Chapter I: COULDN’T have been asleep many minutes (though, when I come to think (2)

At last I came to the end of the lanes and found myself on an open hilltop. As the fresh bracing air met me full in the face, I began to feel hungry. I looked at my watch: it was five o’clock. I looked at the landscape, and realised that, though I didn’t know where I was, I was certainly miles away from any tea.

I paused and considered: Should I carefully retrace my steps? That always seems a poor-spirited way of getting home again, even though you are lost! On all sides stretched an expanse of hilly country, grey lichen-covered boulders, yellow-flowered gorse, wiry mauve and purple heather, and a wealth of green, and bronze, and golden tinted bracken, with occasional woods and larch plantations. There was a general hum of bees and insects in the air, and a pheasant rose from the ground close to me and flew with a _whirr_ into a little coppice near by.

A sign-board was lying on the ground by the gate leading into the coppice. It was the worse for wind and weather, but one could still read the alarming warning, “Trespassers will be prosecuted!” Who would trespass, and who would prosecute, on that wild bit of moorland, I wonder? The only being in sight was a rabbit, sitting motionless close beside the prostrate notice and studying me silently with the air of a special constable! Yet even he went off and left me quite alone.

At that moment I caught sight of a chimney over the spur of the hill. I felt convinced it must be attached to a fireplace, and surely there would be a kettle on that fire. I made a bee-line for the place.

* * * * *

To the eye of the town-dweller, hill and moorland distances are apt to be deceptive; the house proved to be much farther off than I had at first imagined. But this gave added zest to expedition; I determined to reach it though I only arrived in time to put up there for the night. A nearer view showed the cottage to be the fag-end of a small hamlet lying snugly in the protecting hollow of the hills.

When I actually entered the village, there were so many pretty dwellings, and they all looked equally inviting, that I was undecided where to open an attack. However, I settled on one that had a couple of hollyhocks, some late pinks, and a black-currant bush growing out of the top of the garden wall, while a free-and-easy grape-vine, a tall monthly rose, and some clematis waved arms of welcome to me from the front of the cottage.

Just as I approached the gate, a pleasant-faced woman came out of the door and walked down the garden path between the French marigolds that edged the flower-beds. She was the only sign of life in the place (apart from a few belated hens, who, being averse to early rising, I suppose, had determined to take time by the forelock, and were catching the historic early worm overnight).

I felt that the good lady’s appearance was a distinct indication that Fate had decided I must have my tea there. Nevertheless, there were signs that she was bound on some important errand; instead of the ordinary sun-bonnet or battered hat that is the usual weekday headgear among our hills, she had donned a carefully-brushed though somewhat rusty black bonnet, and a black beaded mantle of unquestionable antiquity, both worn with the air of her Sunday best.

“Good evening,” I began. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if you can tell me where——”

“Th’ chapel?” replied the woman before I could finish my sentence. “Why, of course you can’t find ’un. But you jes’ come ’long wi’ me. I’m going there meself, an’ though we’m a bit late, it don’t matter; my man’ll be keeping a seat fur me, and ther’ll be room, sure ’nough, for ’ee to squeeze in too. I do al’ays tell ’un our chapel didn’t oughter belong where ’tis. No place o’ worship was ever more hid out o’ road than ourn. Yet my man do say ’tis clear ’nough to see ’un if you’m comin’ ’long the _lower_ road; for there ’tis all to once. But as I say to him, the folk don’t all a-come down ’long the lower road; an’ if you come _up_ ’long, why, there’s no chapel to be seen, and then where’m you to? What I do say is, the way o’ salvation oughter be so plain that th’ wayfarin’ man, though a _fool_, can’t lose un. An’ now here be you to prove me very words!”

The good soul was all this time trotting energetically along what I concluded could not be the lower road, since no chapel was in view. I just followed, wondering what would happen next! Meanwhile my companion talked, with scarcely comma-pause for breath.

“But I’m glad I happen to be late, or you might ha’ been wanderin’ around till you’re all mizzy-mazed. Soon as I saw you comin’ up ’long, I said to father—I was jes’ settlin’ ’im comfor’ble for th’ night—‘Father,’ I said, ‘here’s a lady a-lookin’ fur the chapel, sure ’nough. I shuden wonder a bit but what she’s come to speak at th’ meeting. Like as not she’s a friend of the minister, an’ ’pears she’s lost.’ I suppose you belong to London, ma’am?” This with a glance all over me to make sure there was no local hall-mark.

“My home is in London,” I replied, “but just at present I’m staying at Woodacres.”

“You’ve walked all the way from Woodacres?” she exclaimed.

“Yes; and I’m terribly hungry,” I said, hurriedly seizing my chance.

At this the kind hospitable soul was most concerned, and insisted on our turning into a relative’s house which we were passing at the moment. The door stood open, though the place seemed to be deserted.

“Myra,” she called out. A girl came downstairs with some pocket-handkerchiefs in her hand which she appeared to be marking in red. There was a hurried whisper in a back room, and quickly she brought in a glass of milk and some bread and butter—for which I was truly thankful.

“The lady do look wisht,” my companion explained to the girl. “She’s walked from Woodacres to hear the minister from London. She lost her way, and so didn’t get in time for the tea-meeting.”

I was interested in this item of information about myself, but decided to let the unexpected situation develop as it pleased.

We were soon walking along the road again, my companion talking the whole time. Myra was her niece, going to Bristol next week to start in a draper’s shop. “She says ’tisn’t stylish nowadays to let folks think as you does your washing yourself, so she’s making sort o’ red oughts and crosses in the corner, that the other girls ’ll think as the washin’ was put out. _Put out_, indeed!”—with utter scorn of voice—“‘Isn’t it all _put out_?’ I asks her. How could they dry ’un else? I’ve no patience with such fangels—_that_ I haven’t! And isn’t this war dreadful? I see in the paper I was a-readin’ to father that that Kayser do call it a righteous war. _A righteous war_—when he don’t even leave off a-fighting of a Sunday!”

Just then we turned a corner, and the maligned chapel certainly burst into view “all to once.”

* * * * *

The first thing to attract attention, as we neared the modest building, was a large board above the front entrance, displaying the words “Revival Meetings” in bold white letters pasted on a red turkey twill background.

A hymn was progressing when we entered; a seat had been reserved for the cottager by her husband, and had been left in charge of his hat (turned upside down and holding a red pocket-handkerchief covered with large white spots), while he himself distributed hymn books with backs all suffering from spinal complaint in a more or less acute form.

By dint of energetic compression on the part of the good-natured occupants of the pew, room was made for me as well as for my companion, the owner of the hat electing to stand in the aisle, as became a pillar of the church; the conspicuous crease adorning each trouser-leg and the back of his black coat proclaimed them his best clothes, and gave additional evidence that the meeting was of more than ordinary weekday importance.

The place was packed to its utmost capacity. I decided that I had never in my whole life heard a harmonium more asthmatically out of tune and at the same time I wished that the lamps (which were economically turned down, daylight being still visible) could only be raised, since the odour of paraffin was not a refreshing ingredient to add to the air of the already close room. For on our hills, as in other places where fresh air is most abundant, ventilation is the least among the virtues practised by the natives.

The congregation took some slight adjustment before all managed to wedge themselves into the seats after the hymn. The general shuffle and scuffle having subsided, a man on the platform addressed the assembly.

“I am sorry to say our brother has not yet arrived.”

The glow of expectancy on the faces of the people suddenly vanished.

“We think he has made a mistake over the time of commencement; possibly he imagines it is seven instead of six o’clock; but he is certainly coming, or he would have telegraphed——”

The disappointed ones looked hopeful again.

“Two friends have driven off to meet him”—many heads craned round in the direction of the door, though the honoured pair were now a couple of miles away—“and they will doubtless bring him along as quickly as possible. I think we may safely rely on him being here in about half an hour.” All eyes now scanned the face of the clock. “In the meanwhile, we will hold a short Testimony meeting; and perhaps Brother Wilson will first of all lead us in prayer.”

The man with the hymn-books, standing in the aisle, responded. Without a moment’s halt or hesitation he poured forth a torrent of mingled appeal, confession, praise and request. He touched on their week of services, on themselves as a church, on the village and (according to his view) its state of spiritual darkness; then he went further afield and dealt with the whole of England, the sailors on our warships, and the soldiers on the battlefields. This thought led him to mention the Colonies, the missionaries labouring in foreign lands; and then he prayed for the heathen who lived so far away that no missionary had yet reached them. He concluded with a plea for all backsliders and a pæan of gratitude for those who were saved.

The congregation followed the long prayer intently, punctuating every remark with “Amen,” and many other expressions of assent, uttered devoutly though fervently.

Then the one who presided asked all who had received a blessing that week to testify to the others of the great things that had befallen them. He sat down. After a pause of but half a minute, a woman rose, saying in a quiet voice—

“I feel I ought to take the earliest opportunity of telling how good God has been to me. I came to these meetings as hopeless as any human being could very well be; but God has lifted the load from my soul; and now, although I cannot see any light ahead, He has shown me He is near, and I am content to walk by faith. And I know the light will come soon.”

She sat down, and the only sound that broke the stillness was the voice of the chairman—

“Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in Him; and He shall bring it to pass.”

A decrepit old man next hobbled to his feet. His voice was feeble; but the peaceful look on his wrinkled face, and the light that shone in his eyes, carried wonderful conviction with them. He was somewhat diffuse, but dwelt on all the goodness that had fallen to his lot through life, and his eager anticipation of the call that should summon him Home.

When once the ice was broken, the people followed one another as fast as they could. An elderly woman sitting next to me rose to her feet, steadying herself by holding on to the pew in front with her work-worn hands, for she was trembling. She spoke in a hesitating manner; yet what she said had infinite pathos in it. Would they remember in their prayers the lads who were fighting so far away, some out of reach of any services like these, that they might not forget the God of their father and mother, and that they might be brought back safely to the old home again.

And the poor woman, who was evidently much overwrought, just sat down and hid her face in her handkerchief. I couldn’t help putting my hand over hers in sympathy.

There were many other bowed heads in the meeting by then—old, careworn women as well as younger ones, old men in plenty, but so few young fellows.

“Let us pray,” said the chairman. All eyes were closed. There was a slight pause, and then another voice full of wonderful restfulness sent up a prayer to the Great Comforter on behalf of all the mothers and fathers present, who night and day were longing for their sons’ return, and for the wives who with aching hearts were hungering for news of the absent loved ones. The prayer was very simple and unconventional, just the asking of a boon from a Friend. But the speaker understood the heartbreaks that were in those suppressed sobs, and his words brought comfort to many a lonely one that night.

When he ceased, the lamps were all raised, and there on the rostrum was one of the greatest—if not _the_ greatest—of the preachers of our times.

“The minister from London” had arrived.

* * * * *

I was amazed when I saw him there—a man who preached every Sunday to congregations numbering several thousands; whose name was the most powerful attraction that could be found for a May meeting poster or a Convention programme; a theologian whose lectures and writings were followed with the closest attention by hundreds of students.

As he stood up in that small village chapel, the first thought that came into my mind was something like this: What a waste to have such a big man at a small meeting like this when he could easily fill Albert Hall; and in any case he will probably be right above their heads; he is far too scholarly for these simple-minded uneducated people. He will be quite lost on them.

What I forgot was the fact that after all it is the Message that counts in such a case.

The famous preacher had a Message for humanity; and he was great enough to be able to deliver it in a way that would be understood by anyone, rich or poor, educated or illiterate. And he was wise enough to know that he might be doing a big work in speaking to that handful of people in that remote corner of England, seeing that a chance visit had brought him into the vicinity; therefore, when they had asked him if he would speak at the revival meetings they were holding, he had consented at once; and I was not the only one who had reason to be grateful to God for the preacher’s words that night; mine was not the only heavy heart that had come into the little chapel badly in need of an uplift; I was not the only one who felt almost alone in a losing cause, with all the old-time beliefs tottering.

* * * * *

He read from Revelation vii. in the Revised Version:

After these things I saw, and behold, a great
multitude, which no man could number, out of every
nation, and of all tribes and peoples and tongues,
standing before the throne and before the Lamb, arrayed
in white robes, and palms in their hands; and they cry
with a great voice, saying, Salvation unto our God
which sitteth on the throne, and unto the Lamb....

And one of the elders answered, saying unto me, These
which are arrayed in the white robes, who are they, and
whence came they? And I say unto him, My lord, thou
knowest. And he said to me, These are they which come
out of the great tribulation, and they washed their
robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.
Therefore are they before the throne of God; and they
serve Him day and night in His temple: and He that
sitteth on the throne shall spread His tabernacle over
them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any
more; neither shall the sun strike upon them, nor any
heat: for the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne
shall be their Shepherd, and shall guide them unto
fountains of waters of life: and God shall wipe away
every tear from their eyes.

There was a moment’s silence as he closed his Bible. And then he began to talk to the little crowd before him—not about the war, but about much that the war is bringing, trouble, sorrow, suffering, anxiety—great tribulation indeed.

I am not going to make any attempt to give you his sermon: merely to take isolated sentences from a man’s address, and set them down in cold print, deprived of the added strength and meaning that voice and tone and emphasis and context convey, is usually most unsatisfactory.

But I wish you could have been there and seen the tense eager look on every face, as he took us quickly and concisely over the great crises that have befallen humanity in bygone ages, when it has seemed again and again as though Christianity has been dealt a staggering blow—and yet in every case the result has been the ultimate triumph of God, and the building up of His people.

He reminded us how the darkest day in the world’s history, when our Lord’s death seemed to end all hope, all promise of His Kingdom, was in reality the day of the greatest victory.

* * * * *

But I cannot give even a summary of his address; I can only tell you of the effect it had upon me, and I think there were many others to whom Light came in a strangely vivid manner that evening.

It seemed as though I was suddenly taken right out of my own small petty troubles, and shown a bigger view of the world than I had ever seen in my widest imaginings before. Things that had been perplexing, bewildering before, seemed to fit in quite naturally into a huge plan that was making for the ultimate good of humanity. But more than all this, there suddenly came that enheartening sense of being no longer a unit, no longer one of a small company fighting against overwhelming odds; I was now one of a huge army that had been marching on through all time, an army that will still be adding and adding to its numbers, so long as the world shall last.

I seemed to hear the trampling of the feet, the great surge of the voices as they sang the old yet ever new anthem—

“Salvation unto our God which sitteth on the throne, and unto the Lamb. Blessing, and glory, and wisdom, and thanksgiving, and honour, and power, and might, be unto our God for ever and ever.”

Here was no room for doubt; no question as to ultimate results; no misgivings; no apprehensions. The final victory did not rest with me; but I was privileged to take part in it if I was willing to endure any hardships or tribulation that might happen by the way. And even these seemed so slight, not to be mentioned beside the joy of the great triumph that was surely ahead.

The Vision comes to us all differently, at different times, in a different manner; but assuredly I had a glimpse then of the things that are outside our everyday ken. I knew for an absolute certainty that I was one of the greatest army that can ever be mustered; I knew for an absolute certainty that God is leading this army, and that with Him there is no possibility of failure, and that finally He will permit evil to be banished and Good will prevail. I realised that any afflictions we are called upon to bear here are but for a moment. Nothing can hinder the progress of the great multitude that no man can number—Christ’s followers through all the ages. In spite of all the tribulation—_because_ of the tribulation—they reach His throne at last, and worship Him, while He wipes away the tears that may have gathered by the way.

* * * * *

My thoughts had journeyed far away from the little chapel and its earnest worshippers. I was recalled by the preacher’s voice reciting his closing sentence—

“And I saw, and I heard a voice of many angels round the throne ... and the number of them was ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thousands; saying, with a great voice, Worthy is the Lamb that hath been slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and might, and honour, and glory, and blessing.”

* * * * *

We stood up to sing the concluding hymn—one that has for long been a great favourite of mine—

Coming, coming, yes, they are,
Coming, coming, from afar;
From the wild and scorching desert,
Afric’s sons of colour deep;
Jesu’s love has drawn and won them,
At the cross they bow and weep.

Coming, coming, yes, they are,
Coming, coming, from afar;
From the Indies and the Ganges
Steady flows the living stream
To love’s ocean, to His bosom,
Calvary their wond’ring theme.

Coming, coming, yes, they are,
Coming, coming, from afar;
From the Steppes of Russia dreary,
From Slavonia’s scatter’d lands,
They are yielding soul and spirit
Into Jesu’s loving hands.

Coming, coming, yes, they are,
Coming, coming, from afar;
From the frozen realms of midnight,
Over many a weary mile,
To exchange their soul’s long winter
For the summer of His smile.

Coming, coming, yes, they are,
Coming, coming, from afar:
All to meet in plains of glory,
All to sing His praises sweet:
What a chorus, what a meeting,
With the family complete!

And how that hymn was sung! It all seemed part of the music of the Great Army. No longer we thought primarily of the troops rallying to the call of the Mother Country and coming from the far ends of the world to fight in earthly warfare; our souls saw farther than this—a multitude out of every nation of all tribes and peoples and tongues, ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thousands, all marching under the banner of the Lord Jehovah.

I had received the answer to the questions I had been asking earlier in the day: “What had Christianity accomplished?” It had accomplished _this_: It had enlisted this mighty stream of humanity. We in that humble little chapel were merely a small handful, but we belonged to that Great Army; we had only to march on, trusting and worshipping God.

Was it possible that I had been picturing myself one of a small force struggling for Right that was in danger of being overmastered by Might! Now, I saw ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thousands, on ahead of me, and could even hear the tramp and the singing of the tens of thousands that would follow on after me.

Oh, it was wonderful to feel oneself in such a mighty company!

* * * * *

At the close, while I was exchanging greetings with the preacher, my friend who had brought me to the chapel busied herself in finding someone who would be driving home in my direction—the meeting had been attended by people from many miles round. She discovered that a farmer and his wife were driving within a quarter of a mile of my cottage, and I was placed in their trap, carefully wrapped up in a warm Paisley shawl that had been produced from somewhere, the night being described as “a bit freshish, after all the dryth we’ve had.”

We didn’t talk much on the homeward journey. My companions were thinking some deep thoughts, I was certain, from the few remarks they let drop. But we English do not easily betray our hearts in public. Hence the farthest the farmer’s wife got was the remark, “I’d dearly like to hear he again.” To which her husband replied, “Ay! for sure.”

They told me the meetings had been much blessed, but this one was the best of all. Oh, yes, quite different from the others. No, the usual congregation was not as large as this, only about forty; the village was small. But people had come from all over the hills this week; to-day twenty had walked in from Brownbrook—that was seven miles each way.

They went on without any connecting link to say they felt sure the English would win. There was no doubt in their minds about this, one could see; and then the reason was clear. “Our Tom’s there,” the woman explained to me, as though I of course knew “Our Tom,” and his presence at the front settled the matter.

And I thought of the many fathers and mothers who were looking away across the Straits, with just that pride and faith because “Our Tom” is helping his country.

* * * * *

At last we came to the little lane that turned off from the turnpike-road, and led to my cottage, and I said good-bye to my companions. The small white dog with the brown ears had heard my footsteps and had run out joyfully to meet me; he had begun to be seriously concerned as to whether he would ever get a proper meal again! The night was certainly a bit freshish, but a glorious moon was out, and the hills were all high lights and deep shadows. I stopped a moment at my own gate, to look down at the old grey Abbey lying in the valley seven hundred feet below. Everything was still and peaceful. Only an owl called to another one in the steep woods across the river, and a couple of baby owls answered. An apple fell with a dull thud whenever the wind drifted across the orchard. It was so quiet, so restful; it was difficult to think there was lurid war-fog away beyond those hills.

Then suddenly, as I watched, I saw in the distance a procession of swinging, twinkling lights moving along a footpath that cut through a wood and crossed a low spur of the hills.

For the moment I wondered what it was, but in an instant I knew; it was the party from Brownbrook on their homeward tramp, and their lanterns were lighting them down the rugged precipitous footpath that was lying in deep shadow.

When they reached the level road they started singing, their voices in beautiful harmony, rising up and echoing again and again against the steep hillsides.

Was I thinking of battlefields with a saddened heart again? No, the cloud had lifted from my soul; I could look for something better, something more world-wide in its effects than even this terrible war. And as I stood thinking all this, the words came up to me that they were singing, as they tramped along the silent moonlit road, at the foot of the forest-clad hills:

“Coming, coming, yes, they are,
Coming, coming, from afar;
All to meet in plains of glory,
All to sing His praises sweet:
What a chorus, what a meeting,
With the family complete!”

X

The Little People of the Streams

HAVE you ever heard the Little People of the Streams singing in the night? I wonder!

Once you have heard their music you will never forget it!

The first time I heard it was one February—shortly after I had taken the cottage—the season above all others when the brooks and falls and mountain springs are over-full of water, that hurries along at a great pace, tumbling over rocks, dropping down into green wells and grottos below, always galloping down hill till finally it reaches the ever-rushing river in the valley.

By day, each brook seems merely to be chatting sociably to the banks and the long harts-tongue ferns as it passes down, and you only hear one at a time. But after dark, when most other sounds have ceased, the voices of the streams seem to grow marvellously in volume.

I was lying awake one night with the windows open, listening literally to the sound of many waters, and trying to disentangle them.

First I heard the spring outside my garden gate as it scrambled down from the hillside above, splashing the overhanging greenery with light spray, and finally pouring out of a little trough—dark brown wood, closely enamelled with green mosses—into a rocky pool, where it ceases its swirl for half a minute, just while it gets its breath, before rushing on down the hill, finding its own way around, or over, all sorts of obstacles, and resenting any interference of man.

Soon I could distinguish a second brook, that serves a cottage a quarter of a mile further along the lane, before it winds about and enters my lower orchard. This had overflowed in the orchard, and was having quite a gay time, running skittishly out of the orchard gate and into another lane, instead of pursuing its proper course.

Next I was able to detach the conversation of the small waterfall that drops about a hundred feet from an overhanging ledge of rock into a green cave under the hill, where mosses of wonderful size abound, and yellow flags stand guard at the entrance, with creeping jenny and forget-me-nots just outside.

The sound always seems to increase as you listen, and soon I detected the noise of the river as it tears over successive weirs. If the tide is low it is often a roar when you stand on the river bank beside a weir; but up here on the heights the noise is softened to a purling sound, that runs like a never-ceasing ground-bass or pedal note amid the fluctuating tones of the nearer streams.

Other and more distant murmurings floated in at the window; but one could never allocate them all, for, excepting in the hottest weather, this is in truth “a good land, a land of brooks of water, of fountains and depths that spring out of valleys and hills.”

I was thinking of this, when suddenly the babbling of the water was drowned in the sound of wonderful bells that rose upon the night air. It was not from our village church; that possesses only one bell, whose sound, unfortunately, resembles nothing so much as a cracked iron shovel struck with a pair of tongs: and there is no other bell for miles around.

And yet there was no mistaking it. I could distinctly hear the joyous clashing and clanging of bells in a tall steeple.

It was no brazen banging; rather, some fairy music, like the carillon at Malines (which I am proud to remember I once played, though, alas! I shall never play it again).

I listened in amazement; soon was added the sound of voices, like subdued distant singing in some vast cathedral, while the bells still clashed outside. Yet it was never close at hand; it always seemed to float to me from a distance.

I was sure I was not asleep, for I knew where I was, and decided to get up and go to the window, when—the dog barked—(probably he could hear a fox prowling around outside). Instantly the spell was broken. I opened my eyes; there was no sound but the murmuring and burbling of the brooks.

Like a sensible person, I of course decided that I had been dreaming.

Yet again and again have I heard the clanging bells, with often the sound of an organ and singing wafted through the open window. It always comes when the streams are most impetuous and when I am in that lotus-flowering land that lies between awakeness and sleep.

The music is always enthrallingly happy, and my only regret is that the bells and the singers do not come a trifle nearer, so that I could catch every note and jot it all down for future reference.

I related my experiences to one or two people; but this was all the information they seemed able to give me:

“If I were you, I should run down to Margate for a week or so, and leave all work behind. Go to a nice bright boarding-house, where there are lots of people, and enjoy yourself; and forget about that wretched cottage. You’ve been overdoing it lately. I had another friend just like you—got a little peculiar, you know, and then—well, I won’t tell you any more; don’t want to make you nervous, of course, but—her mother never got over it, and _so_ well-connected, too—kept three motors. You take my advice. I’ll send you the name of a charming boarding-house I know,” etc.

Then I kept my own counsel, and decided that there were Little People living in the streams, just as I had always liked to picture them living in the flowers and under the mushrooms. And the music I heard was the Little People singing, and ringing all the harebells and foxglove bells that grow along the banks of the brooks.

I concluded that no one had ever heard them but myself. But, to my surprise, one day I found that others did know about these Little People!

I was reading “The Forest,” by Stewart E. White, where he describes his impressions and experiences as he lay awake at night in a tent on the banks of a Canadian river, when I came upon the following, that in many points coincides with my own sensations:—

“In such circumstances you will hear what the boatmen
call the voices of the rapids. Many people never
hear them at all. They speak very soft and low, and
distinct, beneath the steady roar and dashing, beneath
even the lesser tinklings and gurglings whose quality
superimposes them over the louder sounds. In the
stillness of your hazy half-consciousness they speak;
when you bend your attention to listen, they are gone,
and only the tumults and the tinklings remain.

“But in the moments of their audibility they are very
distinct. Just as often an odour will awake all a
vanished memory, so these voices, by the force of a
large impressionism, suggest whole scenes. Far off are
the cling-clang-cling of chimes and the swell-and-fall
murmur of a multitude _en fête_, so that subtly you
feel the gray old town, with its walls, the crowded
market-place, the decent peasant crowd, the booths,
the mellow church building with its bells, the
warm, dust-moted sun. Or, in the pauses between the
swish-dash-dashings of the waters, sound faint and
clear voices singing intermittently, calls, distant
notes of laughter, as though many canoes were working
against the current; only the flotilla never gets any
nearer, nor the voices louder. The boatmen call these
mist people the Huntsmen, and look frightened....
Curiously enough, by all reports, they suggest always
peacefulness—a harvest field, a street fair, a Sunday
morning in a cathedral town, careless travellers—never
the turmoils and struggles. Perhaps this is the great
Mother’s compensation in a harsh mode of life.

“Nothing is more fantastically unreal to tell about,
nothing more concretely real to experience, than this
undernote of the quick water. And when you do lie awake
at night, it is always making its unobtrusive appeal.
Gradually its hypnotic spell works. The distant chimes
ring louder and nearer as you cross the borderland of
sleep. And then outside the tent some little woods
noise snaps the thread. An owl hoots, a whippoorwill
cries, a twig cracks beneath the cautious prowl of some
night creature—at once the yellow sunlit French windows
puff away—you are staring at the blurred image of the
moon spraying through the texture of your tent.”

Since reading this, I have spoken of the matter to others with more courage; and although the majority do not seem to have come across them, I have discovered several people who have heard the Little People singing.

Some, indeed, have been kind enough to attempt to give me a lucid explanation of what they are pleased to call a very simple natural phenomenon, and they prattle of enharmonics and sound vibrations, of nodes and super-tones, in a very impressive manner. One tells me the whole thing is merely a psychological emotion vibrating in sympathy with the acoustical environment.

I dare say.

* * * * *

Personally, I would just as soon leave it unelucidated. There are certain moods in which I do not want such things as nature, and love, and beauty, and self-sacrifice explained. It is enough for me that they are, and that I have been permitted to enjoy them.

* * * * *

And although I know that the Little People are not necessarily wearing gauze wings and white frocks and stars in their hair, as I pictured them in my first childhood, I still like to think that even in the brooks something is singing, something rejoicing, something giving thanks for the gift of life.

XI

The Funeral of the Hero

IT was three months after the funeral of the Village Hero. Now I come to think of it, I haven’t mentioned the funeral before.

The hero, a porter at the little railway station, enlisted very early in the campaign. Our village—in the main—did nobly in the way of early enlistment.

A quiet, retiring young fellow, he had never singled himself out for any sort of notoriety, though I, personally, had always remarked on his unvarying courtesy and his willingness to do everything he could to assist passengers.

The news of his death was the first thing to bring the War actually home to our isolated corner of the world.

People had known he was ill, because his wife had been summoned to a military hospital some weeks before, when his condition was pronounced critical. But no one had really anticipated the worst—till it came. And then the word passed quickly from cottage to cottage: “Poor Aleck’s gone!”

“Ay! You don’t say so! Ain’t it just like they Huns to go and kill off the best of the bunch,” said one woman who never had a good word for the lad during his lifetime.

One and all agreed forthwith that proper respect must be shown to “the remains”; and those who didn’t intend to inconvenience themselves by fighting, felt they were serving their country nobly by seeing that poor Aleck had a handsome funeral.

The news of his death reached the village on Friday. On Saturday the older members of the family selected the spot for his grave in the little churchyard, as, of course, he must be buried near his home.

By Sunday all the relatives to the remotest generation wore deep mourning to church—thanks to the superhuman efforts of the village dressmaker, and numerous ready-mades purchased in the nearest town.

The Rector was in a nursing-home in London at the time, but the curate, though only newly arrived, preached a moving sermon, extolling the courage of the young man who had died “with his face to the foe, braving the falling shells and raining bullets in order to defend his country.”

The sentiment was right—Aleck was willing to do all that; but in reality he never got beyond a training camp on the east coast, where, the air proving too bleak for him after the mildness of the west, he had gone down with pneumonia. The new curate didn’t know that, however, and everybody said it was a beautiful sermon, and went and told the poor mother about it, as she had been too grief-stricken to go to church.

So far the widow had not written herself; but that wasn’t surprising; she would be too broken down with trouble. Willing heads and hands did all they could, however, to anticipate her wishes.

They telegraphed to the former curate (now the vicar of a crowded Lancashire parish) and asked if he would conduct the funeral; he had known the deceased from boyhood. He wired back: “Yes; send day and hour.”

They sent to uncles and aunts and cousins throughout Great Britain: all who could arrived post haste on Monday. And what a gathering it was of outstanding members of the clan! Those who hadn’t recognised each other’s existence for years now forgot their ancient feuds, while one and all discovered such good qualities in the poor lad, and were so anxious to insist on the nearness of their relationship, that his death did not seem altogether in vain.

I myself wrote a note to the widow, only waiting to post it till I could get her address.

Miss Bretherton, the Rector’s niece, hurried home from London to do what she could to comfort the parents, who were aloof from the general excitement and knew only the sorrow of the occasion.

While waiting for further details to arrive, people made wreaths, and discussed how best the engine could be draped in black.

As there was no letter by Tuesday morning, and the vicar in Lancashire had again asked for particulars, the self-constituted committee of management decided to send a wire to the widow. After composing—and then discarding—twenty-six different messages, till the post-office was threatened with a famine in telegram forms, the post-mistress came to their assistance, and suggested that the wording should be as brief and as straightforward as possible, to save misunderstanding—and expense. Eventually they were all persuaded to agree to the following:

“What train will the coffin come by? Reply paid.”

In about an hour the widow answered:

“Whose coffin? Don’t know what you mean. Aleck nearly well.”

* * * * *

The whole village has had three points under discussion ever since.

I. Who was it said he _was_ dead?

II. Can a man be made to pay for his own grave being dug when he refuses to occupy it?

III. And what is to become of the mourning anyhow?

XII

Just a Little Piece of Griskin