GREEN'S BOY.

New Zealand Herald, Volume VII, Issue 1911, 2 March 1870, Page 6

GREEN'S BOY.

PAET I. " Why do you grunt when you stoop, papa P" asked our youngest son, an urchin of five old. We were assembled in the children's garden,children's hands did all the work, but like many another theory it was seldom carried out in practice, to which I certainly could bear testimony that hot June evening. "Why do yoa grunt when you stoop, papa H" says little Tom, " I don't." " Can't help it, my dear; lam not so young as I was. There ! that is not bad, I fancy," I added, stepping backwards to judge of the effect of the bright bedding plants in the tiny borders, " but Green's boy would liave done it better, eh ! mamma ?"

" Who is Green's boy ?" asked my youngest daughter, Dorothy, nest in age to little Tom ; while my wife remarked that, of all affectations, tne affectation of ago was the most senseless. I was young enough to work in the children's garden at all events Thomas, " you are as old as the world, ar'n't you, papa !" says he, " As old as your world, every bit as old ; little fellow," I replied, which fully "ttisfied him, and in the pause that followed, his sister repeated the question, " But who is Green's boy ?"

" Did you never hear of Lim before ? What can mamma have been thinking ot! Come, I have nothing to do this evening ; you shall hear all about Green." No sooner proposed than agreed to; my wife and our eldest girl took their work, little Tom climbed upon my knee, Dorothy sat at her mother's feet, and the faint whiff of a cigar betrnyed the whereabouts of young George, under the lime-trees within hearing.

ish is name was Green, I began. His cart was green also, at least that was the color when I, a very little fellew theu, first remember noticing it,very appropriate I thought it, having no boubt that it had been so painted on purpose ; late, it was quite a shock to my feelings, when, the cart having been newly done up, the colours chosen were blue and red—a bright blue, with red wheels. The whole thing seemod, as it wore, out of tune to me ; Green in a blue cart! There was clearly something wrong somewhere. I said-so much to Green's children one afternoon when we .yere all at play down on the beach, but they did not appear to see it in the same light. " Blue's a bootiful color, surlie," said little Bessie; while Ned exclaimed, " father's cart wa'rn't never painted to his name, Master George!" whereat both children laughed.

In those days I and my sister were often sent for the benefit of the sea air, to stay with an uncle of my father's, who lived in an old fashioned manor-house, on the outskirts of th. little sea-side town, or rather village,for it was not much more, of Easton. Naturally, most of our time was spent down at the shore, a low flat shore, level with the high-road which for a melancholy mile or tsvo skirted it, witli only a broad track of common, grass grown, and dotted over with furzy bushes, between road aDd sea. A dreary two miles on a sunless day, when sky and sea looked all the same color, and the sails of ships were phantom-like and mifiht be so for anything the eye could discern to the contrary; and a cold two miles when the east wind was blowing—folks said that it did blow there three hundred days in the year. But when the sun shone and the sea dancing and sparkling in his rays was of a bright blue, contrasting gaily with the green common, and the narrow strip pf yellow beach, whose color was repeated in the blossoms of tU© furze, then it was a different matter altogether, and the shore road, as it was called, was just the place for a quick, brisk, enjoyable walk. It was on this road that we, taking our daily constitutional under the charge of our nurse, used to meet Green, when his cart passed us we knew he was go ng to call at my uncle's, and we looked forward to fried soles for dinner. Often we begged for a ride, which lie never refused, and lie used to drive us to the manor, delivering us at the back door with the fish. Those days went by, the children grew up, Bessie was in service. Js T ed went cut with the boats, and my sisters were in Italy with our parents, when I, sixteen years old then, found myself once more at Kaston.

And very much disgusted I was to be there. iS'ot. long emancipated from Nessborough school, and glorying in Hie promotion to a privato tutor's, it was hard that my chum aud fellow student, Tom Kickers, saw fit to go in for scarlet fever the very first month of our study together at old Bull's Unpleasant for lorn, poor fellow; still I fancied I had rather staytd where I was, even a risk of catching the fever, than have been condemned to the monotonous salubrity of Kaston. My uncle had offered to receive me, had suggested that I could prosecute my studies in the retirement so admirably suited for them, and that it would be unwise to allow me to gti vith my family on the continent ; and my parents saw a force iu his reasonings which, for my own par t, I wholly failed to discover. The slowdays dragged themselvesonone after mother, and could hardly have passed more tediously for poor Tom at old Bui's than they did for me at the manor. I saw little of my uncle, and whac litle I did see was not inspiriting. Kvcry morning wo met at breakfast, during ivliich lie read the Ti-mts. hardly speaking, except when the silent meal was over, t» endeavour to impress me with his ow( views of the desit ability of devoting ihe morning hours to study ; after which, lie appeared to forget my existence, until Yo- met. again in the evening, when ••ve geierally played at back-gummon till badtin/e. If I hud too great a regard for Tim himself to do anything hut pity liiin fir misfortune, I certainly said within myself some not very pretty things of scarlrt fever in general.

I spent the dnys wandering alone over the fhallc hills, or doivn on to the shore, somrtimes boating or fishing, more often altogether idle. Tlie mackerel l.oats alFor.led mo momentary gleams of life. Wh(nthey cams in, sleepy i'.iston really did wake up, and I too roused myself to siare the general excitement. After a successful take, tlie hosts of glittering fish shone like silver through the nets as the Inats neared the beach, the vrord was passel from mouth to mouth, folks came runnhir to the water's edge, the dull shore was suddenly alive with people, came only to look on—it was in that energetic line that I commonly appenrnl myself—some came to help land the nets, but many more to secure the srnnler fish at the low price the men were well content to take ior them. Within hulfW-hour after landing, the boys were going along the narrow streets crying '■Pile fresli mackerel!" while every door oiened, and even the very poorest house- I vivos would hold out a plate in one hand, aid a few pence in the other, to secure fee wholesome meal. On such days tiny children might be seen, squeezing warm lalf-pence in their tiny hands and running liter the fisher lads, and on such days, tven when he had already been out twice iefore in the week, Green's pony would

be hastly pat to the blue cart, and he and Ned would set off to try and sell as many ma2kerel as possible before night. I asked him one day how many miles lie travelled at a tfme. "A matter of twenty, or five and twenty, sir," he eiswered, '* more or less ; if I go round by Seacombe, why it's more, aid if I come across the down, why It's less." " Isn't it very slow," said I. everything seeming "slow" to me just then, "calling so often at the same back doors and seeing the same cooks ? Bat I suppose it is a good business; it pays well I dare say P" "Well, sir, it do pay of coarse, or I | shouldn't trouble alter it—it is business certainly; and then it's seeing life, that's what it is. I always was one for seeiag life, and one way and another I've seen a deal, for all I never lived out of Kaston. man or boy. There's a deal of life about, sir, everywhere, even in this little place. Then cooks isn't always the same, nor back doors neither, they varies both of them. I remember when (here wasn't one stone oa another of titosc villas out Peucoinbe way, and now see how fine thwy are! fine, but not solid, tliem houses are, and that slight built as you wouldn't believe it, sir; sprung up sudden, like mushrooms, they did, and so does the money of some as takes them. There was one family used to bo good customers to me, mighty fine folk, no end of servants, dinner parties every week pretly nigh. The first day that ever I called, the cook she took a lot of fish of me ; she ordered this, and ordered that, r.nd never so much as asked my price ; she flew out at me, too, when I said mine was a ready-money 1 business. " Did I think her master couldn't pay h's way ?" There came a day, sir, when I was surprised to see no one about, and a drab of a girl came to the door, "we don't want no fish, Mr. Green," says she, laughing and then I heard the family was gone—gone off sudden, and left all the bills owi'dr ; gone off sudden, like mushrooms. We had a spell of bad weather just about then; next time I went back there was a chimney blown down, the wet }>ad got iu, too, and the whole place was going to ruin ; one way and another, it took as much money lo patch it up as it had to build it as first: Bnd the folks weren't no solider than the house ; that's life, thinks I, at I drove pa9t." While Green talked, lie was selecting fish from the shop, Ned was harnessing the pony, Mrs. Green was placing snowy cloths in the big baskets. Kaston looked its best just then ; the sea blu3 and sparkling in the sun, the little waves laughing as they tumbled about together at play upon the beach, and chalk cliffs higher up the coast standing up so white and pure in the sunlight. I leaned lazily against the door-post, Green went on talking—he was always glad of a listener. "I mind—years ago it is now —I used to call regular at a little house between here and the moor. Such a sweet spoken, nice lady as lived there ; she usedtocome to the door herself to see what it was I had, and it was always ' What do you thine your master would like best, cook ?' or ' What do you advise me to get for my husband, Mr. Green ?' Sometimes the master would come with her, and they would stand and chat a bit before I went off again. By and by the lady she used to come with a little white bundle in her arms and that was ' baby,' and baby must I' see the pretty fishes'; but lor, sir, the baby didn't think much of them ! And so it went on, and after a bit the little oue would come toddling to the door, holding her mother's gown. She grew to be nigh two years old, and then it used to be ' Little Pet must choose for papa,' and, ' What does Pet think papa would like ?' Well, sir, one day I called, and th'.-re seemed no one about; I rung the bell twice —a thing I'd never had to do at that door before; when the girl came I said I had some fine whit'ng as I'd kept a purpose for little missie. ' ilu.sli,' said she, ' and I noticed as her eyes was red, 'Oh ! hush, Mr. Green ; see here,' says she, ' just step this way.' She led me round the corner, so as we could see the front of the hous2. A funeral was just leaving the door. The coffin was a little child's coffin, sir, and had a white pall ovjr it. Next time I passed, the fanily was gone. That was life too, sir; I minded it particularly, because of the little lady being just the age our Bessie was then."

The cart wa3 ready by this time ; TVfrs. Green had been holding the last big basket for a moment or two already, aud IS'ed had fetched the whip. J. was sorry to lose Green's company, his stories were better entertainment than any other just, then within my reach; and oa second thoughts, why should I lose his eompany this morninu P Why not go with him on his rou-ids, and "see life" from a fishmonger's point of view, by way of a change ? He was not hard to persuade: I promised to hold the reins while he bargained with his customer, and in spite of all his warnings that I should be tired of it long before we were home, T climbed into Ned's place beside him, and we sjt off together. How well I remember that drive! It was a perfect summer's day, not too hot, there was a pleasant breeze from the sc; and the grey pony a fast trotter, and at least my share for the day's amusement had the merit of novelty.

We had not gone far before the first stoppage came ; indeed, we had not gone over the two miles of a shore rond, and I felt surprised at receiving the signal to pull up so soon. We were opposite a little cottage, quite a poor man'a cottage it appeared to be, not in any way differing from the ordinary laborers' houses of tlie neighborhood, not picturesque, built red brick, with a sloping tiled roof, a narrow strip of road-side garden ;in front, a pigsty on the side; yet it was here that we pulled up at a signal from a child standing on the door way, whence she had apparently been on the look-out for our approach. A. little child —she might have been eleven years old —wiUi a brown frock much patched and mended, where a cotton pinafore allowed it to be seen, and soft bro vn hair cut soft round her head. 'ho cottage differed in no respect from the cottages around, neither did the chill's dress differ from that of other vilhige children, yet there was an indescribable something indicative of refinement m her appearance, something even in the wave of the tiny hand, whose signal brought the grey pony to a stand-still, that made me look again, and look with curiosity. Green touched his hat too, touched it quite a civilly as he did to the housekeeper of the manor, aud, jumping down from the cart,took therefrom one of tha big baskets. "Fish to-day, Miss Porotliy?" he asked as the little girl came slowly towards us ; "Fine mackerel, the boats are just in; these fellows were in the water hardly an hour ago." " Poor things !" said the child softly; and she gave a pitying glance at the contents of the basket, and turned her brown eyes towards the sea lying bright in the sunshine, very much a 9 if she was sorry for the mackerel,and though

they had changed for the worse. " The boats come in so often now, Mr. Green, mamma is tired of them ; would sixpence do to pay for something else? only a little bit of [something fresh (or mamma."

Green look the sixpence from the little hand that offered it, and produced one of a fine pair of soles, such soles as I felt sure was never sold at such a price before. " How would this do for a change, Miss ?"' he asked ; and as the child gravely signified her approval, he followed her into the cottage with the fish. During his brief absence I wearied my brain with conjectures. Who on earth was this child with the dress of a peasant and the air of a princess. Unmistakably a lady, and living in a roadside cottage. I will not try to describe her features ; I do not know if I could do so if I tried; I only know that the fair little face attracted me powerfully, that later it grew to be the fairest of all faces to me. When Green rejoined me he forestalled my ea'jer questions. "Now, Mr. George, you're puzzled," ho began as we drove off, ' and I won't say as I've not been puzzled along of Miss Dorothy myself, sir; and I do suppose I've seen more of life than you could have done, seeing that I .have lived a goodish bit longer than you !bave done. You want to know who that ere little lady is, and I'm the man to !tell"you. How will you have it, sir! Sudden like, cut and dried, as I know the story now, or by degrees like, same as T became [acquainted with the facts myself."

I said I would have it by degrees. I bade him make a story of it, and tell me all he knew in the order in which he learned it himself. He desired nothing better. Through half the sunny day we drove together, and most of the time he held forth, interlarding his narrative with views of his own upon life in general, glad to have a listener, delighting in the sound of his own garrulous tongue. We stopped at houses of customers and sold fish ; we baited the pony once, and had a hunch of bread and cheese ourselves, and I must confess that I grew tired, as Green had foretold that I should grow tired of holding the reins, tired of the smell of the fish, tired also of my companion's flow of talk; but whenever I recall the summer's day, whenever, to this hour, I see tradesmen's carts standing at back doors, or the shining fishes in a fishmonger's tray, I think of Green's cart and I think of little Dorothy.

"That there cottage," Gram began, " was owned at one time by old Gregg ; a cantankerous chap be was, and a miserly one. He dealt regular with me to be sure — fish is, now and again, cheaper than meat —but lor, sir, the time he wasted in trying to get me to give him a shilling's worth for sixpence! Many a day I felt that the tima were worth more to me than the old fellow's money was. At last I got into the way of only stopping on my road home, and then only stopping for a moment. ' iVow Master Gregg!' I used to holla out, ' cheap mackerel, four a shilling!"or whatever it was I'd got,J' Take it or leave it, Master!' Then I'd drive on as quick as might be, so that if he didn't look sharp he lost the chance for that day. After I'd followed that plan a time or two, it were a sight to see how the old fellow would hurry out. ' You're robbing me, you are!' he'd say, and other words, a many of 'em as are not pretty to repeat, but he most times took what he could get, and flung me the money, swearing all the time. Well s:r, one afternoon I was passing—l hadn't been round with the cart nigh upon a fortnight, it was the time my missus tuok so bad, and there was trouble at home, but when things were well again with us I set off as usual—and I called out to the old miser, just as I used to do, 'New Master Gregg, sprats, sixpence a bundle; take 'em or leave 'em. which is it ?'

" I wasn't lookingthat way particular, in fact, I was looking down after the sprats, and as I'd been out of the way for a bit I thought he have forgot his lesson, so I gave him another chance, I hollered out again, ' Take 'em or leave 'em. wh'ch is it Master Gregg ?' It wasn't the old man as answered me ; it wasn't an oath I heard, or an ugly scow'ing face as I saw, I a little voice said,' Master Gregg doesn't Is re here —we live here,' and there stood the little creature just as you see her to<t.i v, sir, her pretty face looking so grave mill serious like. I was quite took aback I was. ' Who be you, liltle one,' says I. ' I'm Miss Dorothy,' says she, looking up at me, ' and I want some fish for sixpence.' So I touched my hat to her, sir. and jumped down, and sold her a good sixpen'orth, all the time wondering where on earth she'd sprung from, and what was become of old Gregg. I thought may be, the devil had fetched him away at last, but then 'twasn't likely as he'd left an angel in his place! I didn't feel like asking the child no questions, you see, sir ; I could see she was a lady. I didn't take no count of the poor clothes she had on when onee I heard her speak. When I carried the fish indoors there wasn't no one about, but the place was that clean as you might have eat your dinner off the boards. ' Where's the cook, raissie ?' says I. ' I'm the cook,' says she, as grave as a judge, ' there's only me.' I

" Just then some one called out like from upstairs, and away she run, but she came down again pretty quick. ' Where does a doctor live ?' she asked me, and caught up a little hat as was hanging on the'door. ' Mamma says she's dying, but perhaps the doctor could do her good if I fetched him quick. And would you mind taking back the fish,' says she. ' I think there's no more money left till some comes to-morrow ; so I must keep the sixpence to pay the doctor! Sixpence to pay the doctor! Bless her little heart, poor baby ! Of course, I said I could leave the fish for another time ; but she shook her head. 'We never go into debt,' says she, speakin? wise as a woman, though she was all of a tremble with fright about her mother. " She let me go for the doctor for her, and tiie last I see of her was the little bit of a thing kneeling before the grate, mak ins; up the fire, =ind crying fit to breai her heart. The lady up above was calling .>ut quite dreadful. Well, the doctor lie came, and he didn't take no sixpence, neither—l will say that much for him ; and my missus, she went to nurse the poor tiling, and the illness was a terrible bad one, but she got better at last, though she won't never be well again, never come 'down stairs again they say. My wife tf.ls me she has made quite a parlour of one of the upstairs rooms—there ain't but two of 'em—and there she lies all her time on a sofa, with her books and things about, ami her' needlework. They seem to have money enough to get along with— as Miss Dorothy says, they don't owe nothing, not so much as a penny ; and 'tis as that little pair of hands does all the work of the house. I've helped now and again, chopping wood and such. My N'cd, he dug up the garden last Spring ; and, altogether, little mi-s and I be great friends now.

" ' But where had old Gregg got to ? * you ask, sir, Old Gregg hid took and died all of a sudden, and left a pot of money, too, he had. A nephew of his from Inndon, came down and took possession. It was jast then Miss Dorothy and her mother had come to Kaston, and slept a night at the ' Hlue Lion." Xhe lady was looking out for lodgings—something very low in rent, she sai j, it must be—rjoms in a farm-house, or such, she talked of ; but, hearing old Greg-'s nephew grumbling that lie could not find tenant for the cottage, she took it by the week. It all came about in the time of our trouble, so as I heard no word of it. When I went round again, there was old Gregg gone, and Miss Morothy sprung ud in his place. Life, sir, life ; there's a de~' of life about, to be sure." The rest of Green's story I will not relate in Green's words. When I heard it I had the burden of an idle d?.y upon my hands, there was time and to spare, but this evening would grow into to-morrow morning before the tale was told, if I did not condense it somewhat in the telling. Green made enquiries by degrees in his gossips witli the host of the " Blue Lion " who, of c jurse, knew, through the present owner of the little cottage on the shore road, all that he had himself contrived to learn of his tenant; and at last he, and for that matter, all East on wiih him became acquainted with the maiu facts of the following little history. {To he continued.)