Tales of the Ridings | Page 9

across his knees in the heather, looking up to its master's face.
"Snakes, Rover, doesta see t' snakes," he would mutter, as his eye
caught the serpent-like advance of the walls. The dog seemed to catch
his meaning, and responded with a low growl of sympathy. "Aye,
they're snakes," the old man went on, "crawlin's up t' fell-side on their
bellies an' lickin' up t' dust. They've gotten their fangs into my heart,
Rover, and seean they'll be coilin' thersels about my body. I niver thowt
to see t' snakes clim' t' moors; they sud hae bided i' t' dale and left t'
owd shipperd to dee in peace."
When clipping-time came the walls had almost reached the level of the
shepherd's cottage. It was the farmers' custom to pay Peregrine a visit at
this time and receive at his hands the sheep that were to be driven down
to the valley to be clipped and earmarked. But this year not a single one
appeared. Shame held them back, and they sent their hinds instead.
These knew well what was passing in the shepherd s mind, but they
stood in too much awe of him to broach the subject; and he, on his side,
was too proud to confide his grievance to irresponsible farm servants.
But if nothing was said the dark circles round Peregrine's eyes and the
occasional trembling of his hand betrayed to the men his sleepless
nights and the palsied fear that infected his heart.
At times, too, though he did his utmost to avoid them, the shepherd
would come upon the bands of wallers engaged in their sinister task.
These were strangers to the dale and less reticent than the men from the
farms.
"Good-mornin', shipperd. Thou'll be noan sae pleased to set een on us
wallers, I reckon," one of them would say.
"Good-mornin'," Peregrine would reply. "I weant say that I's fain to see
you, but I've no call to threap wi' waller-lads. Ye can gan back to them
that sent you and axe 'em why they've nivver set foot on t' moor this
yeer."
"Mebbe they're thrang wi' their beasts and have no time to look after t'

yowes."
"Thrang wi' beasts, is it? Nay, they're thrang wi' t' devil, and are flaid to
look an honest man i' t' face."
The old man's words, and still more the lines of anguish that seamed his
weather-beaten face, touched them to the quick. But what could they do?
They were day-labourers, with wives and children dependent on the
work of their hands. Walling meant tenpence a day and regular work
for at least six months, and the choice lay between that and the dreaded
"Bastile," as Yorkshiremen in the years that succeeded the French
Revolution had learnt to call the workhouse.
So the work went on, and each day saw "the snakes" approaching
nearer to their goal on the crest of the fells. Peregrine still pursued his
calling, for the farmers, partly to humour the old man, gave orders that
a gap here and there should be left in the walls through which he could
drive his flocks. The work slackened somewhat during the hay harvest,
and the services of the wallers were enlisted in the meadows below. But
when the hay was gathered into the barns--there are no haystacks in the
Yorkshire dales--walling was resumed with greater vigour than before.
The summer was advancing, and the plan was to finish the work before
the winter storms called a halt. All hands were therefore summoned to
the task, and the farmers themselves would often join the bands of
wallers. Peregrine kept out of their way as far as possible, hating
nothing so much as the sound of their hammers dressing the stone. But
one day, as he rounded a rocky spur, he came upon the chief farmer of
the district, as he was having dinner with his men under the lee of the
wall he was building. Seeing that an encounter was unavoidable, the
shepherd advanced boldly to meet his adversary.
"I've catched thee at thy wark at last have I, Timothy?" were his words
of greeting, and Timothy Metcalfe cowered before a voice which
seared like one of his own branding-irons. "Enclosin' t' freemen's
commons is nobbut devil's wark, I's thinkin'," Peregrine went on
relentlessly, "and I've marked thee out for devil's wark sin first thou
tried to bring more nor thy stint o' Swawdill yowes on to t' moor."

The wallers received this home-thrust with a smile of approval, and
Timothy, roused by this, sought to defend himself.
"It's noan devil's wark," he retorted. "Enclosure was made by order o' t'
commissioners."
"Aye, I know all about t' commissioners--farmers hand i' glove wi' t'
lawyers frae t' towns, and, aboon all, a government that's