TALES FROM
THE TELLING-HOUSE

TALES FROM THE
TELLING-HOUSE

BY

R. D. BLACKMORE
AUTHOR OF “LORNA DOONE,” ETC.

1. Slain by the Doones
2. Frida; or, the Lover’s Leap
3. George Bowring
4. Crocker’s Hole

LONDON
Sampson Low, Marston & Company
LIMITED
St. Dunstan’s House
1896


v

PREFACE.

Sometimes of a night, when the spiritof a dream flits away for a waltz with theshadow of a pen, over dreary moors anddark waters, I behold an old man, witha keen profile, under a parson’s shovel hat,riding a tall chestnut horse up the westernslope of Exmoor, followed by his littlegrandson upon a shaggy and stuggy pony.

In the hazy folds of lower hills, some fouror five miles behind them, may be seen theancient Parsonage, where the lawn is arusset sponge of moss, and a stream tinklesunder the dining-room floor, and the piousrook, poised on the pulpit of his nest, readsa hoarse sermon to the chimney-pots below.There is the home not of rooks alone, andparson, and dogs that are scouring themoor; but also of the patches of hurry wevican see, and the bevies of bleating haste,converging by force of men and dogs towardsthe final rendezvous, the autumnalmuster of the clans of wool.

For now the shrill piping of the northwestwind, and the browning of furze andheather, and a scollop of snow upon Oare-oakHill, announce that the roving of softgreen height, and the browsing of sunnyhollow, must be changed for the durance ofhurdled quads, and the monotonous munchof turnips. The joy of a scurry from theshadow of a cloud, the glory of a rally witha hundred heads in line, the pleasure ofpolishing a coign of rock, the bliss of beholdingflat nose, brown eyes, and fringyforehead, approaching round a corner for asheepish talk, these and every other jollityof freedom—what is now become of them?Gone! Like a midsummer dream, or thevision of a blue sky, pastured—to match thegreen hill—with white forms floating peacefully;a sky, where no dog can be, muchviiless a man, only the fleeces of the gentleflock of heaven. Lackadaisy, and well-a-day!How many of you will be woolly ghosts likethem, before you are two months older!

My grandfather knows what fine muttonis, though his grandson indites of it bymemory alone. “Ha, ha!” shouts thehappier age, amid the bleating turmoil, theyelping of dogs, and the sprawling of shepherds;“John Fry, put your eye on thatwether, the one with his J. B. upside down,we’ll have a cut out of him on Sunday week,please God. Why, you stupid fellow, youdon’t even know a B yet! That is FarmerPassmore’s mark you have got hold of.Two stomachs to a B; will you never understand?Just look at what you’re doing!Here come James Bowden’s and he hasgot a lot of ours! Shep is getting stupid, anddeaf as a post. Watch is

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