The Squire of Sandal-Side | Page 6

go then?"
"Excuse me, father," answered Sophia languidly. "I shall have a
headache to-morrow, I fear; I have been nervous and poorly all the
afternoon."
"Why, Sophia, I didn't think I had such a foolish lass! Taking fancies
for she doesn't know what. If you plan for to-morrow, plan a bit of
pleasure with it; that's a long way better than expecting a headache.
Charlotte will go then. Eh? What?"
"Yes, father; I will go. Sophia never could bear walking in the heat. I
like it; and I think there are few things merrier than a sheep-shearing."
"So poetic! So idyllic!" murmured Sophia, with mild sarcasm.
"Many people think so, Sophia. Mr. Wordsworth would remember Pan
and Arcadian shepherds playing on reedy pipes, and Chaldæan

shepherds studying the stars, and those on Judæa's hills who heard the
angels singing. He would think of wild Tartar shepherds, and handsome
Spanish and Italian."
"And still handsomer Cumberland ones." And Sophia, having given
this little sisterly reminder, added calmly, "I met Mr. Wordsworth
to-day, father. He had come over the fells with a party, and he looked
very much bored with his company."
"I shouldn't wonder if he were. He likes his own company best. He is a
great man now, but I remember well when people thought he was just a
little off-at-side. You knew Nancy Butterworth, mother?"
"Certainly I did, squire. She lived near Rydal."
"Yes. Nancy wasn't very bright herself. A stranger once asked her what
Mr. Wordsworth was like; and she said, 'He's canny enough at times.
Mostly he's wandering up and down t' hills, talking his po-et-ry; but
now and then he'll say, "How do ye do, Nancy?" as sensible as you or
me.'"
"Mr. Wordsworth speaks foolishness to a great many people besides
Nancy Butterworth," said Sophia warmly; "but he is a great poet and a
great seer to those who can understand him."
"Well, well, Mr. Wordsworth is neither here nor there in our affairs.
We'll go up to Latriggs in the afternoon, Charlotte. I'll be ready at two
o'clock."
"And I, also, father." Her face was flushed and thoughtful, and she had
become suddenly quiet. The squire glanced at her, but without curiosity;
he only thought, "What a pity she is a lass! I wish Harry had her good
sense and her good heart; I do that."

CHAPTER II.
THE SHEEP-SHEARING.
"Plain living and high thinking ... The homely beauty of the good old
cause, ...our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing
household laws."
"A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free."
The sheep-shearings at Up-Hill Farm were a kind of rural Olympics.
Shepherds came there from far and near to try their skill against each
other,--young men in their prime mostly, with brown, ruddy faces, and
eyes of that bright blue lustre which is only gained by a free, open-air
life. The hillside was just turning purple with heather bloom, and along
the winding, stony road the yellow asphodels were dancing in the wind.
Everywhere there was the scent of bog-myrtle and wild-rose and
sweetbrier, and the tinkling sound of becks babbling over glossy rocks;
and in the glorious sunshine and luminous air, the mountains appeared
to expand and elevate, and to throw out glowing peaks and summits
into infinite space.
Hand in hand the squire and his daughter climbed the fellside. They
had left home in high spirits, merrily flinging back the mother's and
Sophia's last advices; but gradually they became silent, and then a little
mournful. "I wonder why it is, father?" asked Charlotte; "I'm not at all
tired, and how can fresh air and sunshine make one melancholy?"
"Maybe, now, sad thoughts are catching. I was having a few. Eh?
What?"
"I don't know. Why were you having sad thoughts?"
"Well, then, I really can't understand why. There's no need to fret over
changes. At the long end the great change puts all right. Charlotte, I
have been coming to Barf Latrigg's shearings for about half a century. I

remember the first. I held my nurse's hand, and wore such a funny little
coat, and such a big lace collar. And, dear me! it was just such a day as
this, thirty-two years ago, that your mother walked up to the shearing
with me, Charlotte; and I asked her if she would be my wife, and she
said she would. Thou takes after her a good deal; she had the very same
bright eyes and bonny face, and straight, tall shape thou has to-day.
Barf Latrigg was sixty then, turning a bit gray, but able to shear with
any man they could put against him. He'll be ninety now; but his father
lived till he was more than a hundred, and most of his fore-elders
touched the century. He's