snow had fallen heavily during the night, for at daybreak it lay to a depth of several inches on the grass under my window, and weighed down the laurel-bushes that skirted it. it was an unusual sight for a cornish boy; but more impressive was the hush that had fallen on the world—the noiseless footfall of man and horse and the muffled tones of st mary’s bells, scarcely audible though an east wind was blowing. this impression has never left me, nor have many of the scenes that met my eyes lost their vivid outlines. despite the effacing influence of time, i can still see clearly against the white background the incidents of that christmas-tide. one word about the frost. it was sudden as well as severe, so that even the men who watched the skies for change of weather were taken by surprise. the intense, cold traversed the island as fast as the piercing wind that came with it, and between sundown and dawn had laid its icy fetters on the whole country. thus penwith for once suffered with the rest of england, and even more severely. snowdrops had been already gathered in sunny corners, and a quarryman on his way home to gulval had seen and picked a few primroses in trevaylor woods, for his sick wife. this became known subsequently, when the gardeners sought excuses for not having bound up the stems of the palm-trees that had till then flourished in the semi-tropical climate. perhaps it is not strictly correct to say that there was no warning of the frost. two days before it set in, john harris, the lighthouse-keeper, had found a woodcock with a broken bill lying dead on the stage outside the lantern, and near it a rare bird only seen so far west in rigorous winters; and those who took the side of the gardeners said that, had he not kept the secret to himself for fear of the game-laws, not only the palm-trees, but also the old aloe in alverton lane that had flowered the previous summer, might have been saved. whether the woodcock found by the lighthouse-keeper was one of a big flight or whether the birds arrived a day or so later is uncertain; at all events it was generally known on christmas day that the furze-brakes were “alive with cock,” tidings which raised a longing for the morrow in the breast of the sportsmen. among these was an old friend whom i found busy in his sanctum filling a leathern pouch with shot from a canister. a log was blazing on the hearth. as i talked to him, i noticed that the ruddy blaze was tinged with green. i was puzzled to know the cause at the time, but i have thought since that the colour must have been due to a copper nail in the half-burnt piece of oak. the mention of this recalls how i used to enjoy sitting by that fireside, listening to the yarns of the three sportsmen who foregathered there. who that ever heard them can forget the incidents of that famous night’s sea-fishing at the “back of the island”; the capture with the walking-stick rod of the two-pound trout whose holt was the deep pool under the roots of the sycamore at the foot of the hilly field at trewidden; the vigils in the hut at trevider fowling-pool; the great take of peal in the trammel at lamorna cove, and the finding the same morning of the otter drowned in the crab-pot nearly half a mile seaward from the bucks? few sporting tales have appealed to me as did those i overheard there; and, unconsciously, the surroundings may have served to impress me the setting of a play impresses the spectator in a theatre. trophies of the rod and gun mingled with quaint relics of by-gone days, that gave an old-world look to the room. between cases of stuffed birds and fishes hung pewter jugs, leather bottles, rosaries, and crossbows. above two sporting prints was a dove-coloured top-hat, with a wide cork band and “quaker” brim. few hats could boast such a history as that, but i cannot tell it here. on a shelf, between a bookcase and a corner-cupboard, was the little basket that the woman carried who used to distribute letters in penzance in the early part of the last century; and below it was a sketch of a contemporary of hers, the famous joe pascoe, the one-armed constable, who, according to tradition, was a terror to badger-baiters and cock-fighters, and a match for boney himself. there, too, was a sketch of henry quick, the zennor peasant-poet, with these lines of his under it:?—
“ofttimes abroad i take my flight,
??take pity on poor henny;
to sell my books ’tis my delight,
??to gain an honest penny.”
under a coach-horn that had often awakened the echoes of the cornish hills, were three small cabinets, my friend’s own handiwork. the smallest contained minute shells, carefully classified, which he had collected on porthcurnow and gwenvor beaches; but more interesting to me than shells, ferns, or wildflowers, was the collection of birds’ eggs. what rare ones some of those compartments held! what trouble my friend had had in securing them! i have often questioned him about his expeditions on the cliffs, but he preferred to dwell on his visits to the outer islands of scilly. the rugged grandeur of mincarlo and menavawr appealed to him; yet annet was his favourite, and though he was a man of few words and free from gush, i have heard him sigh when a sea-bird’s egg, or the lichen or withered thrift it rested on, recalled the beauty of this islet, which, when the sea-pinks are in bloom, glows under the june sun with the brilliant beauty of an amethyst set in sapphire.
nest of seagull.
the room had one window only; but it was a spacious bay which faced south, and through it you could see and hear the waves breaking on the beach below. more than once that afternoon, before he lit the lamp, my friend turned the spyglass on some companies of wildfowl that dotted the rough water between the “battery” and lareggan rocks.
a double-barrelled muzzle-loader—a joe manton—was george bevan’s favourite gun; and this, with powder-flasks, shot-pouches, caps and wads, were placed ready for the next morning. only a boy who has been entered to sport and knows how the anticipation of it fevers the blood, can understand how impatiently i looked forward to the morrow. that night i thought sleep would never come; and at what hour i fell off i do not know, for the frost had got into the workings of our eight-day clock, and as for the town clock, that could generally be heard the town over, it might have stopped for all the sound it made in striking. but i must have slept, for i was half awakened by some noise against my window. my first impression was that the snow had changed to hail, but as the rattle grew louder i sat up in bed. then it was i heard, “jack, get up!” faint and far away, like the doctor’s voice when you’re coming to after chloroform; and almost immediately the memory of everything came back to me—my friend’s last assurance that he would call for me, the white world outside and, most stirring of all, the woodcock awaiting us in the furze-brakes. i was up in a jiffy, struck a light, and dressed as hurriedly as a fourth-form boy whom the first stroke of the call-over bell finds in bed. the cold had not relented, for a film of ice lay on the water in the jug, and by the candlelight i saw that the window-panes were frosted over. this was joy to me, for in my troubled sleep i had dreamt that the commonplace world was back again, and that every woodcock had flown away in the train of the retreating frost. moreover, when we set out, the snow crunched under our feet, and a long icicle was hanging from the stone lip of the alverton chute. day was breaking when we reached the hilly field at rosehill and followed the path under the beech-trees; and it is there, for some reason i cannot explain, that i best recall my old friend on that day. he was well above the middle height, and strongly built. the gun was slung across his back by means of a leather strap. the coat of heather-mixture he wore had, besides big side-pockets, several subsidiary ones, and there were leather pieces on the shoulders. two spaniels followed at his heels, and his henchman, an old man who had been in the employ of the family all his life, closed the procession. my friend’s hair was silvering, as you could see between the upturned collar and the brim of the dove-coloured hat; and for that reason he seemed, to my boyish eyes, an old man. nevertheless i had some difficulty in keeping up with him, especially when, not having mittens on as he had, i put my hands in my pockets to protect them from the biting cold. yet how slight must have been my discomfort compared to the distress of the birds—fieldfares, thrushes, whinnards, blackbirds, starlings and missel-thrushes—which were flying hither and thither in the vain search for food. though no doubt i thought how easily they might be trapped, i was sorry for the smaller birds, wrens and tomtits, that threaded the hedgerow near the farmhouse, and for the robin, puffed out with cold, perched on one leg on the sill of the dairy window. a little farther on, where the footpath crosses the brook near its junction with the lezingey stream, a snipe rose from some rushes; and farther on again, near some furze-bushes, were tracks of at least one rabbit. but we left them all behind us. the shooting-ground we were making for lay on the southern edge of the “high country,” and though our shortest way would have been along the “watery lane,” as it used to be called, and up hendra bottoms, we rose the steep hill leading to boswednan. by this more roundabout course, we should avoid the drifts through which a farmhand, who had brought tidings of the woodcock, had been obliged to force his way.
from the high ground above the hamlet, where we halted a moment to take breath, we overlooked a scene which resembled a rude cast in white of the familiar countryside. many landmarks were disguised beyond recognition, and the waters of mount’s bay, generally like a liquid gem of the deepest blue, looked dull as lead. the newly-risen sun loomed big through the frost-fog which its rays could not penetrate, and a man with weak eyes might have stared at the dull crimson orb without blinking. in the hollow immediately below us, an old labourer, with a big faggot of furze on his back, was staggering across a yard, his feet sinking at every step deeper and deeper into the snow, as he made for the closed door of the farmhouse against which it had drifted. it must be admitted that the snowfall, heavy as it was, could not be compared to the great blizzard of later years, which blocked the railway, isolated the dwellers in the country, and but for his knowledge of the position of a starveling tree on the edge of a quarry, would probably have cost the earthstopper his life. nevertheless, wildfowl were quite as abundant; and as the looe pool, marazion marsh, and other resorts became frozen over, they had to shift their quarters, and ultimately to settle on the sea.
st michael’s mount.
more than one skein of duck had passed high overhead since daybreak, flying westward, but none so big as the great flock of widgeon which we saw, some four gunshots above us, as we were turning into the marshy moor near tremayne plantation, where our sport was to begin. this piece of undrained ground was, may be is, shaped like a triangle. tussocks of rushes just showed above the snow, and a runnel, winding in and out among them, ran chattering between a double frill of ice. we had not advanced many steps before a snipe rose, to fall to the first barrel, and soon after a wisp got up out of range, and flew away in the direction of the big downs. following the running water, we approached the corner, where rushes gave place to a brambly thicket, between which and the stone walls behind grew a few gnarled holly-bushes. the spaniels were hardly in this cover before they flushed a woodcock. bang! bang! and the bird fell on our side of the wall. the smoke had not cleared when another rose from the other side, where a few withes skirted the runnel. it afforded the easiest of shots; but, alas! both barrels were empty, and the reloading of a muzzle-loader takes time. we crouched, hoping the bird might settle in an adjoining marsh, but it kept on in the direction of trannack hill till it became a mere speck in the leaden sky, and at last was lost to view.
separated from the three-cornered moor by two or three rough fields is a stennack—an excavation made by the “old men” in mining for tin—in length a good stone’s throw, and some thirty yards across. the bed of it lies from twelve to twenty feet below the level of the field that circles it, so that the biting wind swept over the white coverlet that concealed the close thicket of furze, blackthorn, and bramble that grew there. standing on the edge of the bank, we could follow the movements of the dogs by the snow which fell here and there from the bushes. presently a woodcock rose silently a few yards in front of them on the far side, and fell to the shot, dropping behind a thorn-bush on the opposite bank. shortly after, another got up but was missed, and then for a time there was a lull in the sport. not that the excitement flagged, for the spaniels were giving tongue, and as they drew near the zigzagging bank on which we stood a rabbit bolted on our right; then, strange to say, a fox made off, stealing away with that lissom movement that only a wild creature is endowed with, his ruddy coat showing finely against the white background. near the farther end of the stennack three teal were flushed. they were up and away in no time, affording a pretty right and left. two dropped in the thicket, and it was some time before we succeeded in finding them. it may seem hard to understand that the stennack was a haunt for wildfowl, but so it was. there was no pool of water there, no spring, as far as i could see; and a small cave at the foot of the high bank was dry, for, boylike, i peeped in over the drift that half-filled its mouth.
leaving the field, we made for trevean farmhouse. the snow in the unfrequented lane that we followed was unmarked by any footprint except the track of a hare. soon we could smell the reek of burning furze, and as we came in sight of the high stone chimney, we heard the mooing of the cattle that had been driven in from the wild moors around. two colts, with rugged coats and steaming nostrils, whose heads projected over the half-door of the stable, welcomed us with a neigh, as we crossed the rickyard and entered the house. a fire blazed on the hearth; but of the interior i can recall clearly but one object, an old woman wearing a small red shawl, seated in a high-backed chair at the end of the table, with a big book open before her. it was the indescribable calm on her face that i shall never forget. that is what i see first as the scene passes before my eyes, then the muslin cap she wore, and last, though its hue was so bright, her red turnover. a sheep-dog was stretched at full length on the stone floor, his nose, that lay between his tan-coloured paws, nearly touching the little wooden footstool on which the aged woman’s feet rested; but this part of the picture is faded. my friend chatted with her so long about some great frost of years before that i thought he must have forgotten all about the woodcock. at length we left the farm kitchen and set out for the wild waste-land, the farmer going with us. the good sport we subsequently met with in billy hal’s moor tempts me to tell the reader at once what happened there, but i will first touch briefly on the most striking incidents in the wide round we took over the country on the hither side of it.
scarcely a croft but held its woodcock: hardly a runnel from which a snipe did not rise. in the bottom under penhale fox-brake, a woodcock rose out of some brambles growing inside the ruined walls of a roofless cottage, and a little further down, where a leat runs into the new bridge stream—that looked amid the snow like a black ribbon lying on a bed of goose-down—a mallard was shot, and a startled heron was allowed to flap itself away unmolested. shortly after this, the sun for a brief space broke through the clouds and turned the dull white scene into a glittering fairyland. near boswortha cairn—oh, how piercing was the icy wind there—both barrels were discharged at a passing flock of golden plover, and on the far side of the rocks the farmer, humouring my curiosity, led me to see a set of badgers’ earths. three of the holes were blocked, and not a track was to be seen in front of the one that remained open. as we hurried to rejoin our little party, the farmer dropped up to his ears in a pit, his black beard lying flat on the snow. his hearty laugh rang out; but my friend, who was some thirty yards below us, did not turn his head—in fact, did not, as he afterwards said, hear any sound. i mention this to show how strong the wind was, though another fact probably contributed to the result—my friend and his old henchman were approaching billy hal’s moor.
waste land it is, as its name indicates, but in luxuriance of growth it is an oasis amidst the barren hills that screen it from unkind winds. in the spring, its bushes are the first of that wild and unprofitable countryside to spread a wealth of golden blossom; in the autumn, the blackberry-picker crowns her basket with big purple berries from the bushes beside the rushy brook there. later, when the sloes have shrivelled on the blackthorns and the coralline hips of the dog-rose adorn the leafless briers, the farm-boy, seeking strayed cattle, flushes the first woodcock of the season and forthwith sets a springe or two on the boggy margin of the runnel under the thicket of black withes. from then until february this moor holds more than its share of the longbills, and when woodcock are plentiful in other coverts, in billy hal’s moor, to use the country folks’ term, they are “daggin.” in the middle rises a knoll, whence the eye may descry the rude boundaries that enclose its, perhaps, four customary acres.
my friend was pushing aside the snow-laden furze towards this vantage-ground, and i followed in his wake. when he had gained it, he raised the hammers of the gun, and then lifted his hand as a signal to the farmer to let loose the dogs. we knew there were at least three woodcock in the moor, for we had seen them drop there. before you could count ten, a woodcock rose with a great flapping noise. bang! went the gun as the bird twisted above the withes. bang!—down it dropped on the snow a good forty yards away, between the moor and a clump of gloomy pines for which it seemed to be making. as i ran round to fetch it i heard “mark cock” twice in succession, but no report followed, and shortly after, “mark cock” from the farmer, with the discharge of both barrels. the going was very rough, but at length i reached the brown bird lying in the snow beside the brook. what a beauty it was! to this day i cannot handle a woodcock without admiring its rich plumage, nor for that matter, though i have taken hundreds, take a trout off a hook without wondering at its lovely colouring.
it need scarcely be said that the rest of the moor was carefully beaten, but how many woodcock were flushed i cannot remember, nor do i regret it, for i fear the number might savour of exaggeration. only five were added to the bag. one shot was a very long one, and the bird fell in the upper corner of the moor, near the ruins of billy hal’s cottage.
how long it was since hal squatted on the land and hatched a title, i have not been able to trace, nor the manner of his death, nor even where he lies buried. the country-people venerate his memory, partly because of his great skill in hiding smuggled goods and outwitting the king’s officers, partly because of his markmanship with his blunderbuss. some crofters aver they have heard from their fathers that there was a mystery about his end, and that hal was buried at dead of night in his own land. however that may be, there he has at times been seen on clear nights in winter, moving noiselessly about amongst the furze with a short heavy gun, or sitting on the stones of his ruined hearth. it is a great pity that the mantle of the famous ghost-layer, parson polkinghorne, has not descended to any of his successors. we have it on the best authority that his exorcising formula, which began with the words “nommy, dommy” (in nomine domini), never failed to lay the poor troubled spirits of those less sceptical days.
the moor having been shot over, we made our way to the house. it was now nearly three o’clock, and i felt tired, though not too tired to eat. the farmer’s daughter had laid our luncheon in the seldom-used parlour. there were sandwiches, mince-pies, a basin of clotted cream, some whortleberry jam, and a plate of sturmer pippins. these last were grown in my friend’s garden on espaliers, and he could generally produce one or two even when the next year’s fruit reddened the quarrenden-tree in the corner by the bee-skip. we stayed but a short time, as i thought, over our lunch, for we needed daylight to find our way down the bottoms, and snow had begun to fall again. from between the half-drawn curtains, where an ostrich egg hung, i had seen the big flakes. so bidding adieu to the dear old lady, we made our way down the hill, and at length reached the clump of firs in the bottoms, where my friend stayed to light his pipe. i should not have mentioned so trifling an incident, had it not been that he used the tinder-box for the purpose. this was his almost invariable custom, except in summer: then he preferred a burning-glass, especially when deep-sea fishing. with a twinkle in his grey eyes the farmer remarked, “like mr george, edna?” and shortly after, at a spot where, as the curve of the drift showed, was a gap, he left us and was soon lost to sight in the blinding snow. we had rather less than a mile to go before striking a road, but our progress was poor, owing partly to the drifts, partly to the rough ground that lay under the even surface of the snow. a candle was burning in a window of hendra farmhouse as we passed the lower pond, and when we came in sight of boswednan lane we saw the lights—the welcome lights—of a carriage that was awaiting us at the foot of the hill. of the drive home i know nothing, as i slept soundly the whole way.
thus ended a day’s sport which lives in my memory when days since enjoyed on grouse-moors and by woodland coverts have been well-nigh forgotten, big bags notwithstanding.
since penning these lines, i have turned to my friend’s diary. these are his brief entries for the two days:—
“25th december.—heavy fall of snow. sharp frost. bunches of duck and geese in the bay. seine shot at mullion. bonfire on poldhu cliff. eleven loads of fish up by five o’clock next morning, when i left newlyn cellar.”
“26th december.—at trewern, trevean, penhale, boswortha cairn, billy hal’s moor, with jack. 9 woodcock; 3 brace snipe, 2? golden plover, 1 of teal; 1 big snipe, 1 mallard, 1 bittern. wind keen as a razor on boswortha cairn, very lew in billy hal’s moor, which was full of ‘cock.’?”
the old “joe manton,” which i have taken out of its case, is standing against my study-table, and a beautiful weapon it is, albeit the barrels are a trifle thin. many days’ use have worn them so; but as far as i have been able to look back through the interesting diary there is only one entry with a bigger bag, and that was in the very winter when the scream of the iron horse silenced the coach-horn, and gave such a shock to penwith’s customs. if you ask of what year i have been writing, i will tell you in our west-country way—by naming an unusual event—that it was the year when a pilchard seine was shot on christmas day, and tucked in a snowstorm under the cliffs, on which a beacon, to spread the glad tidings, was lighted on a spot whence wireless messages are now transmitted across the seas.
