The Golden Scarecrow | Page 3

county in which he lived. Now there are
certain counties in England where it is possible to say, "I am in
England," and to leave it at that; their quality is simply English with no
more individual personality. But Glebeshire has such an individuality,
whether for good or evil, that it forces comment from the most sluggish
and inattentive of human beings. Mr. Lasher was perhaps the only soul,
living or dead, who succeeded in living in it during forty years (he is
still there, he is a Canon now in Polchester) and never saying anything
about it. When on his visits to London people inquired his opinion of
Glebeshire, he would say: "Ah well!... I'm afraid Methodism and
intemperance are very strong ... all the same, we're fighting 'em,
fighting 'em!"
This was the more remarkable in that Mr. Lasher lived upon the very
edge of Roche St. Mary Moor, a stretch of moor and sand. Roche St.

Mary Moor, that runs to the sea, contains the ruins of St. Arthe Church
(buried until lately in the sand, but recently excavated through the kind
generosity of Sir John Porthcullis, of Borhaze, and shown to visitors,
6d. a head, Wednesday and Saturday afternoons free), and in one of the
most romantic, mist-laden, moon-silvered, tempest-driven spots in the
whole of Great Britain.
The road that ran from Clinton St. Mary to Borhaze across the moor
was certainly a wild, rambling, beautiful affair, and when the sea-mists
swept across it and the wind carried the cry of the Bell of Trezent Rock
in and out above and below, you had a strange and moving experience.
Mr. Lasher was certainly compelled to ride on his bicycle from Clinton
St. Mary to Borhaze and back again, and never thought it either strange
or moving. "Only ten at the Bible meeting to-night. Borhaze wants
waking up. We'll see what open-air services can do." What the moor
thought about Mr. Lasher it is impossible to know!
Hugh Seymour thought about the moor continually, but he was afraid
to mention his ideas of it in public. There was a legend in the village
that several hundred years ago some pirates, driven by storm into
Borhaze, found their way on to the moor and, caught by the mist,
perished there; they are to be seen, says the village, in powdered wigs,
red coats, gold lace, and swords, haunting the sand-dunes. God help the
poor soul who may fall into their hands! This was a very pleasant story,
and Hugh Seymour's thoughts often crept around and about it. He
would like to find a pirate, to bring him to the vicarage, and present
him to Mr. Lasher. He knew that Mrs. Lasher would say, "Fancy, a
pirate. Well! now, fancy! Well, here's a pirate!" And that Mr. Lasher
would say, "It's a pity, Hugh, that you don't choose your company more
carefully. Look at the man's nose!"
Hugh, although he was only eleven, knew this. Hugh did on one
occasion mention the pirates. "Dreaming again, Hugh! Pity they fill
your head with such nonsense! If they read their Bibles more!"
Nevertheless, Hugh continued his dreaming. He dreamt of the moor, of
the pirates, of the cobbled street in Borhaze, of the cry of the Trezent
Bell, of the deep lanes and the smell of the flowers in them, of making

five hundred not out at cricket, of doing a problem in Euclid to Mr.
Lasher's satisfaction, of having a collar at the end of the week as clean
as it had been at the beginning, of discovering the way to make a
straight parting in the hair, of not wriggling in bed when Mrs. Lasher
kissed him at night, of many, many other things.
He was at this time a very lonely boy. Until Mr. Pidgen paid his visit he
was most remarkably lonely. After that visit he was never lonely again.
III
Mr. Pidgen came on a visit to the vicarage three days before Christmas.
Hugh Seymour saw him first from the garden. Mr. Pidgen was standing
at the window of Mr. Lasher's study; he was staring in front of him at
the sheets of light that flashed and darkened and flashed again across
the lawn, at the green cluster of holly-berries by the drive-gate, at the
few flakes of snow that fell, lazily, carelessly, as though they were
trying to decide whether they would make a grand affair of it or not,
and perhaps at the small, grubby boy who was looking at him with one
eye and trying to learn the Collect for the day (it was Sunday) with the
other. Hugh had never before seen any one in the least like Mr. Pidgen.
He was short and round, and his head was covered with tight little curls.