Spring.

A Cornish Tale about Our L’il Village by Sal Tregenna.

Well, me deers, I spoase Spring’s cum agane, idden it! In spite o’ all th’ wisht ole we’ther an’ all th’ rain, us can’t deny’t no longer, tiz reilly Spring time agane. Th’ vlowers be zayin’ zo, enny’ow. Look ‘ow th’ lanes be vull o’ primroses, vi’lets an’ buddercups, an’ bluebells be on th’ way! Th’ May blossom’s out ‘pon th’ garden haidge, too, an’ if you puts yer nawse outside th’ vrent dore you can git a bedder scent than ever cum out o’ a boddle, when th’ wind is blawin’ cross th’ waal-vlower baid. Th; burds be zayin’ zo, too, a’buildin’ the’r nests an’ ‘athchin’ th’r young, bics, ‘em’ Yisterday mornin’ when I walked up I yurd th’ rain lashin’ agin th’ winder, and’ th’ wind gain whoopooh in th’ chembley. Then I yurd th’ sparrers chitterin’ onder th’ eaves, and’ a thrush zingin’ vit to bust ‘is westcoat! Like I zed to Vather ez us wuz hevin’ our brexus, th’ vlowers an’ th’ burds knaws when th’ Spring’s cum if us doant. An’ I’m sure all o’ us do knaw’t in our h’arts, you, vur everybody’s lookin’ roun’ in th’ corners, an’ vendin’ th’ cobwebs, an’ takin’ down th’ picters vrom th’ waals, an’ killin’ th’ gurt vat spiders wot bin lodgin’ there all th’ winter! An’ I’ll warn there bin curtains an’ counterpins out ‘pon jist every line, ‘ceps Jane’s o’ course!
VETTY PROOF
An’ if ennybody wants enny more proof than that, well, Vather hev, teeled ‘is shallots, my deer! An’ Nurse hev vaaled in luv at last! Coarse, ‘er won’t omit it, not ‘et, but I knaws th’ signs, bless’ee. I dunno if I ever menshuned young Maister Joe Green to’ee, or no? ‘E do play th’ horgan up to Church, an’ one time th’ pore boy wuz mazed ez a brish arter Passen’s darter, Miss Mary, aunly ‘er would’n hev nort to do wi’n. Cum ‘pon that er doant zim to be a marryin’ zoart, an’ a gude job too, in one way, vur wot Passen an’ Missus would do wi’out ‘er I doant knaw. Well, young Green lives wi’ ‘is Ma in a nice house jist outside th’ village. ‘Er’s a wider, iz Mizzus Green, an’ ‘er man used to be a skulemaister. Young Green wux gain in vur th’ skule-taichen’ bizzens, too, but ‘e wadden tarrable strong, an’ Dr. devised’n to go in vur zum outdore work instid. ‘E got a very hude milk roun’ now, an’ ‘e goes in vur all zoarts o’ zide lines an’ I yur ‘e’s makin munney, bein’ a zavin’ stiddy chap. Nurse bin gain out there a terrible lot lately to zee Missus Green. ‘er ‘ad a nasty vaal down auver th’ steers beginnin’ o’ th’ winter, an’ ‘urted ‘er arm, an’ Nurse bin gain there to massidge’n, ez ‘er caals it, vur a very purty time now. I’ve ‘ad a noshun there wuz zummin in th’ wind, ez th’ zayin’ iz, but nobody else heb’n zed nort zo I bin ‘oldin’ me noise. But now Nurse hev tooked to gain to Church regler, an’ when I axed ‘er tother Zenday aivmen when ‘er cum in wot zoart o’ a zarmon Passen praiched, ‘er looked all vulish, an’ I knawed ‘er ‘ad’n yurd a wurd o’t! I zoon vound out ‘er dedden even knaw wot th’ tex’ wuz! But ‘er knawed wot hym’s they ‘ad my deer, an’ er wuz able to tell me that Maister Green played th’ horgan zummin windervull! “Tell ‘bout they there chaps that plays th’ horgan ‘pon th’ wireless!” zes she. “why, they coul’n ‘old a candel to Joe Green, I tell’ee ‘e makes thikky horgan spaik!” Vather wuz zettin’ avore th’ vire, zuckin’ ‘is ole pipe, an’ I zeed’n lookin’ to ‘er brave an’ knawin, “Iss,” zes ‘e winkin ‘is heye to me, “’e can play proper, Nurse, zo ‘e can. Pity th’ pore chap’s zo ugly tho’, idden it?” Aw, my deer days, you should hev yurd ‘er gain vur Vather, then! Like I zed to mezel’ arter, that wuz vitty proof that wuz! I bant zo old but wot I can mind th’ time when I thort Vather wuz th’ ‘ansumest chap in all th’ village! ‘Tho’ I deer zay other vokes thort ‘e wuz ghastly ‘nuff! Zo now I’m kippin’ me heyes abroad vur vurder developments, ez th’ zayin’ iz, an’ if there’s ort in it twull zoon be knawed wi’ light aivmens cumin on an’ all!
GURT DOINS
I spoase vokes be makin’ plans everywhere now vur gurt doin’s to sallybrate th’ Coronashun. They’m purty an’ bizzy in our li’l village, an’ if all goes well, an’ th’we’ther’s vine. I reckon us be in vur a very purty ole spree! They ‘ad a mittin’ back along to dezide where they should e;lect roun’ th’ village an’ git munney to gi’e everybody a vree tay an’ trade, or where it should be put ‘pon th’ rates. Vather an’ a purty passell o’ others wuz aginst hevin’ it ‘pon th’ rates, cuz, like Vather zed, if once th’ varmints go an’ dab on a mite more they’ll vorgit to take it off agane, an’ gudeness knaws tiz bad ‘nuff ex tiz! Ennyway, they waint roun’ an’ everybody gi’ed well, an’ they got a vine zum o’ munney together. Zo they’m hevin’ spoarts an’ a vree tay, an’ mugs vur th’ cheldern, an’ a gran’ conzert in th’ aivmen, an’ virewurks an’ a bonvire to vanish up wi’. An’ coarse thy’ll hev out th’ band an’ all th’ children marchin’ roun’ th’ village wi’ vlags an’ trade. Skulemaister’s up there drillin ‘em every day to git ‘em purfick vur th’ gurt day. Jane zes tiz a wecked waste o’ time, an’ bedder they wuz taichin’ th’ maidens to mend the’r loas an’ the’r stockin’s. Nurse yurd ‘er zay that one day an’ ‘er terned roun’ an’ zed, “An’ wot a pity they dedden taich you to mend yours when you waint skule!”

TAIL PIECE!
Well, me deers, I wrote th’ vust pert o’ ledder yisterday when th’ wind wuz blawin’ cold, an’ there wuz grey skies, an’ showers o’ rain. Today there’s a blue sky, an’ warm sunshine, an’ th’ medda outside is all goldy wi’ buddercups! Vunny thing, but I never zeed ‘em yisterday when th’ zen wadden shinin’! It jist shaws wot a mite o’ sunshine can do doant it! Even th’ puddles that looked zo baistly an’ ugly yisterday, be all shinin’ like gold today wi’ th’ zen ‘pon ‘em! It ought to taich us a big lessen, if us looks at it th’ right way me deers. When you takes out yer cloudy vaace o’ a mornin’ an’ goes roun’ all day wi’ a vrown  an’ a snarl, you vend th’ wurld’s a terrable ugly drab ole place o’t, but put up yer sunshine vaace, me deers, an’ smile ‘pon everybody, an’ everything an’ you’ll vend all th’ gold there iz in th’ wurld. Arter all, wot us zees in th’ rest o’ th’ wurld iz aunly a revexshun o’ wot th’ rest o’ th’ wurld can zee in us! Doant’ee never vugit that! Hark! The’s th’ cukoo holerin’! An’ th’s bedder musick these mornin’ than even Joe Green’s horgan playin’!