Part 4 (2/2)

He has been married thirty years, he tells me; thirty years, spent in the one little house with the bricks painted red and grey alternately, and the scarlet holly-hocks growing under the windows. I am sure they have been sweet, true, kind years, and that his heart must be a quiet, peaceful place just like his house and garden.

”I was only eleven years old when I fell in love with my wife,” he told me as we sat on the seat under the lime-tree; he puffing cosily at his pipe, I plaiting gra.s.ses for a hatband.

{Puffing cosily at his pipe: p77.jpg}

”It was just before Sunday-school. Her mother had dressed her all in white muslin like a fairy, but she had stepped on the edge of a puddle, and some of the muddy water had bespattered her frock. A circle of children had surrounded her, and some of the motherly little girls were on their knees rubbing at the spots anxiously, while one of them wiped away the tears that were running down her pretty cheeks. I looked! It was fatal! I did not look again, but I was smitten to the very heart! I did not speak to her for six years, but when I did, it was all right with both of us, thank G.o.d! and I've been in love with her ever since, when she behaves herself!”

That is the way they speak of love in Barbury Green, and oh! how much sweeter and more wholesome it is than the language of the town! Who would not be a Goose Girl, ”to win the secret of the weed's plain heart”?

It seems to me that in society we are always gazing at magic-lantern shows, but here we rest our tired eyes with looking at the stars.

CHAPTER XI

{A Hen Conference: p79.jpg}

July 16th.

Phoebe and I have been to a Hen Conference at Buffington. It was for the purpose of raising the standard of the British Hen, and our local Countess, who is much interested in poultry, was in the chair.

It was a very learned body, but Phoebe had coached me so well that at the noon recess I could talk confidently with the members, discussing the various advantages of True and Crossed Minorcas, Feverels, Andalusians, Cochin Chinas, Shanghais, and the White Leghorn. (Phoebe, when she p.r.o.nounces this word, leaves out the ”h” and bears down heavily on the last syllable, so that it rhymes with begone!)

As I was sitting under the trees waiting for Phoebe to finish some shopping in the village, a travelling poultry-dealer came along and offered to sell me a silver Wyandotte pullet and c.o.c.kerel. This was a new breed to me and I asked the price, which proved to be more than I should pay for a hat in Bond Street. I hesitated, thinking meantime what a delightful parting gift they would be for Phoebe; I mean if we ever should part, which seems more and more unlikely, as I shall never leave Th.o.r.n.ycroft until somebody comes properly to fetch me; indeed, unless the ”fetching” is done somewhat speedily I may decline to go under any circ.u.mstances. My indecision as to the purchase was finally banished when the poultryman a.s.serted that the fowls had clear open centres all over, black lacing entirely round the white centres, were free from white edging, and each had a cherry-red eye. This catalogue of charms inflamed my imagination, though it gave me no mental picture of a silver Wyandotte fowl, and I paid the money while the dealer crammed the chicks, squawking into my five-o'clock tea-basket.

{Arguing questions of diet: p81.jpg}

The afternoon session of the conference was most exciting, for we reached the subject of imported eggs, an industry that is a.s.suming terrifying proportions. The London hotel egg comes from Denmark, it seems,--I should think by sailing vessel, not steamer, but I may be wrong. After we had settled that the British Hen should be protected and encouraged, and agreed solemnly to abstain from Danish eggs in any form, and made a resolution stating that our loyalty to Queen Alexandra would remain undiminished, we argued the subject of hen diet. There was a great difference of opinion here and the discussion was heated; the honorary treasurer standing for pulped mangold and flint grit, the chair insisting on barley meal and randans, while one eloquent young woman declared, to loud cries of ”'Ear, 'ear!” that rice pudding and bone chips produce more eggs to the square hen than any other sort of food. Impa.s.sioned orators arose here and there in the audience demanding recognition for beef sc.r.a.ps, charcoal, round corn or buckwheat. Foods were regarded from various standpoints: as general invigorators, growth a.s.sisters, and egg producers. A very handsome young farmer carried off final honours, and proved to the satisfaction of all the feminine poultry-raisers that green young hog bones fresh cut in the Banner Bone Breaker (of which he was the agent) possessed a nutritive value not to be expressed in human language.

{The afternoon session was most exciting: p82.jpg}

Phoebe was distinctly nervous when I rose to say a few words on poultry breeding, announcing as my topic ”Mothers, Stepmothers, Foster-Mothers, and Incubators.” Protected by the consciousness that no one in the a.s.semblage could possibly know me, I made a distinct success in my maiden speech; indeed, I somewhat overshot the mark, for the Countess in the chair sent me a note asking me to dine with her that evening. I suppressed the note and took Phoebe away before the proceedings were finished, vanis.h.i.+ng from the scene of my triumphs like a veiled prophet.

Just as we were pa.s.sing out the door we paused to hear the report of a special committee whose chairman read the following resolutions:--

_Whereas_,--It has pleased the Almighty to remove from our midst our greatest Rose Comb Buff Orpington fancier and esteemed friend, Albert Edward Sheridain; therefore be it

_Resolved_,--That the next edition of our catalogue contain an ill.u.s.trated memorial page in his honour and

_Resolved_,--That the Rose Comb Buff Orpington Club extend to the bereaved family their heartfelt sympathy.

{Not asked to the Conference: p84.jpg}

The handsome young farmer followed us out to our trap, invited us to attend the next meeting of the R. C. B. O. Club, of which he was the secretary, and asked if I were intending to ”show.” I introduced Phoebe as the senior partner, and she concealed the fact that we possessed but one Buff Orpington, and he was a sad ”invaleed” not suitable for exhibition. The farmer's expression as he looked at me was almost lover- like, and when he pressed a bit of paper into my hand I was sure it must be an offer of marriage. It was in fact only a circular describing the Banner Bone Breaker. It closed with an appeal to Buff Orpington breeders to raise and ever raise the standard, bidding them remember, in the midst of a low-minded and sordid civilisation, that the rose comb should be small and neat, firmly set on, with good working, a nice spike at the back lying well down to head, and never, under any circ.u.mstances, never sticking up. This adjuration somewhat alarmed us as Phoebe and I had been giving our Buff Orpington c.o.c.kerel the most drastic remedies for his languid and prostrate comb.

{Coming home: p85.jpg}

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