Yorkshire Oddities, Incidents, and Strange EventsBaring-Gould, S. (Sabine)
History
Yorkshire Oddities, Incidents, and Strange Events
Baring-Gould, S. (Sabine)
Legends -- England -- Yorkshire; Yorkshire (England) -- Miscellanea
The old woman lay back in her hole and groaned. "I'm boun' to die!" she
said.
"Nay, lass! take another spoonful first."
But the poor creature was dead. Job looked at her disconsolately for a
minute, and whilst doing so the fat of the frying bacon fell into the
fire and blazed up. "Eh! but I mustn't waste the fat," said Job. "If t'
ou'd lass cannot take it, why, I mun eat it mysen. Ah! it's varry good;
but it's hot. I reckon 't were too hot for her ou'd insides."
Job now thought that the house, garden, and paddock were his own; but he
was mistaken. The family of Barret, the first husband of Mary, claimed
it and took possession of the field. Job clung desperately to the
cottage and the potato-garth. One evening when he returned from his work
he found that the cottage had been pulled to pieces. He had hidden some
money in the walls, and this was either lost or stolen. His rage and
disappointment completely disturbed his brain, and from that time
forward he lived in a miserable hovel he erected for himself out of the
ruins of the house, in idleness and squalor.
His hut was like a dog-kennel; to enter it he was obliged to creep on
hands and knees. Within it was only large enough for him to lie down in
and turn himself about: it was thatched, and provided with a rude door,
but no window. The garden had contained fruit trees; but these he
stubbed up, and instead planted the whole garth with potatoes. He made
large, unsightly ridges, and put in a great quantity of seed, always
planting for the following year when he gathered his crop in autumn. In
one corner of his garth was a peat fire where he roasted his potatoes.
His custom was, when eating, to sit with one leg on each side of the
fire of peat, his little bag of oatmeal before him; then with his staff
he poked the potatoes out of the embers, peeled them with his dirty
fingers, rolled them in his meal bag, and then ate them. He always drank
his water warm.
"Do you drink your water warm, Job?" asked a visitor.
"Yes," said the hermit, "I reckon I does."
"And your butter-milk too?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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