Mr. Bumpkin at home again.

How peaceful the farm seemed after all the turmoil and worry that Farmer Bumpkin had been subjected to in London! What a haven of rest is a peaceful Home! How the ducks seemed to quack!—louder, as Mr. Bumpkin thought, than they ever did before. The little flock of sheep looked up as he went, with his old ash stick under his arm, to look round the farm. They seemed to say to one another, “Why, here’s Master; I told you he’d come back.” And the cows turned their heads and bellowed a loud welcome. They knew nothing of his troubles, and only expressed their extreme pleasure at seeing him again. They left off eating the whole time he was with them; for they were very well bred Shorthorns and Alderneys. It was quite pleasant to see how well behaved they all were. And Mrs. Bumpkin pointed out which ones had calved and which were expected to calve in the course of a few months. And then the majestic bull looked up with an expression of immense delight; came up to Mr. Bumpkin and put his nose in his master’s hand, and gazed as only a bull would gaze on a farmer who had spent several weeks in London. It was astonishing with what admiration the bull regarded him; and he seemed quite delighted as Mrs. Bumpkin told her husband of the bull’s good conduct in his absence; how he had never broken bounds once, and had behaved himself as an exemplary bull on all occasions.

“But,” said Mrs. Bumpkin, “I be ’bliged to say, Tom, that there Mrs. Snooks have belied him shamefully. She haven’t got a good word to say for un; nor, for the matter o’ that, for anything on the farm.”

“Never mind,” said Mr. Bumpkin; “he bean’t the only one as ’ave been slandered hereabouts.”

“No, Tom, sure enough; but we bean’t ’bliged to heed un.”

“No, nor wun’t. And now here come Tim.”

To see Tim run and bound and leap and put his paws round Mr. Bumpkin’s neck and lick him, was a sight which must have made up for a great deal of the unkindness which he had experienced of late. Nor could any dog say more plainly than Tim did, how he had had a row with that ill-natured cur of Snooks’, called Towser, and how he had driven him off the farm and forbade him ever setting foot on it again. Tim told all about the snarling of Towser, and said he would not have minded his taking Snooks’ part in the action, if he had confined himself to that; but when he went on and barked at Mr. Bumpkin’s sheep and pigs, against whom he ought to have shown no ill-feeling, it was more than Tim could stand; so he flew at him and thoroughly well punished him for his malignant disposition.

But in the midst of all this welcoming, there was an unpleasant experience, and that was, that all the pigs were gone but two. The rare old Chichester sow was no more.

“There be only two affidavys left, Nancy!”

“No, Tom—only two; the man fetched two yesterday.”

“I hope they sold well. Have he sent any money yet?”

“Not a farthing,” said Mrs. Bumpkin; “nor yet for the sheep. He have had six sheep.”

“Zo I zee; and where be th’ heifers? we had six.”

“They be all sold, Tom.”

“And how much did ’em fetch?”

“The man ain’t brought in the account yet, Tom; but I spect we shall have un soon.”

“Why,” said Mr. Bumpkin, looking at the stackyard, “another rick be gone!”

“Yes, Tom, it be gone, and fine good hay it wur; it cut out as well as any hay I ever zeed.”

“Sure did ur!” answered Tom; “it were the six ak’r o’ clover, and were got up wirout a drop o’ rain on un; it wur prime hay, thic. Why, I wur offered six pun’ a looad for un.”

“I don’ow what ur fetched, Tom; but I be mighty troubled about this ’ere lawsuit. I wish we’d never ’a had un.”

“Doan’t say thic, Nancy; we be bound to bring un. As Laryer Prigg say, it bean’t so much t’ pig—”

“No, Tom, thee said un fust.”

“Well, s’poase I did—so ur did, and it worn’t so much t’ pig, it wur thic feller’s cheek.”

“Well, I don’t know nothing about un; I dissay you be right, because you’ve allays been right, Tom; and we’ve allays got on well togither these five and thirty year: but, some’ow, Tom—down, Tim!—down, Tim!”

“Poor old Tim!” said Tom. “Good boy! I wish men wur as good as dogs be.”

“Some’ow,” continued Mrs. Bumpkin, “I doan’t like that ’aire Prigg; he seem to shake his head too much for I; and ’olds his ’at up to his face too long in church when ur goes in; and then ur shakes his head so much when ur prays. I don’t like un, Tom.”

“Now, Nancy, thee knows nothing about un. I can tell ’ee he be a rare good man, and sich a clever lawyer, he’ll knock that ’aire Snooks out o’ time. But, come on, let’s goo in and ’ave some ta.”

So they went in. And a very comfortable tea there was set out on the old oak table in front of the large fireplace where the dog-irons were. And a bright, blazing log there was on the hearth; for a cold east wind was blowing, notwithstanding that the sun had shone out bravely in the day. Ah! how glad Tom was to see the bright pewter plates and dishes ranged in rows all round the homely kitchen! They seemed to smile a welcome on the master; and one very large family sort of dish seemed to go out of his way to give him welcome. I believe he tumbled down in his enthusiasm at Tom’s return, although it was accounted for by saying that Tim had done it by the excessive “waggling” of his tail. I believe that dish fell down in the name of all the plates and dishes on the shelves, for the purpose of congratulating the master; else why should all their faces brighten up so suddenly with smiles as he did so? It’s ridiculous to suppose plates and dishes have no feelings; they’ve a great deal more than some people. And then, how the great, big, bright copper kettle, suspended on his hook, which was in the centre of the huge fireplace, how he did sing! Why the nightingale couldn’t throw more feeling into a song than did that old kettle! And then the home-made bread and rashers of bacon, such as you never see out of a farmhouse; and tea, such as can’t be made anywhere else! And then the long pipe was brought out of his corner, where he had been just as Tom had left it before going to town. And the bowl of that pipe gave off circular clouds of the bluest smoke, expressive of its joy at the master’s return: it wasn’t very expressive, perhaps, but it was all that a pipe could do; and when one does his best in this world, it is all that mortal man can expect of him.

And then said Mrs. Bumpkin,—still dubious as to the policy of the proceedings, but too loving to combat her husband upon them,—“When be thee gwine agin, Tom?”

“I doan’t rightly know,” said Bumpkin. “Mr. Prigg will let I know; sometime in May, I reckon.”

“Dear, dear!” said Mrs. Bumpkin; “it may be on, then, just as th’ haymakin’s about.”

“Lor, lor! no, dearie; it’ll be over long enough afore.”

“Doan’t be too sure, Tom; it be a long time now since it begun.”

“Ah!” said Tom, “a long time enough; but it’ll be in th’ paper afore long now; an’ we got one o’ the cleverest counsel in Lunnun?”

“What be his name?”

“Danged if I know, but it be one o’ the stunninest men o’ the day; two on ’em, by Golly; we got two, Nancy.”

“Who be th’ tother? p’r’aps thee med mind his name?”

“Noa, I doan’t mind his name nuther. Now, what d’ye think o’ thic?”

Mrs. Bumpkin laughed, and said, “I think it be a rum thing that thee ’as counsellors and doan’t mind their names.”

And then the conversation turned upon Joe, whose place was vacant in the old chimney corner.

The tears ran down Mrs. Bumpkin’s rosy cheeks as she said for the twentieth time since Mr. Bumpkin’s return,—

“Poor Joe! why did ur goo for a soger?”

“He wur a fool!” said Bumpkin, “and I told un so. So as I warned un about thic Sergeant; the artfullest man as ever lived, Nancy.”

Mrs. Bumpkin wiped her eyes. “He wur a good boy, wur Joe, goo where ur wool; but, Tom, couldn’t thee ’a’ kept thine eye on un when thee see thic Sergeant hoverin’ roun’ like a ’awk arter a sparrer?”

“I did keep eye on un, I tell ’ee; but what be the good o’ thic; as well keep thee eye on th’ sparrer when th’ hawk be at un. I tell ’ee I ’suaded un and warned un, and begged on un to look out.”

“An’ what did ur say?”

“Say, why said ur wur up to un.”

“Up to un,” repeated Mrs. Bumpkin. “Can’t think ’ow ur got ’old on un.”

“No, and thee mark I, no more can nobody else—in Lunnon thee’re ’ad afore thee knows where thee be.”

And now Mr. Bumpkin had his “little drop of warm gin and water before going to bed”: and Mrs. Bumpkin had a mug of elder wine, for the Christmas elder wine was not quite gone: and after that Mrs. Bumpkin, who as the reader knows, was the better scholar of the two, took down from a shelf on which the family documents and books were kept, a large old bible covered with green baize. Then she wiped her glasses, and after turning over the old brown leaves until she came to the place where she had read last before Tom went away, commenced her evening task, while her husband smoked on and listened.

Was it the old tone with which she spelt her way through the sacred words? Hardly: here it could be perceived that in her secret heart there was doubt and mistrust. Do what she would her eyes frequently became so dim that it was necessary to pause and wipe her glasses; and when she had finished and closed the book, she took Tom’s hand and said:

“O, Tom, I hope all ’ll turn out well, but sure enough I ha’ misgivings.”

“What be it, my dear? Mr. Prigg say we shall win—how can ur do better ’an thic?”

“Shall we get back the pigs and sheep, Tom?”

“Why not?”

Mrs. Bumpkin looked into her lap, and folding her apron very smooth with both hands, answered:

“I doan’t think, Tom, that man looks like bringing anything back. He be very chuffy and masterful, and looks all round as he goo away, as though he wur lookin’ to see what ur would take next. I think he’ll have un all, Tom.”

“Stuff!” said Mr. Bumpkin, “he be sellin’ for I, take what ur may.”

“He be sellin’ thee, Tom, I think, and I’d stop un from takin’ more.”

They rose to go to bed, and as Mrs. Bumpkin looked at the cosy old hearth, and put up the embers of the log to make it safe for the night, it seemed as if the prosperity of their old home had burnt down at last to dull ashes, and she looked sadly at the vacant place where Joe had used to sit.