Forgotten Folk-tales of the English Counties (RLE Folklore) by Ruth Tongue

Author:Ruth Tongue [Tongue, Ruth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Fairy Tales; Folk Tales; Legends & Mythology, Literary Criticism, European, English; Irish; Scottish; Welsh, Social Science, Anthropology, General
ISBN: 9781000155983
Google: BIXxDwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Routledge
Published: 2020-07-26T03:51:29+00:00

20

Have a Mind to Misbourne

Buckinghamshire

I was riding through a beech hanger above Great Missenden when I met my old friend, Mrs Lee, with her basket, which may have carried laces but more likely pheasant eggs. I was pretty sure of this. She was so instantly affable and adroit at keeping the basket away from the pony’s sides.

‘Be you riding down by Misbourne, Miss?’ she asked. I had been and the little river was unusually full. Her eyes were anxious and frightened. Then she said, ‘We’re all on the road west—there’s danger all round us. I know. It will come over from the east, that’s what Misbourne is saying.’

I knew there were vague tales of the erratic and prophetic flow of the river, so, as I wanted to hear more, I let her frightened tongue run on. ‘Misbourne always knows when the black luck is on the land. That’s when she gushes out and now she’s almost in flood. ‘Tis very bad, that. The floods will soon be out. ‘Tis a terrible warning. They was out when the Great Sickness emptied all the land and London burned to hot ashes and I remember when King Edward died there was a great war in less than seven years. Have a mind to Misbourne, she tells great sorrows to England. It’s coming surely—yes, ‘tis on the way.’ And she slipped away through the beech trees, really scared.

I went home interested and wondering a little uneasily.

Personal; told to me in 1939 by Mrs Lee, a member of the gipyfamily.

NOTES The Great Sickness was the Plague of London, 166s. It had reached the Chiltern Hills, and the Fire of London was the next year. In 1914, four years after the death of King Edward VII, came the First World War—there were other vague memories of Misbourne in flood and national disaster. My old gipsy friend had been frankly terrified—she had not stayed longer than to give warning.

It was needed.

As I rode home after a long day and stabled the tired pony, the sirens began their first eerie, dreary, warning wail—the Blitz had begun.

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