"IT MUN BE SO"




I met her on her way through the path-fields to the cowshed; she was
gathering, in the fading light of an October evening, the belated
stars
of the grass of Parnassus, and strapped to her shoulders was the
"budget," shaped to the contour of the back, and into which the milk
was
poured from the pails. It was a heavy load for a girl of twelve, but
she
was used to it, and did not grumble. Her father was dead, all the
day-tale men had been called up, and her mother, she assured me, "was
that thrang wi' t' hens an' t' cauves, shoo'd no time for milkin'
cows."

In the village she was subjected to a good deal of ridicule. The
children made fun of her on her way home from school, and called her
"daft Lizzie"; the old folks, when they heard her muttering to
herself,
would shrug their shoulders and pass the remark that she was "nobbut a
hauf-rocked 'un"--an insult peculiarly galling to her mother.

"A hauf-rocked 'un!" she would exclaim. "Nay, I rocked her misel i' t'
creddle while my shackles fair worked. Shoo taks after her dad, that's
what's wrang wi' Lizzie. A feckless gowk was Watmough; he couldn't
frame
to do owt but play t' fiddle i' t' sky-parlour, or sit ower t' fire
eatin' fat-shives."

Lizzie's daftness was not a serious matter; it consisted partly in a
certain dreaminess, which brought a yonderly look into her eyes, and
made her inattentive to what was going on around her, and partly in
that
habit of talking to herself which has already been referred to. I had
won her confidence and friendship from the time when I rescued her
"pricky-back urchin" from being kicked to death by the farm boys, who
declared that hedgehogs always made their way into the byres and
milked
the cows. Since then we had had many talks together, but this was the
first time that I had accompanied her when she went to milk.

Milking in summer-time, when the cows are out at grass, is pleasant
enough, but it is different of a winter evening. Then one gropes one's
way by the light of the stable lantern through the rain-sodden fields
to
the cowshed, the reeking atmosphere of which often makes one feel
faint
as one plunges into it from out of the frosty air. But Lizzie liked
the
work at all seasons, and was never so much at ease as when she was
firmly planted on her stool, her curly head butting into a cow's ribs,
and the warm milk swishing rhythmically into her pail. There were
three
cows in the byre, and she had called them after her aunts. Eliza, like
her namesake, was "contrairy," and had to have her hind legs hobbled
lest she should kick over the pail. Molly and Anne were docile beasts
that chewed the cud with bovine complacency. It was Lizzie's habit to
tell the cows stories as she milked, making them up as she went along;
but to-day she found a better listener in myself.

Our talk was at first of cows; thence it passed to village gossip,
pigs,
hedgehogs, and so back to cows once more. Knowing the imaginative bent
of her mind, I put the question to her: "Wouldn't you like to know
just
what becomes of the milk you send off to Leeds by train every day?"

"Aye, I like to know who sups t' milk," she answered, "an' so does t'
cows."

"But you can't know that," I said. "You don't take it round to the
houses."

"Nay, I don't tak it round to t' houses, but I reckon out aforehand
who's to get it."

It was evident that Lizzie had some private arrangement for the
disposal
of her milk, and I encouraged her to let me share her secret.

"I've milked for all maks o' fowks sin' father deed," she went on,
"bettermy fowks and poor widdies. Once I milked for t' King."

"Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle?"

Lizzie knew nothing about pleasantry, and was not put out by my
frivolous question.

"'Twern't nowther o' them places," she continued; "'twere Leeds Town
Hall. Mother read it out o' t' paper that he was comin' to Leeds to go
round t' munition works, and would have his dinner wi' t' Lord Mayor.
So
I said to misel: 'I'll milk for t' King.' He's turned teetotal, has t'
King, sin t' war started, and I telled t' cows all about it t' neet
afore. 'Ye mun do your best, cushies, to-morn', I said. 'T' King'll be
wantin' a sup o' milk to his ham and eggs, and I reckon 'twill do him
more gooid nor his pint o' beer, choose how. An' just you think on
that
gentle-fowks has tickle bellies. Don't thou go hallockin' about i' t'
tonnup-field, Eliza, and get t' taste o' t' tonnups into thy cud same
as
thou did last week.' Eh! they was set up about it, was t' cows; I'd
niver seen 'em so chuffy. So next day, just to put 'em back i' their
places, I made em gie their milk to t' owd fowks i' t' Union."

"Who else have you milked for?" I asked, after a pause, during which
she
had moved her stool from Eliza to roan Anne.

"Nay, I can't reckon 'em all up," she replied. "Soomtimes it's
weddin's
an' soomtimes it's buryin's; then there's lile barns that's just bin
weaned, and badly fowks i' bed."

"And will you sometimes milk for a lady I know that lives in Leeds?"

Lizzie was silent for a moment, and then asked: "Is shoo a taicher,
an'
has shoo gotten fantickles and red hair?"

"No," I replied, and I thought with some amusement of the freckled
face
and aureoled head of the village schoolmistress, who had got across
with
Lizzie on account of her inability to do sums and speak "gradely
English." "She's an old lady, with white hair; she's my mother."

"Aye, I'll milk for thy mother," Lizzie answered; "but I'm thrang wi'
sodgers this week an' next."

"Soldiers in camp?" I asked.

"Nay, sodgers i' t' hospital. Poor lads, they're sadly begone for want
o' a sup o' milk. I can see 'em i' their beds i' them gert wards, and
there's country lads amang 'em that knows all about cows an' plooin'.
Their faces are as lang as a wet week when they think on that they've
lossen an arm or a leg, an' will niver milk nor ploo no more. Eh! but
I'm fain to milk for t' sodgers."

"But how can you be sure that the right people get your milk?" I asked
at last.

She did not answer at once, and I knew that she was wondering at my
stupidity, and considering how best she could make me understand. But
she could find no words to bring home to my intelligence the
confidence
that was hers. All that she could say was: "It mun be so."

"It mun be so." At first I thought it was just the usual game of
make-believe in which children love to indulge. But it was much more
than this, and the simple words were an expression of her sure faith
that what she willed must come to pass. "It mun be so." Why not? "If
ye
have faith, and shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be
thou cast into the sea, it shall be done."

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