It happened one Sunday morning in June that a swarm of bees issued from a hive in a cottage garden near Okebourne church.  The queen at first took up her position in an elm tree just outside the churchyard, where a large cluster of bees quickly depended from a bough.  Being at a great height the cottager could not take them, and, anxious not to lose the swarm, he resorted to the ancient expedient of rattling fire-tongs and shovel together in order to attract them by the clatter.  The discordant banging of the fire-irons resounded in the church, the doors being open to admit the summer air; and the noise became so uproarious that the clerk presently, at a sign from the rector, went out to stop it, for the congregation were in a grin.  He did stop it, the cottager desisting with much reluctance; but, as if to revenge the bee-master’s wrongs, in the course of the day the swarm, quitting the elm, entered the church and occupied a post in the roof.

After a while it was found that the swarm had finally settled there, and were proceeding to build combs and lay in a store of honey.  The bees, indeed, became such a terror to nervous people, buzzing without ceremony over their heads as they stood up to sing, and caused such a commotion and buffeting with Prayer-books and fans and handkerchiefs, that ultimately the congregation were compelled to abandon their pews.  All efforts to dislodge the bees proving for the time ineffectual, the rector had a temporary reading-desk erected in the porch, and there held the service, the congregation sitting on chairs and forms in the yard, and some on the stone tombs, and even on the sward under the shade of the yew tree.

In the warm dry hay-making weather this open-air worship was very pleasant, the flowers in the grass and the roses in the little plots about the tombs giving colour and sweet odours, while the swallows glided gracefully overhead and sometimes a blackbird whistled.  The bees, moreover, interfered with the baptisms, and even caused several marriages to be postponed.  Inside the porch was a recess where the women left their pattens in winter, instead of clattering iron-shod down the aisle.

Okebourne village was built in an irregular way on both sides of a steep coombe, just at the verge of the hills, and about a mile from the Chace; indeed, the outlying cottages bordered the park wall.  The most melancholy object in the place was the ruins of a windmill; the sails and arms had long disappeared, but the wooden walls, black and rotting, remained.  The windmill had its genius, its human representative — a mere wreck, like itself, of olden times.  There never was a face so battered by wind and weather as that of old Peter, the owner of the ruin.  His eyes were so light a grey as to appear all but colourless.  He wore a smock-frock the hue of dirt itself, and his hands were ever in his pockets as he walked through rain and snow beside his cart, hauling flints from the pits upon the Downs.

If the history of the cottage-folk is inquired into it will often be found that they have descended from well-to-do positions in life — not from extravagance or crime, or any remarkable piece of folly, but simply from a long-continued process of muddling away money.  When the windmill was new, Peter’s forefathers had been, for village people well off.  The family had never done anything to bring themselves into disgrace; they had never speculated; but their money had been gradually muddled away, leaving the last little better than a labourer.  To see him crawling along the road by his load of flints, stooping forward, hands in pocket, and then to glance at the distant windmill, likewise broken down, the roof open, and the rain and winds rushing through it, was a pitiful spectacle.  For that old building represented the loss of hope and contentment in life as much as any once lordly castle whose battlements are now visited only by the jackdaw.  The family had, as it were, foundered and gone down.

How they got the stray cattle into the pound it is difficult to imagine; for the gate was very narrow, and neither bullocks nor horses like being driven into a box.  The copings of the wall on one side had been pushed over, and lay in a thick growth of nettles:  this, almost the last of old village institutions, was, too, going by degrees to destruction.

Every hamlet used to have its representative fighting-man — often more than one — who visited the neighbouring villages on the feast days, when there was a good deal of liquor flowing, to vaunt of their prowess before the local champions.  These quickly gathered, and after due interchange of speeches not unlike the heroes of Homer, who harangue each other ere they hurl the spear, engaged in conflict dire.  There was a regular feud for many years between the Okebourne men and the Clipstone ‘chaps;’ and never did the stalwart labourers of those two villages meet without falling to fisticuffs with right goodwill.  Nor did they like each other at all the worse, and after the battle drank deeply from the same quart cups.  Had these encounters found an historian to put them upon record, they would have read something like the wars (without the bloodshed) between the little Greek cities, whose population scarcely exceeded that of a village, and between which and our old villages there exists a certain similarity.  A simplicity of sentiment, an unconsciousness as it were of themselves, strong local attachments and hatreds, these they had in common, and the Okebourne and Clipstone men thwacked and banged each other’s broad chests in true antique style.

Hilary said that when he was a boy almost all the cottages in the place had a man or woman living in them who had attained to extreme old age.  He reckoned up cottage after cottage to me in which he had known old folk up to and over eighty years of age.  Of late the old people seemed to have somehow died out:  there were not nearly so many now.

Okebourne Wick, a little hamlet of fifteen or twenty scattered houses, was not more than half a mile from Lucketts’ Place; on the Overboro’ road, which passed it, was a pleasant roadside inn, where, under the sign of The Sun, very good ale was sold.  Most of the farmers dropped in there now and then, not so much for a glass as a gossip, and no one from the neighbouring villages or from Overboro’ town ever drove past without stopping.  In the ‘tap’ of an evening you might see the labourers playing at ‘chuck-board,’ which consists in casting a small square piece of lead on to certain marked divisions of a shallow tray-like box placed on the trestle-table.  The lead, being heavy, would stay where it fell; the rules I do not know, but the scene reminded me of the tric-trac contests depicted by the old Dutch painters.

Young Aaron was very clever at it.  He pottered round the inn of an evening and Saturday afternoons, doing odd jobs in the cellar with the barrels; for your true toping spirit loves to knock the hoops and to work about the cask, and carry the jugs in answer to the cry for some more ’tangle-legs’ — for thus they called the strong beer.  Sometimes a labourer would toast his cheese on a fork in the flame of the candle.  In the old days, before folk got so choice of food and delicate of palate, there really seemed no limit to the strange things they ate.  Before the railways were made, herds of cattle had of course to travel the roads, and often came great distances.  The drovers were at the same time the hardiest and the roughest of men in that rough and hardy time.  As night came on, after seeing their herd safe in a field, they naturally ate their supper at the adjacent inn.  Then sometimes, as a dainty treat with which to finish his meal, a drover would call for a biscuit, large and hard, as broad as his hand, and, taking the tallow candle, proceed to drip the grease on it till it was well larded and soaked with the melted fat.

At that date, before the Government stamp had been removed from newspapers, the roadside inn was the centre and focus of all intelligence.  When the first railway was constructed up in the North the Okebourne folk, like the rest of the world, were with good reason extremely curious about this wonderful invention, and questioned every passer-by eagerly for information.  But no one could describe it, till at last a man, born in the village, but who had been away for some years soldiering, returned to his native place.  He had been serving in Canada and came through Liverpool, and thus saw the marvel of the age.  At the Sun the folk in the evening crowded round him, and insisted upon knowing what a steam-engine was like.  He did his best to describe it, but in vain; they wanted a familiar illustration, and could not be satisfied till the soldier, by a happy inspiration, said the only thing to which he could compare a locomotive was a great cannon on a timber-carriage.  To us who are so accustomed to railways it seems a singular idea; but, upon reflection, it was not so inapt, considering that the audience had seen or heard something of cannons, and were well acquainted with timber-carriages.  The soldier wished to convey the notion of a barrel or boiler mounted on wheels.

They kept up the institution of the parish constable, as separate and distinct from the policeman, till very recently at Okebourne, though it seems to have lapsed long since in many country places.  One year Hilary, with much shrugging of shoulders, was forced into the office; and during his term there was a terrible set-to between two tribes of gipsies in the Overboro’ road.  They fought like tigers, making the lovely summer day hideous with their cries and shrieks — the women, the fiercer by far, tearing each other’s hair.  One fiendish creature drew her scissors, and, using them like a stiletto, drove the sharp point into a sister ‘gip’s’ head.

‘Where’s the constable?’ was the cry.  Messengers rushed to Lucketts’ Place; the barn, the sheds, the hayfield, all were searched in vain — Hilary had quite disappeared.  At the very first sound he had slipped away to look at some cattle in Chequer’s Piece, the very last and outlying field of the farms, full a mile away, and when the messengers got to Chequer’s Piece of course he was up on the Down.  So much for the parish constable’s office — an office the farmers shirked whenever they could, and would not put in force when compelled to accept it.

How could a resident willingly go into a neighbour’s cottage and arrest him without malice and scandal being engendered?  If he did his duty he was abused; if he did not do it, it was hinted that he favoured the offender.  As for the ‘gip’ who was stabbed, nothing more was heard of it; she ‘traipsed’ off with the rest.

Sometimes when the ‘tangle-legs’ got up into their heads the labourers felt an inclination to resume the ancient practices of their fore-fathers.  Then you might see a couple facing each other in the doorway, each with his mug in one hand, and the other clenched, flourishing their knuckles.  ‘Thee hit I.’  ‘Thee come out in th’ road and I’ll let thee knaw.’  The one knew very well that the other dared not strike him in the house, and the other felt certain that, however entreated, nothing would induce his opponent to accept the invitation and ‘come out into th’ road.’

The shadows of the elm have so far to fall that they become enlarged and lose the edge upon reaching the ground.  I noticed this one moonlight night in early June while sitting on a stile where the footpath opened on the Overboro’ road.  Presently I heard voices, and immediately afterwards a group came round the curve of the highway.  There were three cottage women, each with a basket and several packages; having doubtless been into Overboro’ town shopping, for it was Saturday.  They walked together in a row; and in front of them, about five yards ahead, came a burly labourer of the same party, carrying in his arms a large clock.

He had taken too much ale, and staggered as he walked, two steps aside to one forward, and indeed could hardly keep upright.  His efforts to save himself and the clock from destruction led to some singular flexures of the body, and his feet traced a maze as he advanced, hugging the clock to his chest.  The task was too much for his over-taxed patience:  just opposite the stile he stood still, held his load high over his head, and shouting, ‘Dang th’ clock!’ hurled it with all his force thirty feet against the mound, at the same time dropping a-sprawl.  The women, without the least excitement or surprise, quietly endeavoured to assist him up; and, as he resisted, one of them remarked in the driest matter-of-fact tone, ’Ourn be just like un — as contrary as the wind.’  She alluded to her own husband.

When I mentioned this incident afterwards to Mrs. Luckett, she said the troubles the cottage women underwent on account of the ‘beer’ were past belief.  One woman who did some work at the farmhouse kept her cottage entirely by her own exertions; her husband doing nothing but drink.  He took her money from her by force, nor could she hide it anywhere but what he would hunt it out.  At last in despair she dropped the silver in the jug on the wash-hand basin, and had the satisfaction of seeing him turn everything topsy-turvy in a vain attempt to find it.  As he never washed, it never occurred to him to look in the water-jug.

The cottage women when they went into Overboro’ shopping, she said, were the despair of the drapers.  A woman, with two or three more to chorus her sentiments, would go into a shop and examine half-a-dozen dress fabrics, rubbing each between her work-hardened fingers and thumb till the shopkeeper winced, expecting to see it torn.  After trying several and getting the counter covered she would push them aside, contemptuously remarking, ’I don’t like this yer shallygallee (flimsy) stuff.  Haven’t’ee got any gingham tackle?’ Whereat the poor draper would cast down a fresh roll of stoutest material with the reply:  ‘Here, ma’am.  Here’s something that will wear like pin-wire.’  This did better, but was declared to be ‘gallus dear.’

Even within recent years, now and then a servant-girl upon entering service at the farmhouse would refuse to touch butcher’s meat.  She had never tasted anything but bacon at home, and could only be persuaded to eat fresh meat with difficulty, being afraid she should not like it.  One girl who came from a lonely cottage in a distant ‘coombe-bottom’ of the Downs was observed never to write home or attempt to communicate with her parents.  She said it was of no use; no postman came near, and the letters they wrote or the letters written to them never reached their destination.  ‘Coombe-bottom’ is a curious duplication — either word being used to indicate a narrow valley or hollow.  An unfortunate child who lived there had never been so well since the stone roller went over his head.  She had a lover, but he was ‘a gurt hummocksing noon-naw,’ so she was not sorry to leave him.  The phrase might be translated, ‘great loose-jointed idiot.’

They sometimes had lettuce-pudding for dinner, and thought nothing of eating raw bacon.  In the snow the men wound hay-bands round their legs to serve as gaiters, and found it answered admirably.  One poor girl had been subject to fits ever since a stupid fellow, during the haymaking, jokingly picked up a snake and threw it round her neck.  Yet even in that far-away coombe-bottom they knew enough to put an oyster-shell in the kettle to prevent incrustation.

The rules of pronunciation understood about Okebourne seemed to consist in lengthening the syllables that are usually spoken quick, and shortening those that are usually long.  Hilary said that years ago it really appeared as if there was something deficient in the organs of the throat among the labourers, for there were words they positively could not pronounce.  The word ‘reservoir,’ for instance, was always ‘tezzievoy;’ they could not speak the word correctly.  He could not explain to me a very common expression among the men when they wished to describe anything unusual or strange for which they had no exact equivalent.  It was always ‘a sort of a meejick.’  By degrees, however, we traced it back to ‘menagerie.’  The travelling shows of wild beasts at first so much astonished the villagers that everything odd and curious became a menagerie, afterwards corrupted to ‘meejick.’

‘Caddle no man’s cattle’ was a favourite proverb with a population who were never in a hurry.  ‘Like shot out of a show’l,’ to express extreme nimbleness, was another.  A comfortless, bare apartment was ‘gabern;’ anything stirred with a pointed instrument was ’ucked’ — whether a cow ‘ucked’ the fogger with her horn or the stable was cleaned out with the fork.  The verb ‘to uck’ was capable indeed of infinite conjugation, and young Aaron, breaking off a bennet, once asked me to kindly ‘uck’ a grain of hay-dust out of his eye with it.  When a heron rose out of the brook ‘a moll ern flod away.’

With all their apparent simplicity some of the cottage folk were quite up to the value of appearances.  Old Aaron had a little shop; he and his wife sold small packets of tea, tobacco, whipcord, and so forth.  Sometimes while his wife was weighing out the sugar, old Aaron — wretched old deceiver — would come in rustling a crumpled piece of paper as if it were a banknote, and handing it to her with much impressiveness of manner whisper loudly, ’Now you take un and put un away; and mind you don’t mix um.  You put he along with the fives and not with the tens.’

Hilary once showed me the heel of a boot which had just been mended by the hedge carpenter and cobbler who worked for him; and offered to bet that not all the scientific people in Europe, with microscope, spectrum analysis, all their appliances, could tell what leather the new heel-piece was made of.  Unable to guess, I gave it up; it was of bacon.  A pig that was never a ‘good doer’ was found in a ditch dead.  There is always a competition among the labourers for a dead pig or sheep; it was the cobbler’s turn, and he had it, cut it up, and salted it down.  But when in course of time he came to partake of his side of bacon, behold it was so tough and dried up that even he could not gnaw it.  The side hung in the cottage for months, for he did not like to throw it away, and could not think what to do with it, for the dogs could not eat it.  At last the old fellow hit upon the notion of using it as leather to mend shoes; so half his customers walked about the world on bacon heels.

So far as I could discover, the cottage folk did not now use many herbs.  They made tea sometimes of the tormentil, whose little yellow flowers appear along the furrows.  The leaves of the square-stemmed figwort, which they called ‘cresset’ or ‘cressil,’ were occasionally placed on a sore; and the yarrow — locally ’yarra’ — was yet held in estimation as a salve or ointment.

It would be possible for any one to dwell a long time in the midst of a village, and yet never hear anything of this kind and obtain no idea whatever of the curious mixture of the grotesque, the ignorance and yet cleverness, which go to make up hamlet life.  But so many labourers and labouring women were continually in and out of the kitchen at Lucketts’ Place that I had an opportunity of gathering these items from Mrs. Luckett and Cicely.  Years since they had employed even more labour, before machinery came into use so much:  then as many as twenty-four women might have been counted in one hayfield, all in regular rank like soldiers, turning the hay ‘wallows’ with their rakes.  ‘There’s one thing now you have forgotten,’ said Cicely.  ’They pick the canker-roses off the briars and carry them in the pocket as a certain preventive of rheumatism.’