Bill killed his pig, which wasn’t half fat,—not so good to kill as many running the lanes. He took one side to market and left the other hanging in his kitchen. Now Halan Market es the west (worst) in the year for sellan pork; so many Santusters’ poor lean trash are there that they keep down the price, and people who want good pork seldom come to that market. Bill made a few shillans, laid out a trifle in a bit of beef, and kept the rest to pay off a little of his long score at the shop in churchtown, that he might be trusted agen. In the Green Market he met a Zennor man who had been an old comrade of his. He invited him over for feasten Sunday. He didn’t wait to be asked twice before he promised to come early.

Whilst Bill was away, Mary Ann began upon the side of pork, hanging up in the kitchen; cut off a sliver from the back, put the baker upon the brandes, and fried away. Before she was satisfied, there was a great hole made in the side. Then, when the boys came home from bal, they fried again; and, believe me, they weren’t satisfied before nearly half the side was cut off, except the bones. Then, when Bill came home, she had to cut into the leg to have a little for his supper. By Saturday night there was nothing left of the pig but thin flaps of belly-pieces, one shoulder, and pile of bones. She was puzzled to contrive a feasten dinner out of that for a hungry Zennor man, who would eat the bit of [63]beef and look over his shoulder for more! At length she determined to make a pie of all the odds and ends she sould scrape off the bones, the thin bits of skin from the belly, and other scraps.

Now, you know, one may make a pie of a’most anything and pascen off for what one will. If she could have got plenty of parsley she might have passed’n off for a veal-and-paasley pie, she thought; because Zennor folks never get any better veal than “staggering bob” (a calf killed before it can stand steady.) The pie was baked, bit of beef cooked, and plenty of petates boiled (whether there was cabbage or turnips I can’t say;) when two Zennor men arrived and were ready for dinner.

“This es my cousin Mathey,” said the man invited, pushing the other forward; “he’s come for company to me, and he’s one of our best singers. Es late now for church, I spose, but he will sing to ’e after denner, for we’ve none better than Mathey for singan that pretty psalm about the precious ointment runnan down from Aaron’s beard to the skirts of his coat, or t’other pretty one about a timmersome bird.” Bill said nothing, for he knew that Zennor men think themselves welcome to feast or funeral, for the sake of their singing.

They soon finished the bit of beef; then Mary Ann helped them to pie; and even these goats of Zennor men, whose diet when home es fish and potates every day of the week and conger-pie of a Sunday for a change, turned up their noses at the mess of “glit” she put on their plates; then they tried the pie-crust, and found that too dry and hard, though they arn’t particular, as they get nothing but conger-fat put in their cakes and pie-crust at home; that will make them eat short enuf ef somewhat nasty. They stopped to have a cup of tea, but that was hardly coloured, except with the scaled milk and brown sugar; and the cake she made with scroves (remains of lard which has been melted), the only fat left. How she could ever manage to bake anything so as to know when et was ready I can’t tell, I’m sure, for she hadn’t so much as a hour-glass to keep time.

Well, the two feasters couldn’t be without seean what a bad plight Bill was in, and all through his wife’s bad management; they took pity upon am, and, when passan the Square on their way home, asked him into “The Kings Arms,” and treated am to a glass or two of beer.

So much for Bills feast last year, and this they’ll have none at all.

An Jenny took the meal, which the miller’s daughter had serged for her, and brought it to the door. On her coming into the light I noticed that her dress was different from that usually worn by working women. Instead of a bed-gown, skirt, and check apron, or a “towser,” she was attired in a long-waisted gown and kirtle [64]over a quilted petticoat, all of some dark stuff. Her abundant grey hair was turned back over a pad, or cushion, which was crossed by her cap-border, also turned back on a broad ribbon around her head; and a small silk hat, fixed jauntily on one side, finished her head-dress. She also wore a necklace of curious, old-fashioned green and red flowered beads, coated with clear white glass, and large hooped-shaped earrings.

Her figure was remarkably tall, slim, and upright, and her face what is usually called long-featured, with a high forehead, straight nose, and pointed chin.

“Polly would like to set the mill-women a dancing,” said she; “and I han’t forgotten all my steps yet, as you shall see.” Holding out her dress she then showed off several dancing steps with much liveliness, and was preparing for others when the dame of the mill opened the door from her dwelling, and called out, “Come ’e along in, do, like a good boy, I’ve had a cake baked and tea made this ever so long.” The sprightly old damsel then took her bag of meal and went away.

Young Oliver, being gone to buy corn of the neighbouring farmers, and having to await his return, I was glad to pass the time with An Polly. The dwelling-room, entered from the mill, was a long one, with a large open fireplace at the inner end; a small side window near it. All the room was either in strong light or deep shadow, and this old building of the mill and dwelling together, both within and without, afforded good subjects for an artist.

“Well, I should think you liked Miss Jenefer (Genevere) and her stories better than tea; for I’ve called ’e ever so many times. What had she to say about Mary Ann’s boys chasean a pig into a peeth?”

Having told An Polly what Jenefer said about it, and of Bill’s poor feast, “May the Lord forgive the old faggot!” said she, “I never can. Only to think she should make out that one of her parish wed ever be treated by a Zennor man in his own Churchtown, and on the Feasten Sunday too. No, Bill wed eat’s hat rather than suffer such a disgrace as that. Her whole story es made out of an old ‘bam’ told in other parishes about poor tinners tryan to keep up the feast as best they cud. Can ’e tell whose new house they were talkan about when she got into her ‘fegary’ weth the poor woman she abused so?”

“I didn’t hear any name mentioned,” I replied; “they were talkan about a planched parlour when I entered the mill; yet, from what Jenny afterwards said, it’s one of her relations.”

“Her relations,” returned An Polly, “she han’t got a near one in the world, nor has she ever had one since she was left an orphan when quite a child. Then the nearest she had were the two old [65]ladies of Kellinack, who took her as their own; they were only her grandfather’s sisters; and then, when she was about thirteen, with those old ladies she must have heard scores of such stories. Where she could find any kindred near enow to be called relations when her great aunts died, I can’t tell. Yet if you believe her, all the old families of the parish are her kindred; most of them poor folks, whose forefathers owned lands in the parish; there are such sudden ups-and-downs here that some of the Ellises may have made a sturt and be building a house. By her account, and theirs as well, they are all from the same family as the owner of Brea. She says too that the Veals, now all very poor, once owned much lands in this parish and Sancras; so they must be her cousins, of course.

Yet Mary Ann thought to curry favour weth the crazy old thing by speakan with scorn of such as the other would term upstarts, when none of her kindred, to get knittan or spinan done for her.

Now, when Jenefer do have a tiff with anyone, she’ll rake up all the old defaming stories she ever heard, turn them upside down or inside out, till she can make them fit to her mind, and then fix them on any one disliked by her.

That story of a woman scaldan her own painted pig, and her boys chasan of’n into a peeth was told about a spiteful woman before Mary Ann was born or thought of. ’Tes merely an old droll, such as used to be told of winters’ nights. When such stories were in vogue people regarded them as fables, by which none but fools would be deceived; and from them much worth rememberan was learnt. Now I’ll tell ’e the old droll, told in other parishes, of the poor tinner’s feast, that you may see the changes made by Miss Jenefer.

“Yet they are no greater,” continued the old dame, after taking a pinch of snuff, “than were purposely made by old story-tellers, and looked for by their hearers, when the same drolls were often repeated of winters’ nights.”

Having told An Polly that I would much like to hear more of the old ladies of Kellinack, as I’d often heard them spoken of, but never by any one who remembered them well. “Ef I once begin to talk about these old dears,” said she, “I shall never know where to stop; ask Uncle John Williams, the old man of Dowran, you know am very well, and he can tell more about them than anybody else. Uncle John, when a youngster, used to keep their garden in order, plant their beds of peppermint, sow summer savory; and often go with them to collect herbs for distillan and makean ointments.

“They much liked to doctor their neighbours, and themselves too; though there was nothing in the world amiss with them. Yet they [66]were very skilful, and made better 1skawdower ointment than one cud get anywhere else. That salve, of their makean, was better than any doctor’s stuff for curean a skin disease which was very common in their time, when people lived more on salt pork and fish than they do now, and had but little greens, or any other garden sass. Often enow then ef poor people hadn’t fish, it was

“They made an excellent eye-salve, too, with cellandine, that growed about on their old garden walls; and people came from miles away to get a bit of it for sore eyes.

“The old dears left Miss Jenny a great oak chest full of grand old fashioned cloathes, more than she can ever wear out ef she shud live to be as old as Methuselah.

“They are much too fine for common use, and only fit for one who may sit down all day long like

“Why didn’t ’e invite Miss Jenny to take a cup of tea too?” I asked. “She tea! she can’t abide’n,” replied An Polly; “that’s one of her whimsies, some people say; she’s very welcome, I’m sure.

“Nearly all her diet is gerty-milk. She will trot away miles to get a few gallons of pillas,2—over along to Morvah, or Zennor, because few people grow et now in St. Just. She do manage et the same as olk folk always ded. Two or three quarts of the grain es damped, weth her, at a time; then put into a small tray; kept a purpose, till its beginning to ‘cheeny’ ” (to show signs of being ready to sprout.) “The tray es put upon her chimney-stool, where et may have a little warmth. As soon as there’s the least sign of the pillas bean ready to throw out a shoot it’s put into a ‘baker’ on a slow fire, and stirred all the time till well dried and ‘scroched’ a little. Roastan of pillas es a very nice job, that but few can be trusted to do; yet it’s worth all the labour. The change made in the grain, for the better, wedn’t be believed by anybody not acquainted weth it.

“It must be left to ‘cheeney’ only till the grains become sweet and ‘plum’ (soft) enough to crush between one’s finger and thumb. When roasted and spread out on a cloth to cool Miss Jenny’s plan es to put a handful or two at a time into as pretty a little moorstone traff (trough) as ever eyes ded see and pound’n till crushed fine enow—the ‘crusher’ es a handy ‘bowl’ (pebble) picked up from the sea-shoar. [67]

“You ought to see her beautiful little pillas-traff; et will only hold about a gallon; es as smooth as a basen inside and out; and es so light that one can move ’n about with ease. Miss Jenny had’n boft from Kellinack, where et had been used for hundreds of years for the same purpose. Old people used to take much the same plan weth their pillas; they are too lazy now, and buy oatmeal from shops, or thicken their milk with barley-flour; yet neither of them is half so good as the pillas-gerts that used to be grown by most everybody here who had a few acres of land. There was much other good food made with pillas, the gerts, mind ’e, always prepared as I’ve told ’e; et made a nicer baked puddan than flour or rice. Above all, a little ov’n was often used to help out malt, when good old housewives wanted to have their ale extra strong.

“At length—and that was jest as far back as I can remember—the cussed excisemen interfered with old women puttan their pillas to ‘cheeney.’ I’ve heard Miss Jenefer say that her Aunts and others detested them more than they ded the press-gang. Excisemen were all ‘foreigners’ (strangers to the county) then, for no West Country man wed belong to such a crew. They wed come about, every now and then, mostly when the men were away to bal, and rummage every hole and corner in search of bay salt,3 liquor, and other goods, brought from over sea by the poor men, at the risk of their lives; and ef they found ever so little pillas-gerts, et was seized and a fine threaten’d, for they caled’n malt.

“Besides, I’m afraid that we shan’t have a little coarse salt brought here again, by the fisher-women, at a reasonable price for a long time; the excisemen have found out that there are trap-hatches in the floors of nearly all dwellans where the fisher folk live—over cellars. When the way was clear, the fisher-women drawed up salt with bags and lines. Now ‘all the fat es in the fire;’ a heedless harum-scarum fool of a woman hurred away to meetan without takan care to see that the hatch-boards were down snug upon the beams. Whilst she was out, the exciseman, going his rounds, entered the cellar and saw the contrivance. On puttan hes head up through the hatch, he saw that all the sand, with which the floor had been covered, was swept away and a good lot of salt left on the floor. On examinan other dwellans, over fish-cellars, he found trap-hatches in nearly all of them. There’s ben the devil of a row amongst them ever sence; all the other women are ready to kill that thoughtless fool; and—serve her right. I pray to goodness that they may soon find some other way to fool the plague of an exciseman, I do.

“You know seine-owners are allowed what salt they require to [68]cure their fish, duty free. They seldom use all their stock and know what es——”

“Mother! Mother!” cried Lovey, “stop do, tellan about the excisemen; never fear but the Bay women will be a match for them yet. You are gettan all crankey because we have but little ‘fair-trade’ now; yet live in hopes that times will mend, and tell us the old droll that Miss Jenny twisted into her story of Bill’s feast.”

Over a while An Polly became more tranquil and told us the following story, which she called “a mere bam of a Droll.”

[69]