Harbor Tales Down North Part 25

VI

A MADONNA OF TINKLE TICKLE

VI

A MADONNA OF TINKLE TICKLE

It was at Soap-an'-Water Harbor, with the trader _Quick as Wink_ in from the sudsy seas of those parts, that Tumm, the old clerk, told the singular tale of the Madonna of Tinkle Tickle.

"I'm no hand for sixpenny novels," says he, with a wry glance at the skipper's dog-eared romance. "Nursemaids an' n.o.blemen? I'm chary. I've no love, anyhow, for the things o' mere fancy. But I'm a great reader," he protested, with quick warmth, "o' the tales that are lived under the two eyes in my head. I'm forever in my lib'ry, too. Jus'

now," he added, his eye on a dismayed little man from Chain Harbor, "I'm readin' the book o' the cook. An' I'm lookin' for a sad endin', ecod, if he keeps on scorchin' the water!"

The squat little Newfoundland schooner was snug in the lee of False Frenchman and down for the night. A wet time abroad: a black wind in the rigging, and the swish and patter of rain on the deck. But the forecastle bogey was roaring, and the forecastle lamp was bright; and the crew--at ease and dry--sprawled content in the forecastle glow.

"Lyin' here at Soap-an'-Water Harbor, with Tinkle Tickle hard-by," the clerk drawled on, "I been thumbin' over the queer yarn o' Mary Mull.

An' I been enjoyin' it, too. An old tale--lived long ago. 'Tis a tale t' my taste. It touches the heart of a woman. An' so, lads--'tis a mystery."

Then the tale that was lived page by page under the two eyes in Tumm's head:

"Tim Mull was fair dogged by the children o' Tinkle Tickle in his bachelor days," the tale ran on. "There was that about un, somehow, in eyes or voice, t' win the love o' kids, dogs, an' grandmothers. 'Leave the kids have their way,' says he. 'I likes t' have un t' come t' me.

They're no bother at all. Why, damme,' says he, 'they uplift the soul of a bachelor man like me! I loves un.'

"'You'll be havin' a crew o' your own, some day,' says Tom Blot, 'an'

you'll not be so fond o' the company.'

"'I'll s.h.i.+p all the Lord sends.'

"'Ah-ha, b'y!' chuckles Tom, 'He've a wonderful store o' little souls up aloft.'

"'Then,' says Tim, 'I'll thank Un t' be lavish.'

"Tom Blot was an old, old man, long past his labor, creakin' over the roads o' Harbor with a staff t' help his dry legs, an' much give t'

broodin' on the things he'd found out in this life. ''Tis rare that He's mean with such gifts,' says he. 'But 'tis queer the way He bestows un. Ecod!' says he, in a temper, 'I've never been able t'

fathom his ways, old as I is!'

"'I wants a big crew o' lads an' little maids, Tom,' says Tim Mull.

'Can't be too many for _me_ if I'm to enjoy my cruise in this world.'

"'They've wide mouths, lad.'

"'Hut!' says Tim. 'What's a man for? _I'll_ stuff their little crops.

You mark _me_, b'y!'

"So it went with Tim Mull in his bachelor days: he'd forever a maid on his shoulder or a lad by the hand. He loved un. 'Twas knowed that he loved un. There wasn't a man or maid at Tinkle Tickle that didn't know. 'Twas a thing that was called t' mind whenever the name o' Tim Mull come up. 'Can't be too many kids about for Tim Mull!' An' they loved _him_. They'd wait for un t' come in from the sea at dusk o'

fine days; an' on fine Sunday afternoons--sun out an' a blue wind blowin'--they'd troop at his heels over the roads an' hills o' the Tickle. They'd have no festival without un. On the eve o' Guy Fawkes, in the fall o' the year, with the Gunpowder Plot t' celebrate, when 't was

Remember, remember, The Fifth o' November!

't was Tim Mull that must wind the fire-b.a.l.l.s, an' sot the bonfires, an' put saleratus on the blisters. An' at Christmastide, when the kids o' Harbor come carolin' up the hill, all in mummers' dress, pipin',--

G.o.d rest you, merry gentlemen; Let nothin' you dismay!

't was Tim Mull, in his cottage by Fo'c's'le Head, that had a big blaze, an' a cake, an' a tale, an' a tune on the concertina, for the rowdy crew.

"'I love un!' says he. 'Can't be too many for _me_!'

"An' everybody knowed it; an' everybody wondered, too, how Tim Mull would skipper his own little crew when he'd s.h.i.+pped un.

"Tim Mull fell in love, by-an'-by, with a dark maid o' the Tickle. By this time his mother was dead, an' he lived all alone in the cottage by Fo'c's'le Head. He had full measure o' the looks an' ways that win women. 'Twas the fas.h.i.+on t' fish for un. An' 'twas a thing that was shameless as fas.h.i.+on. Most o' the maids o' Harbor had cast hooks.

Polly Twitter, for one, an' in desperation: a pink an' blue wee parcel o' fluff--an' a trim little craft, withal. But Tim Mull knowed nothin'

o' this, at all; he was too stupid, maybe,--an' too decent,--t' read the glances an' blushes an' laughter they flung out for bait.

"'Twas Mary Low--who'd cast no eyes his way--that overcome un. She loved Tim Mull. No doubt, in the way o' maids, she had cherished her hope; an' it may be she had grieved t' see big Tim Mull, entangled in ribbons an' curls an' the sparkle o' blue eyes, indulge the flirtatious ways o' pretty little Polly Twitter. A tall maid, this Mary--soft an' brown. She'd brown eyes, with black lashes to hide un, an' brown hair, growin' low an' curly; an' her round cheeks was brown, too, flushed with red. She was a maid with sweet ways an' a tender pride; she was slow t' speak an' not much give t' laughter; an' she had the sad habit o' broodin' overmuch in the dusk. But she'd eyes for love, never fear, an' her lips was warm; an' there come a night in spring weather--broad moonlight an' a still world--when Tim Mull give way to his courage.

"'Tumm,' says he, when he come in from his courtin', that night, 'there'll be guns poppin' at Tinkle Tickle come Friday.'

"'A weddin'?' says I.

"'Me an' Mary Low, Tumm. I been overcome at last. 'Twas the moon.'

"'She's ever the friend o' maids,' says I.

"'An' the tinkle of a goat's bell on Lookout. It fell down from the slope t' the shadows where the alders arch over the road by Needle Rock. Jus' when me an' Mary was pa.s.sin' through, Tumm! You'd never believe such an accident. There's no resistin' brown eyes in spring weather. She's a wonderful woman, lad.'

"'That's queer!' says I.

"'A wonderful woman,' says he. 'No shallow water there. She's deep. I can't _tell_ you how wonderful she is. Sure, I'd have t' play it on the concertina.'

"'I'll lead the chivari,' says I, 'an' you grant me a favor.'

"'Done!' says he.

"'Well, Tim,' says I, 'I'm a born G.o.dfather.'

"'Ecod!' says he. An' he slapped his knee an' chuckled. 'Does you mean it? Tobias Tumm Mull! 'Twill be a very good name for the first o' my little crew. Haw, haw! The thing's as good as managed.'