The Hawthorns

The Hawthorns; a Story about Children
by Amy Walton
CHAPTER ONE.
EASNEY VICARAGE.
Quite close to the nursery window at Easney Vicarage there grew a
very old pear-tree. It was so old that the ivy had had time to hug its
trunk with strong rough arms, and even to stretch them out nearly to the
top, and hang dark green wreaths on every bough. Some day, the
children had been told, this would choke the life out of the tree and kill
it; that would be a pity, but there seemed no danger of it yet, for every
spring the pear-tree still showed its head crowned with white blossoms,
and every summer the pears grew yellow and juicy, and fell with a soft
"splosh!" on the gravel path beneath. It was interesting to watch that,
and it happened so often, that it was hard to imagine a windsor pear
without a great gash where the sharp stones had cut into it; it was also
natural to expect when you picked it up that there would be a cunning
yellow wasp hidden somewhere about it, for all the little Hawthorns
had always found it so except the baby, and she was too small to have
any experience. Five little Hawthorns, without counting the baby, had
looked out of the nursery window and watched the pear-tree blossom,
and the sparrows build their nests, and the pears fall; but by the time
this story begins, four of them, whose names were Penelope, Ambrose,
Nancy, and David, were schoolroom children, and learnt lessons of
Miss Grey down-stairs. They had no longer much time for looking out
of the window, and the nursery was left in the possession of Dickie and
Cicely the baby. Dickie, whose real name was Delicia, was three years
old--a great girl now she thought--but she was still fond of kneeling up
in the window seat and flattening her little nose against the glass. She
could not see very much. Through the branches of the pear-tree a little
to the left appeared the church tower, and a glimpse here and there of
grey and white tombstones in the churchyard. Straight in front of her

there was a broad lawn sloping down to a sunk fence, and beyond that a
meadow with tall elms in it, and after that another meadow where cows
were feeding, and that was all. In the spring the meadows turned to
gold and silver with the buttercups and daisies, and the rooks cawed
noisily in the elms; but in the summer it was all very green and very
quiet. Particularly at lesson time, when the "others" were busy with
Miss Grey, and Dickie must not make a noise because baby was asleep.
Then there was only Andrew to be seen in the distance, bending over
his barrow or rake or spade; but he never looked up to the nursery
window, and this was not surprising, for Andrew had a great deal to do.
He worked in the garden, and fed the chickens, and took care of Ruby
the horse, and sometimes drove the wagonette into Nearminster; he
also rang the church bell, and was parish clerk. Perhaps it was because
he had so much on his mind that he was of a melancholy disposition,
and seldom disposed for conversation with the children.
They thought it a pity sometimes that neither the nursery nor the
schoolroom window looked out to the front of the house, for it was
only a little way back from the street; not that there was much going on
in the village, but still you could hear the "clink, clink" from the
blacksmith's forge opposite, and see anyone passing the white gate
which led out into the road. The vicarage was an old house; many and
many a vicar had lived in it, and altered or added to it according to his
liking, so that it was full of twists and turns, inside and out, and had
wonderful nooks and corners, and strange cupboards under the stairs.
Pennie, who was eleven years old, and a great hand at "making up,"
thought a good deal about those old bygone vicars, and founded some
of her choicest romances upon them. There was one particular vicar, a
tablet to whose memory was placed in the chancel just opposite the
Hawthorns' seat in church.
"Godfrey Ablewhite, sometime vicar of this parish," etcetera.
It seemed to Pennie, as she sat staring up at this during her father's
sermons, that she saw plainly what sort of man this Godfrey Ablewhite
had been. He was broad and strong, and rode a tall white horse, and had
doubtless built those large stables at the vicarage, because he was fond

of hunting. From this she would go on to adorn his character with many
daring