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Dick o' the Fens; A Tale of the Great Eastern Swamp, by George Manville Fenn.

A number of the actors in this tale speak in a broad Lincolnshire Fenland dialect, which may make it a little hard for some readers. Some of the more unusual words are annotated in square brackets.

The Squire sees the gradually encroaching bog and marsh in his land, and realises that with drainage he could reclaim this as good farm land. On the other hand some of the locals would rather see the fen remain, along with their various occupations, and the wonderful and fragile wet-land natural history. When digging begins there are a number of nasty incidents--torching of houses, malicious woundings of horses and cows, gunshot wounds to humans, and even murders.

A constable is called in, and takes a dislike to Dick, the Squire's son, and to his friend Tom. He tries to pin the blame on them. At times even Dick's father is inclined to think that way, too. But eventually the culprit is found. There are the tense moments typical of this author, and you will perhaps learn a lot about fenland natural history. A good read, and better still to listen to it. NH

DICK O' THE FENS; A TALE OF THE GREAT EASTERN SWAMP, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.

IN THE FEN.

Dick Winthorpe--christened Richard by order of his father at the Hall-- sat on the top of the big post by the wheelwright's door.

It was not a comfortable seat, and he could only keep his place by twisting his legs round and holding on; but as there was a spice of difficulty in the task, Dick chose it, and sat there opposite Tom Tallington--christened Thomas at the wish of his mother, Farmer Tallington's wife, of Grimsey, the fen island under the old dyke.

Tom Tallington was seated upon one side of a rough punt, turned up to keep the rain from filling it, and as he was not obliged to hold on with his legs he kept swinging them to and fro.

It was not a pleasant place for either of the lads, for in front of them was a ring of fire where, upon the ground, burned and crackled and fumed a quantity of short wood, which was replenished from time to time by Mark Hickathrift, the wheelwright, and his lad Jacob.

At the first glance it seemed as if the wheelwright was amusing himself by making a round bonfire of scraps, whose blue reek rose in the country air, and was driven every now and then by the wind over the boys, who coughed and sneezed and grumbled, but did not attempt to move, for there was, to them, an interesting feat about to be performed by the wheelwright--to wit, the fitting of the red-hot roughly-made iron tire in the wood fire upon the still more roughly-made wheel, which had been fitted with a few new spokes and a fresh felloe, while Farmer Tallington's heavy tumbril-cart stood close by, like a cripple supported on a crutch, waiting for its iron-shod circular limb.

"Come, I say, Mark, stick it on," cried Dick Winthorpe; "we want to go."

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