“And what is the test of their cleverness to which these shepherd-dogs have to submit?”

“You will soon see,” said my friend; “but roughly speaking, each dog has to drive three mountain sheep for a distance of about three-quarters of a mile over the broken ground of a steepish fell-side, round certain flags, and between others, and so into a pen or fold within a certain time; the time-limit to-day will, I think, be fifteen minutes.  Of course, the dog in that time covers much more than a mile of ground.  The shepherd stands in one place to give his directions to the dog by whistle or word or movement of his arm, and only leaves his position when the dog has brought the sheep down to the pen.  The dog’s master is allowed to help the dog to do the actual ‘penning’ of course, otherwise the collie is unassisted.” (p. 135)….

[We] see a man chalk on a black board the words “Special,” and the number 8.  We learn from a programme-card, which we get from a lad who is carrying them for sale, that this means: That the next dog trial will be made by Watch, black, white and tan, aged two years, belonging to William Allan, of Mill Riggs, who is No. 8 upon the list.  Now looking across to the enclosure on the hillside opposite, we see a man emerge from a small tent, drop a flag, and at the same moment we see another man open a small pen 100 yards away and loose three sheep, while “Watch” springs up the fellside towards them and to the sound of a shrill sharp whistle, lies down—almost as if shot dead—and waits till his master shouts his next word of command. (p. 138)

Then began the most interesting sight it had been my lot to see for many a long day.  There stood the solitary dark figure of the shepherd, and far away, up the Fellside’s breast, the mountain sheep went scampering; they separated and flew left and right, but the clever dog collected them at once.  “Ga away hint,” shouted the shepherd, and the dog dashed back  behind them; “Ga awa’ by!” and he sprang on in front.  Then the shepherd whistled a chirrupy kind of sustained whistle, and the dog drove the sheep leisurely onward straight ahead.  The whistle became more shrill and fierce, and the dog pressed the sheep more fiercely forward; the whistle was suddenly sharp and shrill and short, and instantly the dog fell to the ground and waited for further instructions.  Sometimes the wind which was blowing freshly in the wrong direction quite forbade the voice of the shepherd or his whistle’s note to reach his listening and obedient servant.  And it made one glow with pleasure to realize the intelligence of the four-footed friend of man, as one noted how at once the dog scampered off to a rising knoll to get sight of his master, and to watch for the lifting of his hand or the movement of his feet.  For the shepherd just walked two or three paces in one direction and at once the collie knew his wishes, and went off up the hill in a similar direction, or the shepherd waved with his hands in another direction and the collie flew in answer to the point of the compass indicated.  The sheep were thus swiftly but certainly driven round a distant flag upon the Fellside and brought down at a fine scamper over heather and rock, towards the lower ground.  Now they would stand stock-still, for “Watch” had gone off for a drink at a beck; now they would walk leisurely forward.  Ah, but they have missed the flag post, and have come just a yard this side of it!  The shepherd sees, gives his pantomimic signs and pipes his shrill command; the dog heads them in a moment and takes them back and round the flag and sends them scurrying homeward.  The interest of the spectator increases, for “Watch” has got five minutes to spare yet, and he must bring them along the level and drive the sheep to the pen, but this time he has got to bring them through a couple of flags, set only 12 yards apart.  On the sheep come at a rattle, but the shepherd knows that, if they are hurried, it is ten chances to one they will take fright at the flags and swerve; so he sends a shout to his dog, and for the nonce the collie is as good as dead.  The sheep come on unattended, and, as it were, walk naturally along the sharp track that gives guidance to the double flags.  Then when they are evidently halting between two opinions, as to whether they shall come on through, or turn aside, a long fierce whistle is heard, and “Watch” springs out of the ground, as it were, gives the woolly travellers just the necessary shove forward, and so brings them safe between the flags and on to the little pen upon the mountain side. (pp. 139-141)

The crowd break out into applause, but “Watch” neither heeds nor cares, for now his real work begins.  He has to play a game of hide-and-seek with these three mountain sheep, who are lovers of their hillside liberty, and are as determined as “Herdwicks” can be, that they will not enter their prison walls of hurdle to-day.  He is to be helped in this game by his master, who comes running down to meet the sheep and begins to “how” them to the fold. (p. 141)

There they stand stock-still, before the door of the pen.  “Watch” lies low on the far side, and the shepherd slowly moves, hat in hand, on the near side.  Another three feet forward and the day is won.  Another two feet!  Ah, but the sheep seem to know their game is a waiting one; the fifteen minutes will soon be up, and with a spring they dash past the pen door and are off to the Fell.  At that moment up springs “Watch” as if by magic, full in front of their noses, and back they come driven round and round the pen, till for sheer exhaustion they stand panting where they stood before, and again “Watch” retires and falls from sight into heather near by.  But this time he has changed his position, and lies in wait just in the opposite direction; again the sheep break and again they are confronted.  The hydra-headed watch-dog is too much for the silly noodles of the poor perplexed “Herdwicks,” and what with the dog in front and the master behind, and escape only possible by entry through the open door, they at length make virtue of necessity, and, on the last stroke of the fifteen minutes allowed, the sheep are safely penned, and the whole hillside of interested spectators breaks into a roar of praise and acclamation. (pp. 141-142)  

(Life and Nature at the English Lakes, pp. 132-145)

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All through the day the red-brown man
    Stands on his perch, in the red-brown bank;
Waters never more gratefully ran,
    Cucumbers never more greedily drank.

A small world his, for the sky is half-hidden,
    A pole and a bucket, a mat that streams,
But a world large enough to know what was bidden,
    And to feel that labour is better than dreams.

And the sun goes up, and the sun goes round,
    And round goes the shade of the hurdle o’erhead,
And never a word, and never a sound
    But the splash of the bucket that brings him his bread.

And all the day thro’ he bows and bows,
    You may see his broad back bend where he stands,
You might think him a dervish saying his vows,
    Or praying his prayers, as he lifts his hands.

And he hears the marketers hurrying by,
    Gurgle of camel and pattering hoof,
But not for a moment will cease the cry,—
    The wheeze and the groan of the long Shadûf.

But I think he knows that the golden grain
    Is the gift of the strength of his tireless arm,
That, quite unseen, he is felt in the plain,
    And, quite unknown, he is blessed by the farm.

Oh! not unmindful the good gods are!
    For him, when the sun has sunk in the west,
The heaven drops into his bucket a star,
    And he hies him home, and he takes his rest.

(Idylls and Lyrics of the Nile, p. 73)

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As if the salt-sea-blood that years ago
        Won the fore-elder Vikings Cumberland,
Leapt in their veins, the glad, tumultuous band
Sped to the shore, and gleaming, to and fro
The bathers hurried; some, more grave, would know
What treasures lay upon the generous sand,
And here and there the lover with his hand
Would trace a name the waves should hide at flow.
Ah, happy feet; this fresh, unwrinkled shore
Forgives all mischief ye shall make in play,
And though to-morrow’s sun shall find no trace
Of all your frolic—tides must rise apace,
Sorrow and pain—yet to the bitterest core
Of life’s drear sands, shall sink the memory of to-day.

(Sonnets Round the Coast, p. 96)

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The month of September is the month that is par excellence, the month for the holiday maker.  The days have not yet closed in, the skies are steady, the tourist crush has lessened, and one can begin to realise in the slight changes of colour on the higher fells, something of the glory that will be fully revealed in October. (p. 160)

The bracken, it is true, has not yet felt the frost, but the fellside farmers have been busy with their scythes for bedding, and the dead fern, before it is ‘gathered,’ lies golden red in patches.  September is the month for bracken getting, and nothing more picturesque can be well imagined than this late harvest time of the wild fellside.  The old white horse stands with its cart half filled with what at sunset time looks ruddy fire, and down from above comes a rolling wheel of the same flame, the mighty bundle of the netted fern. (p. 160)….

But the beauty of September for the artist lies in the colouring of the mountain masses.  Dry eastern winds prevail, and where they prevail they bring with them from Yorkshire and North Lancashire light drifts of opaline smoke, which, though they take away the whiteness from the fleeces of our herdwick sheep and some of the glory of sunshine and clear air, do nevertheless work marvellous witchery of lilac veil and hyacinthine mist, and add a changeling beauty to our hills. (p. 162)

In the valleys the yellow rag-wort, though scanter, is still gay.  The pastures with their heavy ‘fogg’ upon them still look as if bountiful nature “here had made a lasting spring.”  That Spring is over and gone may be known by the silence of the birds; it is true that our mornings and evenings are clamorous with rooks—it is true that our twilight is vocal with the hooting of the owl, but except for the robin’s song and the wren’s tiny pipe our woodland ways are silent. (p. 162)

One tree, however, is sure of sound; wherever the yew trees grow, and the yew berries abound, there in late September will be found the scolding of the missel-thrush, and the glimmer of his grey under-wing flashes as part suspended in air and part tip-toe on the swaying plume he seeks his coral food. (pp. 162-163)

Towards the end of September also the artist may find colour in the flaming of the wild cherry in the woodland, and of the Virginian creeper on the house.  The clematis with its silver gossamer is found on the hedgerows, and the hedgerows themselves, if they are of thorn, are full of colour with the hips and haws.  But the chief joy of woodland fruitage lies not with the hips and the haw so much as with the berry of that holy Igdrasil that the Norsemen knew, the mystic rowan—the mountain ash. (p. 163)

It is to the gardens that we dwellers at the English Lakes turn with great gladness in September.  When all the flowers have passed away in the gardens of the south, here growing in fullest glory may be found roses, sweet peas, mignonette, dahlias, monbretia, geraniums, sunflowers, hollyhocks, the poke plant, nasturtium, Japanese anemone, Michaelmas daisies, stocks and asters; whilst on the lowliest cottage wall may be seen the glorious garlanding of the scarlet ‘tropæolum speciosum.’ (p. 163)

As far as the farm folk go, the labours of their day are nearly over; their patches of corn are small, and they are soon housed.  Cattle shows and sheep fairs and sheep dog trials are the order of the day, and fortunate are the strangers who will mix at any of these lake country gatherings.  They will not only hear the native Doric, but will realise the native spirit that takes success as a matter of course, and failure as a thing to be borne without a murmur. (pp. 163-164)….

We have red colour in our lowland pastures at the end of September from the raddled fleeces of the aged ewes that dot them, but when twilight falls we have red colour on our upper fellsides also, for September is one of the months in which the shepherds burn the heather, and what through the day was but a faint puff of smoke upon the mountain side becomes at night-time a glorious golden jewel of light, and when we waken, behold, where before was the grey puce mantle of the September heather is a jet black patch, as though on some gigantic scale painters had been at work putting together a puzzle map of the dark continent. (pp. 169-170)

Towards the end of September one has a general impression that the hedgerows have suddenly bethought themselves that they belong rather to gardens than to fields.  What were before “little sportive lines of wood run wild” are found to be trimmed into the absolute precision of a garden fence.  Much beauty passes away when the hedge-man’s shears go to work, the swaying wild rose bramble, the wild ash sapling, the fruited elder fall, and alas! there falls with them an innumerable company of thorns, and happy is the bicyclist who finishes his journey without a puncture. (p. 170)

But the beauty of September lies in the sense of the completeness of the year—its quiet entering, notwithstanding the ram battles, into peace, and on sunny days the gossamers go sailing through the air with such content that one feels all the winds are laid asleep for ever and there will be no more storm. (p. 170)

 (Months at the Lakes, pp. 160-170)

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As aw cam doon the Keswick street,
    Aw met a body of ninety three,
She was straight of back and strong on her
        foot,
    And this is what she said to me:
“You ask me why so lish I go—
’Twas poddish, barn, that myde me so.

“What, barn, in our forelders’ days,
    When merry neets were a’ the thing,
When fwolks greaved peat to make a blaze,
    And fiddlers went a-Christmasing.
We grew oor oats, we kept a coo,
And supped on poddish all t’year throo.

“Godd hardin’ sark our mothers made,
    We carded woo, we larned to spin—
Dress-makkin was not then the trade,
    And household wark was thowt nae sin.
Pow-sowdies for our Christmas do
We hed, but supped our poddish, too.

We did not clash oorsells wi’ tea,
    We’d milk and haver bread to yeat,
And that’s why I am ninety-three
    An t’auld fwolks’ day is still a treat,
If you wad hev your auld age so
To poddish back you all must go.

(Cumberland and Westmorland Herald, 28 December 1901, p. 5)

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  1. Sea-Gulls at Saint Bees
  2. The Schwarze Mönch
  3. Schola Uppinghamiensis
  4. The Saltburn Viaduct