JLG SkyTrak TeleHandler 6042 Operation, Service & Parts Manuals

JLG SkyTrak TeleHandler 6042

Operation, Service & Parts Manuals
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** JLG SkyTrak TeleHandler 6042 Operation, Service & Parts Manuals** Size :
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Telehandler Type of document: Operation & Safety Manual, Service Manual, Parts
Manual Model: JLG SkyTrak 6042 Telehandler Serial Number: 0160045066 thru
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0160065792, 0160065798, 0160065824, 0160069383 and 0160069411 Contents:
JLG SkyTrak TeleHandler 6042 Operation Manual_31200749 (03/2012) JLG
SkyTrak TeleHandler 6042 Parts Manual_31200731 (05/2017) JLG SkyTrak
TeleHandler 6042 Service Manual_31200796 (10/2014)
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"I interfered between you once before. It was for your good."
"No, master," said Sibley.
"I think so," he said, startled by her independence and rudeness.
"It would ha' been better if yew had passed by and let we bide," she
went on; and when Oliver growled his "Shut your noise," it was with
less anger than usual.
"Us could ha' done what us had a mind to then," she said. "This be a
prison."
"We are all in prison, if you can understand me. The walls are all
round, and we cannot get over them."
"'Tis best vor volk to live as 'em be meant to," said Sibley.
And again Searell was amazed. How had this woman obtained the
power and the courage to answer him? And to beat him, for he was
beaten. He had no words to reply to that simple philosophy, and to
the woman who appealed from his decision. He had played the God
with them, had brought them out of chaos, and had given them his
commandments; and he was no God, but a weak man; and they
were not his children.
He went back to his books, there were no flowers except Christmas-
roses and snowdrops, shivering things of winter, and tried to dream.
Nothing came. It seemed to him there was less mysticism in his
mistland than in the dirty streets of Stonehouse; and, while he
mused, that world came knocking at his mind, calling in the dialect
of Sibley, "'Tis best vor volk to live as 'em be meant to." His own
body, his sluggishness and unhappiness, convicted him of error; but,
if he was wrong, what of all religion which tells of a God of
mysticism, and of his own in particular, which, at that very season of
the year, rejoiced at the birth of a Child-creator by mysticism not
through Love? And at his mind was hot, red-blooded passion, a
crude and awful thing, love for those things which make men
horrible, love for dirt and the roots, not for bud and bloom; and a
contempt and hatred for cold morality and the spells muttered by
candlelight; and the message of the flowers was this: "Through the
agency of others, through the eyes of those who are loved and
loving, not by the confinement of self, souls find the dawn."
"Mrs. Vorse," said Searell one day, the yellow aconites were out, the
first colour of the year, and he was going to look at them, "you have
changed."
Sibley had her back towards him, engaged in cleaning, and she was
wearing, as she always did, the enveloping apron of the country,
which hung from her shoulders and surrounded her body like a sack.
He could not see the flush upon her face.
"Your voice is softer. You sing at your work. You are happy."
"I hain't, master," she whispered. "I feels, master, I wants to be
happy, but I be frightened."
"Of the loneliness?"
"Not that, master. I can't tell ye, but I be frightened."
"You and your husband get along better. You are quieter. I have not
heard you quarrel for some time."
"There's good in Oliver," she said.
"I thought so," he murmured. "But I have not been able to bring it
out."
He went to see the aconites, but they were cold, and made him
shiver. It was warm innocence he wanted, not the purity which
numbed; and, down below, the slopes were naked, the path rustled
with dead oakleaves, and the pixy-water was in flood. The violence
of the world was there, and nothing could drive it out.
"Is your wife well, Oliver?" he asked. "I heard a sound in your room
early this morning. It seemed to me she was ill."
Vorse was uprooting bracken, which is hard labour, and he made no
pause when his master spoke.
"I ha' never knowed she better," he answered.
"She frets less. There is a womanliness about her now which is
pleasant. You, also, have very much improved. You speak to her
gently. You do not drink now?"
"Her made me give it up."
"Had I nothing to do with it?"
"No, master," said Oliver bluntly. "I couldn't ha' given it up vor yew. I
did try, but I couldn't, I promised to give it up vor Sibley."
"When?"
"Months ago. Her told me something, and 'twur then I promised to
give it up vor Sibley."
"What did she tell you?"
"Her had received a message from God."
These were strange words from the mouth of Oliver Vorse.
"Her took 'em from yew, master," he added apologetically.
Searell moved aside, gazing at the black snakelike fern-roots. Then
he lifted up his eyes in torment. His creatures finding in the garden
what he had missed, taking his God away from him! the dull Sibley
his superior, reaping the harvest that he had sown! the dull Oliver
reforming for her, and not for him! And he had nothing, he was
alone, as much alone in his garden as in the mission-church, obeying
the printed rubrics and hearing the call, "Who told you to do this?
Go out and find Me, for I am in the solitudes."
"You are educating yourselves," he suggested, turning back. "You
and Sibley are improving your minds by learning. I have done that
much for you."
Oliver said nothing, his head was down, and his hands grubbed at
the great roots. There was no answer to make.
It was evening, the time of restlessness, and Searell came
downstairs; his study was above, and he came down only to change
his rooms, to get into another atmosphere, that he might find rest
for his mind. The kitchen door was open. Oliver was seated in a low
chair, and Sibley was upon his knees, her arms around his neck, her
head upon his shoulder. Both were motionless as if asleep.
Searell went away. This time he could not interfere, and the noise of
the wind became to him the cry of the wild world. "Men must be
violent," it cried. "Men were made for passion," it cried; "and with
the strength of the body, rather than by the gropings of the mind,
they shall clear the mists from their eyes, and by means of the act of
creation find Creator."

IV

A perfect evening is often the prelude to a stormy night. It was such

an evening in spring again, when the wind-flowers were out, and an
old man riding off the moor paused beside Searell's boundary-wall to
prophesy a tempest. This was a white old man with queer blue eyes,
and he too was a mystic under the spell of solitude; but, unlike
Searell, he had his ties, without which no man can be happy. By day
he roamed, and at evening, by the fireside, told the children small
and great his own weird tales of Dartmoor. There were no restless
evenings for him. Searell shook his head almost angrily. He lived
upon the face of the moor, wrapped himself in its secrets, yet he
could not foretell its weather. The passing cloud had no message,
the river with its changing cry told him nothing. He went into the
house.
"Where is your wife?" he said to Oliver.
"Her bain't well, master." The man was nervous, and his eyes were
large.
"Who is that woman in the kitchen?"
"I had to get she up to do the cooking."
"You have neglected your work today."
"I be cruel sorry, master."
"What is the matter with your wife? Yesterday I heard her singing."
"Nothing serious, master"; but the man was listening all the time, as
if dreading to hear a call, a cry of pain, or the voice of life coming
along the moor.
The old man was right. So soon as night began, the Dartmoor
tempest broke; there was no rain, nor thunder, but a dry and mighty
wind which made the rocks shake; and through the storm came a
weird light defying the wind to blow it out, that light which does not
enter the lowlands, but lives upon mountains; and Searell stood at
his high writing desk, and sought out legends of the wind.
If there were sounds in the house he could not hear them. Deep in
mysticism, he read on of the winged clouds which brought the
tempests, and of their symbols, the rock-shattering worm, the stone
of wisdom which tears open the secrets of life, the rosy flower which
restores the dead, the house-breaking hand of glory; and the eagle
symbol of lightning, and the rushing raven returning to Odin. And he
read of the voices in the wind, while boulders were grinding along
the river-bed; of Hulda in the forest singing for baby-souls; of the Elf
maidens alluring youths astray; of Thoth staggering into oblivion
with brave men's spirits; of Hermes with his winged talaria, playing
the lyre and shutting fast all the myriad eyes of the stars. And
something more he read about the storm-wind. It was not always
taking away, it was giving; it was a bringer of new life, coming in
spring as a young god with golden hair, breaking the spell of winter,
bringing a magic pipe to make folk dance.
"At one time it lulls into a mystic sleep, at another it restores to new
life," said Searell, speaking loudly and strongly, partly to reassure
himself, because the tumult was frightening. "What is this wind
bringing to me, more of the mystic sleep, or the new life?"
He paced up and down the room, which shook as if with
earthquake; and hidden from him by a partition of lath and plaster
was the staring horror of a dream, one small lamp, turned down,
giving the half-light which suggests terror more than darkness, and
on the bed a woman moaning, and against the wall a weak man
groaning. Let them rave and scream, no sound of theirs could have
pierced that lath and plaster, for the god of violence was fighting on
their side.
"There be only one way."
That was how Oliver had been muttering the last hour.
"No, no," she sobbed.
"What can us do? Master be hard, he bides by his word. He ha' been
good to we in all else, but this be our ruin."
"No, no." She could not hear him, but she knew what he was saying.
"Back on them streets again. No home to cover we, no food. Us ha'
lived easy too long to stand it. 'Twould end in the river. Better to lose
the one than our two selves."
"No, no," her lips made the words, but not the sounds.
"'Tis only a matter o' two minutes," he cried fiercely. "Then us be
free again." He left the wall, crossed to the bed, bent down, cried
into her ear, "It be awful outside. The watter be roaring down under.
Us mun live, woman."
Sibley lifted herself with a face of death, and screamed as if it had
been the last effort of her life, screamed again and again; but what
was that in the wind? Not even a whisper; while Searell read on of
the Sons of Kalew, and the miracle of their harps which changed
winter into summer and death into life.
Oliver Vorse was staggering downstairs weeping; and outside the
wind caught him, dragged him hither and thither like a straw,
stuffing his mouth with vapour, and flung him against bellowing walls
and into shrieking bushes; and still he protected what he held by
instinct, and when he fell upon the steep descent he let his body be
bruised and his face torn by that same instinct which makes the
timid beast a savage thing.
It took no time.... He was back in the ghastly lamplight, staring at a
ghastly face which was the reflection of his own; and the master
was still in his musing, and knew nothing.
"Let me die, I'd sooner," Sibley muttered simply; but Oliver could not
hear. He was leaning against the wall again; then he went on his
knees, and then he turned his back upon the bed. That face, the
black hair, a blood-stain visible, they frightened him. He passed into
a kind of agony; he was so cold and his body was dry, and there was
a lightness in his limbs.
"The watter wur roaring—roaring. There warn't no wind, not there.
It wur sheltered down under, and them little white flowers scarce
shook."
He turned his head and saw those staring eyes.
"Bain't what yew thinks," he howled. "There wur moss, plenty on't. I
made a bed beside the rocks. It bain't cold, not very; but the watter
be rising—rising—rising."
So was the tempest. It would be nearing its end, and would drop as
suddenly as it had arisen; and Searell was smiling as he read of the
beasts of the forest weeping as they listened to the song-wind of
Gunadhya.
"I can't go out. Might see it crawling up-along, trying to come back,
little white thing in the dark."
Oliver could see Sibley was speaking, making with her agonized
mouth the shape of words, "Go out." He could not, dared not, had
not even the courage to open the door and look down the dimly
lighted horror of the stairs. They were in the last stage of weakness,
the one morally, the other physically; and the almighty strength of
the wind gave them nothing except the security of its tumult.
"It'll be over," he shuddered. "The watter wur coming up all white. I
couldn't bide there—there wur drops o' summat on my face, and
'twur so helpless, and it looked up. Blue, warn't 'em blue, woman?'"
Sibley could not have heard, but, with all those instincts quivering,
she recognized the word upon his lips and tried to nod.
"Innocent. Hadn't done nought. Would ha' kep we good, made we
man and wife. I'll go down. I'd go down if I dared—the little chin
wur agin my cheek. I'll never face the dark. I'd see it move, and the
little drowning bubbles on the watter. Be it over now?"
He glared at Sibley as if she could answer; and she stared back,
asking, pleading, imploring him to play the man and face the night
again; but he grovelled against the wall and shuddered, damp with
an awful sweat, and the weird light upon the mountain-tops went
out, because other clouds were coming up, having travelled far since
evening, and the darkness became real as the roarings of the dry
wind decreased. It was getting on towards midnight, and those
mighty winds were tired.
"Go!" came a sudden scream; and Searell heard the echo of it and
started. The cry seemed to have its origin in the storm. He closed his
book, listened, heard nothing more except the coherent bellowing,
and then he answered, "I will." Certainly the word had sounded, and
as certainly he was alone. The Vorses would have been asleep for
hours.
"I will walk along the path. It is sheltered down there," he
murmured. "This may be the night appointed, the time of revelation,
the time of young life. This is the mad music of the spring, the
shattering of the chains of winter. The growth follows. It is the birth-
night."
He wrapped a coat around him and went. During those few minutes
the wind had much decreased; in another hour it would be calm and
clear; and then the awful stillness of the sunrise and the perpetual
wonder of the daylight.
There was again a kind of light, for the raven-clouds had gone by
and the swan-clouds were crossing; and the wind was now the
magic piper who drives away care, and with his merry music sets
Nature capering. Searell was on the pixy-path and the wind-flowers
were jigging; it was ghostly, but a dance, not a solemn marching as
in autumn, when the leaves fall processionally downwards. It was
recessional spring, when the leaves awoke, as it were, from their
moon-loved sleep, preserved in unfading youth and beauty by that
sleep, and leapt back at the piper's music to the branches, kissing
their ancient oaks with the fervour of young love. Every flower had a
moist eye and a sweet heart; and the pixy-water rang for festival.
One turn Searell made, seeing nothing, because his eyes struggled
with the mist; another, and he stopped. There was a wonder, a
miracle, a revelation among his wind-flowers, upon the edge of the
rising water, a sleeping silent wonder which made him thrill.
"It has no bodily existence. When I come back it will be gone."
It was still there, and now the water was almost level with the bed
of moss, and some of the flowers were struggling to keep their pale
heads above; and it was silent, this child of the morning, lying upon
its back in the moss, numbed, perhaps, though the night was not
cold, and there was a beauty upon the small face, not the beauty
which makes for violence, but that which gives peace, the beauty of
innocence; and there was also upon it that perfect weakness, and
the submission of weakness which is one of the strongest things
created. And it seemed to be growing there like the wind-flowers, as
fragile, but as hardy, and among them; for white anemones had
been blown across each eye and across the mouth, and they
gleamed from each ear, and the chin was another edged with pink,
and all of them seemed to be jealous of the child.
"And it comes into the world by violence," Searell murmured.
Even then he hardly knew what had happened. He could not think,
for his mind was full of the wonder, and commonplace ideas would
not enter. He picked up the child reverently; there was no motion,
no sound, no opening of bue eyes; had there been a shrill scream,
the spell might have been broken—the contact was dreadful to him.
He was tending a sacred mystery, elevating a sacrament newly
consecrated, something which a few hours ago had been leaping like
a spark in the place of his dreams, and had been flung as lightning
upon his path to strike his heart open. Here was the answer of the
flowers. To men the Creator was as a child, for the child is the only
thing all-powerful and the only thing all-pure.
About the house Searell seemed to hear the sound of groaning like
the moan of the dying wind, and there were movements once or
twice as of a wounded body.
A dusty prie-dieu stood in the comer of the study. This he placed
near the fire, a cushion upon it, and then the child; and lighted a
candle upon each side. He stood with his arms folded, the Omega of
life worshipping the Alpha of it, until all things seemed to be new
and strange, as upon a resurrection morning, and he awoke from
the sleep of death and felt the spring. The winter was over and past,
the time of the opening of flowers had come, and the voice of
creation stirred upon the garden; and the change had been wrought
by violence.
It was necessary to speak and find sympathy. He hated the solitude
because no one shared it with him; he had grown to hate the
wonderful garden because there was no one to wonder at it with
him; he hated himself because no one cared for him. "Oliver!" he
called, breaking the horrible quietness, forgetful of the time.
"Sibley!"
Movements followed, again like wounded bodies, and Searell
remembered that the woman was ill and he had done nothing for
her. He went to the door; it opened, and Vorse was cowering against
the wall, his hand upon his eyes. Searell hardly noticed the horrid
smoking of the lamplight, the eyes upon that bed, the guilty,
frightened man. Still full of himself, he cried:
"Come and see what I have found."
"I couldn't do it, master," moaned Oliver. "I took it down, but the
eyes opened. 'Don't ye hurt me,' it said. I be just come. Bain't time
vor me to go.'"
Still Searell would not understand.
"Come," he said impatiently. "She was upon my path, among my
flowers."
Then life stirred again upon the bed, and Sibley drew herself up with
ravenous eyes and muttered:
"Alive—alive!"
Soon the room was like a chapel. The smoky lamp had been
extinguished, the prie-dieu stood beside the bed, the candles cast a
warm, soft light; and outside upon the moor was peace. Even the
merry piper had become weary and had put all things to sleep till
daybreak; while Oliver Vorse upon his knees confessed the sin which
had been forced upon him.
"Us dared not keep she. Sibley dared, but not me. If a child wur
born, us must go, yew said. I couldn't face it, but her would ha'
faced it. Us be ready to go now," he said boldly. "I ha' these hands.
I'll fight. I ha' the maiden to fight vor."
"Her lives. Her moves on my bosom," cried Sibley. "Look at 'em,
master. Did ye ever see the like?"
"What made you kinder, Sibley, more attentive to me, soft and
tender?"
"'Twur the child coming, master."
"What made you sober, Oliver, fond of your wife? What was it
stopped the quarelling?"
"I minded the little child, master."
There was something tender in their illiterate speech.
"You cast her away. The sin is mine, so is the atonement. And she is
mine."
"She'm mine, master," murmured Sibley.
"I found her among my flowers, the reward of my searching. She is
the answer," he said. "Let her be to you the daughter of love, and to
me the daughter of violence. Oliver," he cried, turning, "bring up
water from the pixy-stream. As the sun rises I will baptise—my
child."
"Yew'm fond o' she, master?"
"She is mine," he said, with the old impatience.
"And we, master?"
"I am old and you are young," said Searell. "But we are all beginning
life, we know nothing. We will try to find another and a better
pathway."
He went back to his rooms to rest, but not to sleep, for there was
something burning inside him like a coal from the altar; and a new
light crept upon the moor, giving it form, changing it from black to
purple. It was the dawn.
 BUSINESS IS BUSINESS
Tavy river rises on Cranmere, flows down Tavy Cleave, divides the
parish of Mary Tavy from that of Peter Tavy, passes Tavy Mount, and
leaves Dartmoor at Tavystock, or Tavistock as it is now spelt. Each
Dartmoor river confers its name, or a portion of it, upon certain
features of its own district. The Okements meet at Okehampton, and
one of them has Oke Tor, which has been corrupted into Ock and
even Hock. Even the tiny Lyd has its Lydford. Each river also has its
particular characteristic. The East Okement is the river of ferns, the
Teign the river of woods, the Taw the river of noise, the Dart the
river of silence, and the Tavy is the river of rocks. Tavy Cleave from
the top of Ger Tor, presents a grand and solemn spectacle of rock
masses piled one upon the other; it is a valley of rocks, relieved only
by the foaming little river.
Mary Tavy is a straggling village of unredeemed ugliness, wild and
bare. It lies exposed on the side of the moor and is swept by every
wind, for not a bush or even a bramble will be found upon the
rounded hills adjoining. Once the place was a mining centre of some
importance. The black moor has been torn into pits and covered
with mounds by the tin-streamers in early days, and more recently
by the copper-miners. All around Mary Tavy appear the dismal ruins
of these mines, or wheals as they are called. Peter Tavy, across the
river, is not so dreary, but is equally exposed. This region during the
winter is one of the most inhospitable spots to be found in England.
In Peter Tavy there lived, until quite recently, an elderly man, who
might have posed as the most incompetent creature in the West
Country. It is hardly necessary to say he did not do so; on the
contrary, he posed as a many-sided genius. He occupied a hideous
little tin house, which would have been condemned at a glance in
those parts of the country where building by-laws are in existence.
At one time and another he had borrowed the dregs of paint-pots,
and had endeavoured to decorate the exterior. As a result, one
portion was black, another white, and another blue. Over the door a
board appeared setting forth the accomplishments of Peter Tavy, as
he may here be called. According to his own showing he was a
clock-maker; he was a photographer; he was a Dartmoor guide; he
was a dealer in antiquities; he was a Reeve attached to the Manor of
Lydford; and he was a purveyor of manure. This board was in its
way a masterpiece of fiction. Once upon a time a resident, anxious
to put Peter's powers to the test, sent him an old kitchen-clock to
repair. He examined and gave it as his opinion that the undertaking
would require time. When a year had passed the owner of the clock
requested Peter to report progress. He replied that the work was
getting on, but "'Twas a slow business and 'twould take another six
months to make a job of it." At the end of that period the clock was
removed, almost by force, and it was then discovered that Peter had
sold most of the interior mechanism to a singularly innocent tourist
as Druidical remains unearthed by him in one of the shafts of Wheal
Betsy.
As a photographer he carried his impudence still further. Some one
had given him an old camera and a few plates. He began at once to
inveigle visitors—chiefly elderly ladies, "half-dafty maidens" he
impolitely called them—down Tavy Cleave, where he would pose
them on rocks and pretend to photograph them with plates which
had already been exposed more than once. "If I doan't get a picture
first time, I goes on till I do," he explained. Once, when Peter
announced "'twas a fine picture this time," a gentleman of the party
reminded him he had omitted to remove the cap from the lens. Peter
was not to be caught that way: "I took 'en," he said, "I took 'en, but
yew was yawning."
As a guide upon the moor Peter was an equal failure. He ought to
have known Dartmoor after living upon it all his life; the truth was,
he would have lost his way upon the road to Tavistock had he
strayed from it a moment. Visitors, lured by the notice-board, had
approached him from time to time with the request to be guided to
Cranmere. Peter would take them along Tavy Cleave for a mile, then
assure them a storm was coming up and it would be necessary to
seek shelter as soon as possible, hurry them back, and demand half-
a-guinea in return for his services. Peter had never been to
Cranmere Pool, and had no idea how to get there. Sometimes a
party would insist upon proceeding, in spite of the guide's warning,
and in such cases the bewildered Peter would have to be shown the
way home by his victims. He would demand the half-guinea all the
same.
As a dealer in antiquities nothing came amiss. Broken pipes, bits of
crockery, old mining-tools, any rubbish rotting or rusting upon the
peat were gathered and classified as Druidical remains. No one knew
where Peter had picked up the word Druidical; but it was certain he
picked up their supposed remains on the piece of black moor which
surrounded his house. Sometimes, it was said, he found a tourist
foolish enough to purchase a selection of this rubbish.
What he meant by describing himself as an official receiving pay
from the Duchy of Cornwall nobody ever knew. As a Reeve (another
word he had picked up somewhere) of the Manor of Lydford he
believed himself to be intimately connected with the lord of that
manor, who is the Prince of Wales. He knew that august personage
was interested somehow in three feathers. The public-house in the
neighbourhood called The Plume of Feathers had something to do
with it he was sure, though he had never seen "goosey's feathers
same as they on the sign-board." Once he thought seriously of
erecting three feathers above his own door, and for that purpose
captured a neighbor's goose and plucked three large quills from one
of its wings, accompanying his action with the bland request, "Now
bide still, goosey-gander, do' ye." He could not make his three
goose-quills graceful and drooping, like those upon the sign-board,
and that was probably why Peter refrained from doing the Lord of
Dartmoor the compliment of assuming his crest.'
The village of Peter Tavy, like most spots upon Dartmoor, has its
summer visitors; and these were sure, sooner or later, to make the
acquaintance of Peter Tavy the man. They thought him a harmless
idiot, and he reciprocated. One summer a journalist came upon the
moor for his health and, desiring to combine business with pleasure,
he wrote a descriptive sketch of Peter, and this was published in due
course in a paper which by a curious accident reached Peter himself.
The man was furious. He went about the two villages with the paper
in his hand, his scanty hair bristling, his watery eyes bulging, his
mouth twisted into a very ugly shape. It was a good thing the
journalist had departed, for just then Peter was angry and vindictive
enough for anything. Presently he met his clergyman; he made
towards him, held out the paper, and, regardless of grammar, cried
out, "That's me."
"He does not mention you by name," said the clergyman.
"He says the man in the iron house wi' notice-board atop. He's got
down the notice-board as 'tis," spluttered Peter. "He says a ginger-
headed man—that's me; face like a rabbit—that's me."
It was as a purveyor of manure that Peter found his level, if not a
living. Probably he received financial assistance from his sister, who
lived across the river at Mary Tavy. She had been formerly a lady's
maid in Torquay; after more than thirty years' service her mistress
had died, and had bequeathed to her a modest income, and on this
she lived comfortably in retirement, crossing Tavy Cleave
occasionally to visit her eccentric brother. She, too, was said to be
eccentric, but that was only because she was fond of getting full
value for a halfpenny. Mary Tavy was a spinster, and Peter Tavy was
a bachelor. On those occasions when some ne'er-do-well attempted
to annex Mary and her income, the good woman's eccentricity had
revealed itself very strongly; and as for Peter, his own sister would
remark, "Women never could abide he."
The Tavies always passed Christmas together. One year Peter would
go across and stop with Mary for three days; the next, Mary would
come across and stop with Peter for three days. Their rule on this
matter was fixed; the visit never extended beyond three days, and
Peter would not have dreamed of going across to Mary if it were the
turn of Mary to come across to him.
Peter had a little cart and a pony to draw it. How he came by the
pony nobody knew, but as it was never identified no hard questions
were asked. Every year a few Dartmoor ponies are missed when the
drift takes place; and at the same time certain individuals take to
owning shaggy little steeds which have no past history. When a
brand has been skilfully removed, one Dartmoor pony is very much
like a score of others. To drive Peter into a corner over his title to the
pony which pulled his shameful little cart—it was hardly better than
a packing-case on wheels—would have been impossible. He had
hinted that it was a present from the Prince of Wales as a slight
return for services rendered; and as no one else in the Tavy district
was in the habit of communicating with the lord of the manor, his
statement could not easily be refuted.
With this pony and unlicensed cart Peter would convey people from
time to time to the station at Mary Tavy, making a charge of
eighteen pence, which was not exorbitant considering the dangers
and difficulties of the road. For conveying his sister from her home
to his at Christmas he made a charge of one shilling; when she
expostulated, as she always did, and quoted the proverb "Charity
begins at home," Peter invariably replied with another proverb,
"Business is business."
Few will have forgotten the winter of 1881, when snow fell for over
a week, and every road was lost and every cleave choked. Snow was
lurking in sheltered nooks upon the tops of Ger Tor and the High
Willhays range as late as the following May. Snow upon Dartmoor
does not always mean snow elsewhere. It is possible sometimes to
stand knee-deep upon the high moor and look down upon a stretch
of country without a flake upon it, and so on to the sugared and
frosted hills of Exmoor; but no part of the country escaped the great
fall of 1881. Every one on the moor can tell of some incident in
connection with that Christmas. At the two Tavies they tell how Peter
tried to drive Mary from his village to hers, how he failed in the
attempt, and how both of them remained good business people to
the end.
It was Mary's turn to visit Peter that year, and she arrived upon
Christmas Eve, quaintly but warmly dressed, a small boy carrying
her basket, which contained the articles that she deemed necessary
for her visit, together with a bottle of spiced wine, some cream
cakes, and a plum-pudding as big as her head. The boy said a good
many uncomplimentary things about that pudding as they climbed
up from the Tavy, comparing it to the Giant's Pebble higher up the
cleave. When Mary raised her black-mittened hand and threatened
him with chastisement, the urchin lifted out the pudding in its cloth,
set it at her feet, and told her to carry it herself, as it was "enough
to pinch a strong man dragging that great thing up the cleave"; so
Mary had to finish the journey hugging the pudding like a baby. She
was walking to save herself sixpence. Peter had offered to come for
her with his pony and cart, the charge to be one shilling, payable as
follows—sixpence when she got into the cart and sixpence when she
got out; but Mary had told him that she could get a boy to carry her
basket for half that amount; when he protested she reminded him
that business was business.
A light sprinkle of snow had fallen, just enough to dust over the
rocks and furze-bushes; but it was very cold, the clouds were low
and wood-like, and there was in the air that feel of snow which
animals can nearly always detect, and men who live on the moors
can sometimes.
Peter and Mary spent the evening in simple style. Peter sat on one
side of the fire, Mary on the other; sometimes Peter stirred to get
fresh turves for the fire; sometimes Mary got up to heap the little
table with good cheer and place it midway between the old-
fashioned chairs. They both smoked, they both took snuff, they both
drank spiced wine. Towards evening they talked of old times and
became merry. Then they talked of old people and grew sentimental,
dropping tears into their hot wine. Peter got up and kissed Mary, but
Mary did not care for Peter's caresses and told him so, whereupon
Peter advised her to "get along home then." Mary declared she
would, but changed her mind when she thought of the gloomy
cleave and the Tavy in winter flood; so they went on smoking, taking
snuff, and drinking spiced wine.
The next day was fine, and Peter and Mary went to chapel. Mary
gave her brother a penny to put into the plate, but he put it into his
pocket instead; he was always a man of business. She also gave him
a bright new florin as a Christmas present. He had made her
understand, when the coin was safe in his possession, that he
should still demand a shilling for driving her home, and over that
point they wrangled for some time. In the evening, when Peter had
fallen asleep over the fire, Mary repented of her kindness and sought
to regain the florin; but Peter had it hidden away safely in his boot.
When the time came for Mary to start homewards it was snowing
fast, and she did not like the prospect. Although it was not much
after three o'clock, the outlook was exceedingly dark; there was an
unpleasant silence upon the moor, and the snowflakes were larger
and falling thickly. But the pony was harnessed to the unsteady
conveyance, and Peter was waiting; before Mary could utter a word
of protest, he had bundled her in and they were off.
"Twould have paid me better to bide home," said Mary.
"Do'ye sit quiet," Peter growled. Then he added, "Where's the
shillun?"
"There now, doan't ye worry about the shillun," said Mary; "I'll give
it ye when I'm safe and sound to home wi' no bones broke."
"Shillun be poor pay vor driving this weather," said her business-like
brother.
Now and again a light appeared from one of the cottages. The pony
struggled on with its head down, while the silence seemed to grow
more unearthly, and the darkness increased, and the snow became a
solid descending mass. The road between the two Tavies is not easy