Cool is the air above the craggy summit. Clear is the water of the mountain keld. [24] Green grows the grass in droughty days beneath the brackens! What though the hailstorm sweep the fell in winter – through tempest, frost, or heat – we live our patient day’s allotted span.

Wild and free as when the stone-men [49] told our puzzled early numbers [12]; untamed as when the Norsemen named our grassings [15] in their stride. Our little feet had ridged [38] the slopes before the passing Romans. On through the fleeting centuries, when fresh blood came from Iceland, Spain, or Scotland – stubborn, unchanged, UNBEATEN – we have held the stony waste.

Dunmail; Faulds; Blue Joe; Wastwater Will and Thistle; Rawlins; Sworla; Wonder – old Pride of Helvellyn – pass the tough lineage forward; keep the tarrie woo’ unsoftened! Hold the proud ancient heritage of our Herdwick sheep. [18]

CHAPTER XI

Habbitrot

“Now one more tale before the sun goes down. Come Habbitrot, tell us of the spinner, her that you are named after.” Habbitrot, the sheep, drew her feet beneath her comfortably, and thus commenced:

Long, long ago, long before the acorn ripened that has grown into yonder oak – there lived a bonny lass at the farm in the dale, and a yeoman from Brigsteer came to court her.

Her parents were willing for the match, and Bonny Annot liked the yeoman well; a brave, handsome fellow and a merry. He had sheep on the fell, kine in the byre, a horse in the stall, a dry flag-roofed house, and many a broad acre. For dower her father would give her a cow and a stirk [48], a score of sheep, and ten silver merks.

Her mother would give her her blessing; but not without shame and a scolding. Now this was the trouble – two elder daughters when they married had had great store of blankets and sheets. For it was a good old custom in the dale that all menseful [30] lasses should spin flax and wool, and have the yarn woven by the webster, [58] so that they had ready against their bridewain [04] a big oak bedding chest [01] well filled with linen and blankets.

But this youngest daughter, Bonny Annot, was both the laziest and the bonniest; not one pound of wool had she carded, not one hank of tow had she spun! ‘Shut thee in the wool loft with thy spindle; go spin, idle Annot, go spin!’

Bonny Annot spun from morning till noon, from noon till the shadows grew long. But it was late a-day to commence to spin. ‘My back is tired, my fingers are stiff, my ears they drum with the hum of the wheel. Oh well and away to Pringle Wood, to meet my love,’ in the gloaming. She left her wheel, she lifted the latch, she stole away while the cows were milking.

In Pringle Wood across the beck the hazels grew as still they grow, and wind flowers and violets and primroses twinkled. Bonny Annot wandered through the wood, she knelt on the moss to gather a posey; and herself was the sweetest of flowers that grow. Blue were her eyes like the wood violet’s blue, fair were her locks like the mary-bud’s gold, and her red-and-white dimples like roses on snow! She bent to the flowers and she heard a low humming. Was it horse’s hoofs on the fell road from Brigsteer? Trot, trot, habbitrot, trot, trot, trot, trot, trot! She lifted her head and she listened; but no. She knelt on the moss and again she heard humming; was it bumbly bees storing their honey below? She peeped between stones and mossy hazel stumps, beneath a hollow stone, beneath a mossy stump – and there underground she saw a wee wee woman spinning – hum, hum! went her wheel; spinning, spinning, spinning.

‘Hey, Bonny Annot!’ said the little gray woman, ‘why art thou so pale and heavy-eyed?’

‘With spinning, good woman, with spinning!’

‘Spinning is for winter nights, Bonny Annot; why spinnest thou now, in the pleasant spring?’  ‘Because I was idle, I now must spin in haste. Alack! my sheets and blankets are to spin.’ She told her tale and cried.

‘Dry your eyes and listen, Bonny Annot,’ said the little gray woman, ‘eyes so blue and tender were never meant for tears. Lazy thou mayest be, but I know thee kind and true. Step up to the wool-loft in the moonlight; tie the bags of tow and wool upon the pony; bring them to old Habbitrot, and she will do thy spinning!’ Even while Annot thanked her there came the clink of horseshoes along the stony road from Brigsteer; Bonny Annot forgot her troubles and sprang to meet the yeoman.

But when he rode away next morning her troubles recommenced – her mother, with a hazel-rod, drove her up the steps to the loft, ‘It wants but three weeks to thy wedding – go spin, idle daughter, go spin!’ Many were the fleeces and the bags of wool and flax. So many that when she took away a load upon her pony – the wool was never missed; not although she made four journeys to and fro from Pringle Wood. ‘Bring more, bring more to old Habbitrot! Thou shalt have wealth of sheets and blankets!’ Down below under the hollow stone there was the noise of spinning; hum, hum, trot, trot, trot! habbitrot, trot, trot!

Little way made Bonny Annot with her own spinning in the wool-loft; yet she sang while she turned the wheel. What though the thread broke and the flax was lumpy, still she sang and laughed while she spun. In the evening she stole away once more to Pringle Wood, riding barebacked on her pony – ‘Lead him to the Colludie Stone! [09] Up with the bags and bundles! Wealth for thy wedding, Bonny Annot; she that spoke kindly to old Habbitrot shall never want for blankets.’

Bonny Annot’s mother expected but little in the morning. She climbed up to the wool-loft with the broomstick in her hand – ‘Say hast thou spun e’er a pound of wool, or a hank of tow, lazy daughter?’

Wonders will never cease! which of her sisters had ever had such yarn for the weaver? Worsted so strong and even; or thread so fine and fair? Her fame as a spinner was spread beyond the dale; it came to the ears of the yeoman. He, too, had great store of white wool and flax. Said her mother, ‘See what a housewife thou art marrying! Surely she will fill thy linen-press and deck thy cupboard!’ But Bonny Annot hung her head and pouted her lip; thought she – ‘He will keep me at spinning forever.’

The wedding day came. They were a handsome pair. The sun shone; the bells were rung; all the folk in the dale came to the kirk to see them married. And the wedding feast at the farm was thronged and merry. The trenchers were piled with meat; there were cakes and pies and pasties; the jugs of ale went round, and Bonny Annot kissed the cup.

Someone knocked at the house-door. The bride sprang to open it. At her feet upon the threshold stood a little ugly woman, a little gray old woman, with a kindly crooked smile.

‘Good dame, come in! Welcome to my wedding feast!’ Bonny Annot led her to the table, set chair and footstool and cushion, filled trencher and cup. The weddingers looked askance at the unbidden guest; they pointed and they whispered. But still the bonny bride served her, filling trencher and cup. The old woman munched, and munched, and munched. Now the bride’s youngest brother was a merry knave, ‘Hey, little woman!’ said he, ‘why hast thou such an ugly ugly mouth, wide and awry with a long flabby lip?’  ‘Whisht, whisht, Henry!’ said Bonny Annot, pulling him. The little woman smiled awry – ‘With spinning, my lad, with spinning.’ She wet her finger on her ugly flabby lip, and made as if she twisted thread; her thumb was broad and flat.

‘Oh ho!’ said the yeoman, ‘is that what comes of spinning?’ He kissed Bonny Annot’s cherry lips and tapered fingers, ‘Oh ho! so that comes of spinning?’

The old woman munched and munched and munched. ‘Hey, little woman,’ said Henry, ‘why is thy back so bent, thine eyes so bleared, and thy foot so flat?’  ‘With spinning, my lad, with spinning!’ She beat her broad foot up and down upon the flags as though she trod the treadle – trot, trot, habbitrot, trot, trot, trot trot trot! ‘So ho!’ said the yeoman, who was very fond of dancing, ‘so ho, Habbitrot! if that comes of spinning – my wife’s foot shall never treadle. No, no, Habbitrot! When we have wool and flax to spin, my wife shall dance and sing. We will send for Habbitrot! Habbitrot shall do our spinning; we will send for Habbitrot.’