Raising the Wind.

Waikato Times, Volume 113, Issue 18927, 22 April 1933, Page 11 (Supplement)

Raising the Wind.

EVERY EVENING at flve-and-twenty past seven Rostron 'unlocked the oaken door at the foot of the church belfry and climbed laboriously the spiral stairs. There' was just room, for him, and he often chuckled to think that his brother Joe would have a job to squeeze his way if he were bellringer. At intervals on the way there were lights cut into the masonry, and Rostron looked through every one pf them. Through the first one he could see nothing but tombstones, and it was with grim relish that he remembered that he had “towled” fiTr most, .of them. He almost wondered if those who- had not been rung into their narrow beds could possibly go to heaven. , Spent Years In Purgatory. Through the second hole in the w’all he could see the smoky town. Long row's of brick boxes with slate lids. Big factories with tall chimneys, and foundries whose furnaces glared suddenly and lit up the skies in flaming glory. There was the grimlooking factory at the top of “th’ broo” where his grandmother (so she said) worked when she was five years old. There was Romney’s Mill, where his mother had been a weaver and had woven until she could weave no more. And there was Meadowcroft’s Mill, where he had spent years in purgatory. Meadowcroft’s had been on fire only a few days ago, but the fire had been soon put out. It was, Rostron ■said, “too' ill to brim.” The third light disclosed the awesome splendour of the rolling moors. Mile upon mile they climbed to the square-topped hill upon whose summit he had spent as much happiness as had been permitted him at the ’ time. It was grim and stark landscape, but among its browns and purples he was spiritually at home. To wander on the moors with a whippet and a bit of bread and cheese in the pocket was as good a thing as any sane man might wish for or attain. Nothing more could be desired except perhaps to wash down the bread and cheese in some wayside inn. From the fourth and last light he could seo the high road twisting and turning towards the north. Along that road his great-grandfather had come and planted his feet in the town when it was little more than a village. All these Lancashire towns were fed and freshened from the north, seldom from the south. From Cumberland and Westmorland, from the North Riding and •still farther north, they had come and reared their breed before mingling their dust in the yard below. He often had the strange urging to start upon that road and explore Its unfoldings. Which was absurd for a man now bending toward the. earth and ten minutes slower in the mile than fifteen years ago 1 . His Whack and No IVloro. When lie. reached the platform where dangled the ropes he was always just, in lime to get his breath and then Use hold of the woolly end. As the bo’ l . Ilew back il was ail that lie could do !o kvp ii*. fret, lie did bis whack and i!M no more. IRcn that made him «wea; mid He g'mcrallv cooled oT in The face of ike big ciork. Ho could star:.'! comfortably there a<v: r.ce r through tile dirty glass. For flfly years il had sot Ihe time for the cloaks and watches of the town. It was uiler Mian L he was. hilt from the High Sired it looked the face of the moon. When it a was rested he made his way w-rily down Ihe stairs, ami if il was lieml lie would puller about the churchyard. He

Organ Blower’s Tribulations.

(T. Thompson in Manchester Guardian.)

made his living by doing this odd job and that. For a few shillings he would guarantee that any particular grave in the yard should never take on that appalling look of reproachful neglect which was the lot .of many. He had but one horticultural formula, but it served. Round the edges toe planted lobelia, and inside assorted violas. Then there were French marigolds for the centre, and always two Paul Crampel geraniums, which flowered all the summer, and which he took off at the first hint of winter. When all the flowers were in full glow they looked very nice and made the yard quite cheerful. Or so he thought. Clinched the Argument.

He did not ring the hell on Sundays. They had the full peal then, and he was not considered “wick” enough to keep time with the regular gang. On Sunday he “blew” the organ. He was cramped up in a small chamber, and when the organ was playing it w : as his job to pump up and down the long wooden handle which filled the bellows. He had to 1 watch a small weight which hung at the end of a piece of string slung over a ■small pulley on the woodwork .of the organ. When the weight reached a mark about a foot from the floor the bellows held as much wind as was comfortable, and if any more was pumped in they complained with a loud hissing noise. When the weight reached Ihe top mark on the woodwork the bellows were empty, and if there were no more pumped in there would be “nowt doin no matter how Mr Baxter spread his .fingers in front. 'Mr Baxter, a young .schoolmaster, had at the first expressed himself somewhat contemptuously about the share of Rostron in the church music. But Rostron settled the argument about collective responsibility by letting the wind out during the anthem, and his contention was now accepted. It was easy to keep in the wind for Mr Baxter, who had lady fingers and never played anything that would have disturbed the" slumbers of the lightest sleeper. And during the sermon he slipped out of the ■organ chamber and had a whiff of his clay pipe under a hawthorn tree, which was twice as old as any other tree In the yard, lie had his own parson “taped off” to the minute In the length of his sermons, and he reckoned lie could measure the others by looking at them. The stout ones finished soon, but the earnest hatchet-faced ones got warmed up and there was no knowing. But •anyhow lie could see them in the pulpit from where he was, and had never missed being back in time. Brasted the Bellows. One Sunday stood out vn his memory. Air Baxter had a day off, and at the evening service Ihe substitute played the “Hallelujah” Chorus. He was a lusty cyclopean sort of player, and took Rostron by surprise. He got the weight into the middle of the fairway, hut nothing he could do would move it an eighth of an inch lower. II he paused the weight slipped hack with amazing rapidity. So Rostron pumped up am! down with Ihe punishing regularily of an Oxford stroke. The sweat rolled down his agonised face, and with the last imperious chord he collapsed into the rush-bot-tomed chair against Mic wall. As the organist came Ihror.eh the chamber at Urn end of Hip service Rostron beckoned to him. “Heigh! Thee!" he said with some venom, "Ali’ve a hone |.i pike v.T Mice. Next time Ilia plays a organ, play it, durn’t pum'e il. If Rial lia-n’t- hr».s’e,| (>r organ bellows, Ilia’s weilj brasied mine."