Meet us on:
Welcome to Read Print! Sign in with
or
to get started!
 
Entire Site
    Try our fun game

    Dueling book covers…may the best design win!

    Random Quote
    "Correct me if I'm wrong, but hasn't the fine line between sanity and madness gotten finer?"
     

    Subscribe to Our Newsletter

    Follow us on Twitter

    Never miss a good book again! Follow Read Print on Twitter

    Her Own Village

    • Rate it:
    • 2 Favorites on Read Print
    Launch Reading Mode Next Chapter
    Chapter 13
    Previous Chapter
    One afternoon when cycling among the limestone hills of Derbyshire I
    came to an unlovely dreary-looking little village named Chilmorton. It
    was an exceptionally hot June day and I was consumed with thirst: never
    had I wanted tea so badly. Small gritstone-built houses and cottages of
    a somewhat sordid aspect stood on either side of the street, but there
    was no shop of any kind and not a living creature could I see. It was
    like a village of the dead or sleeping. At the top of the street I came
    to the church standing in the middle of its church yard with the
    public-house for nearest neighbour. Here there was life. Going in I
    found it the most squalid and evil-smelling village pub I had ever
    entered. Half a dozen grimy-looking labourers were drinking at the bar,
    and the landlord was like them in appearance, with his dirty shirt-
    front open to give his patrons a view of his hairy sweating chest. I
    asked him to get me tea. "Tea!" he shouted, staring at me as if I had
    insulted him; "There's no tea here!" A little frightened at his
    aggressive manner I then meekly asked for soda-water, which he gave me,
    and it was warm and tasted like a decoction of mouldy straw. After
    taking a sip and paying for it I went to look at the church, which I
    was astonished to find open.

    It was a relief to be in that cool, twilight, not unbeautiful interior
    after my day in the burning sun.

    After resting and taking a look round I became interested in watching
    and listening to the talk of two other visitors who had come in before
    me. One was a slim, rather lean brown-skinned woman, still young but
    with the incipient crow's-feet, the lines on the forehead, the dusty-
    looking dark hair, and other signs of time and toil which almost
    invariably appear in the country labourer's wife before she attains to
    middle age. She was dressed in a black gown, presumably her best
    although it was getting a little rusty. Her companion was a fat, red-
    cheeked young girl in a towny costume, a straw hat decorated with
    bright flowers and ribbons, and a string of big coloured beads about
    her neck.

    In a few minutes they went out, and when going by me I had a good look
    at the woman's face, for it was turned towards me with an eager
    questioning look in her dark eyes and a very friendly smile on her
    lips. What was the attraction I suddenly found in that sunburnt face?--
    what did it say to me or remind me of?--what did it suggest?

    I followed them out to where they were standing talking among the
    gravestones, and sitting down on a tomb near them spoke to the woman.
    She responded readily enough, apparently pleased to have some one to
    talk to, and pretty soon began to tell me the history of their lives.
    She told me that Chilmorton was her native place, but that she had been
    absent from it many many years. She knew just how many years because
    her child was only six months old when she left and was now fourteen
    though she looked more. She was such a big girl! Then her man took them
    to his native place in Staffordshire, where they had lived ever since.
    But their girl didn't live with them now. An aunt, a sister of her
    husband, had taken her to the town where she lived, and was having her
    taught at a private school. As soon as she left school her aunt hoped
    to get her a place in a draper's shop. For a long time past she had
    wanted to show her daughter her native place, but had never been able
    to manage it because it was so far to come and they didn't have much
    money to spend; but now at last she had brought her and was showing her
    everything.

    Glancing at the girl who stood listening but with no sign of interest
    in her face, I remarked that her daughter would perhaps hardly think
    the journey had been worth taking.

    "Why do you say that?" she quickly demanded.

    "Oh well," I replied, "because Chilmorton can't have much to interest a
    girl living in a town." Then I foolishly went on to say what I thought
    of Chilmorton. The musty taste of that warm soda-water was still in my
    mouth and made me use some pretty strong words.

    At that she flared up and desired me to know that in spite of what I
    thought it Chilmorton was the sweetest, dearest village in England;
    that she was born there and hoped to be buried in its churchyard where
    her parents were lying, and her grandparents and many others of her
    family. She was thirty-six years old now, she said, and would perhaps
    live to be an old woman, but it would make her miserable for all the
    rest of her life if she thought she would have to lie in the earth at a
    distance from Chilmorton.

    During this speech I began to think of the soft reply it would now be
    necessary for me to make, when, having finished speaking, she called
    sharply to her daughter, "Come, we've others to see yet," and, followed
    by the girl, walked briskly away without so much as a good-bye, or even
    a glance!

    Oh you poor foolish woman, thought I; why take it to heart like that!
    and I was sorry and laughed a little as I went back down the street. It
    was beginning to wake up now! A man in his shirt sleeves and without a
    hat, a big angry man, was furiously hunting a rebellious pig all round
    a small field adjoining a cottage, trying to corner it; he swore and
    shouted, and out of the cottage came a frowsy-looking girl in a ragged
    gown with her hair hanging all over her face, to help him with the pig.
    A little further on I caught sight of yet another human being, a tall
    gaunt old woman in cap and shawl, who came out of a cottage and moved
    feebly towards a pile of faggots a few yards from the door. Just as she
    got to the pile I passed, and she slowly turned and gazed at me out of
    her dim old eyes. Her wrinkled face was the colour of ashes and was
    like the face of a corpse, still bearing on it the marks of suffering
    endured for many miserable years. And these three were the only
    inhabitants I saw on my way down the street.

    At the end of the village the street broadened to a clean white road
    with high ancient hedgerow elms on either side, their upper branches
    meeting and forming a green canopy over it. As soon as I got to the
    trees I stopped and dismounted to enjoy the delightful sensation the
    shade produced: there out of its power I could best appreciate the sun
    shining in splendour on the wide green hilly earth and in the green
    translucent foliage above my head. In the upper branches a blackbird
    was trolling out his music in his usual careless leisurely manner; when
    I stopped under it the singing was suspended for half a minute or so,
    then resumed, but in a lower key, which made it seem softer, sweeter,
    inexpressibly beautiful.

    There are beautiful moments in our converse with nature when all the
    avenues by which nature comes to our souls seem one, when hearing and
    seeing and smelling and feeling are one sense, when the sweet sound
    that falls from a bird, is but the blue of heaven, the green of earth,
    and the golden sunshine made audible.

    Such a moment was mine, as I stood under the elms listening to the
    blackbird. And looking back up the village street I thought of the
    woman in the churchyard, her sun-parched eager face, her questioning
    eyes and friendly smile: what was the secret of its attraction?--what
    did that face say to me or remind me of?--what did it suggest?

    Now it was plain enough. She was still a child at heart, in spite of
    those marks of time and toil on her countenance, still full of wonder
    and delight at this wonderful world of Chilmorton set amidst its
    limestone hills, under the wide blue sky--this poor squalid little
    village where I couldn't get a cup of tea!

    It was the child surviving in her which had attracted and puzzled me;
    it does not often shine through the dulling veil of years so brightly.
    And as she now appeared to me as a child in heart I could picture her
    as a child in years, in her little cotton frock and thin bare legs, a
    sunburnt little girl of eight, with the wide-eyed, eager, half-shy,
    half-trustful look, asking you, as the child ever asks, what you
    think?--what you feel? It was a wonderful world, and the world was the
    village, its streets of gritstone houses, the people living in them,
    the comedies and tragedies of their lives and deaths, and burials in
    the churchyard with grass and flowers to grow over them by-and-by. And
    the church;--I think its interior must have seemed vaster, more
    beautiful and sublime to her wondering little soul than the greatest
    cathedral can be to us. I think that our admiration for the loveliest
    blooms--the orchids and roses and chrysanthemums at our great annual
    shows--is a poor languid feeling compared to what she experienced at
    the sight of any common flower of the field. Best of all perhaps were
    the elms at the village end, those mighty rough-barked trees that had
    their tops "so close against the sky." And I think that when a
    blackbird chanced to sing in the upper branches it was as if some
    angelic being had dropped down out of the sky into that green
    translucent cloud of leaves, and seeing the child's eager face looking
    up had sung a little song of his own celestial country to please her.
    Next Chapter
    Chapter 13
    Previous Chapter
    If you're writing a W. H. Hudson essay and need some advice, post your W. H. Hudson essay question on our Facebook page where fellow bookworms are always glad to help!

    Top 5 Authors

    Top 5 Books

    Book Status
    Finished
    Want to read
    Abandoned

    Are you sure you want to leave this group?