Adventures and Recollections - Bill o'th' Hoylus End

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Wi’ its little lappels hangin’ dahn ower mi waist;

       And mi grand bellosed cap—noan nicer, I’ll back it—

       Fer her et hed bowt it wor noan without taste;

       Fer shoo wor mi mother, an’ I wor her darlin’,

       And offen sho vowed it, an’ stroked dahn mi’ hair;

       An’ sho tuke me ta see her relations i’ Harden,

       I’t’ first pair o’ britches ’at ivver aw ware.

      Aw remember the time when Aunt Betty an’ Alice

       Sent fer me up ta lewk at mi clooas,

       An’ aw walked up as prahd as a Frenchman fra Calais,

       Wi’ mi tassel at side, i’ mi jacket a rose,

       Aw sooin saw mi uncles, both Johnny and Willy,

       They both gav’ me pennies an’ off aw did steer;

       But aw heeard ’em say this, “He’s a fine lad is Billy,

       I’t’ first pair o’ britches ’at ivver he ware.”

      Aw remember one Sabbath, an’t’ sun it wor shinin’,

       Aw went wi mi father ta Hainworth ta sing,

       An’t’ stage wor hung raand wi’ green cotton linin’,

       An’t’ childer i’ white made t’village ta ring.

       We went to old Mecheck’s that day to wur drinkin’,

       Tho’ poor ther were plenty, an’ summat ta spare;

       Says Mecheck, “That lad, Jim, is just thee awm thinkin’,

       I’t’ first pair o’ britches ’at ivver tha ware.”

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      Anything that bordered on the romantic and nomadic style of life had an especial fascination for me. Many a time and oft have I bestridden horses that had been peacefully pasturing, and ridden them bare-back around the fields, in a kind of Buffalo Bill style, you know. I got “nabbed” occasionally, and then I was candidly told that if I continued “ta dew sich a dangerous thing ony more, ah sud be sewer to catch it.”

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      Of course I had divers other pranks, as all boys have—albeit to the anxiety and sorrow of many up-grown, and, therefore, unsympathising persons. “Tolling” doors was another favourite occupation of mine. Modern-time boys have not generally the same opportunities for “tolling” as boys had in my time. Our folks provided an everlasting amount of apparatus for me to carry on my “professional duties,” and that unknowingly. My mother was a heald knitter, and there was always plenty of band throwing about. One night’s “tolling” I remember with particular liveliness. I thought what a “champ” thing it would be to have a “lark” with “Jim o’ Old Jack’s”—an eccentric old man who lived by himself in an old thatched dwelling in our locality. I had no sooner turned the thought over in my mind than I resolved to “have a go” at the old chap. Poor old Jim went out to his work during the day-time, returning home at night. So I took advantage of his absence by hammering a stout nail into the cross-piece over the doorway. When night approached, and Jim returned to his homestead—poor old fellow! it makes me long to ask his forgiveness as I recount this incident—I hooked a fairish-sized stone, by means of a piece of string, to the nail which I had placed over the doorway. Near the stone I next fastened a longer length of string, and then I ensconced myself on the opposite side of the road. It so happened that the house stood on one side of a narrow lane, the opposite side of which was on a much higher level than the roof of the house, and, besides, faced by a wall. This suited me to a T. All serene! Having allowed Jim nice time to get comfortably sat down to his evening meal, I gently pulled the string, with the result that there was a gentle tapping at the door. Jim naturally answered my knock, and he seemed rather put about to find that his ears had evidently deceived him. So he slammed the door to and went inside—I guessed to resume his seat at the tea table. Then I “tolled” again and once more Jim came out. He must have felt a little “nasty” when he found that no one wanted him at the door.

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      However, he again closed the door. Before I had time to pull the string again, I actually heard a knock myself at the door. I could also see that a person was standing outside. Now Jim must have determined to drop on somebody, and stationed himself behind the door, for as soon as he heard the knock which I also heard, he hurriedly opened the door, bounced into the open, and commenced to belabour mercilessly, with a stout cudgel, of which he had possessed himself, the “wretch ’at dared to knock at ’is door like that.” I sincerely congratulated myself that it wasn’t my tender carcase that Jim o’ Jack’s was playing with. The visitor hadn’t had time to announce himself: Jim didn’t allow that; but by-and-bye he managed to let Jim know who he was, and it turned out that he was a near neighbour. I believe they managed to “mak’ it up ageean.” At other times I would “toll” the door, and the poor old chap would rush unceremoniously into a gooseberry bush which I had before-hand placed on the door-step to give him a sort of porcupine reception.

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      Still further, I recollect fastening a donkey to the handle of the door. I knocked, and got the donkey into my way of thinking: Billy would pull for dear life and Jim also would pull to the same end, and would remain a prisoner in his own citadel. I now feel sorry for Jim o’ Jack’s, I do. But a life of all play and no work would tend to make Bill a bad boy.

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      I was packed off to school—the National School at Keighley, of which Mr. Balfrey was master. He was no doubt a learned man, having written several works, including a useful book, entitled “Old Father Thames,” which he published while he was at Keighley. For some time the master regarded me as his favourite pupil, but by writing uncouth verse and drawing questionable pictures bearing upon himself, during school hours, I got very much into disfavour with him. I don’t wish to say anything mean of Mr. Balfrey, but still he didn’t encourage native talent as he might have done: he might have been jealous, there’s no telling!

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      After leaving the day school, I was sent to Lund’s mill, where my father was manager over the weft department. My school career did not finish at the National School, however. I attended a night school, which was held in a thatched cottage in Greengate and kept by a man of no small ability in the person of Mr. John Garnett. He was, I believe, of Scottish extract, and a great admirer

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