A Pair of Clogs | Page 2

was tired, and the road was
hard to climb, and the child, generally asleep, weighed heavily. For the
baby was getting beyond a baby now; she was nearly two years old.
How pretty she was, how clever, what dear little knowing ways she had,
what tiny feet and hands! How yellow her hair was, how white her skin!
She was unlike any child in Haworth; she was matchless!
And indeed, quite apart from her mother's fond admiration, the baby
was a beautiful child, delicately formed, and very different from the
blunt-featured children of those parts; she was petted by everyone in
the village, and had in consequence such proud, imperious little ways
that she was a sort of small queen there; the biggest and roughest man
among them was her humble subject, and ready to do her bidding when
she wished to be tossed in the air or to ride pickaback. She could say
very few words yet, but nothing could exceed her brightness and
intelligence--a wonderful baby indeed!

She had been christened Betty; but the name was almost forgotten in all
sorts of loving nicknames, and lately the people of Haworth had given
her a new one, which she got in the following manner:--
Nearly at the bottom of the steep village street there was a cobbler's
stall which Maggie passed every day in her journeys to and from
Keighley. It was open to the road, and in it hung rows and rows of
clogs of all sizes--some of them big enough to fit a man, and some for
children, quite tiny. They all had wooden soles, and toes slightly
turned-up tipped with gleaming brass, and a brass buckle on the instep;
nearly all the people in Haworth and all the factory-girls in Keighley
wore such shoes, but they were always called "clogs." Inside the stall
sat an old man with twinkling blue eyes, and a stumpy turned-up nose:
he sat and cobbled and mended, and made new clogs out of the old
ones which lay in great heaps all round him. Over his stall was the
name "T Monk," but in the village he was always known as Tommie;
and though he was a silent and somewhat surly character, Tommie's
opinion and advice were often asked, and much valued when given.
Maggie regarded him with admiration and respect. When she passed
with her child in her arms he always looked up and nodded, though he
seldom gave any other answer to her "Good-day, Master Monk."
Tommie never wasted his words: "Little words mak' bonnie do's," he
was accustomed to say.
But one evening the sun happened to shine on the row of brass-tipped
clogs, and made them glisten brightly just as Maggie went by. It caught
the baby's attention, and she held out her arms to them and gave a little
coo of pleasure.
"T'little lass is wantin' clogs, I reckon," said Tommie with a grim smile.
Maggie held out the baby's tiny foot with a laugh of pride.
"Here's a foot for a pair of clogs, Master Monk," she said; "t'wouldn't
waste much leather to fashion 'em."
Tommie said nothing more, but a week afterwards he beckoned to
Maggie with an important air as she went by.

"You come here," he said briefly.
Maggie went into the stall, and he reached down from a nail a pair of
tiny, neatly finished clogs. They had jaunty brass-bound toes, and a row
of brass nails all round where the leather joined the wooden sole, and
on the instep there gleamed a pair of smart brass clasps with a pattern
chased on them.
"Fur her," said Tommie as he gave them to Maggie. As he did so the
baby stretched out her hands to the bright clasps.
"See!" exclaimed the delighted Maggie; "she likes 'em ever so. Oh,
Master Monk, how good of yo'!"
"Them clasps is oncommon," said Tommie, regarding his work
thoughtfully, his blue eyes twinkling with satisfaction, "I cam' at 'em by
chance like."
Maggie had now taken off her baby's shoe, and fitted the clog on to the
soft little foot.
"Ain't they bonnie?" she said.
The baby leaned forward and, seizing one toe in each hand, rocked
herself gently to and fro.
Tommie looked on approvingly.
"Yo'll find 'em wear well," he said; "they're the best o' leather and the
best o' workmanship."
After six months more were gone the baby began to walk, and you
might hear a sharp little clatter on the pavement, like the sound of some
small iron-shod animal. Tommie heard it one morning just as it was
Maggie's usual time to pass, and looked out of his stall. There was
Maggie coming down the road with a proud smile on her face, and the
baby was there too. But not in her