CHAPTER I.

MELLSTOCK-LANE

To dwellers in a wood almost every species of tree has its voice as

well as its feature. At the passing of the breeze the fir-trees sob and

moan no less distinctly than they rock; the holly whistles as it

battles with itself; the ash hisses amid its quiverings; the beech

rustles while its flat boughs rise and fall. And winter, which modifies

the note of such trees as shed their leaves, does not destroy its

individuality.

On a cold and starry Christmas-eve within living memory a man was

passing up a lane towards Mellstock Cross in the darkness of a

plantation that whispered thus distinctively to his intelligence. All

the evidences of his nature were those afforded by the spirit of his

footsteps, which succeeded each other lightly and quickly, and by the

liveliness of his voice as he sang in a rural cadence:

“With the rose and the lily

And the daffodowndilly,

The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go.”

The lonely lane he was following connected one of the hamlets of

Mellstock parish with Upper Mellstock and Lewgate, and to his eyes,

casually glancing upward, the silver and black-stemmed birches with

their characteristic tufts, the pale grey boughs of beech, the

dark-creviced elm, all appeared now as black and flat outlines upon the

sky, wherein the white stars twinkled so vehemently that their

flickering seemed like the flapping of wings. Within the woody pass, at

a level anything lower than the horizon, all was dark as the grave. The

copse-wood forming the sides of the bower interlaced its branches so

densely, even at this season of the year, that the draught from the

north-east flew along the channel with scarcely an interruption from

lateral breezes.

After passing the plantation and reaching Mellstock Cross the white

surface of the lane revealed itself between the dark hedgerows like a

ribbon jagged at the edges; the irregularity being caused by temporary

accumulations of leaves extending from the ditch on either side.

The song (many times interrupted by flitting thoughts which took the

place of several bars, and resumed at a point it would have reached had

its continuity been unbroken) now received a more palpable check, in

the shape of “Ho-i-i-i-i-i!” from the crossing lane to Lower Mellstock,

on the right of the singer who had just emerged from the trees.

“Ho-i-i-i-i-i!” he answered, stopping and looking round, though with no

idea of seeing anything more than imagination pictured.

“Is that thee, young Dick Dewy?” came from the darkness.

“Ay, sure, Michael Mail.”

“Then why not stop for fellow-craters—going to thy own father’s house

too, as we be, and knowen us so well?”

Dick Dewy faced about and continued his tune in an under-whistle,

implying that the business of his mouth could not be checked at a

moment’s notice by the placid emotion of friendship.

Having come more into the open he could now be seen rising against the

sky, his profile appearing on the light background like the portrait of

a gentleman in black cardboard. It assumed the form of a low-crowned

hat, an ordinary-shaped nose, an ordinary chin, an ordinary neck, and

ordinary shoulders. What he consisted of further down was invisible

from lack of sky low enough to picture him on.

Shuffling, halting, irregular footsteps of various kinds were now heard

coming up the hill, and presently there emerged from the shade

severally five men of different ages and gaits, all of them working

villagers of the parish of Mellstock. They, too, had lost their

rotundity with the daylight, and advanced against the sky in flat

outlines, which suggested some processional design on Greek or Etruscan

pottery. They represented the chief portion of Mellstock parish choir.

The first was a bowed and bent man, who carried a fiddle under his arm,

and walked as if engaged in studying some subject connected with the

surface of the road. He was Michael Mail, the man who had hallooed to

Dick.

The next was Mr. Robert Penny, boot- and shoemaker; a little man, who,

though rather round-shouldered, walked as if that fact had not come to

his own knowledge, moving on with his back very hollow and his face

fixed on the north-east quarter of the heavens before him, so that his

lower waist-coat-buttons came first, and then the remainder of his

figure. His features were invisible; yet when he occasionally looked

round, two faint moons of light gleamed for an instant from the

precincts of his eyes, denoting that he wore spectacles of a circular

form.

The third was Elias Spinks, who walked perpendicularly and

dramatically. The fourth outline was Joseph Bowman’s, who had now no

distinctive appearance beyond that of a human being. Finally came a

weak lath-like form, trotting and stumbling along with one shoulder

forward and his head inclined to the left, his arms dangling

nervelessly in the wind as if they were empty sleeves. This was Thomas

Leaf.

“Where be the boys?” said Dick to this somewhat indifferently-matched

assembly.

The eldest of the group, Michael Mail, cleared his throat from a great

depth.

“We told them to keep back at home for a time, thinken they wouldn’t be

wanted yet awhile; and we could choose the tuens, and so on.”

“Father and grandfather William have expected ye a little sooner. I

have just been for a run round by Ewelease Stile and Hollow Hill to

warm my feet.”

“To be sure father did! To be sure ’a did expect us—to taste the little

barrel beyond compare that he’s going to tap.”

“’Od rabbit it all! Never heard a word of it!” said Mr. Penny, gleams

of delight appearing upon his spectacle-glasses, Dick meanwhile singing

parenthetically—

“The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go.”

“Neighbours, there’s time enough to drink a sight of drink now afore

bedtime?” said Mail.

“True, true—time enough to get as drunk as lords!” replied Bowman

cheerfully.

This opinion being taken as convincing they all advanced between the

varying hedges and the trees dotting them here and there, kicking their

toes occasionally among the crumpled leaves. Soon appeared glimmering

indications of the few cottages forming the small hamlet of Upper

Mellstock for which they were bound, whilst the faint sound of

church-bells ringing a Christmas peal could be heard floating over upon

the breeze from the direction of Longpuddle and Weatherbury parishes on

the other side of the hills. A little wicket admitted them to the

garden, and they proceeded up the path to Dick’s house.