“How far is it to Haworth?” I asked one such specimen.

“Ef ye pay th’ siller for a double pot a’ ’arf and ’arf.  Hi might tell ye”; and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward a ginshop near by.

“Very well,” said I; “I’ll buy you a double pot of ’arf and ’arf, this time.”

The man seemed a bit surprised, but no smile came over his spattered rainbow face as he led the way into the drink-shop.  The place was crowded with men and women scrambling for penny sandwiches and drinks fermented and spirituous.  Some of these women had babies at their breasts, the babies being brought by appointment by older children who stayed at home while the mothers worked.  And as the mothers gulped their Triple XXX, and swallowed hunks of black bread, the little innocents dined.  The mothers were rather kindly disposed, though, and occasionally allowed the youngsters to take sips out of their foaming glasses, or at least to drain them.  Suddenly a woman with purple hair spied me and called in falsetto: 

“Ah, Sawndy McClure has caught a gen’l’mon.  Why didn’t I see ‘im fust an’ ’arve ’im fer a pet?”

There was a guffaw at my expense and ’arf and ’arf as well, for all the party, or else quarrel.  As it was, my stout stick probably saved me from the “personal touch.”  I stayed until the factory-bells rang, and out my new-found friends scurried for fear of being the fatal five minutes late and getting locked out.  Some of them shook my hand as they went, and others pounded me on the back for luck, and several of the girls got my tag and shouted, “You’re it!”

I used to think that Yorkshire folks were hopelessly dull and sublimely stupid, quarrelsome withal and pigheaded to the thirty-second degree; but I have partially come to the conclusion that their glum ways often conceal a peculiar kind of grim humor, and beneath the tough husk is considerable good nature.

The absence of large trees makes it possible to see the village of Haworth several miles away.  It seems to cling to the stony hillside as if it feared being blown into space.  There is a hurrying, rushing rill here, too, that turns a little woolen-mill.  Then there is a “Black Bull” tavern, with a stable-yard at the side and rows of houses on the one street, all very straight up and down.  One misses the climbing roses of the ideal merry England, and the soft turf and spreading yews and the flowering hedgerows where throstles and linnets play hide-and-seek the livelong day.  It is all cold gray stone, lichen-covered, and the houses do not invite you to enter, and the gardens bid no welcome, and only the great purple wastes of moorland greet you as a friend and brother.

Outside the Black Bull sits a solitary hostler, who feels it would be a weakness to show any good humor.  So he bottles his curiosity and scowls from under red, bushy eyebrows.

Turning off the main street is a narrow road leading to the church—­square and gray and cold.  Next to it is the parsonage, built of the same material, and beyond is the crowded city of the dead.