Under the Greenwood Tree | Page 9

old
dead apple-tree wood and playing the bass-viol. 'A'd pass his life
between the two, that 'a would." He stepped to the door and opened it.
"Father!"
"Ay!" rang thinly from round the corner.
"Here's the barrel tapped, and we all a-waiting!"
A series of dull thuds, that had been heard without for some time past,
now ceased; and after the light of a lantern had passed the window and
made wheeling rays upon the ceiling inside the eldest of the Dewy
family appeared.
CHAPTER III
: THE ASSEMBLED QUIRE

William Dewy--otherwise grandfather William--was now about
seventy; yet an ardent vitality still preserved a warm and roughened
bloom upon his face, which reminded gardeners of the sunny side of a
ripe ribstone-pippin; though a narrow strip of forehead, that was
protected from the weather by lying above the line of his hat-brim,
seemed to belong to some town man, so gentlemanly was its whiteness.
His was a humorous and kindly nature, not unmixed with a frequent
melancholy; and he had a firm religious faith. But to his neighbours he
had no character in particular. If they saw him pass by their windows

when they had been bottling off old mead, or when they had just been
called long-headed men who might do anything in the world if they
chose, they thought concerning him, "Ah, there's that good-hearted
man--open as a child!" If they saw him just after losing a shilling or
half-a-crown, or accidentally letting fall a piece of crockery, they
thought, "There's that poor weak-minded man Dewy again! Ah, he's
never done much in the world either!" If he passed when fortune
neither smiled nor frowned on them, they merely thought him old
William Dewy.
"Ah, so's--here you be!--Ah, Michael and Joseph and John--and you
too, Leaf! a merry Christmas all! We shall have a rare log-wood fire
directly, Reub, to reckon by the toughness of the job I had in cleaving
'em." As he spoke he threw down an armful of logs which fell in the
chimney-corner with a rumble, and looked at them with something of
the admiring enmity he would have bestowed on living people who had
been very obstinate in holding their own. "Come in, grandfather
James."
Old James (grandfather on the maternal side) had simply called as a
visitor. He lived in a cottage by himself, and many people considered
him a miser; some, rather slovenly in his habits. He now came forward
from behind grandfather William, and his stooping figure formed a
well-illuminated picture as he passed towards the fire-place. Being by
trade a mason, he wore a long linen apron reaching almost to his toes,
corduroy breeches and gaiters, which, together with his boots,
graduated in tints of whitish-brown by constant friction against lime
and stone. He also wore a very stiff fustian coat, having folds at the
elbows and shoulders as unvarying in their arrangement as those in a
pair of bellows: the ridges and the projecting parts of the coat
collectively exhibiting a shade different from that of the hollows, which
were lined with small ditch-like accumulations of stone and
mortar-dust. The extremely large side-pockets, sheltered beneath wide
flaps, bulged out convexly whether empty or full; and as he was often
engaged to work at buildings far away--his breakfasts and dinners
being eaten in a strange chimney-corner, by a garden wall, on a heap of
stones, or walking along the road--he carried in these pockets a small

tin canister of butter, a small canister of sugar, a small canister of tea, a
paper of salt, and a paper of pepper; the bread, cheese, and meat,
forming the substance of his meals, hanging up behind him in his
basket among the hammers and chisels. If a passer-by looked hard at
him when he was drawing forth any of these, "My buttery," he said,
with a pinched smile.
"Better try over number seventy-eight before we start, I suppose?" said
William, pointing to a heap of old Christmas-carol books on a side
table.
"Wi' all my heart," said the choir generally.
"Number seventy-eight was always a teaser--always. I can mind him
ever since I was growing up a hard boy-chap."
"But he's a good tune, and worth a mint o' practice," said Michael.
"He is; though I've been mad enough wi' that tune at times to seize en
and tear en all to linnit. Ay, he's a splendid carrel--there's no denying
that."
"The first line is well enough," said Mr. Spinks; "but when you come to
'O, thou man,' you make a mess o't."
"We'll have another go into en, and see what we can make of the martel.
Half-an-hour's hammering at en will conquer the toughness of en; I'll
warn it."
"'Od rabbit it all!" said Mr. Penny, interrupting with a flash of