with the shepherd about the dark people of the village.

There were, I continued, other black-eyed and black-haired people in the villages who had no gipsy blood in their veins. So far as I could make out there were dark people of three originally distinct and widely different races in the Wilts.h.i.+re Downs. There was a good deal of mixed blood, no doubt, and many dark persons could not be identified as belonging to any particular race. Nevertheless three distinct types could be traced among the dark people, and I took them to be, first, the gipsy, rather short of stature, brown-skinned, with broad face and high cheek-bones, like the men we had just been speaking of. Secondly, the men and women of white skins and good features, who had rather broad faces and round heads, and were physically and mentally just as good as the best blue-eyed people; these were probably the descendants of the dark, broad-faced Wilsetas, who came over at the time when the country was being overrun with the English and other nations or tribes, and who colonized in Wilts.h.i.+re and gave it their name. The third type differed widely from both the others. They were smallest in size and had narrow heads and long or oval faces, and were very dark, with brown skins; they also differed mentally from the others, being of a more lively disposition and hotter temper. The characters which distinguish the ancient British or Iberian race appeared to predominate in persons of this type.

The shepherd said he didn't know much about "all that," but he remembered that they once had a man in the village who was like the last kind I had described. He was a labourer named Tark, who had several sons, and when they were grown up there was a last one born: he had to be the last because his mother died when she gave him birth; and that last one was like his father, small, very dark-skinned, with eyes like sloes, and exceedingly lively and active.

Tark, himself, he said, was the liveliest, most amusing man he had ever known, and the quickest to do things, whatever it was he was asked to do, but he was not industrious and not thrifty. The Tarks were always very poor. He had a good ear for music and was a singer of the old songs--he seemed to know them all. One of his performances was with a pair of cymbals which he had made for himself out of some old metal plates, and with these he used to play while dancing about, clas.h.i.+ng them in time, striking them on his head, his breast, and legs. In these dances with the cymbals he would whirl and leap about in an astonis.h.i.+ng way, standing sometimes on his hands, then on his feet, so that half the people in the village used to gather at his cottage to watch his antics on a summer evening.

One afternoon he was coming down the village street and saw the blacksmith standing near his cottage looking up at a tall fir-tree which grew there on his ground. "What be looking at?" cried Tark. The blacksmith pointed to a branch, the lowest branch of all, but about forty feet from the ground, and said a chaffinch had his nest in it, about three feet from the trunk, which his little son had set his heart on having. He had promised to get it down for him, but there was no long ladder and he didn't know how to get it.

Tark laughed and said that for half a gallon of beer he would go up legs first and take the nest and bring it down in one hand, which he would not use in climbing, and would come down as he went up, head first.

"Do it, then," said the blacksmith, "and I'll stand the half gallon."

Tark ran to the tree, and turning over and standing on his hands, clasped the bole with his legs and then with his arms and went up to the branch, when taking the nest and holding it in one hand, he came down head first to the ground in safety.

There were other anecdotes of his liveliness and agility. Then followed the story of the youngest son, known as Liddy. "I don't rightly know,"

said Caleb, "what the name was he was given when they christened 'n; but he were always called Liddy, and n.o.body knowed any other name for him."

Liddy's grown-up brothers all left home when he was a small boy: one enlisted and was sent to India and never returned; the other two went to America, so it was said. He was twelve years old when his father died, and he had to s.h.i.+ft for himself; but he was no worse off on that account, as they had always been very poor owing to poor Tark's love of beer. Before long he got employed by a small working farmer who kept a few cows and a pair of horses and used to buy wethers to fatten them, and these the boy kept on the down.

Liddy was always a "leetel chap," and looked no more than nine when twelve, so that he could do no heavy work; but he was a very willing and active little fellow, with a sweet temper, and so lively and full of fun as to be a favourite with everybody in the village. The men would laugh at his pranks, especially when he came from the fields on the old plough horse and urged him to a gallop, sitting with his face to the tail; and they would say that he was like his father, and would never be much good except to make people laugh. But the women had a tender feeling for him, because, although motherless and very poor, he yet contrived to be always clean and neat. He took the greatest care of his poor clothes, was.h.i.+ng and mending them himself. He also took an intense interest in his wethers, and almost every day he would go to Caleb, tending his flock on the down, to sit by him and ask a hundred questions about sheep and their management. He looked on Caleb, as head-shepherd on a good-sized farm, as the most important and most fortunate person he knew, and was very proud to have him as guide, philosopher, and friend.

Now it came to pa.s.s that once in a small lot of thirty or forty wethers which the farmer had bought at a sheep-fair and brought home it was discovered that one was a ewe--a ewe that would perhaps at some future day have a lamb! Liddy was greatly excited at the discovery; he went to Caleb and told him about it, almost crying at the thought that his master would get rid of it. For what use would it be to him? but what a loss it would be! And at last, plucking up courage, he went to the farmer and begged and prayed to be allowed to keep the ewe, and the farmer laughed at him; but he was a little touched at the boy's feeling, and at last consented. Then Liddy was the happiest boy in the village, and whenever he got the chance he would go out to Caleb on the down to talk about and give him news of the one beloved ewe. And one day, after about nineteen or twenty weeks, Caleb, out with his flock, heard shouts at a distance, and, turning to look, saw Liddy coming at great speed towards him, shouting out some great news as he ran; but what it was Caleb could not make out, even when the little fellow had come to him, for his excitement made him incoherent. The ewe had lambed, and there were twins--two strong healthy lambs, most beautiful to see! Nothing so wonderful had ever happened in his life before! And now he sought out his friend oftener than ever, to talk of his beloved lambs, and to receive the most minute directions about their care. Caleb, who is not a laughing man, could not help laughing a little when he recalled poor Liddy's enthusiasm. But that beautiful s.h.i.+ning chapter in the poor boy's life could not last, and when the lambs were grown they were sold, and so were all the wethers, then Liddy, not being wanted, had to find something else to do.

I was too much interested in this story to let the subject drop. What had been Liddy's after-life? Very uneventful: there was, in fact, nothing in it, nor in him, except an intense love for all things, especially animals; and nothing happened to him until the end, for he has been dead now these nine or ten years. In his next place he was engaged, first, as carter's boy, and then under-carter, and all his love was lavished on the horses. They were more to him than sheep, and he could love them without pain, since they were not being prepared for the butcher with his abhorred knife. Liddy's love and knowledge of horses became known outside of his own little circle, and he was offered and joyfully accepted a place in the stables of a wealthy young gentleman farmer, who kept a large establishment and was a hunting man. From stable-boy he was eventually promoted to groom. Occasionally he would reappear in his native place. His home was but a few miles away, and when out exercising a horse he appeared to find it a pleasure to trot down the old street, where as a farmer's boy he used to make the village laugh at his antics. But he was very much changed from the poor boy, who was often hatless and barefooted, to the groom in his neat, well-fitting black suit, mounted on a showy horse.

In this place he continued about thirty years, and was married and had several children and was very happy, and then came a great disaster. His employer having met with heavy losses sold all his horses and got rid of his servants, and Liddy had to go. This great change, and above all his grief at the loss of his beloved horses, was more than he could endure.

He became melancholy and spent his days in silent brooding, and by and by, to everybody's surprise, Liddy fell ill, for he was in the prime of life and had always been singularly healthy. Then to astonish people still more, he died. What ailed him--what killed him? every one asked of the doctor; and his answer was that he had no disease--that nothing ailed him except a broken heart; and that was what killed poor Liddy.

In conclusion I will relate a little incident which occurred several months later, when I was again on a visit to my old friend the shepherd.

We were sitting together on a Sunday evening, when his old wife looked out and said, "Lor, here be Mrs. Taylor with her children coming in to see us." And Mrs. Taylor soon appeared, wheeling her baby in a perambulator, with two little girls following. She was a comely, round, rosy little woman, with black hair, black eyes, and a singularly sweet expression, and her three pretty little children were like her. She stayed half an hour in pleasant chat, then went her way down the road to her home. Who, I asked, was Mrs. Taylor?

Bawcombe said that in a way she was a native of their old village of Winterbourne Bishop: at least her father was. She had married a man who had taken a farm near them, and after having known her as a young girl they had been glad to have her again as a neighbour. "She's a daughter of that Liddy I told 'ee about some time ago," he said.

CHAPTER XX

SOME SHEEP-DOGS

Breaking a sheep-dog--The shepherd buys a pup--His training--He refuses to work--He chases a swallow and is put to death--The shepherd's remorse--Bob, the sheep-dog--How he was bitten by an adder--Period of the dog's receptivity--Tramp, the sheep-dog--Roaming lost about the country--A rage of hunger--Sheep-killing dogs--Dogs running wild--Anecdotes--A Russian sheep-dog--Caleb parts with Tramp

To Caleb the proper training of a dog was a matter of the very first importance. A man, he considered, must have not only a fair amount of intelligence, but also experience, and an even temper, and a little sympathy as well, to sum up the animal in hand--its special apt.i.tudes, its limitations, its disposition, and that something in addition, which he called a "kink," and would probably have described as its idiosyncrasy if he had known the word. There was as much individual difference among dogs as there is in boys; but if the breed was right, and you went the right way about it, you could hardly fail to get a good servant. If a dog was not properly broken, if its trainer had not made the most of it, he was not a "good shepherd": he lacked the intelligence--"understanding" was his word--or else the knowledge or patience or persistence to do his part. It was, however, possible for the best shepherd to make mistakes, and one of the greatest to be made, which was not uncommon, was to embark on the long and laborious business of training an animal of mixed blood--a sheep-dog with a taint of terrier, retriever, or some other unsuitable breed in him. In discussing this subject with other shepherds I generally found that those who were in perfect agreement with Caleb on this point were men who were somewhat like him in character, and who regarded their work with the sheep as so important that it must be done thoroughly in every detail and in the best way. One of the best shepherds I know, who is sixty years old and has been on the same downland sheep-farm all his life, a.s.sures me that he has never had and never would have a dog which was trained by another. But the shepherd of the ordinary kind says that he doesn't care much about the animal's parentage, or that he doesn't trouble to inquire into its pedigree: he breaks the animal, and finds that he does pretty well, even when he has some strange blood in him; finally, that all dogs have faults and you must put up with them. Caleb would say of such a man that he was not a "good shepherd." One of his saddest memories was of a dog which he bought and broke without having made the necessary inquiries about its parentage.

It happened that a shepherd of the village, who had taken a place at a distant farm, was anxious to dispose of a litter of pups before leaving, and he asked Caleb to have one. Caleb refused. "My dog's old, I know,"

he said, "but I don't want a pup now and I won't have 'n."

A day or two later the man came back and said he had kept one of the best of the five for him--he had got rid of all the others. "You can't do better," he persisted. "No," said Caleb, "what I said I say again. I won't have 'n, I've no money to buy a dog."

"Never mind about money," said the other. "You've got a bell I like the sound of; give he to me and take the pup." And so the exchange was made, a copper bell for a nice black pup with a white collar; its mother, Bawcombe knew, was a good sheep-dog, but about the other parent he made no inquiries.

On receiving the pup he was told that its name was Tory, and he did not change it. It was always difficult, he explained, to find a name for a dog--a name, that is to say, which anyone would say was a proper name for a dog and not a foolish name. One could think of a good many proper names--Jack and Watch, and so on--but in each case one would remember some dog which had been called by that name, and it seemed to belong to that particular well-remembered dog and to no other, and so in the end because of this difficulty he allowed the name to remain.

The dog had not cost him much to buy, but as it was only a few weeks old he had to keep it at his own cost for fully six months before beginning the business of breaking it, which would take from three to six months longer. A dog cannot be put to work before he is quite half a year old unless he is exceptionally vigorous. Sheep are timid creatures, but not unintelligent, and they can distinguish between the seasoned old sheep-dog, whose furious onset and bite they fear, and the raw young recruit as easily as the rook can distinguish between the man with a gun and the man of straw with a broomstick under his arm. They will turn upon and attack the young dog, and chase him away with his tail between his legs. He will also work too furiously for his strength and then collapse, with the result that he will make a cowardly sheep-dog, or, as the shepherds say, "brokenhearted."

Another thing. He must be made to work at first with an old sheep-dog, for though he has the impulse to fly about and do something, he does not know what to do and does not understand his master's gestures and commands. He must have an object-lesson, he must see the motion and hear the word and mark how the old dog flies to this or that point and what he does. The word of command or the gesture thus becomes a.s.sociated in his mind with a particular action on his part. But he must not be given too many object-lessons or he will lose more than he will gain--a something which might almost be described as a sense of individual responsibility. That is to say, responsibility to the human master who delegates his power to him. Instead of taking his power directly from the man he takes it from the dog, and this becomes a fixed habit so quickly that many shepherds say that if you give more than from three to six lessons of this kind to a young dog you will spoil him. He will need the masters.h.i.+p of the other dog, and will thereafter always be at a loss and work in an uncertain way.

A timid or unwilling young dog is often coupled with the old dog two or three times, but this method has its dangers too, as it may be too much for the young dog's strength, and give him that "broken-heart" from which he will never recover; he will never be a good sheep-dog.

To return to Tory. In due time he was trained and proved quick to learn and willing to work, so that before long he began to be useful and was much wanted with the sheep, as the old dog was rapidly growing stiffer on his legs and harder of hearing.

One day the lambs were put into a field which was half clover and half rape, and it was necessary to keep them on the clover. This the young dog could not or would not understand; again and again he allowed the lambs to go to the rape, which so angered Caleb that he threw his crook at him. Tory turned and gave him a look, then came very quietly and placed himself behind his master. From that moment he refused to obey, and Bawcombe, after exhausting all his arts of persuasion, gave it up and did as well as he could without his a.s.sistance.

That evening after folding-time he by chance met a shepherd he was well acquainted with and told him of the trouble he was in over Tory.

"You tie him up for a week," said the shepherd, "and treat him well till he forgets all about it, and he'll be the same as he was before you offended him. He's just like old Tom--he's got his father's temper."

"What's that you say?" exclaimed Bawcombe. "Be you saying that Tory's old Tom's son? I'd never have taken him if I'd known that. Tom's not pure-bred--he's got retriever's blood."

"Well, 'tis known, and I could have told 'ee, if thee'd asked me," said the shepherd. "But you do just as I tell 'ee, and it'll be all right with the dog."

Tory was accordingly tied up at home and treated well and spoken kindly to and patted on the head, so that there would be no unpleasantness between master and servant, and if he was an intelligent animal he would know that the crook had been thrown not to hurt but merely to express disapproval of his naughtiness.

Then came a busy day for the shepherd, when the lambs were trimmed before being taken to the Wilton sheep-fair. There was Bawcombe, his boy, the decrepit old dog, and Tory to do the work, but when the time came to start Tory refused to do anything.

When sent to turn the lambs he walked off to a distance of about twenty yards, sat down and looked at his master. Caleb hoped he would come round presently when he saw them all at work, and so they did the best they could without him for a time; but the old dog was stiffer and harder of hearing than ever, and as they could not get on properly Caleb went at intervals to Tory and tried to coax him to give them his help; and every time he was spoken to he would get up and come to his master, then when ordered to do something he would walk off to the spot where he had chosen to be and calmly sit down once more and look at them. Caleb was becoming more and more incensed, but he would not show it to the dog; he still hoped against hope; and then a curious thing happened. A swallow came skimming along close to the earth and pa.s.sed within a yard of Tory, when up jumped the dog and gave chase, darting across the field with such speed that he kept very near the bird until it rose and pa.s.sed over the hedge at the farther side. The joyous chase over Tory came back to his old place, and sitting on his haunches began watching them again struggling with the lambs. It was more than the shepherd could stand; he went deliberately up to the dog, and taking him by the straw collar still on his neck drew him quietly away to the hedge-side and bound him to a bush, then getting a stout stick he came back and gave him one blow on the head. So great was the blow that the dog made not the slightest sound: he fell; his body quivered a moment and his legs stretched out--he was quite dead. Bawcombe then plucked an armful of bracken and threw it over his body to cover it, and going back to the hurdles sent the boy home, then spreading his cloak at the hedge-side, laid himself down on it and covered his head.

An hour later the fanner appeared on the scene. "What are you doing here, shepherd?" he demanded in surprise. "Not tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the lambs!"

Bawcombe, raising himself on his elbow, replied that he was not tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the lambs--that he would trim no lambs that day.

"Oh, but we must get on with the tr.i.m.m.i.n.g!" cried the farmer.

Bawcombe returned that the dog had put him out, and now the dog was dead--he had killed him in his anger, and he would trim no more lambs that day. He had said it and would keep to what he had said.

Then the farmer got angry and said that the dog had a very good nose and would have been useful to him to take rabbits.

"Master," said the other, "I got he when he were a pup and broke 'n to help me with the sheep and not to catch rabbits; and now I've killed 'n and he'll catch no rabbits."

The farmer knew his man, and swallowing his anger walked off without another word.

Later on in the day he was severely blamed by a shepherd friend who said that he could easily have sold the dog to one of the drovers, who were always anxious to pick up a dog in their village, and he would have had the money to repay him for his trouble; to which Bawcombe returned, "If he wouldn't work for I that broke 'n he wouldn't work for another. But I'll never again break a dog that isn't pure-bred."