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Old Raggitan: - The Lincolnshire Shepherd - 1875Extract from a book called: - 'Talks with Shepherds' By Walter JohnsonThis information was first given to me by Martin Chapman. I was so intrigued by it that I asked who owned the book and found that it was owned by Edna Chapman and Edna herself believes that the Shepherd concerned was her Grandfather. I have reproduced it just as it was written and hope you enjoy this story as much as I did.
" Everything taken together, here in Lincolnshire are more good things than man could have had the conscience to ask of God."-William Cobbett.
OLD RAG, or in full, Raggitan (these are not the proper names but both the surname and its abbreviation are not a whit more peculiar than the actual ones) lived in the rich marshland of Lincolnshire, close by a "ramper" (rampart) road which ran parallel to a canal. It is a dreary, desolate tract of country, with scarcely a tree of any size worth recording, a kind of Galilee of the Gentiles "by the way of the sea". About a mile distant from Rag's house was the wide, flat beach, rilled and channelled, its outer mudbanks clad with glasswort and thrift, but bounded landward by shifting sand dunes. These dunes have almost buried the ancient Roman embankment, and, were it not for the binding stolons of marram grass and lyme grass, would soon unroll themselves again and bury valuable cornfield and meadows. On the sandhills grow the choicest dewberries and blackberries, or "brameberries" as the natives call them, and there, too, are dense thickets of gorse and sea buckthorn, the latter bush having silvery white leaves and sour yellow fruits. Many a curious plant nestles in the hollows- white horehound, houndstongue, soldanella, the yellow horned poppy, and half-wild asparagus, all sturdy and resistant, despite the encroaching sand, wind-driven and whipped by the long sharp-edged blades of marram grass. Over these sand hills came the roar of the distant waves, as the league-long roller uncurled itself on the fluted shore. Near by was indeed the traditional scene of the poet's lines, "Break, break, break", and it was this music that lulled old Raggitan to sleep. Inland, near the old man's house, were pasture fields in endless number and varying acreage, geometrically intersected by dykes or drains. Each enclosure, except in size, was a copy of its neighbour. There was a dull uniformity of grazing fields, broken only by occasional breadths of golden com. Hedges were almost absent, and the trees were chiefly confined to homesteads; the few which were scattered abroad formed good landmarks. The charters of three centuries ago speak emphatically of the dearth of woodland hereabout, and it is known that the inhabitants eagerly sought for driftwood to consume, and, like primitive folk in other counties and countries, were even glad to burn "brocks" or dried cow's dung. Such customs as these might give anyone false impressions of the present condition of the people, just as, by viewing separately the marshy foreground of the picture, warped ideas of ugliness and monotony might be conceived. But when the land is frost-bound, and the vast spaces are given to silence, the spirit of a ranger would assuredly quail at the prospect. “What! What! Lincolnshire? All flats, fens, fogs, eh? eh?" So space His Royal Highness George III, but his geography was both weak and libellous. The rainfall of the district is less than that of London, and indeed, the land sometimes suffers from prolonged droughts, when the sheep cross the ditches, and the bewildered farmer has to sow his turnips twice or thrice over. At these times the arable fields, baked like bricks, are riven and fissured to great depths, and, arising out of the slimy ooze of the ditch bottoms, comes a faint malarial odour from the duckweed and frogbit and marsh-wort, which lie dying and rotting in the fierce heat. Were it not for the existence off artificial artesian wells, which yield a never-failing supply of good drinking water, the natives of the marshland would then fare badly. But, in all truth, never was the proverb “A flat land is a fat land”, better proved and exemplified than in this seaward plain of the old Lindiswaras. Looking westward, the scene is more varied, for there the Chalk wolds rim the horizon, and the lofty spire of a market town peeps above the trees at their foot. Within these visible limits are pleasant vales and woodlands, large outlying farms and farmhouses, whose prosperous tenants can themselves supply most of their own needs, and tiny picturesque villages lying lonely in sheltered hollows, where “Little lost down churches praise The Lord who made the hills". In short, the land has been greatly maligned by the popular reports of its dampness, for the geographer, speaking purely as a statistician, is bound to testify that the rainfall, as already stated, is markedly low. But enough of the locality, we will look at old Raggitan. He meets us on the footbridge, which spans the Mar, or Marsh dyke, and which leads to his cottage. The dyke is half choked with Canadian water thyme, an introduced pest which gives great trouble. It is a work-day, and Old Rag is wearing a hard felt hat and a loose ‘slop smock’, much soiled by wear. On more important occasions, he will probably be garbed like an ordinary farmer, but on market daysyou may see him in a clean smock, beautifully pleated and frilled. Many of the cottagers, small holders, and even yeomen, wore these smocks at the period of which I speak, nearly fifty years ago. The smock, when newly washed, with all its puckerings at the back, breast and wrists clearly showing, was quite a becoming garment. A tailor in an adjacent village was famous for making smocks, and was visited by folk from many miles around. Old Rag is a short, rather bent, wiry man of seventy odd summers, a widower, and as far as could be learned, the last of his line, for his unmarried sister died while the old man had still some years of usefulness before him. Shrewd to a degree far beyond the common herd of men, he peers at us from under his bushy eyebrows, with a hint that he will not readily be taken in by cunning, but as he recognizes us, a faint smile soon spreads across his weather-beaten face, whose frosty fringe tells of the strenuous summers and winters left behind him. Looking at his round, bullet head, an anthropologist would perhaps say that Old Rag belonged to the genuine Alpine race, and that he was tenacious of life and capable of great endurance. At any rate, the type was not very common in that neighbourhood. As his real name was, I believe, unique, so the character of the man was of rare composition. With respect to his physique, an unkind villager was wont to declare that Old Rag was "as hard as a toad" it was not until some months before his death that the old fellow suffered from any of the ailments common to most of his kind. It was mentioned, a moment ago, that the shepherd's ‘slop smock’ was dirty, and we now further notice that his legs are closely encased in leather gaiters, ‘yanks’ as he calls them. He has in fact, been docking the tails of lambs, and applying salve to certain sheep, which have chafed their skin into sores by rubbing against a gate post to relieve some kind of irritation. Instead of a crook, with which we are familiar in Southern counties, Old Rag carried in his hand a long ‘louping staff’, that is, a pole of which the lower end, shod with iron, diverges into two short stumpy branches. Sometimes, instead of this bifurcation, the staff is terminated by a small drum of lead or iron. This appliance is an essential in the equipment of every marshland shepherd, who must leap perhaps a dozen dykes in a single round. During leisurely patrols, when there are no wide ditches to be crossed, or when gates can be made use of, he carries a light spud, or ‘spittle’, and with this he digs up a thistle here and there, as his fancy leads him. On the end of the wall of the house, supported horizontally by long nails, is an eel-spear, about sixteen or eighteen feet long. The local name, of Scandinavian origin, is ‘stong-gad’. The shepherd's assistant, a stout lad of sixteen years, uses this strong-gad in his spare hours, and gets half a pailful of eels from the larger dykes close at hand. When the goyts or sluice gates, two miles away, are opened at low tide to relieve the land drains, young flounders sometimes come inland up the dykes and are caught by the village lads. In these dykes, besides perch, roach, and small jack, there lives that curious fresh water member of the cod family, the eel-pout, or burbot, or as it is known locally, the "blob" (Lota lota).It is a slimy, heavy-headed fish, with a beard depending from its lower jaw, while the body is shaped like that of a lumpy eel. No one eats the creature, except navvies and gypsies, though the flesh is white and delicate as a chicken. The burbot hides in kettles and cans, which have been thrown into the dykes, and when village boys capture them they do so only for fun, and soon throw him back into the water. The fish has a strange history, because his geographical distribution seems to indicate an original home in the deep sea. The reader has already gathered that our friend is not a shepherd in the strict sense of one who spends all his time tending flocks of sheep in the open country. There is very little common grazing land hereabout, and no unenclosed pastures, so that Old Rag's occupation is diverse nature. He is the guardian, census-taker, veterinary surgeon shearer and assessor for cattle and sheep scattered over about two score meadows, belonging to various non-resident butchers, grazers, and flock-owners a few of whom live actually in other counties. Old Rag has to decide when the sheep are to go to the wash dyke, when they shall be dipped and disinfected, and when they shall be taken to the shearing-fold. If he does not directly take part in these operations; he must personally direct and superintend. Twice daily, first at early dawn, when the dew lies on the ground, and again before the oncoming of twilight, he goes the round of his fields, louping-staf in hand. As he thrusts the staff into the ‘sinker mud’ of the drain a foot or more of the lower end is buried, and then only can he get a good fulcrum for making his leap. To save his aged legs, he will give a village ‘boykin’ as he calls him, a copper or two to run a field’s length in order to raise a ‘far-weltered yowe’ - a ewe that has upturned itself on its back and cannot, without help, recover its natural position. Should a bullock stuck fast in the great marsh dyke, neighbours are called to help and the payment is uniformly a shilling each. The owner, who perhaps dwells in some remote district, is well repaid for this outlay by the salvation of his ox. Sometimes Rag's assistant follows him like an acolyte, with shears or ‘ruddle’, tar-pot or salve box, in order to doctor sickly sheep. A wiry-haired cur of the mongrel type, long legged and short tailed, a sort of plebeian descendant of the true shepherd dog, yaps at his heels, and thinks himself as intelligent as his master. When the youth goes shepherding without the dog, whose name, curiously enough, is Monk, he finds that a long low whistle is very effective in rounding up the flock for the purpose of checking the numbers. A sharp watch must be kept for animals which contract incurable diseases and a ‘canger’, or consumptive sheep, must be killed at an early stage of the attack. Perhaps the most singular, as it is the most perplexing of all diseases which Old Rag has to deal with is the ‘sturdy’ or ‘gid’. The complaint is now known to be caused by a parasitic tapeworm. This tapeworm thrives in the small intestines of a dog, and the eggs, when ejected, may be swallowed by a sheep, either along with a tuft of grass or a mouthful of water. From these eggs are developed embryos which pierce the blood vessels of the sheep, and which are then carried by the blood current to the nerve centres, where they attach themselves and form cysts. Thus the immediate cause of the strange behaviour and drooping appearance of the victim is the formation of cysts on the brain. Old Rag has only one cure for this disease - the butcher's knife - but his predecessors, less than a century ago, practised surgical treatment. In an adjacent, village, as Arthur Young discovered during his investigations made on his travels, there lived a shepherd who was skilled in trephining sheep stricken with the gid. He used a steel punch, and cut out a circular from the skull of the animal. Young reported that this rough operation was successful in half the cases treated. The whole story is interesting and affords us one more instance of how our forefather, completely ignorant of the real causes of the disease often empirically stumbled upon what was, in theory, a fairly reasonable mode of treatment. Touching one curious matter, that of the alleged ‘tail-worm’ in cows, Old Rag's ideas and practices were superstitious rather than scientific, yet oddly enough, here again, traditional was not unavailing. A beast supposed to be affected by the ‘worm’ would be found with its tail standing out stiffly at an angle with its body, the member being apparently devoid off feeling. Whatever might be the true cause of the ailment, some nerve centre had suffered an injury, and the poor creature seemed unable to control its tail. A crude, not to say cruel operation was thereupon undertaken. I have myself seen the farrier make a nick in the tail of the cow, just at the bent part, from one vertebra downward to another, cutting to the bone, and completing the work by painstakingly bandaging the wound. Whether the shock had some incalculable effect, or whether the seat of mischief was actually reached, I know not, but in this case the animal recovered the use of its tail, and the sickness disappeared. Among the primary cares of this marsh shepherd was the annual sheep-washing, which, like the shearing, might be entrusted to a deputy, but had to be supervised by the master himself. There were likewise many miscellaneous duties. The post or hinge of a gate might need attention, or the ‘feather’ that is, the wing which sloped down from the gate to the ditch, had become loose. Assisted by his stout henchman, who carried a hammer and a gabblick, or gavelock (crowbar), he must at once put matters right. A young bull, "desperately frightened and not a little vicious, had to be kept quiet while the local farrier gave it attention, and out came a strong pair of bull pincers provided with knobs instead of gripping edges. Having placed these knobs in the nostrils of the beast, one could hold him as in a vice. Should the pincers, not be available, one's fingers would make a fair substitute. Then there were animals to be marked, either by systematic ear-clipping, or by initialling their bodies with tar or paint. Oxen would be branded on the horns. In the autumn, the shepherd had to ‘spud’ thistles for far-sighted owners, and in winter he would get someone to spread the manure over the closes (enclosures) by means of a strong, short-tined fork with turned-up prongs. A sheep with a broken limb had occasionally to be killed and dressed at short notice, either owing to the absence of the butcher, or the distance from the slaughter-house. But the blue-coated villages butcher, an apple-faced old sinner, fast nearing eighty, would manage the business best. It is true that he might have to be fetched from the tavern by his scolding wife, who would so goad him that at last he would mildly exclaim, “Noo, then, lass, noo then art ta going to breed a mutiny?” In urgent cases the good wife had to send a boy to the inn with a message that she was dying. But this cry of ‘wolf’ soon lost its efficacy. “Allreight, my lad, all reight, tell her to git on with her dying, ah’m coming directly.” When the old man had dressed a sheep, he followed the age-long custom of cutting a fancy pattern, resembling a leaf or herring-bone in the rind of the carcase, while it was still warm. The reason given to a questioner was that his father before him used to make such a pattern. In Durham, instead of a leaf a cross was incised on the body, and it is here that the folk-lorist might be allowed to speak. But we are leaving the shepherd and are talking butchers and folk-lore. The sheep had to be properly washed, as before stated by a man who new the knack of cleansing the wool with the natural yolk of the fleece, without removing all of that valuable secretion. Then the beautiful silky coat of the famous Lincoln breed would be seen at its best. A customer had to be found at the right moment when prices were good. Centuries ago, when it was the fashion to manufacture woollen cloth in certain well-know market towns, Lincolnshire dyed the most beautiful green in the country. Who does not recall Robin Hood and his merry men? And does not Drayton say, “She's in a frock of Lincoln green; The colour, maid's delight.” In the same way Coventry sent out the best blue, and Bristol the finest red. The proudest function of Old Rag's life, which was performed once in every week, was the selection of animals for the market, and the subsequent journey with them to town. Word having been sent by the owner that certain sheep or bullocks were to be sold, the duty fell to Old Rag to ‘draw’ them, that is, to make the necessary choice. No small degree of skill and judgment went to his verdict, and it might even happen that his also was the responsibility of deciding upon the most opportune state of the market. In most cases it was impossible that the owner should be present at the ‘drawing’. On a Thursday, the day before the market, the animals were therefore carefully selected, and put aside for a good rest, since a start would be made on Friday morning by two, or at the latest, three o'clock. At that early hour, Old Rag, dingily dressed in his ‘best’ clothes, mounted his roan cob, and, assisted by his lad, soon collected his composite ‘drove’ of animals on the high road. One or two boys would join him, driving an odd cow or a few sheep belonging to neighbours, but if no mates of this kind had been announced beforehand, he would sometimes engage a couple of boys to travel with him. It must be mentioned that the drove might comprise a dozen bullocks and many scores of sheep, taken from several fields, and therefore unaccustomed to each other's company, that there were more than nine miles of highway to be travelled, and that along the route were numerous interesting lanes and by-paths. Help was necessary to prevent frisky members of the strangely-assorted herd from taking the wrong turning, bolting ahead of the main company, straying through open gateways, or leaping dykes to mix with other animals which came to gaze inquiringly at the passing show. The caravan starts. The faithful mongrel begins to yelp a little. The old man gives the roan pony a gentle thwack with his whipstock, and soon all are set in the order of their going. A lad comes out of a homestead with a cow and calf, and joins the band, among the members, of which a close comradeship is soon established. When well on the road, the old Man-grows sociable, and tells of his experiences. He speaks of his boyhood, of the old black treacly sugar, which he was glad to get with his weak tea, though, for that matter, boys mostly had milk for breakfast, while their elders drank home-brewed ale. He glows with enthusiast over the splendid crops of huge potatoes, which grew in the days before ‘this disease’ got among them. And again he refers to the period of no schools and plenty of hard work. Like most of his co-evals, he could repeat the old ‘rhyming score’ by which flocks were formerly counted: “ Een, teen, tethera, pethera, pimp”, for one, two, three, four, five, and for eleven, twelve-going on curiously to een-a-dick, teen-a-dick, and so forth. The words of this score which still linger in many counties, was considered by such a high authority as Sir Walter Skeat to represent a corrupt version of the Celtic numerals employed in ‘telling the tale’ of sheep. The shepherd's calling, by its nature, slow to change, favoured the retention of a system of counting taken over from the Celtic-speaking Britons. Old Rag was fond of chattering about doings of bygone villagers. With some degree of awe, not untinged with vague respect, he related how old ‘Johnty’ Reed, a tailor of the previous generation, was a ‘Roman Catholic’- a rare person in those parts. Then he spoke of shipwrecks and drowned sailors, and repeated a current story about a villager still living. “You knaw that figger-head of a ship on owd Clarke's lawn? Well, tell ya how it cum theer. Owd Culture Thompson (How did the man get such an odd nickname? Perhaps ironically because of his surliness and deafness) used to goa down to the shore ivry morning to look for oddments, a bit of amber, a beam of ship's timber, or owt weshed up from a wreck. Ya knaw owd Culture is as deeäf as a poäst. Well, one morning he does down to the sea, afore it was light, and sees summat. He goas and wakes up his neighbour, Ted Symons, calls him out, and says, ‘Cum on Ted, quick, I've fun a feller's body'. There was then a reward of five shillings for anyone who found a corpse. So he drags owd Ted off to the sands, and blest if it wasn't a wooden figger heeäd, a queen or summat or other. Awiver, they decided to take it. They were coming through owd Clarke's yard - you ha to cum through it to git to the ramper road and ya knaw what a kilps (mean fellow) he is. ‘Hallo! says owd Clarke, what soart of a hallockin is this? Ya lig that thing down, it's my property.' And they had to leave it, and all, and there it is to-day.” One little incident, however, Old Rag did not, describe, because it related to himself. A railway had been newly made, and, on the opening morning, a number of village cronies collected so as to journey to market by train. Among others, Old Rag - wonder of wonders - was there. All the good folk, perhaps, save the old man, had at some time travelled in a train before. Old Rag was observed to be in a rather troubled mood, but he was too proud to confess any anxiety. At length all were safely seated, the train gradually got a good speed, and the carriage began to sway perceptibly. Old Rag, who had hitherto held his peace, turned to the company, and in excited tones, burst out, “My dears! she'll be over”. But the train did not fall over. The story got noised abroad and the old man confined himself to the roan pony afterwards. At times, Old Rag would become really eloquent after a fashion, and would attempt a ‘purple patch’, showing that his unschooled mind, when at leisure, worked in unsuspected grooves, and that he was given to reflection. “I have gone along this road,” he once said, “in all weathers; in sunshine and frosty, moonshine and misty, in the rain and the hail and the storm and the terrible tempest." While such a monologue, almost free from dialect, is holding the attention of his juvenile audience, a large flock of sheep, scarce visible in the murky light, issues from a lane at right angles to the road and some confusion follows. Shouting and hollowing, together with reciprocal recriminations, are soon heard, but above all rises the commanding voice of the old man, as he trots forward and backward on his nag, like some commander in a petty skirmish. It is several minutes before the sorting out is completed and Old Rag, though a little flustered, has not lost his temper. He is soon garrulous again, this time advocating teetotalism, a rare cult in that locality at that stage of the Victorian period. Rag was a good example of one who practised what he preached. It is doubtful, too, whether he had ever smoked tobacco, yet his neighbours, almost without exception, kept numerous ‘churchwardens', to aid seasoning their gin or brandy. He was full of praises of the virtue of saving, but declared that a boy should always carry a few coppers in his pocket. The possible dangers of over-thriftiness, or at least of hoarding, was exemplified in Old Rag's own home, as will appear later. At certain points of the pilgrimage, a minute or two was freely devoted to gossiping with farmers or labourers who might be early astir, for weekly exchange of the news of the country side was an entertainment not to be lightly ignored. The toll-gate having been reached, the sleepy collector had to be shouted out of his back kitchen, or bed perhaps, what time Old Rag was impatiently flicking his pony-or his own leg-with his brass-bound whipstock. When the laggard appeared, he was constrained to listen to mild witticisms and even to crack a joke himself, lest the old shepherd should make merry with him one-sidedly for the benefit of the boys. To settle the tolls, pass through the gate, and see that the tickets were in order would occupy a few minutes. There was another tollgate to be encountered, with a similar schedule of tolls, unintentionally amusing, but one payment cleared both obstructions. As the market town was gradually approached, careless conversation was checked, for there were weightier matters on hand. Droves of cattle and sheep arriving from all quarters of the compass compelled the master to keep a strict eye on his business. The long journey comes to an end; The steers, or young bullocks, have to be placed In their stalls, and all particulars concerning them - entered in the auctioneer's books. On the haunch of each animal a circular piece of paper, bearing number, is carefully pasted, and a boy is left in charge of these ‘beasts’ all cattle - cows, steers, bulls, bullocks, heifers, ‘drapes’ ‘cauves’ - are comprehensively called ‘beasts’ a term never applied to sheep in Lincolnshire. A pen or number of pens, had to be reserved for each separate sheep-owner, but here a simple method of identification, such as marking with ruddle, was adopted. It might, and sometimes did happen, that some cunning garthman or over-reaching shepherd seized a position of vantage, which had been previously claimed by Old Rag. Woe worth the day! Bold and fearless in the interest of his employers, it was then, and then only, that Old Rag became explosive with wrath and his language grew fierce and fuliginous. The air grew dark with dialect, and volleys of oaths made the welkin resound. Loud repartees were banged about, but one caught only such words as ‘two shears’, ‘tups’, and ‘gimmers’, and ‘hogs’, ‘mucky, howry tricks’, and ‘leather-headed towels’ (mean, miserable wretches). The ‘foreigner’ desires to know, in the name of the infernal region, who gave Old Rag “the reight to remble me, after I had been “ere häfe an hour", cals him a "pot-noddle" and "snooling hound ", while Old Rag, in turn, calls his enemy an "unheppen yawnocks ". Personal as Old Rag's remarks undoubtedly were, they went straight to the point, and ultimately he won the day. For, besides his wide experience and natural shrewdness, he was fair-minded, moreover he, possessed a kind of double personality, being both a man under authority, and also, on his own account, a local satrap, whose fame had gone forth to the world. Matters at length had calmed down, and ere long, some squire, or grazier, or landowner would come to talk business with Old Rag. There was a decision to be made about some ‘keeping’, that is, pasture which is let for grazing purposes only. Instructions are given concerning a ‘close of eddish’ (aftermath), and arrangements are made for animals to be fetched from a Wold farm twenty miles away. A farmer is short of ‘feeding’ land, and comes to inquire whether Old Rag can secure him ‘agistment’, that is, let his animals pasture alongside others at a price to be fixed mutually. Soon, a bell rung by the auctioneer's assistant, announces that the sale of ‘beasts’ - the aforesaid heifers, bullocks, milch cows and the rest - is about to begin. From all points, men of many degrees, but bearing a family likeness by reason of their russet or drab attire, their heavy boots and light leggings, rush radially to a large circular enclosure. Perched on a seat at the top of the fence, sit the auctioneer, his clerk, and a very few ‘old hands’, who have, as it were, a kind of hereditary claim to this privileged position. Other men of weight and importance, among whom is Old Rag, stand within the ‘ring’, to watch the sale of the ‘stock’ in which they are mostly interested. The old fellow nobs auctioneer in a friendly way, without the faintest trace of servility or feeling that their positions are unequal. Rag too, is an expert, a connoisseur at his trade, and within the limits of that occupation, fears no criticism, seeks no patronage, brooks no injustice. To spur on the indolent or unwilling buyer, the auctioneer uses a varied repertory of exhortations. Some of these are as old as the hills, or at least, as old as that market, but they are ever fresh in their application. “Fine colour, gentlemen” - this of a bullock or heifer. “Two lives, gentlemen, remember, two lives” - of a ‘cow in calf’ “No reserve, but I can't give this beast away. Where was it fed, Rag?” And so the business goes on, until all the cattle are disposed of, and there is a scramble to the sheep pens, where even now, the auctioneer's partner is getting to work. There one can examine the true long-woolled Lincoln breed of animals, beautifully white, with perhaps a few dark spots on the legs. More commonly one of the numerous crosses of the pure breed will be seen, but no longer does the ancient gibe hold true, that Lincoln neglected the carcase, while Leicester disdained the fleece. Here, to-day, sweet, mellow mutton, a trifle too fat, it may be, goes along with a heavy ‘shear’ and Old Rag is a proud man as he watches pen after pen being knocked down at high prices. “Are they he-dens?” says the auctioneer. “No, shedders”, is the reply. – “Oh, shedders, then shedders they are; what offers?” And the stranger is struck by these curious, but useful synonyms for ‘male” and ‘female’. Incidentally, words of commendation are bestowed on Old Rag because of the capital condition of his sheep, and he beams his delight. But, as a rule, there is little time for compliments. The auctioneer wants to finish his work, and the shepherd must transact much business. Certain of his clients are buying young, or perhaps lean animals to be driven to Old Rag's country, the former to grow bigger, and the latter group to grow fatter. Which of the marshland fields is to receive the strangers must at once be settled. There are proposals for a larger number of animals to be brought next week, since the market is rising. There are suggestions about hiring more land, or renewing the occupations already held. All these matters need time, but at last Old Rag crosses the street to take a modest meal at the refreshment rooms. Thence he goes down hill to the square to make some trivial purchases. He looks for the thousandth time at the tall Decorated spire of the parish church, so well-proportioned and harmonious that critics are lost in wonder, for as Mr. Francis Bond said, it is “beyond compare”. Ancestors, long since dead - and forgotten, gazed on that spire, whose life seems as illimitable as its beauty is complete. Mayhap, Old Rag, who is neither an architect nor a judge of the aesthetic, nurses some unexpressed and inexpressible feelings on this matter also, but he is unlearned and untaught. The problem is beyond him, the gentle wave of emotion dies away, and he saunters dreamily back to the sheep-market. Certain dues have to be paid over to the market officials. Then the miscellaneous detachments of the home-going herd are brought together, and soon the return journey is commenced. The animals must not be over-driven, and perhaps before the shepherd reaches his home the moon will have risen in the cold blue sky and if it be winter, the grass and trees may already be coated with rime. The end comes at l A the herd is' settled for the night, and the old fellow, now for long years past a widower, can rest again by his own fireside. His sister, his close companion for several decades, strives to make the old man happy. Rag's life is trying, and indeed arduous. Rheumatism comes on apace. There is little time for social observances, little room for the small amenities of life. Yet even here, there is a measure of comfort, the ingle-nook possesses those allurements which come to those who are tired with honest work, and it has been hallowed by the presence of several generations of fore-elders. Old Rag, in spirit, if not in word, could freely declare “Ille terrarum mihi praeter omens Angulus ridet.” From the “reckan hook”, suspended from the ‘galleybalk’ above the fireplace a pot already ‘on the boil’ emits an enticing odour, and it is plain that a good supper awaits the shepherd. The meal over, Old Rag discusses the business of the day and the work of to-morrow with his henchman, the sturdy lad before mentioned. And so the evening passes quickly away, for early hours are kept at that house. Something has been said respecting Old Rag's ideas about thrift. A little comedy, verging however on the tragic side, came to be associated with the sister who kept house, for Old Rag. Like many other spinsters in similar positions, she had contrived to save a goodly sum out of her housekeeping allowance, which she supplemented by the sale of eggs and butter, for she not only kept poultry, but a milch cow. In course of time, and several years before, in Scriptural phrase, the brother was ready, to turn his face to the wall, she died, but without telling a soul where she had concealed her savings. For days, the old man coursed backwards and forwards to make inquiries among his sister's acquaintances as to possible clues. Now to the village shop, now to the post-office, to the local carriers, even to the tavern, here, there, and everywhere he scurried, questioning the neighbouring gaffers and gammers, until the days passed into weeks, and the weeks into months. At last when he was almost raving with despair; the quest came unexpectedly to an end, the hoard, quite in accordance with the stories told in, books, having been accidentally discovered in a hole in the wall. Fashions have, in part, changed since Old Rag slipped away, but one imagines that life in his village runs in much the same grooves. The county, second in size, still has the reputation of feeding the greater number of sheep than any other shire, a million sheep being found within its borders. Yorkshire and Northumberland are indeed close competitors, and may at times slightly out run Lincolnshire Nor are the men greatly altered. Younger men have grown old, And have been succeeded by their sons, yet the solidity and trustiness which were exemplified in old Rag, may, one hopes and believes, still be often found. Copyright © All rights reserved - www.saltfleetby.co.uk |