The Ballad of John Clare Read Online Free

Old Otter’s squat rose up above the blackthorn blossom with its mottled canvas, its stacked turf and its white trickle of smoke rising from the smoke-hole as familiar to the crowd as the twisting line of stunted willows that follows the stream.
    Round the edge of Oxey Wood they went, the children racing from one meer-stone to the next, butting head to hard barnack. Wherever the stone was gone and there was but a mere-pit left, one child or another would be lifted by its feet and lowered down until the crown of its head was awash with muddy water, and then lifted to its feet and a fistful of sweets thrust into its pocket. So it is we remember for all time the bounds of our native place.
    Round Emmonsales Heath they went, where all the gorse was showing gold. Then they skirted Langdyke Bush where the Boswell crew were camped. Little could be seen of the gypsies save smoke and the brightly coloured rags of clothing that were stretched across the thorns to dry in the sun. Even their dogs were hushed as the village congregation passed, peering in among the thickets but seeing nought.
    Wisdom Boswell touched John’s shoulder.
    “I’m away bau, I’ll see ye soon. Be good!”
    He turned and ran, zig-zagging among the scrub and thorn towards the rising smoke. Something flew through the air behind him, trailing a thread as a comet trails its tail. It struck him hard against the small of his back. Wisdom stopped and turned. Lying on the ground at his feet was a stone with a hole through its heart, a twine was threaded through and tied to the end of it a slip of paper. He turned it over between his fingers and peered at it. He pushed it into his pocket and ran on to join his family who were squatting among the scrub, smoking their pipes and waiting for all the hubbub to die away.
    From the height of Helpston church I watched the congregation make its circle true. From Emmonsales to the Kings Road, and then past the quarry at Swordy Well and along the side of Heath Field, where Jim Crowson and Sam Wood were rounding up cattle from the fallows. And at last the bounds were beat and the late sun sent the shadow of Butter Cross stretching towards Glinton and all the day’s journey was complete.

    *******

    And now the evening grows chill and I have rubbed the fine, dusty pollen of happenstance from myself. The parish is returned to quiet, each family separating at Butter Cross and trudging home in its little weary cluster. Windows are lighted up and chimneys send their smoke to a darkening sky. Parson Mossop lifts a glass of claret to his lips and stretches his feet to a banked fire. Mrs Elizabeth Wright and Will Bloodworth sit down at the oaken table to a cured ham. Old Otter dips his ladle into whatever hollow meat Kitty has added to the pot. Tom Dolby and his brothers nibble hunks of dry bread and sup on the memory of Snow Common. And in his hovel behind the churchyard wall Charlie Turner and his half-wit daughter wrap themselves in their damp rags and go early to bed.
    In Bachelors Hall Sam Billings and Jonathan Burbridge tap a barrel and fill their horn mugs to the frothing brim. Jonathan drinks and wipes the foam from his beard:
    “Sam, I’ve been thinking today, as we was walking with all the multitude, as I’ve a mind to wife.”
    Sam Billings raises his eyebrows so that his glistening forehead folds into wrinkles of surprise.
    “A wife! Jonathan, think again, ‘twould be farewell to all sweet freedom.”
    “I’ve two lads working under me and an apprentice, and not a coffin nor joist in Helpston or Glinton as ain’t felt the touch of my saw or plane ….and now I’m a man as can hold up his head I’ve a yearnin’ for a welcoming bed and maybe a clutch of little Burbridges to fill the air with their prittle-prattle.”
    “Who d’ye have in mind?”
    “No one, though I’ve a vision in my head …”
    “Ay?”
    “I see one as ain’t so young but still comely, fine grained like, but not sawn so thin as she’ll