{264}
A’ve heerd tell as how tha bogles an’ boggarts wor main bad in tha au’d toimes, but a can’t reetly sa’ay as a iver seed ony o’ un masel’; not reetly bogles, that is, but a’ll tell thee ’bout Yallery Brown—ef a wornt a boggart, a wor main near it, an’ a knowed un masel’. So its a’al true—stra’ange an’ true a’ tell thee.
A wor workin’ on tha High Farm to than, an’ nobbut a lad o’ sixteen or mebbe aw’teen years—an’ ma mither an’ foaks doolt down by tha pond yonner, at tha far en’ o’ tha village. A had tha stables ’n such to see to, an’ tha hosses to he’p wi’, an’ odd jobs to do, an’ tha wo’k wor ha’ard, but tha pay good. A reckon a wor an idle scamp, fur I cudn’t abide ha’ard wo’k, an a lookit forrard a’al tha week to Sundays, when a’d wa’alk doon hoam, an’ not go’a back till darklins. By tha green lane a cud get to tha fa’arm in a matter o’ twenty minutes, but ther used ter be a pa’ad ’cross tha west field yonner, by tha side o’ tha spinney, an’ on past tha fox cover an’ so to tha ramper, an’ a used ter go’a that aw-a’ay; ’twor longer for one thing, an’ a worn’t niver in a hurry to get ba’ack to tha wo’k’, an’ t’wor still an’ pleasant loike o’ summer noights, oot i’ tha broad silent fields, mid tha smell o’ tha growin’ things. Fo’ak said as tha spinney wor ha’anted, an’ fur sure a ha’ seed lots o’ fairy stones an’ rings an’ that, ’long tha grass edge; but a niver seed nout i’ tha way o’ horrors an’ boggarts, let alone Yallery Brown, as a {265} sa’aid afore. But theer, a must git on fa’aster. Wan Sunday a wor wa’alkin’ ’cross tha west field, ’twer a beautiful July noight, wa’arm an’ still an’ th’ air wor full o’ little sounds ’s thoff tha trees’ ’n grass wor chatterin’ to ther-sels. An a’al to wanst ther cam a bit ahead o’ me the pitifullest greetin’ ’s ’iver a heerd, sob, sobbin’, loike a barn spent wi’ fear, an’ nigh heart-bro’aken; breakin’ aff into a moan an’ thin risin’ agean in a long whimperin’ wailin’ ’at ma’ade ma feel sick nobbut to ha’ark to ’t. A wor allus fon’ o’ babbies, too, an’ a began to look iverywheers fur tha pore creetur. “Mun be Sally Bratton’s”, a thout to masel’; “a wor allus a floighty thing, an’ niver looked arter th’ brat. Like ’s not, a’s fla’antin’ ’bout th’ la’anes, an ’s clean furgot tha babby.” But thoff a looked an’ looked, a cud see nowt. Na’athless tha sobbin’ wor at ma very ear, so tired loike ’n sorrowful that a kep’ cryin’ oot—“Whisht, barn, whist! a’ll tak thee ba’ack to tha mither ef thee’lt on’y hush tha greetin’.”
But fur a’al ma lookin’ a’ cud fin’ nowt. A keekit unner tha hedge by tha spinney side, an’ a clumb ower ’t, an’ a sowt up an’ doon by, an’ mid tha trees, an’ throff tha long grass an’ weeds, but a on’y froighted some sleepin’ birds, an’ sting’d ma own ha’ands wi’ tha nettles. A fa’ound nowt, an’ a fair’ guv’ oop to la’ast; so a stood ther scra’atchin’ ma hee-ad an’ clean be’t wi’ ’t a’al, an’ presently tha wimperin’ gat louder ’n stronger i’ tha quietness, an’ a thout a cud mak’ oot wo’ds o’ some so’t. A harkened wi a’al ma ears, an’ tha sorry thing wor sa’ayin’ a’al mixed oop wi’ sobbin’—
“O, oh! tha stoan, tha great big stoan! ooh! ooh! tha stoan on top!”
Natrally a won’ered wheer tha stoan mowt be, an’ a lookit agean, an’ theer by tha hedge bottom wor a gre’at flat sto’an, nigh buried i’ tha mools, an’ hid i’ tha cotted grass an’ weeds. Won o’ they stoans as wer used to ca’all tha “Strangers’ Tables”—what sa’ay—Oh! a’ll tell thee ’bout ’em efter’ds, but tha Stra’angers (tha’at ’s tha good fo’ak, seest tha) da’anced on un o’ moonloight noights ’n so a wor niver maddled wi’, nat’rally; ’t is ill luck, thou knaws’t, t’ cross tha {266} Tiddy People. Hawiver, doon a fell on ma knee-bones by tha stoan, an’ harkened agean. Clearer nor iver, but tired an’ spent wi’ greetin’ cam tha little sobbin’ voice—“Ooh! ooh! tha stoan, tha stoan on top.” A wor gey’an misloiken’ to maddle wi’ tha thing, but a cudna stan’ tha whimperin’ babby, an’ a tore loike mad at the stoan, till a felt un liftin’ fro’ tha mools, an’ a’al to wanst a cam wi’ a sough, oot o’ tha damp yarth an’ tha tangl’d grass ’n growin’ things. An’ ther, i’ tha ho’al la’ay a tiddy thing on ’s ba’ack, blinkin’ oop at tha moon an’ at me. ’Twor no’an bigger ’n a ye’ar au’d brat, but a’d long cotted hair an’ beard, twisted roon’ an’ roon’s body so’s a cudna see’s clouts; an’ tha hair wer a’al yaller an’ shinin’ an’ silky, loike a barn’s; but tha face o’t wor au’d an’ ’s if t’wer hunnerds o’ years sin’ ’twer young an’ smooth. Just a he’ap o’ wrinkles, an’ two bright bla’ack eyne i’ tha mid, set in a lot o’ shinin’ yaller hair; an’ tha skin wor tha colour o’ tha fresh turned yarth i’ tha spring—brown ’s brown cud be, an’s barehan’s an’ feet wor brown loike the fa’ace o’ un. Tha greetin’ ’d stoppit, but tha tears wor stannin’ on’s cheek, an’ tha tiddy thing looked mazed loike i’ tha moonshine an’ tha night air. A wor wonnerin’ what a’d do, but by en by he scrammell’d oot o’ tha ho’al, an’ studd lookin’ ’bowt un, an’ at masel’. He wor’nt oop to ma knee, but a wor tha quarest creetur a iver set eyes on. Brown an’ yaller a’al over; yaller an’ brown, as a towd tha afwore, an’ wi’ sich ’n a glint in ’s eyne, an’ sich ’n a weezen’d fa’ace, ’at a felt feared on un, fur a’al ’s wor so tiddy ’n au’d.
Tha creetur’s eyne got some used loike to tha moonloight, an’ presently a lookit oop i’ ma fa’ace ’s bould ’s iver wor. “Tom,” says he, “thou’st a good lad!” ’s cool ’s thou can think, says he, “Tom, thou’st a good lad!” an’s voice wor soft an’ high an’ pipin’ loike a little bird twitterin’.
A touched ma hat, an’ began to think what a’d oughter sa’ay; but a wer clemmed wi’ froight an’ a cudn’t open ma gob. “Houts!” says tha thing agean, “Tha needn’t be feared o’ me; thou’st done me a better to’n nor tha knowst, {267} ma lad, an’ a’ll do ’s much fur thee.” A cudn’t speak yet, but a thowt, ” Lord! fur sure ’tis a bogle!”
“Noa!” says he ’s quick ’s quick, “a be no’on a bogle, but tha best not ask ma what a be; annyways a be a good friend o’ thine.” Ma very knee-bones struck, for sartainly an ord’ner body cudn’t ha’ know’d what a’d been thinkin’ to masel’, but he looked sae koind loike, an’ spoke sae fair, tha’at a ma’ade bold to get oot, a bit quavery loike—
“Mowt a be axin’ to know’a yer honour’s neame?”
“H’m,” sa’ays he, pullin’ ’s beard, “as for tha’at”—an’ he thow’t a bit—“ay so,” he went on to la’ast, “Yallery Brown tha may’st ca’al me, Yallery Brown; t’is ma natur seest tha, an’ as for a neame ’t will do ’s well ’s on’y other. Yallery Brown, Tom, Yallery Brown ’s thy friend, ma lad.”
“Thankee, measter,” sa’ays a, quite meek loike.
“An’ now,” he sa’ays, “a ’m in a hurry to noight, but tell me quick, wha’at ’ll a do fur tha. Wilt hev’ a wife? A can give tha tha rampinist lass i’ tha toun. Wilt be rich? A ’ll give thee gould ’s much as thou can carry; or wilt have he’p wi’ thy wo’k? On’y say tha wo’d.”
A scrach’t ma he’ad. “Well, ’s fur a wife, a hev no hankerin’ efter sich; they’re but bothersome bodies, an’ a hev wimmen fo’ak to hoam as ’ll men’ ma clouts; an’ fur gou’d tha’at ’s as may be,” fur, seest thou, a thowt he wor ta’alkin’ on’y; an mebbe he cudna do ’s much ’s he sa’aid, “but for wo’k, theer, I cayn’t abide wo’k, an’ ef thou ’lt give ma a he’pin’ hand in ’t a ’ll thank”—“Stop,” sa’ays he, quick ’s lightenin’, “a ’ll he’p tha ’n welcome, but ef iver tha sa’ayst tha-at to ma—if ever tha tha’ank ma, seest tha? thou ’lt niver see ma more. Min’ that now; a wa’ant no tha’anks, a’ll hev no tha’anks, do’ tha hear?” an’ he stampt ’s tiddy foot on tha yarth an’ looked ’s wicked ’s a ragin’ bull.
“Min’ tha’at now, grea’at lump ’s tha be,” he we’ent on, ca’almin’ doun a bit, “an’ ef iver tha need ’s he’p, or gets into trooble, call on ma an’ jist sa’ay, ‘Yallery Brown, come fro tha mools, a want tha!’ an’ a ’ll be wi’ tha to {268} wanst; an’ now,” says he, pickin’ a dandelion puff, “good noight to tha,” an’ he blowed it oop, an’ it a’al coom in ma eyne an’ ears. Soon ’s a cud see agean tha tiddy creetur wor go’one, an but fur tha stoan on en’ an’ tha ho’al at ma feet, a ’d a thowt a ’d bin dreamin’.
Well, a want ho’am an’ to bed; an’ by tha mo’nin’ a’d nigh furgot ahl aboot ’un. But when a went to th’ wo’k, thur wor none to do! ahl wor done a’ready, th’ hosses seen to, tha stables cleaned oot, iverythin’ in ’s proper pla’ace, an’ a’d nowt to do but sit wi’ ma han’s in ma pockets. An’ so ’t went on da’ay arter da’ay, ahl th’ wo’k done by Yallery Brown, ’n better done, too, than a cud ha’ done ’t masel’. An’ ef tha measter gi’n ma more wo’k, a sat doon by, an’ tha wo’k done itsel’, tha singin’ irons, or tha besom, or what not, ’set to, an’ wi’ ne’er a han’ put to un’ ’d get thruff in no toime. Fur a niver seed Yallery Brown o’ da’aylight; on’y in th’ da’arklins a ha seed un hoppin’ aboot, loike a wull-o-th’-wyke wi’oot ’s lanthorn.
To fust, ’twor mighty fine fur ma; a ’d nowt to do’a, an’ good pa’ay fur ’t; but by-’n-by, things ’gun to go arsyvarsy. Ef tha wo’k wor done fur me’a,’twor undone fur th’ other lads; ef ma boockets wor filled, theers wor oopset; ef ma tools wor sha’arped, theers wor blunted ’n sp’iled; ef ma hosses wor cle’an’s daisies, theers wor spla’ashed wi’ moock, an’ so on; day in an’ da’ay oot, ’sworRead ’twor ? allus the se’ame. An’ th’ lads seed Yallery Brown flittin’ aboot o’ noights, an’ tha seed tha things wo’kin’ wi’oot han’s o’ da’ays, an’ tha seed as ma wo’k wor done fur ma, an theers undone fur them; an’ nat’rally they ’gun to look shy on ma, an’ tha wudn’t speak or coom nigh ma, an’ tha carried ta’ales to th’ measter an’ so things want fro’ bad to wuss.
Fur, seest tha? a cud do nothin’ masel’; tha brooms wud’nt sta’ay in ma han’, th’ plough ran awa’ay fro’ ma, th’ hoe kep’ oot o’ ma grip. A’d thowt oft as’ a’d do ma o’an wo’k arter all, so’s mebbe Yallery Brown ’d leave me ’n ma neebours alo’an. But a cudn’t—treue ’s de’ath a cudn’t. A cud on’y sit by ’n look on, ’n hev th’ could shouther to’ned on ma, {269} whiles th’ onnat’ral thing wor maddlin’ wi’ th’ others, ’n wo’kin’ fur me’a.
To last, things got so bad that th’ measter gi’n ma tha sack, ’n ef he hadn’t, a do b’leeve as ahl th’ rest o’ th’ lads ’d a sacked him, fur tha swore as tha’d not sta’ay on sa’ame garth wi’ mea. Well, nat’rally a felt bad; ’twor a main good pla’ace, an’ good pa’ay too; an’ a wor fair mad wi’ Yallery Brown, as ’d got ma into sich’n a trooble. So afore a knowt a shuk ma fist i’th’ air an’ called oot ’s lood ’s a cud, “Yallery Brown, coom fra tha mools; thou scamp, a want tha!”
Thou’ll sca’arce b’leeve it, but a ’d ’ardly brung oot th’ wo’ds as a felt suthin’ tweakin’ ma leg behin’, while a joomped wi’ th’ smart o’ ’t; and soon ’s a looked doon, theer wor th’ tiddy thing, wi’ ’s shinin’ hair, ’n wrinkled fa’ace, an’ wicked glintin’ black eyne.
A wor in a fine rage, an’ ’d loiked to ha’ kicked un, but ’twor no’on good, there worn’t enuff on un to git ma boot agin’; but a said to-wanst, “Look here, measter, ahl thank thee to leave ma alo’an arter this, dost hear? a want none o thy he’p, an’ a’ll hev nowt more to do with ee—see now.”
Th’ horrid thing brak oot wi’ a screechin’ laugh, an’ p’inted ’s brown finger at ma. “Ho, ho, Tom!” says a. “Thoust tha’anked me, ma lad, an’ a towld thee not, a towld thee not!”
“A don’t want thy he’p, a tell thee,” a yelled at un—“a ony want niver to see thee agean, an’ to ha’ nowt more to do with ’ee—thou can go—” but a won’t tell ’ee ahl a said, fur a wor fair ma’ad.
Tha thing on’y laught’ ’n screeched ’n mocked, ’s long ’s a went on sweerin’, but so soon ’s ma bre’ath gi’n oot,—
“Tom, ma lad,” he said wi’ a grin, “a’ll tell’ee summat, Tom. True ’s tre-ue a’ll niver he’p thee ag’ean, an’ call ’s thou will, thou’ll niver see ma arter to-da’ay; but a niver said ’s a’d leave thee alo’an, Tom, an’ a niver wull, ma lad! A wor nice an’ sa’afe unner th’ stoun, Tom, an’ cud do no ha’arm; but thou let ma oot thy-sel’, an’ thou can’t put ma {270} back agean! A wud ha bin thy friend ’n wo’k fur ’ee ef thou ’d a bin wise; but sin thou bee’st no more ’n a born fool a’l give ’ee no more ’n ’a born fool’s luck; an’ when all goes arsy-varsy, an iverythin’ a gee—thou’ll mind as its Yallery Brown’s doin’, thoff mappen thou disn’t see un. Ma’ark ma wo’ds, wull ee?”
An he ’gan to sing, dancin’ roon’ ma, loike a barn wi’ ’s yaller hair, but lookin’ au’der nor iver wi’ ’s grinnin’ wrinkled bit o’ a fa’ace:
“Wo’k as thou wull
Thou’ll niver do well;
Wo’k as thou mowt
Thou’ll niver gain owt;
Fur harm an’ mischance an’ Yallery Brown
Thou ’s let oot thy-sel’ fro’ unner th’ sto’an.”
A! a said they very wo’ds, an’ they ha ringed in ma ears iver sence, over ’n over agean, loike a bell tollin’ fur tha buryin’, an’ facks, it wor th’ buryin’ o’ ma luck—fur a niver ’d any sence. Hawiver, th’ imp stood theer mockin’ ’n grinin’ at ma, an’ choocklin’ loike th’ au’d de’il’s o’an wicked se’f.
An’, man!—a can’t reetly min’ what he said nex’. ’Twor ahl cussin’ ’n callin’ doon’ misfortin on ma; but a wor so ma’azed in froight that a cud on’y stan’ theer, shakin’ all ower ma, ’n starin’ doon at th’ horrid thing; an’ a reckon ef he’d a gone on long, a ’d a tummelt doon in a fit. But by-’n-by, ’s yaller shinin’ hair—a can’t abide yaller hair sence that—riz oop in th’ air, an’ wrapt itsel roon’ un, while a lookit fur all th’ worl’ loike a great dandelion puff; ’n a flo’ated awa’ay on th’ win’ ower tha wall ’n out o’ soight, wi’ a partin’ skirl o ’s wicked voice ’n sneerin’ laugh.
A tell thee, a wor nigh de’ad wi fear, an’ a cayn’t sca’arcely tell how a iver got hoam at all, but a did somehow, a s’pose.
Well, that’s all; it’s not much of a ta’ale, but it’s tre-ue, ivery wo’d o’t, an’ theer’s others aside mea as ha seed {271} Yallery Brown an’ know’d ’s evil tricks—an’ did it come treue, sayst tha? Ma wo’d! but it did, sure ’s de’ath! A ha’ wo’ked here an’ theer, an’ to’ned ma han’ to this ’n that, but it allus want agee, an’ tis ahl Yallery Brown’s doin’. The childer died, an’ my wife didn’t—thou knows what she be, thou can hear her tongue a mile off; ’n a cud ha spa’ared her—tha beasts niver fatted, an’ nuthin’ ever did well wi’ma; a’m geyan au’d noo, an’ a’ll must en’ ma da’ays in th’ Hoose, a reckon, but till a’m dead an’ buried, an’ mappen even arter’ds, theer’ll be no’on en’ to Yallery Brown’s spite at ma; an’ da’ay in an’ da’ay oot a hear un sa’ayin’ whiles a sit here trem’lin’—
“Wo’k as thou wull
Thou’ll niver do well;
Wo’k as thou mowt
Thou’ll niver gain owt;
Fur harm an’ mischance an’ Yallery Brown
Thou’s let oot thy-sel’ fro’ unner th’ sto’an.”