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So thou ’st heerd tell o’ th’ boggarts an’ all the horrid things o’ th’ au’d toimes? Ay; they wor mischancy, onpleasant sort o’ bodies to do wi’, an’ a ’m main glad as they wor all go’an afore ma da’ays. I ha’ niver seed nowt o’ that sort; cep’ mappen a bogle or so—nuthin wu’th tellin’ of. But if thou likes them sort o’ ta’ales, a can tell ’ee some as ma au’d gran’ther tould us when a wor nobbut a tiddy brat. He wor main au’d, nigh a hunner year, fo’ak said; an’ a wor ma fa’ather’s gran’ther reetly speakin’, so thou can b’leeve as a knowed a lot ’bout th’ au’d toimes. Mind, a wunnut say as ahl th’ ta’ales be tre-ue; but ma gran’ther said as they wor, and a b’leeved un ahl hissel’. Annyways a ’ll tell um as a heerd um; and that’s ahl as a can do.
Wa’al, i’ they toimes fo’ak mun ha’ bin geyan unloike to now. ’Stead o’ doin’ their work o’ da’ays, ’n smokin’ ther pipes o’ Sundays, i’ pe’ace ’n comfort, tha wor allus botherin’ ther he’ads ’bout summat ’r other—or the cho’ch wor doin’ it for ’um. Th’ priests wor allus at ’un ’bout thur sowls; an’, what wi’ hell an’ th’ boggarts, ther moinds wor niver aisy. An’ ther wor things as didn’t ’long to th’ cho’ch, an’ yit—a can’t reetly ’splain to ’ee; but th’ fo’ak had idees o’ ther o’an, an’ wa’ays o’ ther o’an, as ’a’d kep’ oop years ’n years, ’n hunnerds o’ years, since th’ toime when ther worn’t no cho’ch, leastwise no cho’ch o’ that sort; but tha gi’n things to th’ bogles ’n sich, to ke’p un friendly. Ma gran’ther said ’s how the bogles ’d wanst bin thowt a deal more on, an’ at da’arklins ivery noight th’ fo’ak ’d bear loights i ther han’s roon’ ther ha’ouses, sa’ain’ wo’ds to ke’p ’um off; an’ a’d smear blo’od o’ th’ door-sil’ to skeer awa’ay th’ horrors; an’ a’d put bre’ad and salt o’ th’ flat stouns set oop by th’ la’ane side to get a good ha’arvest; an’ a’d spill watter i’ th’ fower co’ners o’ th’ fields, when a wanted ra’in; an’ they thowt a deal on th’ sun, fur {260} tha reckoned as a ma’ade th’ yarth, an’ brout th’ good an ill chances an’ a do’ant know what ahl. A can’t tell ’ee reetly what they b’leeved; fur ’twor afore ma gran’ther’s toime, ahl that; an’ that’s more’na hunnerd ’n fifty years agone, seest-tha; but a reckon tha made nigh iverythin’ as they seed ’n heerd into sort o’ gre’at bogles; an’ tha wor allus gi’un ’um things, or sa’ayin’ so’t o’ prayers loike, to keep um fro’ doin’ th’ fo’ak anny evil.
Wa’al that was a long toime agone, as a said afore, an’ twor no’on so bad i’ ma gran’ther’s da’ay; but, natheless, ’tworn’t furgot, an’ some o’ th’ foak b’leeved it ahl still, an’ said ther au’d prayers or spells-loike, o’ th’ sly. So ther wor, so to sa’ay, two cho’ches; th’ wan wi’ priests an’ can’lles, an’ a’ that; th’ other jist a lot o’ au’d wa’ays, kep ’oop ahl onbeknown an’ hidden-loike, mid th’ fo’ak thersels; an’ they thowt a deal more, ma gran’ther said, on th’ au’d spells, ’s on th’ sarvice i’ th’ cho’ch itself.’ But ’s toime want on tha two got so’t o’ mixed oop; an’ some o’ tha fo’aks cudn’t ha’ tould thee, ef ’twor fur won or t’ other as tha done th’ things.
To Yule, i th’ cho’ches, thur wor gran’ sarvices, wi’ can’lles an’ flags an’ what not; an’ i’ th’ cottages thur wor can’lles ’n ca’akes ’n gran’ doin’s; but tha priests niver knowed as mony o’ th’ foak wor on’y wakin’ th’ dyin’ year, an’ ’at tha wine teemed upo’ tha door-sil to first cock-crow wor to bring good luck in th’ new year. An a’ reckon some o’ th fo’ak thersells ’d do th’ au’d heathen wa’ays ’n sing hymns meantime, wi’ neer a thowt of tha stra’angeness o’t.
Still, thur wor many ’s kep’ to th’ au’d wa’ays ahl togither, thoff tha done it hidden loike; an’ a’m goin’ to tell ee of wan fam’bly as ma gran’ther knowed fine, and how they waked th’ spring wan year.
As a said afore, a can’t, even ef a wud, tell’ee ahl th’ things as tha useter do; but theer wos wan toime o’th year ’s they p’rtic’larly want in fur ther spells ’n prayers, an’ that wor th’ yarly spring. Tha thout as th’ yarth wor sleepin’ ahl th’ winter; an’ at th’ bogles—ca’all um what ee {261} wull—’d nobbut to do but mischief, fur they’d nowt to see to i’ tha fields; so they wor feared on th’ long da’ark winter days ’n noights, i’ tha mid’ o ahl so’ts o unseen fearsome things, ready ’n waitin’ fur a chance to pla’ay un evil tricks. But as tha winter want by they thout as ’twor toime to wake th’ yarth fro ’ts sleepin’ ’n set the bogles to wo’k, care’n’ fur th’ growin’ things ’n bringin’ th’ harvest. Efter that th’ yarth wor toired, an’ wor sinkin’ to sleep agean; an’ tha useter sing hushieby songs i’ tha fields o’ th’ A’tum evens. But i’ th’ spring, tha want—tha fo’ak did as b’leeved in th’ au’d wa’ays—to every field in to’n, ’n lifted a spud o’ yarth fro’ th’ mools; an’ tha said stra’ange ’n quare wo’ds, as tha cudn’t sca’arce unnerstan’ thersel’s; but th’ same as’ ’d bin said for hunnerds o’ ye’ars. An’ ivery mornin’ at th’ first dawn, tha stood o’ th’ door-sil, wi’ salt an’ bread i’ ther han’s, watchin’ ’n waitin’ for th’ green mist ’s rose fro th’ fields ’n tould at th’ yarth wor awake agean; an’ th’ life wor comin’ to th’ trees an’ the pla’ants, an’ th’ seeds wor bustin’ wi’ th’ beginning o’ th’ spring.
Wa’al ther wor wan fam’bly as ’d done ahl that, year arter year, fro’s long as they knowd of, jest ’s ther gran’thers ’d done it afore un; an’ wan winter e’n, nigh on a hunnerd n’ thutty year gone to now, tha wor makin’ ready for wakin’ the spring. Th’ad had a lot o’ trooble thruff th’ winter, sickness ’n what not ’d bin bad i’ th’ pla’ace; an’ th’ darter, a rampin’ young maid, wor grow’d whoite ’n wafflin’ loike a bag o’ bo’ans, stead o’ bein’ th’ purtiest lass i’ th’ village as a’d bin afore. Day arter da’ay a growed whiter ’n sillier, till a cudn’t stan upo’s feet more ’n a new born babby, an’ a cud on’y lay at th’ winder watchin’ an’ watchin’ th’ winter crep’ awa’ay. An’ “Oh mother,” a’d kep sa’ayin’ ower ’n ower agin; “ef a cud on’y wake th’ spring with ’ee agin, mebbe th’ Green Mist ’d mek ma strong ’n well, loike th’ trees an’ th’ flowers an’ th’ co’n i’ th’ fields.”
An’ tha mother ’d comfort her loike, ’n promise ’at she’d coom wi’ em agean to th’ wakin’, an’ grow ’s strong ’n straight ’s iver. But da’ay arter da’ay a got whiter ’n {262} wanner, till a looked, ma gran’ther said, loike a snow-fla’ake fadin’ i’ th’ sun; an’ day arter da’ay’ th’ winter crep by, an’ th’ wakin’ o’ th’ spring wor amost theer. Th’ pore maid watched ’n waited for th’ toime fur goin’ to th’ fields; but a ’d got so weak ’n sick ’at a knowed a cudn’t git ther wi’ th’ rest. But a wudn’t gi’n oop fur ahl that; an’ ’s mother mun sweer ’at she ’d lift th’ lass to th’ door-sil, at th’ comin’ o’ the Green Mist, so ’s a mowt toss oot th’ bread ’n salt o’ th’ yarth her o’an sel’ an’ wi’ her o’an pore thin han’s.
An’ still th’ da’ays went by, an’ th’ foak wor goin’ o’ yarly morns, to lift the spud i’ th’ fields; an’ th’ comin’ o’ th’ Green Mist wor lookit for ivery dawning.
An wan even th’ lass, as ’d bin layin’, wi ’s eyne fixed o’ th’ little gy’arden said to ’s mother:
“Ef tha Green Mist don’t come i’ tha morn’s dawnin’—a’ll not can wait fur ’t longer. Th’ mools is ca’allin’ ma, an’ tha seeds is brustin’ as’ll bloom ower ma he’ad; a know’t wa’al, mother—’n yit, if a cud on’y see th’ spring wake wanst agin!—mother—a sweer a’d axe no more ’n to live ’s long ’s wan o’ them cowslips as coom ivery year by th’ ga’ate, an’ to die wi’ th’ fust on ’em when tha summer ’s in.”
The mother whisht tha maid in fear; fur tha bogles ’n things as they b’leeved in wor allus gainhand, an’ cud hear owt as wor said. They wor niver sa’afe, niver aloan, the pore fo’ak to than, wi’ th’ things as tha cudn’t see, an’ cudn’t he’ar, allus roon ’em. But th’ dawn o’ th’ nex’ da’ay browt th’ Green Mist. A comed fro’ th’ mools, an’ happed asel’ roon’ iverythin’, green ’s th’ grass i’ summer sunshine, ’n sweet-smellin ’s th’ yarbs o’ th’ spring; an’ th’ lass wor carried to th’ door-sil, wheer a croom’led th’ bread ’n salt on to th’ yarth wi’ ’s o’an han’s an’ said the stra’ange au’d wo’ds o’ welcoming to th’ new spring. An a lookit to the ga’ate, wheer th’ cowslips growed, an’ than wor took ba’ack to ’s bed by th’ winder, when a slep loike a babby, an’ dreamt o’ summer an’ flowers an’ happiness. Fur fither ’twor th’ Green Mist as done it, a can’t tell ’ee more ’n ma gran’ther said, but fro’ that da’ay a growed stronger ’n {263} prettier nor iver, an’ by th’ toime th’ cowslips wor buddin’ a wor runnin’ aboot, an’ laughin’ loike a very sunbeam i’ th’ au’d cottage. But ma gran’ther tould ’s as a wor allus so white ’n wan, while a lookit loike a will-o-th’-wyke flittin’ aboot; an’ o th’ could da’ays a’d sit shakin’ ower th’ foire, an’ ’d look nigh de’ad, but whan th sun ’d coom oot, a’d da’ance an’ sing i’ th’ loight, ’n stretch oot ’s arms to ’t ’sif a on’y lived i’ th’ warmness o’ t. An’ by ’n by th’ cowslips brust ther buds, an’ coom i’ flower, an’ th’ maid wor growed so stra’ange an’ beautiful ’at they wor nigh feared on her—an’ ivery mornin’ a’d kneel by th’ cowslips ’n watter ’n tend ’em ’n da’ance to ’em i th’ sunshine, while th’ mother ’d stan’ beggin’ her to leave ’em, ’n cried ’at she’d have ’em pu’d oop by th’ roots ’n throwed awe-ay. But th’ lass ’d on’y look stra’ange at a, ’n sa’ay—soft ’n low loike:
“Ef thee are’nt tired o’ ma, mother—niver pick wan o’ them flowers; they’ll fade o’ ther sel’s soon enuff—ay, soon enuff—thou knows!” An’ tha mother ’d go’a back to th’ cottage ’n greet ower th’ wo’k; but a niver said nowt of her trooble to th’ neebors—not till arter’ds. But wan da’ay a lad o’ th’ village stopped at th’ ga’ate to chat wi ’em, an’ by’n-by, whiles a wor gossipin’ a picked a cowslip ’n pla’ayed wi ’t. Th’ lass didn’t see what a’d done; but as he said goodbye, a seed th’ flower as ’d fa’allen to th’ yarth at ’s feet. “Did thee pull that cowslip?” a said—lookin’ stra’ange ’n white wi’ wan han’ laid ower her he’art.
“Ay” said he—’n liftin’ ’t oop, a gi’n it to her smilin’ loike, ’n thinkin’ what ’n ’a pretty maid it wor.
She looked at th’ flower an’ at th’ lad, an’ ahl roon’ aboot her; at th’ green trees, an’ th’ sproutin’ grass, an’ th’ yaller blossoms; an’ oop at th’ gowlden shinin’ sun itsel’; an’ ahl to wanst, shrinkin’ ’s if th’ light a ’d loved so mooch wor brennin’ her, a ran into th’ hoose, wi’ oot a spoken wo’d, on’y a so’t o’ cry, loike a dumb beast i’ pain, an’ th’ cowslip catched close agin her bre’ast.
An’ then—b’leeve it or not as ’ee wull—a niver spo’ak agin, but la’ay on th’ bed, starin’ at th’ flower in ’s han’ an’ fadin’ {264} as it faded all thruff th’ da’ay. An’ at th’ dawnin’ ther wor on’y layin’ o’ th’ bed a wrinkled, whoite, shrunken dead thing, wi’in ’s han’ a shrivelled cowslip; an’ th’ mother covered ’t ower wi’ th’ clo’s an’ thowt o’ th’ beautiful joyful maid da’ancin’ loike a bird i’ th’ sunshine by th’ gowden noddin’ blossoms, on’y th’ da’ay go’an by. Th’ bogles ’d heerd a an’ a’d gi’n ’s wish; a’d bloomed wi’ th’ cowslips an’ a’d fa’ded wi’ th’ first on ’em! and ma gran’ther said as ’twor all ’s treue ’s de’ath!