It was the Squire who told me the story about Tim Gibbons; but he took me to see an old man who was a descendant of Tim’s, and so I think I had better give his own account of his ancestor and his doings. We found the old gentleman, a hale, sturdy old fellow, working away in a field at Woolstone, and, as near as I could get it, this was what he had to say about the Scouring of 1755:—
Squire. “Good morning, Thomas. How about the weather? Did the White Horse smoke his pipe this morning?”
Thos. “Mornin’, Sir. I didn’t zee as ’a did. I allus notices he doos it when the wind blaws moor to th’ east’ard. I d’wont bode no rain to day, Sir.”
Squire. “How old are you, Thomas?”
Thos. “Seventy year old this Christmas, Sir. I wur barn at Woolstone, in the hard winter, when I’ve heard tell as volks had to bwile their kettles wi’ the snaw.”
Squire. “I want to know something about your family, Thomas.”
Thos. “Well, Sir, I bean’t no ways ashamed of my family, I can assure ’ee. I’ve a got two zons, and vour daaters. One on ’em, that’s my oldest bwoy, Sir, wur all droo’ the Crimee wars, and never got a scratch. In the Granadier Guards, Sir, he be. A uncommon sprack[25] chap, Sir, though I says it, and as bowld as a lion; only while he wur about our village wi’ t’other young chaps, he must allus be a fighting. But not a bad-tempered chap, Sir, I assure ’ee. Then, Sir—”
Squire. “But, Thomas, I want to know about those that came before you. What relation was Timothy Gibbons, whom I’ve heard folks talk about, to you?”