Bladys of the Stewponey

Stewponey

by
Sabine Baring-Gould
(1897)
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Chapter 1.
OYEZ!
In a faded and patched blue coat, turned up with red, the bellman of
Kinver appeared in the one long street of that small place--if we call it a
town we flatter it, if we speak of it as a village we insult it--and began
to ring outside the New Inn.
A crowd rapidly assembled and before the crier had unfolded the paper
from which he proposed reading, an ape of a boy threw himself before
him, swinging a turnip by the stalk, assumed an air of pomposity and
ingenious caricature of the bellman, and shouted:
"O yes! O yes! O yes! Ladies and gents all, I gives notice that you,
none of you, ain't to believe a word Gaffer Edmed says. O no! O no! O
no!"
"Get along, you dratted jackanapes!" exclaimed the crier testily, and,
striking the youth in the small of his back with the bell handle, sent him

sprawling. Then, striding forward, he took position with a foot on each
side of the prostrate urchin, rang again, and called:
"O yes! O yes! O yes! This is to give notice that this 'ere evening, at six
o'clock, at Stewponey, there will be a grand champion match at bowls
on the green. The prize to be Bladys Rea, commonly called Stewponey
Bla. Admittance one shilling. 'Arf-a-crown inner ring, and ticket admits
to the 'oly function, by kind permission of the proprietor, in the Chapel
of Stourton Castle. At six o'clock per-cise. No 'arf-price. Children and
dogs not admitted."
From the door of the New Inn issued Thomas Hoole, the landlord, in
his shirt sleeves.
Thomas Hoole was a bit of a wag and a crumb of a poet. On the board
outside his tavern he had inscribed the following verses of his own
composition:--
"Customers came, and I did trust 'em. So I lost money, and also custom.
To lose them both did vex me sore. So I resolved to trust no more.
Chalk may be used to any amount. But chalk won't pay the malt
account. I'm determined to keep a first-rate tap For ready money, but no
strap. Good-will to all is here intended Thus, hoping none will be
offended. I remain, yours respectfully One who's no fool. i.e. Thomas
Hoole."
"What's the meaning of this, Crier Edmed?" asked the landlord.
"Well," answered the bellman, rubbing his nose with the handle of the
bell and holding the same by the clapper, "I can't say exactly. My
instructions don't go so far. But I fancy the gentlefolk want a spree, and
Cornelius Rea at the inn is going to marry again, and wants be rid of his
daughter first. It's an ockard affair altogether, and not altogether what it
ort to be; and so it has been settled as a mutual accommodation that
there shall be a bowling match on the green--and she's to go to the
winner. That 's about it. O yes! O yes! O yes!"
Then the crier went forward clanging his bell, and as he progressed

more faces appeared at windows and figures at doors, and children
swarmed thicker in the street.
Phalanxes of boys formed before and behind, yelling.
"O yes! O yes! O yes! Stewponey Bla is for sale to the highest bidder.
Who'll stand another 'apenny and have her? Going, going for tuppence
three farthings."
Every now and again the crier made a rush at the boys in front, or
backed on those behind, and dispersed them momentarily with the
handle of his bell, or with a kick of his foot, and shouted.
"You vagabonds, you! I gave notice of no such thing. How can folk
attend to I and learn the truth when you're a hollerin' and a scritchin'
them lies! I said she was to be bowled for, and not put up to auction."
"Wot's the difference?" asked an impudent boy.
"One's respectable, 'tother ain't," retorted the crier, who then vigorously
swung the bell, and shouted, "O yes! O yes! O yes!" whereat the boys
mockingly shouted, "O no! O no! O no!"
A woman who had been kneading bread, with her sleeves turned up and
her arms white with flour, crossed the street, came up to the landlord of
the New Inn, and accosted him:
"Wot's the meaning of this, I'd like to know?"
"The meaning is before your nose," answered Hoole.
"Where?" inquired the woman, applying her hand at once to the organ,
and leaving on it a patch of white.
"I mean," explained the landlord, "that anyone as knows Cornelius Rea
knows just about what this signifies."
"I know Cornelius for the matter of that," said the woman from the
kneading trough. "Drat my nose, there's sum'ut on it."

"'Tis pollen on your