In many places it is common for the last few sheaves to be bound together, these being decorated with ribbons and handkerchiefs—the women racing for the ribbons, and the men contending for the handkerchiefs. This, of course, is a survival of the time when the sheaves themselves were run for; and in the days when an additional bushel of grain was a thing greatly to be desired, the prize would be not a little coveted. Here and there the mell doll is still made; certainly it is not now bedecked with all the gaudy trappings it was adorned with in days of yore, but often some skilful hand will plait the straw into fantastical shapes, exhibiting considerable artistic taste and skill. When completed, whether it be in the form of a doll[6] or that of some other device, it still goes by the name of ’t’ mell doll,’ and is placed in the centre of the barn, round which, by-and-by, the guests will trip on the light fantastic toe.
One characteristic of the mell supper, so far as I know, is now a thing of the past, i.e. the guisers. These were a kind of sword-dancers, who twenty years ago generally came as unbidden guests after the dancing had commenced; as a rule they were accorded a hearty welcome, as they added greatly to the merriment of the evening’s revel, for as the cake and ale went round, the excitement increased, songs and shouting became general, and the dancing something after the nature of a stampede, till at last the uproar was general. It is at such times when age forgets its years, and the young let slip the tether of their youthful spirits, and romp—aye, romp; for the ale is good, the lasses are bonny, ‘slim o’ waist and leet o’ foot.’ It is Yorkshire, all Yorkshire.
The fifth of November, with its bonfires and Guy Fawkes, is as religiously observed in the riding as in any other part of the country. Over a wide area it is the festive occasion on which every good wife bakes a store of parkin, its general form being that of a flat cake of gingerbread, the recipe varying according to the means of the house.
In the days when there were no county police, if not wise enough to securely lock up your yard broom, of a certainty it would be stolen; and if ever you did see it again, it would be on the evening of the fifth, soaked with tar, in the hands of some fellow rushing like a mad thing along the street with your property blazing in front of him. I have known of scores of brooms which were stolen—aye, and stolen them myself—but I do not recollect an instance of the thief being prosecuted. No, if you did not secure your broom, it went, and that was very much the end of it. There was more fun running with a stolen besom than a bought one.
Quite an interesting collection of doggerel verses might be given, which the lads in various parts sing when dragging their load of sticks and thorns to the site of the bonfire. I give one, which an old inhabitant of Great Ayton tells me was sung when his grandfather was a boy.
Au’d Grimey sits upon yon hill
Ez black ez onny au’d craw;
He’s gitten on his lang grey coat
Wi’ buttons doon afoor-oor-oor,
Wi’ buttons doon afoor-oor-oor,